summary: when your apartment became a swimming pool, aaron decided it's his problem. the resolution became permanent.
tw: lowkey slow burn, jack being jack, sexism at the end.
authors note: I finally found out why I couldn't post it last night. Please be kind. Tried something new here style wise. Let me know how you like it.
word count: 5.6k
masterlist
HIGH TIDE CAME (and brought you in)
The first sign that something was wrong was the water dripping from the ceiling.
At first, you ignored it.
After spending twelve hours chasing an unsub across three counties, your brain felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry. Every muscle in your body ached. Your shoulders were tight from hours spent in a cramped SUV, your feet hurt, and there was a dull headache forming behind your eyes that promised to become a full migraine if given the chance.
You dropped your go-bag beside the apartment door with a heavy thud, kicked off your shoes, and headed toward the kitchen in search of coffee you absolutely did not need but desperately wanted.
The apartment was quiet.
Too quiet.
Then—
Drip.
You paused. A frown tugged at your brow.
Drip.
The sound echoed faintly through the room.
You glanced around the kitchen.
Drip.
This time, you looked up.
A single drop of water fell from the ceiling and splattered against the countertop.
For a second, you simply stared. Then you sighed.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
Another drop followed.
Then another.
Within thirty seconds, the occasional drip had become a steady trickle. Within five minutes, it was practically raining inside your apartment. Water streamed down the walls and pooled across the hardwood floor. The ceiling bulged ominously overhead, swollen with trapped water that looked seconds away from collapsing entirely. Panic and exhaustion made for a terrible combination.
You spent the next hour alternating between swearing, dragging furniture across the room, and desperately trying to reach your landlord.
Towels covered every available surface.
Buckets appeared from closets you hadn't opened in months. A mixing bowl from your kitchen ended up catching water in the middle of your living room.
By the time the emergency maintenance crew finally arrived, your apartment looked less like a home and more like a disaster zone.
The verdict wasn't encouraging.
A pipe had burst in the apartment above yours.
Water damage. Extensive repairs. Several days at minimum. Possibly weeks.
You stared at the maintenance worker as if he had personally offended you.
"So I can't stay here?"
The man winced apologetically.
"I wouldn't recommend it."
You laughed once. It sounded slightly unhinged.
"Fantastic."
Apparently being exhausted wasn't enough.
Apparently the universe had decided to make a point.
The moment the maintenance crew left, you collapsed onto the one remaining dry corner of your couch and rubbed both hands over your face.
The apartment smelled damp already.
The air felt heavy. Water still dripped somewhere in the background.
Your home no longer felt like home.
And that realization hit harder than you'd expected.
Your apartment wasn't anything special. The furniture didn't match, half the decorations had been purchased during sleep-deprived online shopping sessions.
But it was yours.
It was where you came after difficult cases.
Where you could finally stop being an FBI profiler and simply exist.
Your phone buzzed.
You pulled it from your pocket.
Aaron Hotchner.
Briefing at 0700. Be prepared to present victimology findings.
You stared at the message. Then at the water dripping from your ceiling. Then back at the message.
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, the sound bordered dangerously on hysteria.
Before common sense could intervene, you typed:
Small problem.
The reply came almost instantly.
Define small.
Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched.
My apartment is currently trying to become an indoor swimming pool.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Are you safe?
The question caught you off guard.
Not What happened?
Not Call your insurance company.
Just—
Are you safe?
Something warm settled unexpectedly in your chest.
Yeah. Just kinda homeless.
Several seconds passed before your phone rang.
You answered immediately.
"Are you injured?"
The concern in his voice stopped you cold.
"No."
A brief pause.
"Good."
The single word was calm and controlled.
Yet underneath it, hidden beneath years of discipline and professionalism, was unmistakable relief. You leaned back against the couch.
"I'll figure something out."
"Such as?"
You opened your mouth but nothing came out. Because the truth was you didn't have a plan. Hotels cost money. Your apartment was flooding. Your car was currently sitting dead in the BAU parking lot waiting for a mechanic.
And it was almost midnight.
The silence stretched, the kind that made people confess things.
Finally, Aaron spoke again.
"Your car is still in the parking lot?"
You frowned, confused.
"How did you know that?"
"Morgan mentioned it."
Of course he had. Morgan knew everything.
"Yeah."
Another pause.
"Pack a bag."
You blinked.
"What?"
"Pack a bag."
"Hotch—"
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
Your heart stumbled unexpectedly.
"What are you talking about?"
"You need somewhere to stay."
His voice remained steady, matter-of-fact. As if this decision had already been made.
"I can get a hotel."
"With what transportation?"
You opened your mouth and closed it right after.
His silence felt suspiciously like victory.
"Sir, seriously," you said. "I don't want to impose."
"You won't."
"But—"
"You are not sleeping in a flooded apartment."
The firmness in his voice left little room for argument.
Then it softened. Just slightly.
"And you're not wandering around D.C. at midnight looking for a hotel."
Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten.
Like the thought genuinely bothered him.
You looked around your ruined apartment.
At the puddles.
The soaked carpet.
The overturned furniture.
Part of you knew he was right.
The other part was painfully aware that Aaron Hotchner was offering to let you stay in his house.
The thought alone was enough to make your stomach twist.
"Twenty minutes."
Before you could argue again, the line disconnected.
You stared at your phone.
Somewhere between the burst pipe, the broken car, and Aaron Hotchner deciding your housing crisis was now his responsibility, your day had become significantly more complicated.
And somehow, despite everything, the knot of anxiety in your stomach had loosened just a little.
Because for the first time all evening, you weren't dealing with it alone.
You managed to pack two bags before the knock came.
Clothes.
Toiletries.
A handful of books.
A laptop.
Enough essentials to convince yourself this was temporary.
Nothing more.
The knock sounded exactly twenty minutes later.
Not twenty-one.
Not nineteen.
Twenty.
You shouldn't have been surprised.
"It's me."
You opened the door.
Aaron stepped inside.
The cool night air followed him.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
His eyes swept across the apartment immediately.
Assessing.
Cataloging.
Taking in every detail.
The water damage.
The damp carpet.
The collection of towels spread across the floor.
The exhaustion written plainly across your face.
You appeared in the bedroom doorway, blowing a loose strand of hair from your eyes.
His gaze landed on you.
"Are you okay?"
The question was simple. But something about the way he asked it made your breath catch.
His voice remained calm.
Controlled.
Professional.
Yet beneath it lingered something softer, warmer.
Something that had nothing to do with Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner.
You shrugged.
"Just annoyed."
A pause.
"And tired."
His expression softened almost imperceptibly.
His eyes dropped to your bags.
Without another word, he crossed the room, picked them both up effortlessly, and headed for the door.
You blinked.
"That's it?"
He glanced back.
"What?"
"No lecture?"
A reluctant smile tugged at your lips.
"No speech about emergency preparedness?"
A flicker of amusement appeared in his eyes.
"I think you've had enough excitement for one day."
The warmth that spread through your chest caught you completely off guard.
You smiled despite yourself.
For the first time all night, Aaron smiled back.
Small.
Brief.
But real.
"Come on."
You followed him outside.
And despite the uncertainty waiting ahead, for the first time since the ceiling started leaking, you felt something suspiciously close to relief.
The drive there had been quiet. Not uncomfortable—just quiet in the way most things were with Aaron. Comfortable silence had always been one of his strengths. You sat in the passenger seat, watching the city lights blur past the window while exhaustion settled deeper into your bones.
At some point, the adrenaline from the flooding apartment had worn off.
Now all that remained was fatigue.
The kind that made your eyelids heavy and your thoughts slow.
The kind that reminded you you'd been awake far too long.
When Aaron finally pulled into the driveway, you stared at the house for a moment.
Aaron's house was exactly what you expected.
And somehow nothing like you expected at all.
Warm light glowed from several windows.
The porch light had been left on.
It looked welcoming.
Lived in.
Safe.
Something inside your chest tightened unexpectedly.
Because while you'd worked with Aaron for years, this felt strangely intimate.
The BAU knew Aaron Hotchner: Unit Chief, profiler, leader.
The man who always had a plan.
The man who somehow remained calm while everyone else was losing their minds.
But this wasn't Hotch's house.
This was Aaron's.
And for some reason, that distinction felt important.
Aaron grabbed your bags before you could protest.
You followed him inside.
The moment the door opened, warmth greeted you.
Not just physical warmth.
The kind that came from a home people actually lived in.
Family photographs lined the hallway walls.
A backpack rested beside the staircase.
A pair of sneakers sat near the front door.
Jack's drawings covered the refrigerator in colorful chaos.
There were magnets holding up spelling tests and crayon masterpieces.
A toy car sat abandoned beneath the coffee table.
The faint scent of garlic and tomato sauce lingered in the air from dinner.
Evidence of life.
Evidence of things Aaron never brought to work.
For the first time, you realized how carefully he separated those worlds.
His professional and personal life.
And somehow you had just stepped directly into the second one.
"The guest room is upstairs."
His voice pulled you back to reality.
"Thank you."
Aaron looked at you.
Really looked at you.
And something in his expression softened.
"You don't need to thank me."
"I kind of do."
"No, you don’t."
The sincerity in his voice surprised you.
For a second, neither of you looked away.
The air felt strangely still.
You were suddenly aware of how quiet the house was.
How close he was standing.
How tired you were.
You cleared your throat.
"I'll figure something else out as soon as I can."
A small smile appeared.
The kind of smile Aaron rarely showed at work.
"There isn't a rush."
Your stomach did something strange.
You chose to ignore it.
Then, after a brief pause, he added—
"And outside work, you can call me Aaron."
The words hit you harder than being invited into his house.
Your brain stalled completely.
"Oh."
The smile widened slightly.
"Is that a problem?"
"No."
Your answer came entirely too quickly.
"No. Not a problem."
A flicker of amusement appeared in his eyes.
"Good."
You swallowed.
"Aaron."
The name felt unfamiliar.
Dangerously personal.
Something unreadable crossed his expression.
Gone almost immediately.
"Get some sleep."
You nodded.
"Goodnight."
The guest room was simple but comfortable.
Clean sheets.
Soft lighting.
A neatly folded blanket at the foot of the bed.
You changed into pajamas, sat on the edge of the mattress, and listened to the quiet house around you.
No dripping water.
No maintenance crews.
No collapsing ceiling.
Just silence.
Safe silence.
The realization washed over you unexpectedly.
You hadn't realized how tense you'd been all evening until now.
The knot in your shoulders loosened.
Your breathing slowed.
For the first time since walking into your flooded apartment, you relaxed.
And within minutes, you were asleep.
The arrangement was supposed to last a few days.
Maybe a week.
Just long enough for repairs.
Then you'd go home.
Simple.
Temporary.
Reasonable.
Unfortunately, water damage had other plans.
One week became two.
Two weeks became three.
Apparently replacing flooring, drywall, plumbing, and half a ceiling took significantly longer than anyone had originally estimated.
By the beginning of the third week, something unexpected had happened.
You'd developed a routine.
Every morning, you woke before six.
Every morning, Aaron was already awake.
Without fail.
You'd find him sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of black coffee and a stack of case files.
Reading.
Annotating.
Working.
The first few mornings consisted mostly of practical conversations.
Need a ride?
How's the apartment?
Did you sleep okay?
Simple things.
Professional things.
Then gradually, without either of you realizing it, those conversations changed.
One morning became breakfast together.
Then another.
Soon, sharing coffee before work felt normal.
Comfortable.
You started discussing books, cases, current events, random observations about human behavior.
Sometimes one conversation would lead to another until suddenly twenty minutes had passed and it was time to leave for Quantico.
Other mornings neither of you spoke much at all.
Aaron would read and you'd drink coffee.
The silence between you settling naturally instead of awkwardly.
It surprised you how much you enjoyed those mornings.
The BAU lived in chaos. Deadlines. Darkness.
But here?
There was coffee, morning sunlight, sound of pages turning.
And Aaron sitting across the table.
Little by little, you learned things about him.
Not because he volunteered information. He rarely volunteered anything.
But details slipped through anyway.
You learned he preferred his coffee black.
No sugar or cream.
You learned he reread reports whenever he was worried about a case.
You learned he loosened his tie almost immediately after walking through the front door.
As though shedding the weight of responsibility one careful inch at a time.
Most surprisingly of all—
You learned he smiled.
Frequently.
Far more frequently than anyone at the BAU would ever believe.
The first time you pointed it out, he looked genuinely offended.
"I smile."
You laughed.
"You really don't."
"I do."
"No."
"I do."
"You absolutely do not."
Aaron looked mildly scandalized.
Which somehow only made it funnier.
You laughed harder.
He rolled his eyes.
The sight nearly killed you.
Because Aaron Hotchner rolling his eyes was somehow one of the most unexpectedly charming things you'd ever witnessed.
Jack adapted far faster than either of you.
Children were like that.
Adults complicated things.
Kids simply accepted them.
By the end of the first week, Jack treated your presence as completely normal.
By the second week, he'd started knocking on your bedroom door every morning before school.
By the third week, he routinely appeared beside you on the couch while doing homework.
One evening, you found yourself sitting cross-legged on the living room floor while Jack enthusiastically explained the rules of a board game.
You were losing.
Badly.
"You're terrible at this."
You stared at him.
"I've known the rules for seven minutes."
"Still terrible."
"I think you're exploiting a loophole."
Jack gasped dramatically.
"You sound like Dad."
The front door opened.
Aaron walked inside.
His gaze immediately found the two of you.
It always did.
You tried not to notice that.
Tried and failed.
He loosened his tie as he crossed the room. Then paused. Jack was winning. You were clearly not. The board reflected this reality mercilessly.
Aaron raised an eyebrow.
"How's it going?"
"She's terrible."
You pointed accusingly.
"I'd like it noted that I'm being bullied by a child."
Jack looked delighted.
Aaron laughed.
Actually laughed.
Not a brief chuckle.
A genuine laugh.
Your jaw nearly hit the floor.
Aaron immediately realized his mistake.
His amusement vanished.
"Don't."
"That was a laugh."
"It wasn't."
"It absolutely was."
"It wasn't."
Jack looked at you.
You looked at Jack.
Neither of you believed him.
And for one brief moment, watching Aaron attempt—and fail—to maintain his dignity, happiness settled warmly inside your chest.
The dangerous kind.
The kind you weren't supposed to feel.
The problem wasn't living with Aaron.
The problem was getting used to him.
Getting used to seeing him relaxed.
Getting used to the way his eyes softened when he looked at Jack.
Getting used to finding him in the kitchen every morning before sunrise, sleeves rolled up, coffee already brewing.
Getting used to the fact that he noticed things.
When you skipped lunch.
When you were running on too little sleep.
When a difficult case followed you home.
Aaron rarely pushed.
But somehow his quiet awareness felt more intimate than concern spoken aloud.
And that was becoming a problem.
Because the longer you stayed, the harder it became to remember he was your boss.
The harder it became to remember this arrangement was temporary.
The harder it became to ignore the fact that you looked forward to seeing him every day.
You tried explaining it away.
The feelings, the butterflies, the warmth that spread through your chest whenever he smiled.
You blamed stress.
A temporary situation creating temporary emotions.
Your brain presented these arguments regularly.
Your heart remained unconvinced.
Unfortunately, your heart was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
If anyone at the BAU noticed the shift between you and Aaron, nobody mentioned it.
At least not immediately.
Morgan was first to figure it out
Which was deeply unfortunate.
The moment happened on an otherwise normal morning.
You were standing near the conference room before briefing, trying to wake up enough to function.
Aaron walked past without looking up from the file in his hand.
At the same time, he set a cup of coffee down beside you.
Your coffee.
Exactly the way you liked it.
No questions.
No hesitation.
Morgan watched the exchange.
Then looked at you.
Then Hotch.
Then back at you.
A slow grin spread across his face.
"Oh."
Every survival instinct you possessed activated simultaneously. You froze.
Aaron continued reading, completely unaware or pretending to be.
Honestly, with him, it was impossible to tell.
"Oh?" you repeated carefully.
Morgan pointed between the two of you.
"Oh."
You felt dread.
"No idea what you're talking about."
"Mhm."
Aaron finally looked up.
"What?"
Morgan's grin widened.
"Dangerous question."
Aaron narrowed his eyes.
Morgan laughed.
"You know what? Never mind."
You immediately knew he absolutely did not mean never mind.
Morgan spent the next three weeks proving exactly that.
Rossi was somehow worse.
Morgan teased.
Rossi observed.
And that felt significantly more threatening.
One afternoon while waiting for the jet, Rossi settled into the seat beside you.
Far too casually.
The expression on his face immediately made you suspicious.
"You know," he said, "Hotch seems happier lately."
You nearly dropped your coffee.
The cup tilted alarmingly.
You managed to save it at the last second.
"Huh."
"Mhm."
You stared straight Ahead, refusing to make eye contact.
"Maybe he's having a good week."
"Maybe."
You hated that answer.
You hated the knowing smile that accompanied it even more.
Rossi patted your shoulder then walked away, leaving you to question every life choice that had brought you to this moment.
The real problem wasn't Morgan.
Or Rossi.
Or even your increasingly obvious feelings for Aaron.
The real problem was that he appeared to be having the exact same problem.
You noticed it gradually.
Small, tiny things.
The kind of details profilers were specifically trained to notice.
The way conversations would occasionally stop when your eyes met.
The way his attention always seemed to find you in a crowded room.
The way he'd linger in doorways as though he wanted to say something, then wouldn’t.
The way his gaze sometimes softened before he caught himself.
Before those walls came crashing back into place.
It wasn't obvious.
Aaron wasn't obvious about anything but it was there.
And once you noticed it, you couldn't stop noticing it.
Neither of you acknowledged it.
Neither of you dared.
Because acknowledging it would make it real.
Real things could break.
Real things could be lost.
For now, pretending felt safer.
Even if it was becoming increasingly difficult.
The Saturday pancake disaster should have been ordinary.
You came downstairs expecting coffee, maybe breakfast.
What you found instead was chaos.
Flour covered nearly every available surface.
Batter decorated the countertop.
The floor looked suspiciously sticky.
And the smoke detector appeared to be considering its options.
You stopped in the doorway.
Stared.
Then laughed.
Aaron looked up immediately.
His sleeves were rolled to his elbows.
There was flour on his shirt.
The sight alone nearly made you laugh harder.
"I had it under control."
Jack snorted.
"No, you didn't."
"I did."
"You absolutely didn't."
Aaron pointed a spatula at him.
Jack remained unimpressed.
You were still laughing and Aaron looked relieved.
As though your arrival had solved a major crisis.
Jack noticed too.
"See?" he announced triumphantly. "I told you we should wait for her."
Her.
Not your name.
Not Agent.
Her.
The simple word hit harder than it should have.
Like your presence was expected.
Like you'd always been part of the plan.
Something tightened painfully in your chest.
Aaron looked at you.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
The kitchen noise faded into the background.
The look in his eyes stole your breath.
Warm.
Soft.
Gone almost immediately.
But you'd seen it.
And judging by the way his gaze lingered for half a second too long, he knew you'd seen it too.
You rolled up your sleeves.
"Move."
Relief flashed across his face.
Jack pointed dramatically.
"See?"
And somewhere deep down, something dangerous settled into place.
Because for the first time, you stopped asking yourself if you were falling in love with him.
You already knew the answer.
The real question was what to do about it.
The call came on a Tuesday afternoon.
You were finishing paperwork when your phone buzzed.
The landlord.
Five minutes later, you hung up.
And just sat there.
Repairs complete.
Apartment ready.
Move back whenever convenient.
Good news.
Objectively.
The exact outcome you'd been waiting for.
So why did your stomach feel like it had dropped through the floor?
The answer followed you all afternoon.
Followed you through the briefing.
Through the drive home.
By the time you climbed into Aaron's car, the weight of it felt impossible to ignore.
The silence between you stretched longer than usual.
Eventually, you broke it.
"The landlord called."
Aaron's hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
Just enough for you to notice.
"Everything okay?"
You looked out the window.
"Yeah."
The word felt wrong.
"Everything's fixed."
Silence.
A beat passed.
Then another.
"Good."
The single word landed heavily.
You swallowed.
Good.
Of course it was good.
Your apartment was repaired, your life could go back to normal.
You should have felt relieved. Instead, all you felt was loss. The realization frightened you.
Because somewhere along the way, Aaron's house had stopped feeling temporary. It had started feeling like home.
Apparently Aaron wasn't handling it much better.
Because several minutes later, he spoke again.
"You don't have to leave immediately."
You turned toward him. His eyes remained fixed on the road.
"What?"
"You can take your time."
Your pulse quickened.
"Aaron..."
His jaw tightened.
"I know it's selfish."
The admission stunned you.
Aaron Hotchner rarely admitted vulnerability.
Yet there it was. Plain and honest. A confession disguised as a practical statement.
Your heart hurt. In the best possible way.
"Aaron."
This time he looked at you.
Only briefly, but it was enough.
Enough for something unspoken to pass between you.
Months of stolen glances.
Quiet mornings..
Movie nights.
Coffee.
Laughter.
All of it suspended between you.
Neither of you looked away immediately.
Neither of you knew what to say.
Because for the first time, pretending wasn't working anymore.
And both of you knew it.
The apartment was fixed.
The deadline was here.
Whatever this was between you—
It couldn't remain unspoken forever.
The conversation happened three nights later.
Not because either of you planned it.
Mostly because avoiding it had become impossible.
By then, every interaction felt loaded with things left unsaid.
Every glance lingered too long.
Neither of you were sleeping much.
And both of you knew exactly why.
The house was quiet.
Jack had gone to bed over an hour ago.
The dishwasher hummed softly somewhere in the background.
You came downstairs hoping a glass of water might somehow solve the problem of your overactive brain.
Instead, you found Aaron standing alone in the kitchen.
A mug sat in front of him.
Untouched.
Steam no longer rose from the coffee, meaning he'd been standing there awhile.
You leaned against the doorway.
"You know it's ten o'clock, right?"
Aaron glanced up. A faint smile touched his mouth.
"I know."
"You have work in the morning."
"So do you."
You crossed your arms.
"Can't sleep?"
A short laugh escaped him.
"No."
Neither could you.
The answer settled between you.
Dangerously revealing.
Silence followed.
Not uncomfortable.
Just heavy.
Like the room was holding its breath.
You watched him.
And for the first time since you'd met him, he looked uncertain.
Not Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner.
Not the profiler who always had answers.
Just a man standing alone in his kitchen trying to figure out how to say something difficult.
The sight made your chest ache.
Finally, he exhaled.
"You should move back."
The words hit harder than you expected.
For a moment, you simply stared.
"Oh."
Immediately, Aaron's expression changed.
Not what he'd meant.
Not even close.
You saw the realization the second it happened.
The regret.
You couldn't help it.
You laughed softly.
"What?"
You shook your head, smile tugged at your lips.
"You know, for a profiler, you're really bad at this."
His eyebrows rose.
"At what?"
You gestured vaguely between the two of you.
"This."
For a second, confusion remained.
Then understanding dawned.
The realization landed visibly.
His shoulders relaxed.
His eyes widened slightly.
And something almost like disbelief crossed his face.
"You know."
It wasn't a question.
You smiled.
"Yeah."
The room suddenly felt much smaller.
Much warmer.
Aaron looked away first.
A laugh escaped him.
Disbelieving.
"You've known for how long?"
You considered it.
"Long enough."
His head tilted.
"Months?"
"Probably."
Aaron looked personally offended, which only made you laugh harder.
"You weren't exactly subtle."
"I was incredibly subtle."
"No."
"I was."
"Aaron."
His expression immediately informed you he knew he had lost that argument.
You grinned.
The tension eased.
Then Aaron's smile faded.
Not completely.
Just enough for something more vulnerable to emerge.
The walls began to crack.
One by one.
The carefully constructed barriers he'd spent years building.
You watched it happen.
Watched him decide.
Watched him stop hiding.
"You deserve someone less complicated."
The words came quietly.
There it was, the real fear.
Fear that he wasn't enough.
Fear that his baggage outweighed everything else.
You smiled immediately.
"There he is."
Confusion flickered across his face.
"There who is?"
"The man who's spent months inventing reasons not to ask me out."
A reluctant smile appeared.
You stepped closer.
Enough to erase some of the distance.
Not all of it.
Just enough.
"Aaron."
His eyes met yours.
Steady.
Open.
Unprotected.
The sight stole your breath.
"You don't get to make that decision for me."
The words settled between you.
His gaze softened.
You continued.
"I know your life isn't simple."
A tiny huff of laughter escaped him.
"That's one way to put it."
"I know your job isn't simple."
Another nod.
"I know you're stubborn."
That earned a real smile.
"And?"
"And I still like you."
Silence.
Full of relief.
Full of hope.
Full of everything neither of you had been brave enough to say.
The look on Aaron's face nearly broke your heart.
Because for the first time, all that restraint disappeared.
Months of uncertainty, caution, wanting…
Gone.
The relief was immediate.
Overwhelming.
"I know."
You blinked.
"What?"
"I know."
You stared.
Then laughed.
"Aaron."
A smile appeared.
"I know."
"I just confessed my feelings."
"I noticed."
"And that's your response?"
The smile widened.
"No."
He reached for your hand, the gesture simple.
But somehow it felt monumental.
His fingers intertwined with yours.
"I like you too."
The words settled somewhere deep inside your chest. Exactly where they'd belonged all along. For a moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away.
Years of profiling had taught you how to read people.
Aaron had always been difficult.
Controlled.
Guarded.
But now?
Now you could see everything.
The affection.
The relief.
The happiness.
The quiet disbelief that this was actually happening.
Your heart swelled.
Aaron's eyes dropped briefly to your lips. Then returned to yours. Giving you every opportunity to step away. To reconsider.
You didn't.
Neither did he.
The kiss was soft.
Like neither of you wanted to rush something that had taken so long to find.
One hand settled gently against your cheek.
The other remained wrapped around yours.
The world narrowed.
No cases.
No flooded apartment.
No uncertainty.
Just Aaron.
And the overwhelming realization that this felt exactly right.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling.
"You know," you said quietly, "Morgan is going to be unbearable."
Aaron groaned immediately.
The sound made you laugh.
And somehow, standing in the middle of his kitchen, hand still tangled with his, happiness felt wonderfully simple.
The next morning lasted approximately six seconds.
That was how long it took Jack to figure it out.
You and Aaron were sitting together at breakfast.
Not touching, not doing anything obvious.
Just smiling a little more than usual.
Apparently that was enough.
Jack walked into the kitchen.
Stopped.
Looked at you.
Looked at Aaron.
Then sighed dramatically.
"Finally."
You nearly inhaled your coffee.
Aaron looked genuinely horrified.
"Jack."
"What?"
"Jack."
"What?"
You were laughing too hard to help.
Jack rolled his eyes.
The expression was disturbingly similar to Aaron's.
"You guys were literally the last people to figure it out."
Aaron covered his face.
You laughed harder.
Jack helped himself to cereal, completely satisfied with the chaos he'd created.
And for the first time in weeks, the future didn't feel uncertain.
Six months later, someone finally crossed a line.
Not Morgan.
Not Rossi.
Not anyone whose opinion mattered.
An assistant section chief from another division.
The type of man everyone tolerated and nobody respected.
The type who interrupted women in meetings and called it leadership.
The comment happened after a joint briefing.
Several agents remained in the conference room.
People gathered files.
Prepared to leave.
You and Aaron had arrived together that morning and apparently that had been enough.
The man looked between you.
Then smirked.
The expression instantly made your skin crawl.
"Oh."
The room quieted.
Not completely.
Just enough.
Enough for people to start paying attention.
You recognized the tone immediately.
So did Aaron.
The man leaned back in his chair.
"I always wondered how some agents move up so quickly."
The room went still.
Every instinct you possessed screamed where this was headed.
The smirk widened.
"Guess it helps when the boss thinks you're pretty."
Silence.
Heat flooded your face.
Not embarrassment.
Anger.
Pure anger.
Years of work.
Years spent earning every opportunity.
Dismissed in a single sentence.
The man wasn't finished.
Of course he wasn't.
"Let's be honest."
Morgan's expression darkened immediately.
Rossi slowly removed his glasses.
"If she wasn't young and attractive, would she really be sitting at this table?"
Every muscle in your body locked.
Then Aaron stood.
Slowly, deliberately.
The room became completely silent.
His expression didn't change.
That somehow made it worse.
Because anyone who knew Aaron understood something important.
When he was angry, he got quieter.
Not louder.
"What exactly are you implying?"
The man laughed nervously.
"Come on, Hotchner—"
"No."
The single word cut through the room.
Cold.
Precise.
Final.
"We're not doing that."
The confidence vanished from the man's face.
"She earned every assignment."
Your throat tightened.
"Every commendation."
Another beat.
"Every promotion."
Nobody interrupted.
Because everyone knew he was right.
Aaron took one step forward.
"If you think a woman's success can only be explained by the man standing next to her, then you have absolutely no business leading agents."
The room remained silent.
The assistant section chief looked like he wanted the floor to open beneath him.
Aaron wasn't finished.
"And if you ever suggest her accomplishments belong to anyone but her again, you'll answer for it."
The warning landed with absolute clarity.
The man looked away first.
Aaron sat back down.
Conversation over.
Case closed.
That night, after dinner, you found yourselves alone in the kitchen.
Somehow important conversations always seemed to happen there.
"You didn't have to do that."
Aaron looked genuinely confused.
"Yes, I did."
"Honey—"
"You are not a child."
"No."
"You never were."
The certainty in his voice wrapped around something vulnerable inside your chest.
Something old.
Something that had spent years wondering if people truly saw your work.
Your effort.
Your accomplishments.
Aaron always had.
Not because he cared about you.
Because he respected you.
The distinction mattered.
Aaron reached across the table and took your hand.
His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles.
"You okay?"
You looked at him.
At the man who'd picked you up from a flooded apartment months ago.
The man who'd quietly made space for you in his home.
In his life.
The man who had somehow become home himself.
You intertwined your fingers with his.
"Yeah."
And this time, you meant it.
From the living room came Jack's voice.
"Dad?"
Aaron closed his eyes immediately.
You laughed.
"Yes?" he called.
"When you get married someday, can I tell everyone I set you two up?"
You burst out laughing.
Aaron dropped his head into his free hand.
A groan escaped him.
From the living room came triumphant laughter.
And sitting there beside the people you loved most, surrounded by warmth and light and the life you'd accidentally built together, everything felt exactly where it was supposed to be.
For the first time since the ceiling started leaking, you weren't wondering where home was.
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Pairing: Din Djarin x princess!reader (he's basically like a bodyguard :) and light enemies to lovers- featuring Grogu ofc)
Word Count: 6.2K
Summary: Your father is stirring trouble with the Empire and he worries for your safety so he hires you a bodyguard.
Author's Note: So I've been working on this for foreverrrrrrrr. I just don't have time and with a story like this I had to do some plot to build the tension and all that. Anyway, after my last Djarin story I just can't stay away. I'm hoping to do more stories with him but shorter so I can get more out in a timely manner. Thank you all so much for reading and sharing, much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy!🥰
PS This takes place on the planet Naboo- you can look up the city of Theed and the Kaadu creatures here You can also look up her droid here
Warnings: fun banter, tension and flirting, some SW action, little angst here and there, implied sexy times, def spicy at the end, soft moments and lots of cute Grogu
The moment the words leave your father’s mouth you choke on your drink, wishing instead you had been three glasses deeper and much less keen to the weight of his words. You stare at your father, trying to master your expression and there’s a challenge in his eye, a dare to argue…but you don’t, knowing it will be worse if you do.
You force a smile and nod.
Back in your room you pace, feet stomping unceremoniously as you throw profanities out left and right, causing your poor BD-3000 droid, KT-12 , or as you lovingly call her, buttons, distress.
She’s following you back and forth, arms raised in the air, eyes rapidly blinking as she tries to calm you down.
“Just because he’s too busy to keep me safe doesn’t mean he can just hire some random bounty hunter to follow me around all the time! It’s an invasion of privacy!”
You finally stop and Buttons nearly slams into your back. She tsks. “Perhaps it’s for the best my lady. Things between your father and the Empire have been getting…heated.”
You whirl around, eyebrows drawn in and fury etched into your features, ignoring her placating words. “And I can’t imagine how much this bounty hunter is getting paid! It’s always about the money!”
She holds your gaze and if her face weren’t built so mechanically you’d be almost sure there was a hint of sympathy there. You plop down on the plush coverings of your bed, falling backward dramatically and sighing even more dramatically.
“You don’t suppose he’ll be devastatingly handsome and kind and we’ll end up falling in love and he’ll rescue me from this place…?”
Buttons moves over to your discarded robe and begins to fold it. “I’ve never found humans to be all that handsome myself, but I suppose you’re a better judge of that.”
A hint of a smile pulls at your lips, and you sit up. “Well, guess it’s time we found out.”
Before entering the formal throne room you glance around from the threshold. Buttons runs into your back, urging you forward.
“Hey,” you squeak as you take a falling step inside.
“There you are,” your father says, giving you a fake smile.
Your eyes dart from side to side, searching for your new bodyguard but all you see is your father’s guards.
“And where is he?” you ask, holding your chin high and your shoulders back. “I thought you said we were meeting promptly after dinner.”
Footsteps echo behind you and you turn at the sound of a deep and gravelly voice.
“Forgive me princess,” the bounty hunter says when he walks in. “I was…preoccupied.”
You narrow your eyes, your gaze sweeping over his body. A body completely covered in Mandalorian armor. At the hint of sarcasm in his voice you scoff.
“Hmm. Well…now that we’ve met I’d like to retire to my rooms.”
You start to turn on your heel, but your father clears his throat, and you squeeze your eyes shut, silently cursing him before you relent and stay put.
“This is Din Djarin. The Mandalorian I’ve assigned to protect you.”
“You mean paid,” you grit out.
Your father ignores your jab. “He’ll be with you wherever you go.”
“Even my bathing chambers?” you answer back, a wry but saccharine smile lifting your lips.
Again, you’re ignored by your father, but you don’t miss the way Djarin steps closer to you, hands seated comfortably on his hips, his shoulders relaxed when he whispers, “only if you want me to Princess.”
Your blood heats and you lift your finger to point it at his chest, both distracted by his armor and what might be hidden beneath.
“First of all, don’t call me Princess. I have a name. And secondly, you’ll stay as far away from me…and my bathing chambers…as possible.”
His head cocks to the side as he seemingly studies you. You hate that you can’t see his face.
“As your protector I can’t make any promises. I have a job to do…Princess.”
Before you can speak again your father dismisses you and Djarin. “Very well then,” your father says. “On your way.”
The feel of him at your back makes your shoulders tense and when you get your room you startle when he reaches around you to open the door.
“Let me do a sweep.”
“I’ve been gone for half an hour!” you say with an eye roll.
“Wait here.”
His gruff command leaves no room for argument, and you cross your arms over your chest, huffing out your frustration. Button’s stands beside you, her metal fingers resting gently on your shoulder in a supportive pat.
Suddenly, you hear some commotion from inside and you reach for the doorknob.
“I wouldn’t my lady,” Buttons says.
“He’s probably rifling through my underwear drawer!”
A second later the door opens and you see Djarin standing with a smoking and broken spy droid dangling from his gloved hand.
If you could see his face you’d be sure he was wearing a smug look. “Next time don’t fight me when I need to do my job.”
You lift your chin defiantly but don’t answer back.
“You’re all clear,” he says before stationing himself just outside the door. “Yell if you need anything.”
“I won’t,” you state and slam the door.
The next day passes and you only leave your room when absolutely necessary. Your defiance is all you have to hang on to, and you refuse to give in easily. Djarin stands guard day and night, though you wonder if he ever sleeps because even when you do leave your room he’s right behind you.
And today, he decides you both need to get outside.
“Would you be willing to show me around the palace a bit more? Maybe the gardens?” he asks, now striding right next to you as you head for the library.
“I was going to read.”
You don’t elaborate and start to walk faster.
“Please,” he says quietly and it stops you in your tracks.
“So he does have manners,” you muse, raising your brows.
He sighs and waits. And you drag out the moment, enjoying his suffering.
“Fine. Let’s go for a walk,” you finally agree.
He extends his elbow for you, and you narrow your eyes, reluctantly taking it.
“Lead the way Princess.”
You bring him out to the gardens, sighing when you feel the warm sun on your face.
“Sorry you kept yourself locked away for so long?” he asks, tone snarky.
You don’t bother glancing his way and continue walking toward the seating area, making yourself comfortable on a bench.
“Feel free to go where you like,” you tell him, motioning to the expanse of the gardens.
He inclines his head in thanks and turns on his heel, seeming to wander aimlessly until he turns a corner around some bushes and disappears.
At first, you pay him and his absence no mind, enjoying the warm air and the faint floral scent carried on it. But then you start to hear his voice, muffled but raised and a small series of something akin to squeaks.
“What in the….?” You mutter and stand in the direction he went.
When you turn the corner you are not expecting to see him kneeling in front of a small green alien, arguing with it.
“You can’t have anymore. You’ll get sick,” he says as he pulls a cookie out of its little hand.
The alien’s big dark eyes look up at you, blinking slowly as he coos.
Djarin turns quickly and tries to block your view.
“He’s so cute. Why can’t he have more cookies?” you ask, stepping around him to see the alien again.
“Shit,” Djarin says and rests a hand on his helmet.
“What?” you ask before kneeling to say hi to the alien.
You say your name and point to yourself, and the alien’s small hand reaches out toward your face.
“His name is Grogu,” Djarin says. “He’s in my care.”
With a smile you fish inside your dress pocket and pull a snack free, handing it to Grogu. He takes it with a happy squeal and shoves the whole thing in his mouth.
“That’s not helping,” Djarin says with a sigh, hands now resting with resignation on his hips.
“Have you been keeping him out here?” you ask, suddenly angry at the thought.
“Well…” Djarin starts, holding his palms up.
“That’s terrible! It’s not safe and it gets cold and…”
“Will you just listen for a minute” Djarin interrupts.
Stomping your foot you start to walk off but he grabs your arm, stopping you and spinning you gently back to face him. He leans in closer and you hold perfectly still.
You shiver and he looks down at your arm, watching the goosebumps erupt over the expanse of your exposed skin. He releases you and reaches for the small cloak secured around his neck.
He drapes it around your shoulders, and you press your lips into a thin line.
“Relax Princess. Just being a gentleman.”
You roll your eyes. “Not very gentlemanly to leave that sweet little guy out here all alone.” When you bump his shoulder and go to storm by him he hooks an arm around your waist and twists, pinning you against the bushes. You look up at him with murder in your eyes.
“Still being a gentleman?” you ask, tone cheeky.
Even through the material of his gloves you can feel the warmth of his skin and then you feel a traitorous shiver crawling up your spine- and not from the cold. You squirm in this grip, causing the edge of your skirt to catch on one of the branches of the bush.
He looks down, his body tensing at the sliver of exposed skin that’s now revealed, then he slowly lowers his hand, eyes staying focused on the spot, clearly waiting for you to protest. His fingertips brush along your thigh, knuckles grazing something hard.
“Planning to use this?” he asks as his fingers toy with the dagger secured to your leg.
“Are you going to give me a reason to?” you counter, furious that you can’t see his face as you hope to keep your own features schooled.
“You can’t tell anyone about Grogu.”
Your chin lifts and he presses harder against you.
“For his safety,” he pauses, “please.”
That one word catches you off guard and for a second you forget how frustrating this whole situation is. You gather yourself, hoping your emotions are as hidden as his.
“Then you have to let him stay with me. Inside the palace.”
He sighs and you add, “for his safety.”
“Fine,” Djarin says. “But no one can know.”
“Don’t worry. I’m very good at keeping secrets,” you assure him, giving him a light shove to release you.
He does but you don’t let him get far. “As long as you tell me why he’s in your care and why it’s so important he stays hidden.”
He hangs his head with a slight shake. “You’re a pain the ass, you know that.”
His comment makes you laugh. It’s the first real laugh you’ve had in days, and it feels good and Djarin’s never been more thankful to have his face hidden. The sight of your smile takes his breath away.
“Oh you have no idea!” you say as you reach for Grogu’s hand.
When Djarin follows you and Grogu into your chambers you don’t refuse his presence, noting the urgency in his voice as he explained the situation to you during your walk back to the palace.
“I can make him a place to sleep here and bring him food after meals,” you say as you flit around the room and gather blankets.
Once you’ve set up the space you take a deep breath, turning to find Djarin filling your space. He grabs your wrist, and you freeze, looking from his large, gloved hand to where you imagine his eyes would be.
You try to pull away but he pulls you closer, seemingly holding your gaze as he slides his fingers gently up and over your knuckles.
“Thank you,” he says in a whisper.
You’re imagining he’d brush his lips across your hand if his face weren’t forever hidden behind his helmet. Heat rushes through you at the contact and the thought and you nod your head.
“Forgetting you can’t stand me?” you say to break the spell, the corners of your mouth tilted up.
He drops your hand and steps back. “Wouldn’t dream of it Princess,” he says but you hear the smile in his voice.
The palace has been bustling with activity over the last week due to tonight’s wedding of your cousin. Your father offered to host in the hopes of keeping the family in a positive light. You’ve stayed as far away from it all as possible, enjoying your time with Grogu.
He’s playful and adorable and doting on him has taken your mind off the constant presence of Djarin, who on the other hand is distracting. Just the sound of his voice makes your traitorous body react and you’re dying to find out what’s beneath all that armor.
Just as your imagination is drifting to the wide set of his shoulders and the way his hand so easily wrapped around your wrist there’s a knock at your door.
“Come in.”
Djarin steps through the door with Buttons right behind him.
“My lady we need to prepare you for the wedding,” Buttons says as she walks to your closet.
Djarin checks on Grogu, speaking softly to him before he turns your way.
“When you’re ready I’ll be waiting outside to escort you to the festivities.”
“Shouldn’t you be in more formal attire?” you ask as you look over your shoulder. “Surely for one night you can wear something else.”
He clasps his hands in front of him. “As much as I’d love to be your date for the evening Princess, I can’t risk your safety just to look good.”
The playfulness in his voice takes you off guard and you smile softly.
“Hm. Too bad.”
Taking that as his dismissal he leaves the room and Buttons holds up a dress. “How about this one my lady.”
You look it over, your eyes lighting up in delight before you say, “actually…I know exactly which dress I want to wear.”
As you exit your room you’re purposefully placed cloak swishes behind you, cascading over the floor as you walk to meet Djarin. He bows his head slightly and ushers you toward the ballroom. When you reach the entrance Buttons fusses with the hem of your cloak, but you hastily remove it, revealing your dress beneath.
If it weren’t for the music playing in the next room you’d be sure you heard his quick intake of breath. You hand the cloak to Buttons. “It’s warm enough tonight. I don’t think I’ll need this.”
You feel his gaze immediately even though you can’t see his eyes. You smile and lift your brows.
“Staring is rude you know.”
He clears his throat. “I wasn’t staring.”
You trail your fingers along the neckline of your dress, pretending to adjust the pendant resting against your skin before you step into the room.
He grabs your arm. “Let me go first.”
You roll your eyes with a scoff, stepping to the side to allow him to pass. At first you watch him to a sweep of the room but once you lose him in the crowd you turn toward the ornate and elaborate decorations near the doorway.
“How much do you think these cost?” you say more to yourself than Buttons, who as usual, is standing diligently at your side.
Suddenly, warmth fills the space at your back, and you feel Djarin behind you, his body pressed to yours. Your heart kicks into a faster rhythm as his gloved fingers skim your arm.
“Everything appears to be safe,” he whispers, low and gruff, “but…”
You stop breathing when he dips his head lower, not even the helmet blocking the caress of his words against your skin. “There’s a man here…there’s something about him. He’s wearing a purple cloak. Stay away from him.”
“Ok.”
Your voice is too breathy, but you can’t stop it with him this close. He hums against your neck, and you clench your thighs together involuntarily. Trying to deny your attraction to him would be ridiculous at this point but it doesn’t make you any less angry.
You’ve never even seen his face. The illusion can shatter with just a glimpse.
He moves away and you feel the loss like a punch to the gut. It steals your breath and you turn to find him tucked behind you, leaning along one of the pillars in the ballroom. Even as you walk away in search of a drink you can feel the weight of his gaze.
The rest of the evening goes by without much excitement. You’re asked to dance several times, noting the way Djarin is always in your line of sight. When you finally get free of the dance floor and find some sanctuary by the outdoor balcony you’re not surprised when that familiar deep voice greets you.
“Why do you dance with them if you don’t want to?” he asks.
“Who says I wasn’t enjoying every minute of it?” you counter, turning your face to the light breeze.
“You hated every minute of it,” he says, his tone so sure if makes your fists clench.
“And how would you know,” you grit out.
The slight tilt of his helmet is all you get in response and you have to close your eyes and take a deep breath. Then a slow smile spreads across your lips.
“Or maybe…you’re just jealous.”
“Wouldn’t that make you happy Princess,” he chuckles.
A commotion on the dance floor pulls you both from the moment and he instantly has you secured behind him as he assesses the situation. With his hand on the gun at his hip he slowly moves forward but the instant there’s a space between the people on the dance floor you let out a barely contained snort.
“Oh don’t worry. That’s just my father pretending to make a drunken scene. He’s really laying it on thick,” you drawl.
Djarin continues to study what unfolds before him, not letting you pass and not removing his hand from his blaster.
“And it’s also my signal to go to bed,” you add.
“Not interested in seeing how this plays out?” Djarin asks with a light tone.
“I’ve seen it a million times. He does this just to try to win people over. It’s total bullshit.”
You wave a dismissive hand and start to head for your room. Djarin falls in step beside you.
“You’re not going to stay and enjoy the party?” you ask. “I’m sure there’s some beautiful lady who’d love to get that helmet off you.”
Ignoring your comment he responds with, “where you go I go Princess.”
“I’m aware,” you reply wryly.
“Would you mind if I check on Grogu before you retire for the night?” he asks softly.
“Be my guest,” you say as you wait by your door, knowing he’s going to go in first for a security sweep anyway.
Once it’s clear there are no safety breeches he calls you inside. He’s leaning against the wall near your bed, looking down at Grogu who’s snuggled into his blankets with a cookie.
“I don’t know where he keeps finding these snacks,” Djarin tsks with a shake of his head.
You clear your throat. “Oh, I have no idea either. But he’s cute enough to get away with a lot.”
Grogu looks at you, blinking slowly and making a soft cooing sound. You smile and wink.
“I’m going to have a bath. You can see yourself out.”
With that you head into your bathing room and shut the door, quickly testing the bath water that Buttons had set up for you. It’s warm and inviting and you let your dress slip from your shoulders, sliding your undergarments off then stepping into the large tub.
You’re not sure how long you spend submerged in the bath but as you stand and retrieve your towel you hear the door creak open. It startles you at first and you quickly cover yourself with the towel, peering through the low light to see who’s at the door.
Grogu waddles through, his ears bent backward and his eyes bigger than usual. He holds out the small sack you gave him to hold his cookies, showing you it’s empty.
“Did you eat them all?” you ask with a smile.
He nods and his expression turns solemn.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get you more.”
After hearing that he starts to chirp and coo excitedly, making far too much noise for the time of night it is. You try to quiet him down but before you can Djarin barges into the bathing room, poised and ready to attack.
You let out a scream and nearly drop your towel.
“What the….?” you start, your fingers in a vice grip on the material as you stand there still dripping water.
“I heard…something,” Djarin says. “Are you ok?”
“We’re fine,” you say in a whoosh of breath. “He just got excited over...”
“Cookies?” Djarin finishes for you.
“Yeah,” you laugh. “And what is that?” you ask, pointing to the large gun looking thing slung over his shoulder.
He relaxes his stance but doesn’t pull his gaze away from you. “A flamethrower.”
“Oh. Bigger than I thought,” you muse.
“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” he shoots back.
You place a hand to your chest, feigning shock. “Did you just make a…joke?”
He scoffs and lowers the flame thrower. For a moment you think he’s going to engage but he just seems to be staring at you, although you can never quite tell with his helmet on. You suddenly remember you’re standing there in your towel, and you swallow hard, all the built of tension rushing back in a flash.
The time stretches taut with heated anticipation, and you sway closer, the urge to drop the towel taking over.
Grogu interrupts with a whistle and you’re released from your daze, looking down at him slowly.
“Come on Grogu,” Djarin say as he turns to leave. “And no more cookies,” he shoots over his shoulder.
Your exhale is long and slow as you watch him leave, Grogu following slowly behind with disappointed look.
The next day you’re thrumming with energy, the need to leave the palace and find some solace from this ever-growing tension between you and the Mandalorian becoming overwhelming.
The problem is, wherever you go, he goes.
As you’re sitting on your bed watching Grogu munch on a cookie your eyes light up with an idea. You smile mischievously at him, and his ears instantly flatten to the back of his head.
After you’ve explained your plan to Grogu, going over it several times until he was nodding in what you hope is agreement you grab your pack and change into something less conspicuous than your usual regal garments.
You give Grogu the signal and he heads toward the door of your bedroom, sneaking out into the hallway to get Djarin’s attention. You peek out of the door and see Djarin turned the other way and reaching for Grogu to take him back inside.
It’s now or never. You slip away with silent footsteps and once you’re out of sight you sneak toward the stables. You make quick work of saddling your Kaadu, ignoring its light protests to you riding out unescorted.
You soothe the creature with soft touches and words until you’re picking up speed, and the palace grows smaller behind you.
The city of Theed is alive with the thrum of people coming and going, the marketplace full of vendors shouting to every person who passes by and you’re thankful for the hood you pull up and over your face.
Your Kaadu waits impatiently at the stables, and you know you don’t have much time. The energy of the freedom of the city keeps your feet moving forward and after a few minutes you start to relax.
When you pass a particular vendor selling sweets your nose stops you in your tracks, the smell a familiar one that brings back a flood of childhood memories. You stop and eye the treats, knowing you’re not the only one who will enjoy them.
You reach for your bag of money and realize that you forgot to take some. Your stomach sinks at the thought of going home empty handed. You look around the marketplace, checking for anything that seems out of place then look to the stall owner, noting that his focus is on the customer ahead of you.
Your movements are slow and careful as you reach for a handful of the treats…
“HEY! YOU!” the vendor in the stall next to you yells. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Your hand flies back and you quickly look around, noticing that you now have the attention of several people, including the owner of sweets stall.
“Uhh…” you start, eyes darting from side to side.
Then without thinking you make a grab for the treats, taking a large handful and stuffing them in your bag before turning and dashing off into the crowd. You can hear the commotion behind you, the vendors yelling, other patrons shouting as they get knocked into and pushed aside.
You don’t look back, just continue running as fast as you can until you reach one of the large cylindrical buildings and it’s many arches. You disappear into the shadows and plaster yourself against the wall, listening as the small group that was chasing you passes by in a flurry of agitation.
Releasing a breath you smile to yourself, feeling the exhilaration of the adrenaline moving through you and the triumph of escape. You check your bag one last time, happy to see the treats are intact and check around the pillars before starting to make your way back to your Kaadu.
Just when you think you’re out of harms way you turn the corner and walk straight into the solid white armor of a storm trooper.
“And just where do you think you’re going…Princess.”
“Shit,” you mutter before another pair of hands grabs your wrists from behind you and secures them.
“Let’s go,” the second Stormtrooper says. “And don’t make a scene or we’ll be forced to silence you.”
“Where is she?” Djarin hisses, slamming the door to the bathroom shut as he stares at Buttons.
“Sir, I have no idea where she could have gone. I was tending to the laundry and when I came back the only one here was the little alien…covered in crumbs.”
“Do you know where she is?” Djarin asks, spinning to face Grogu.
Grogu’s ears go back, his dark eyes wide, telling Djarin exactly what he needs to know.
“Shit!” Djarin growls. “You’re not supposed to make my job harder!”
Grogu makes a soft squeak, lowering his head at the admonishment.
“Don’t move!” Djarin commands and then looks at Buttons. “And you either. Keep an eye on him!”
He storms for the door, steps heavy and purposeful before he turns to face Grogu again. “And no tricks!”
You’re practically dragged into the underground passage, your feet tripping over each other as you try to keep up and the damp smell of Earth assaults your senses.
“Where are you taking me?” you huff out, defiant still in the face of danger.
“You’ll find out,” answers the Stormtrooper who’s pushing you forward.
The loud rush of falling water grows louder until you’re shoved through a high archway that brings you to an opening with a waterfall at the back. Two other tunnels lead off from the center, but both are blocked by guards.
You look around, trying to measure your surroundings as quickly and efficiently as possible before you hear the distinct gruff voice of Moff Gideon. Your lip curls in a sneer as you meet his eyes.
“And what a lovely surprise it is to see you Princess,” he drawls.
You scoff and don’t offer him a greeting instead shooting back with, “whatever it is you want I won’t do it. You’ve made a grave mistake.”
He smiles. “And why is that? We know you’ve had contact with the alien child, and you will tell us where he’s hiding.”
You lift your chin. “I will tell you nothing.”
One of the dark troopers barring a tunnel entrance takes a step in your direction. Your heart drops into your stomach but you school your features.
“Always so uncooperative,” Gideon sighs.
The stormtrooper pushes you forward as the dark trooper advances. You brace for pain, your body tense but instead you feel the whoosh of a blaster shot, the storm trooper crumpling at your feet right before the dark trooper does the same.
Instinctively you duck and rush away from the chaos, backing yourself into the wall and seeing Djarin blaze through the farthest tunnel, shots firing and several enemies falling to the ground.
He’s just about to end the last of the troopers when you hear Grogu’s squeal, his small body appearing at the opening of the other tunnel. You lunge for him, only to have one of the remaining dark troopers grab you. Gideon slips through the shots being fired, using the commotion as his shiel to scoop up Grogu.
Djarin advances, his gun now poised at Moff Gideon.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you Mandalorian,” Gideon sneers. “I have what I want and you’re going to let me go.”
You struggle against the dark troopers hold and Djarin’s head turns your way.
“Let them go,” he growls. “Now.”
Gideon laughs. “No. Surrender and they will be remain intact.”
Gideon pulls out a small blade and holds it against Grogu’s throat before he looks to the dark trooper who then pulls out a blaster and aims it at you.
Gideon presses the blade closer to Grogu’s skin, and he lets out a small whimper. You see Djarin go completely still and you hold your breath.
“You’re going to pay for this,” Djarin hisses as he lowers his blaster and raises his hands in surrender.
You struggle again and the dark trooper tightens his hold, shoving the blaster into your side.
“Seize him,” Gideon states, motioning to the last dark trooper. “And remove his helmet.”
You suck in a gasp of air, frantically trying to come up with something to do. The dark trooper takes Djarin’s hands and wrenches them behind his back, dropping him to his knees. He secures his wrists with a binder and then places his hand on Djarin’s helmet.
Grogu releases a series of agitated squeaks and squeals just before the dark trooper pulls the helmet from Djarin’s head.
Your eyes instantly lock with his, their dark brown color warm despite the situation as he stares back at you. His equally dark hair is mussed, some soft pieces falling over his forehead as his plush lips lift into a small smirk.
“Hi Princess,” he murmurs.
“Hi,” you say, the effect of the reveal clearly apparent in your breathy tone.
He doesn’t take his eyes off you, drinking you in with a sweep of his gaze from your head to toes.
Gideon’s overexaggerated laugh drags your eyes away from each other. “Isn’t this just grand,” he says. “Now I have two things that are important to you.”
Djarin grunts and tests the binders at his wrists. The dark trooper gives him a hard shove, and you struggle again in the your own restraints. Gideon laughs and starts to back up.
“Once I’m free of these tunnels kill them both,” he says with a sinister smile.
Then he turns and starts to run with Grogu toward the exit. In the seconds between your scream and the next breath you hear a loud thud from the tunnel, the sound of Gideon’s voice suddenly muffled before Grogu waddles back into the center room, his arm outstretched and aimed at the dark trooper who has a hold on Djarin.
The trooper flies backward into the wall, slamming into the stone hard before it falls to the floor in a heap. The next few seconds happen so quickly you barely register anything. Djarin stands and turns his wrists toward Grogu, who instantly breaks the binders then he has his blaster in his hand and the dark trooper holding you falls backward slowly, the hole in it’s head still smoking.
Djarin rushes for you, grabbing your hand. “Come on. We have to get out of here.”
You stare at him, closer now so that you can see the shadow of stubble along his cheeks, and the long dark lashes that frame his eyes.
His gaze holds yours before dropping to your lips and impulsively your tongue darts out to trace their shape. He groans but urges you behind him before putting his helmet back on.
“We don’t have time,” he says, signaling for Grogu. “Let’s get to safety.”
Your escape back to the palace is a blur of movement and urgency and it isn’t until you’re secured back in your room, legs cramping and breathing ragged that he unleashes his anger.
“What were you thinking?” he shouts. “You could have been killed!”
Before you can answer, he whirls on Grogu. “And you!”
Grogu’s ears fall back and he lowers his head with a sad whistle. He retreats to his bed area looking thoroughly chastised and you watch the anger in Djarin deflate with a sag of his shoulders.
But still you shoot back, “don’t yell at him,” throwing your finger out and crowding Djarin’s space. “It was my fault. I put him up to it. I…I just wanted to get out of here for a little while.”
Your last words soften as the air leaves your body and you start to sway forward with the weight of everything that has transpired.
He catches you easily, one arm around your waist, as your breathing starts to even out. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.
He removes one glove and then the other, placing his fingers under your chin to lift your face to his. Your body comes alive at the feel of his skin against yours, his thumb softly tracing the curve of your jaw.
His lips tenderly brush your cheek, his nose gently bumping yours before he kisses you. It’s not just some quick affection. This is a kiss you feel everywhere. You’re hyperaware of all the places your bodies touch, of the way, even through his armor, you fit together perfectly. He holds you to him, his large hands softly cupping your face.
When you pull away you’re breathless and Djarin’s eyes wander deliberately over the features of your face, his head dipping to kiss you again.
“Careful Mandalorian,” you whisper against his lips when he retreats just enough to hold your gaze. “You’re looking at me like you’re forgetting you can’t stand me.”
The corner of his lips tilt upward into a smile and the lines around his eyes deepen, sending a rush of warmth through your body.
“I could say the same for you,” he murmurs.
He leans in, skimming his nose from the junction of your shoulder up your neck, breathing you in.
“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?” He whispers the words into your skin before inhaling again.
A shiver runs along your spine as his breath ghosts over the rapid pulse in your neck. He hums appreciatively, groaning before he kisses you again. When he pulls back, he searches your face for any sign of hesitation and when you give him none he drops his hand between your bodies, searching for the hem of your shirt and slipping his hand beneath, calloused fingertips gliding over your soft skin.
One of your hands thrusts into his hair, yanking his head closer to kiss him, and his barely controlled restraint snaps, his free hand curling around your thigh to lift you into his arms. He walks you backward toward the bed, spinning until he’s seated and you’re straddling his lap. He never breaks the kiss, his hands steady but urgent in their exploration of every curve of your body.
He shifts, trying to ease the strain of the hardness between his legs.
“You’re wearing far too much clothing.” The words are a challenge against his lips, and his eyes snap up to meet yours.
His hand slides up to your neck, and his grip tightens on your throat, the feel of your pulse beating harder and harder against his fingers.
“You are temptation,” he whispers, “and I want to take my time…”
“But…”you purr.
“It’s been torture since the moment I laid eyes on you. I need you to be mine.”
Your lips spread into a smile against his. “Then make me yours.”
Pairing: Din Djarin x reader with lots of cute Grogu too!
Word Count: 5.6K
Summary: After your home planet is destroyed by The Empire and you're taken prisoner, someone and something unexpected comes to your rescue.
Author's Note: Once again, I'm terrible at summaries but this is my first time writing for Mando and honestly, I've been enjoying it so much. Took me almost a week to get it done but thankfully I did. I've read up on quite a few things that say his first name is Djarin and some say Din. I went with Djarin but of course whatever works for you is best. Being a huge SW fan I also tried to be true to the lore and all that but forgive me for any mistakes. Thank you all so much for reading and sharing! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Thank you Daisy @firefly-graphics for the divider!
Warnings: there's some light angst over past experiences but nothing is mentioned in detail, mostly it's light and fun and adventurous and flirty and Mando is just yummy and there's a no helmet reveal lol and lots of Grogu silliness.
The dampness of the cave begins to seep into your clothing, and you can’t staunch the consistent shivering of your body any longer. With your hands bound and your mouth covered in the harsh cloth you really can’t do much at all.
At the sound of someone-or something- approaching, you let the first tear slip free. After being dragged from your home, bound and gagged, and thrown into wherever this was you were sure nothing good could come next.
The shadows along the wall grow taller, the being that approaches something you’re sure you’ve never seen before. You plaster yourself to the cold stone, disappearing into the darkness as much as you can and try to slow your rapid breathing.
When the creature finally reaches the bars of your cell you can barely make it out, but you remain silent, willing it to go away. It steps closer and cocks it’s head to the side, revealing wide eyes and long, slim ears. It’s much smaller than you thought it would be.
It blinks several times, tilting it’s head as it studies you. You still don’t dare make a move but then it makes a sound, almost like a soft coo and you can’t help the way your interest piques and your fear lessens. That is, until it lifts its three fingered hand and squints as if focusing. You brace yourself for pain but let out an exhaled huff of surprise when you hear the lock break.
You keep your eyes squeezed shut, too afraid to open them but when a soft sound of interest hits your ear, far closer than before you suck in a breath and open them.
The creature is standing right in front of you, so small it barely reaches your bent knees. It keeps studying you before it takes another step closer. You instinctively squeeze yourself against the wall, but it continues to advance until it reaches your bound wrists.
Reaching out again, it’s hand hovers over the metal binding and then with a clank they break apart and fall to the ground. You’re breathing quickens as you slowly reach for the cloth secured across your mouth but then you hear the heavy footfall of boots and the little creature scampers closer to you as if to hide.
“Grogu?” a deep voice calls. “Where the hell did he get off to?”
Whoever approaches speaks with an exasperated and grumpy tone and once they’re standing in front of your cell you realize you might actually really be in trouble this time. The dim light from the torches in the hallway glint and gleam off the armor that covers him from head to toe, and his broad shoulders fill most of the cell doorway.
A Mandalorian.
His head cocks to the side slightly, the sight mirroring the way the small creature still hiding next to you first observed you.
“Grogu,” he sighs. “What are you doing in here?”
You still haven’t removed the cloth over your face, but you hold up your unbound hands to show they’re empty before taking it off.
“He opened my cell,” you say, voice raspy from your screams from earlier.
The Mandalorian steps closer, allowing light to filter past his body, and takes you in. Since you can’t see his face you can’t read his expression, but he stares for a bit too long and Grogu moves toward him.
“Come on, we have to go,” the Mandalorian says and holds out his hand.
“No!” you shout a bit too loud. “Please…”
The Mandalorian tilts his head again and just as you’re about to fill the silence with another plea you hear the distinct sounds of a group of droids running down the hallway.
“Now Grogu!” he yells.
Grogu looks at the Mandalorian and then at you and doesn’t budge. You keep your hands in clear view and start to stand on shaky legs. They almost give out and you fall against the wall, wincing as your achy and tired joints rebel and you slide back down to the floor.
The Mandalorian turns on his heel and pulls out his blaster, positioning himself flat against the bars of the cell to peek out into the hallway.
“We’re running out of time,” he grumbles. “We’re leaving.”
Grogu finally vocalizes his emotions in a series of coos and squeaks, all of which sound adamant.
“No.” The gravelly voice leaves little room for argument in the single word, but Grogu doesn’t relent, his clear argument growing louder with every sound.
The Mandalorian’s shoulders slump and he lets out a defeated sigh. “Fine,” he groans.
Grogu turns to you with the flash of a triumphant smile in his eyes.
“Get up,” the Mandalorian says gruffly, his attention now on you.
You push yourself up with shaky muscles, but the events of the last twenty-four hours have finally caught up to you. Before you can tell him you’re struggling he reaches out a gloved hand. Your hesitant at first but as the sounds of the droids get louder you close your fingers around his and allow him to steady you on your feet.
“Stay behind me and keep up,” he says quietly. “My ship isn’t far.”
You nod and as he turns around you grip the back of his jet pack, holding on as he stealthily moves across the cell back toward the door. He holds up his hand, and you wait, loosening your grip on him as he surges forward and starts blasting the droids.
Every shot finds its target with deadly precision, and you trail behind him with Grogu. Amid the chaos you lean down as ask, “do you want a lift?”
Grogu nods and even with your tired limbs you easily lift him into the your arms. The Mandalorian makes easy work of the droids and within seconds you see his ship looming ahead.
“Wow,” you breathe out when the Razor Crest comes into full view.
He ushers you up the gangway, still shooting until the door is almost closed. You follow him to the cockpit, your heart racing as you dash toward the unknown.
“Sit,” he commands and you’d be more annoyed with his gruff tone if he hadn’t just saved your life.
Well…technically it was the cute little alien that freed you from the cell. Either way, you were in no position to argue so you sat with a thump and buckled your seat belt. Grogu hopped into a seat clearly made for him and did the same.
You watched as the Mandalorian punched in some coordinates and pulled several levers. Once the ship was safely out of the planet’s atmosphere you let out a loud sigh of relief, dropping your head back against the cushioned seat.
Grogu releases himself and waddles over to you.
“Hey!” the Mandalorian says. “What did I tell you about walking around the ship while we’re flying?”
Grogu makes a distinct noise of nonchalant dismissal and continues toward you, hopping up into your lap. He studies you just as he was when you were in the cell.
“Hi Grogu,” you say quietly.
What you think is a smile graces his expression and you smile back then tell him your name.
“He’s really cute,” you say. “Did you rescue him too?”
“Something like that,” the Mandalorian answers after a pause.
“What’s you name?” you ask him.
“You’ve got a lot of questions…”
“Well you’re not very talkative so…”
After another long pause he replies. “Djarin. Din Djarin.”
“Nice to meet you Djarin. And really. Thank you. I owe you my life.”
He nods, the action barely perceptible but when it’s clear he’s not into talking more you purse your lips together and look back at Grogu who cocks his head and coos.
Your stomach grumbles and it startles him, but he quickly recovers and drops to the floor to a small bag. He pulls out what looks like a blue cookie and brings it to you.
“Thanks,” you say with a smile.
He grabs two for himself and happily munches away.
“Lucky he didn’t offer you one of his frogs,” Djarin says and you’re sure you hear a hint of a smile in his voice.
You make a face but school your features quickly so as not to upset Grogu. After another cookie and some water you settle into the seat, realizing how tired you are. You’re just thinking you should ask where Djarin is taking you, but your brain starts to get hazy and your eyelids grow heavy.
You wake to the feel of warmth and softness, slowly blinking your eyes until they focus. The image before you has you gasping for a breath of air as you instantly back away. Your heart rams against your ribcage until you finally realize you’re only staring at Grogu’s curious face.
“I told him to let you sleep but he won’t leave your side.”
At Djarin’s deep voice you look up to find him hovering nearby, his stance casual as he leans against the wall.
“He just startled me is all,” you explain. “How did I get in here?”
“You feel asleep,” Djarin answers in a matter-of-fact tone.
“So I guess I just walked here while sleeping…”
He sighs and shakes his head. “I carried you in here after you feel asleep in the cockpit.”
You’re about to tell him thank you but he continues on. “Not the most comfortable place to get some rest.”
“Where are we going?” you ask.
“We’re making a stop at Nevarro. Then I can take you back to wherever you’re from.”
You sit up and hug your knees into your chest. “There’s nothing to go back to.”
With a sniffle you turn your face away and he doesn’t prod you for more information.
“Let’s just get to Nevarro first,” he finally says.
“I was a droid engineer,” you offer after silence fills the space, “on my home planet.”
“I don’t care for droids.”
“Probably because you haven’t met the right one.”
“I’ve met too many.”
“None that I’ve built.”
He scoffs lightly and pushes off the wall.
“Come on. Let’s get you something to eat.”
He offers you the bowl of hot soup. “Aren’t you going to eat?” you ask.
Grogu’s loud and happy slurps make both you and Djarin look his way before Djarin answers. “I’ll eat later.”
Before you can ask him why he disappears down the nearby ladder.
After a full belly of soup you start to explore the ship, running your fingertips along the metal ridges and grooves as you slowly walk down one of the hallways. When you reach a thatched grate you cover your mouth to stifle your surprised gasp.
“It’s a good thing you’re not an enemy.”
This time you jump from surprise and spin around. “Where did you come from?”
“This is my ship,” Djarin answers as if that answers your question.
“I can’t believe you have a mobile carbonite freezing system...are you…”
“We’re almost there,” he interrupts. “I suggest you find a seat,” he adds, before stalking off.
The planet of Nevarro is not what you expect. The dry and dark volcanic rocks that line its surface are uneven under your feet, and each step kicks up a plume of dust. When you look out over the horizon you see much of the same, no sign of the city in sight.
“We’re almost there,” Djarin says as he reaches out to catch you when you stumble on a loose rock.
His hand steadies you at your waist, lingering before he pulls it away and keeps walking.
After what feels like another ten miles you see a small cabin up ahead. It’s nestled against a backdrop of the same rocky mountains you’ve passed since landing the ship, scattered rocks framing the small abode and one lone tree out front.
“It’s not much…,” Djarin starts as you near the home, but before he can say more you pick up your pace and with renewed energy follow Grogu and his hover pram to the door.
“Are you kidding?” you say with excitement. “This is so much better than where I was living before.”
Djarin cocks his head as he watches you flit around the space, touching everything- much to his annoyance-with a wide smile on your face.
“Just make yourself at home,” he says with a wry tone.
You stop in you tracks and drop your hand from the weapon you were just about to grab. “Sorry,” you mumble. “It’s just…”
“Just what?” he asks, softer than before.
“I like your house.”
You turn away, fidgeting the trinkets on the counter.
“Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to get us dinner.”
He’s out the door before you can respond and you sigh, dropping your shoulders as you look around. Grogu hops over and reaches for your hand. He leads you back outside to the front of the house and pulls a shiny silver ball from this robe.
With slow steps he distances himself from you then turns and lifts the ball in the air. It floats in front of him and you marvel at the sight.
“How do you do it?” you whisper.
He then makes a forward motion with his hand and the ball floats toward you until you can grasp it. “I can’t float it back like you do.”
He cocks his head with a soft coo.
“Is it ok if I just gently throw it back?”
He nods and as carefully as possible you throw the ball back. It stops just a few inches before Grogu’s hand, hovering in midair before he pushes it back to you with some invisible force.
You continue you playing this way, laughing when he starts sending it careening toward you at different angles and heights, clearly making you reach for it. You’ve just caught his last wonky ‘throw’ when you hear the scuffle of boots along the dry ground.
“Watch he doesn’t hit you in the head with that,” Djarin says and the lightness in his voice catches you off guard. You lose concentration as you focus on Djarin and the ball comes flying back toward you. Before you’ve even had time to react, Djarin throws himself in front of you and catches it.
“Shit,” you mutter, looking over at Grogu who has what looks like an innocent expression on his face.
Djarin groans and chucks the ball back toward Grogu, who stops it easily, then ushers you into the house.
“At least you have all that armor on,” you say as you walk next to him. “I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt if you got hit with it.”
“Depends on how hard he sends it,” Djarin says, tone serious.
“How does he do that?” you ask as you help him unload the supplies and fresh meat.
“He’s force sensitive,” Djarin states.
“A Jedi…” you say in breathless wonder as you watch Grogu try to stealthily steal a bit of meat from behind Djarin and slurp it into his mouth messily.
“He’s still in training and I’m not a very good teacher,” Djarin says, clearly aware of Grogu’s attempts.
“He certainly has good control of that ball.”
“That’s nothing. I’ve seen him do…,” and he goes silent for a moment before continuing, “some incredible things.”
Djarin starts to prepare the Qartuum meat for cooking but you still his hand and take the blade. “Let me. It’s the least I can do.”
“You know what you’re doing?” he asks, the hint of lightness in his voice stalling you again.
You nod. “I’ve had to fend for myself for a long time.”
He gives you a sound of understanding and stands, clearing a spot to sit and eat.
“Will you take your helmet off to eat?” you ask, not daring to look up as you skin the goatlike creature.
When at first he doesn’t answer you slowly lift your gaze to his. Grogu looks between the two of you and makes a noise you can’t interpret.
“No one asked you,” Djarin says as he turns to Grogu.
You cover your mouth with the back of your hand to quiet your chuckle, and Grogu makes another string of noises.
“That has nothing to do with it,” Djarin says in response.
You listen to the one-sided argument and try your best to keep your laughter at a minimum, but when Grogu extends his hand toward Djarin and you see his beskar helmet start to lift you let out a gasp.
“What did I tell you about that?” Djarin admonishes. “Don’t.”
Grogu makes a squeal of clear dispute and tugs on it again. Djarin holds it down and grumbles something incoherent.
“I’m sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
Djarin’s helmet drops back down, and he grunts with a frustrated sigh.
“I can eat outside if you prefer,” you say, the words fast and filled with anxiety. “Or you can eat outside and I’ll stay in. Or I can go somewhere else entirely…”
He stops your rant with a gentle raise of his hand. “Don’t worry about it.”
As he walks out the doorway to dispose of the Qartuum carcass you stare, silently mulling over your thoughts of what he might look like under the helmet and all that armor.
“Is he handsome?” you ask Grogu in a whisper, giggling when he tilts his head and lowers his ears with several blinks of his big round eyes. “I have no idea if that’s a yes or no but hopefully I’ll find out soon.”
Djarin serves both you and Grogu then mumbles something about needing to check the condenser unit behind the house.
He’s still out there when you finish eating. “Need some help?” you ask as you watch him fiddling with a part.
With a slow turn of his head you can imagine him looking back at you with narrowed eyes.
“I promise I know what I’m doing…with this stuff at least.”
He steps away from the unit and motions for you to take a look. “Oh…I’ve seen this before. We just need a new motor.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” you repeat.
He mumbles something and shakes his head before stalking into the cabin. When he returns he has several parts in his hand. “Wasn’t sure which one,” he says as he holds them out.
You place your palm under his gloved hand, cradling it as you search through the motors with the other hand. “This will do.”
As you step back to admire your handwork you trip on another loose rock, your ankle twisting as you lose your footing and start to careen toward the ground.
You let out a preemptive scream that quickly dies in your throat when strong arms wrap around your waist, your body now cradled against the firm armor of Djarin.
“Do you usually trip and fall this much?” he asks with a light chuckle.
You glare at his helmet.
“Technically I haven’t fallen once!”
“Thanks to me,” he adds.
You’re still in his arms, neither of you moving away as you banter.
“Then I guess you better stay close.”
The words are out before you realize what you’ve said, and you feel his grip tighten before he carefully sets you back on your feet.
He clears this throat. “Thanks for fixing that.”
“Thanks for keeping me on my feet.”
He nods and turns his attention to Grogu who’s now standing a few feet away and munching on one of his frog snacks.
“Hm…definitely not trying one of those,” you say as you brush by Djarin. His light laughter follows you and with the feel of his arms still lingering you almost float back to the cabin…not tripping once.
As you’re watching nightfall on Nevarro, the darkening sky dotted with the sparkle of stars, you hear the distinct sounds of a message coming through a comm link. Djarin is inside the cabin, cleaning his blaster and you hear the low murmur of his voice but you’re unable to make out the words.
Not a minute later he steps outside. “I have to leave.”
You stand quickly. “Now?...Alone?”
“Just me.”
“But…”
“You can stay here with Grogu and when I return we can figure out where you want to go.”
“I want to go with you.”
You put your hands on your hips and straighten your shoulders. Grogu waddles up next to you and tries to mirror your stance, his tiny arms crossed over his chest and his expression indignant.
“No,” Djarin says. “Stay here. I’ll be back before tomorrow night.”
He starts to walk toward the smaller starfighter you took to the cabin after docking the Razor Crest. You follow with Grogu not far behind.
“Why can’t we come with you?” you ask, jogging to keep up with his long strides.
“It’s dangerous.”
“So.”
“So I don’t want to have to worry about either of you.”
You look down at Grogu who meets your gaze then back at Djarin. “Give me a blaster. And he can use the force!”
“We don’t fit in the starfighter.”
“We made it work to get here!”
“That was a short ride.”
He’s now standing with his hands on his own hips, knee cocked to the side while he argues.
“Then we’ll take the Razor Crest.”
With a sigh he just turns back toward the ship and tries to open the cockpit. “What the…” he starts then slowly turns to look at Grogu.
“Stop it,” he growls.
Grogu tilts his head, blinking innocently even as his outstretched hand strains with the tension of holding the cockpit closed.
“Grogu.”
You can’t help the laughter that slips past your lips, and Djarin turns his head toward you.
“I’d say you were giving me a dirty look right now, but I wouldn’t know…” you tease.
The silent standoff between Grogu and Djarin lasts for another minute before Djarin’s shoulders finally slump and he grits out, “fine.”
You let out a whoop of excitement and head back to the cabin to grab a small bag of the few belongings you had, making sure to pack extra snacks for Grogu.
“Does he always get his way?” you ask with a smile.
Djarin just grunts and readies the ship. “Stay out of trouble and most importantly out of my way. It’s enough I have to worry about him…”
Before he takes off he pauses. “Did you happen to grab extra snacks?”
With a bright smile you pat your bag. “Plenty.”
He holds your gaze for a beat and you’re hoping there’s a hint of a smile hiding beneath his helmet.
“Stay on the ship,” he says firmly. “I’ll contact you if I need to.”
He looks between you and Grogu, shaking his head as Grogu shoves his third cookie into his mouth.
“And don’t let him eat anymore of those!” Djarin says before turns and cautiously distances himself from the ship.
After you and Grogu play ‘catch,’ you explore your surroundings, being as careful as possible even though there isn’t much around where the ship is hidden. You try and fail to keep Grogu from eating more snacks and as the time continues to pass you’re both getting fidgety.
“Think he’s ok?” you ask Grogu, worry lacing your tone.
He coos softly and drops his ears.
“I know. It’s been a while….maybe we should….”
Before you can finish the thought Grogu reaches into a small compartment on the ship and pulls free a piece of armor just his size. He holds it up to you and you help him put it on.
“Guess we’re on the same page then,” you say, after securing the chest piece and searching the ship for something you can bring for yourself.
Once you’re both equipped and as protected as you can be you sneak off the ship and in the direction of Mos Eisley’s space port.
Grogu clings to your back, hidden under the hood of his cloak, your own cloak wrapped around you, the hood over your head and low enough that you can only see the bottom half of your face.
Thankfully, the spaceport is bustling with activity, and your presence mostly goes unnoticed. That is, until you unceremoniously trip over a repair droid that whizzes past your feet.
You stumble forward and nearly land on top of it, quickly recovering and grabbing your robes to pull them close to your body again. The repair droid whistles weakly from below you, still trapped and you wince.
“Sorry little guy,” you mutter. “I’m prone to falls.”
He makes another pitiful sound, and you see that a piece of his is damaged.
“Don’t worry, I can fix that,” you tell the droid, carefully picking him up as you stand and try to look nonchalant. You tuck the droid against your side and keep walking, sucking in a hiss when you feel the pain in your knee from where you fell.
“I never thought about how we would find him,” you whisper to Grogu, who coos softly in your ear. “Maybe if we…”
Grogu makes a loud whistle, grabbing your attention and pointing down one of the dusty alleyways hidden between two stone buildings. You take slow and cautious steps toward it, flattening yourself to the wall before peeking down the narrow opening.
“I don’t see anything,” you whisper.
Grogu squeaks and gives you a forward nudge. You continue on as quietly as possible only stopping when you reach a metal door at the far end. You slip to the side and hide behind some freight boxes, listening.
“How do we get in?” you muse more to yourself than Grogu.
Before either of you (or your new droid friend) can come up with any ideas you hear scuffling on the other side of the wall. A few blaster shots go off and then the door explodes outward in a crash that rings your ears, dust clogging your eyes and throat as you stumble backward.
You can just make out Djarin’s armor glinting in the hot sun. He’s prone on his back, unmoving.
“Shit,” you grit out, looking between the crumbling doorway and Djarin. “Shit, shit, shit.”
In the time you’ve had to let out a string of curses you hear his groan as he moves his head and starts to sit up.
“Oh thank goodness,” you say, far too loudly.
His head whips your way and you’re sure you pick up on his low growl of disapproval before he gets to his feet.
“I thought I told you…” he starts as he limps toward you.
The distinct sound of stormtrooper footfalls fills the air and you grab Djarin’s shoulder.
“No time for reprimands now. Come on, we have to go.”
He groans and lets you help him with some of his weight as you disappear down a turn in the alleyway. The droid still tucked into your side makes a loud beep of fear and Djarin stills.
“Why do you have that?”
“Ummm…also no time for stories. Let’s go.”
The stormtroopers start shouting, blasters raised as the small group of them get nearer.
“We’re going to have to fight them off,” Djarin says, standing upright and pushing you and Grogu behind him.
The stormtroopers round the corner and Djarin takes the first shot, hitting the nearest one square in the chest. Grogu hops off your shoulder and onto the back of Djarin’s jetpack, blasting another with a force push that knocks him into the wall and down to the ground.
There’s only three left and Djarin takes care of another with an easy shot, you reach for your small blaster and aim. The shot goes off and hits the second to last stormtrooper in the stomach.
Djarin takes out the last one then turns to you. “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”
“I told you. I’ve been on my own for a long time…”
Again, he doesn’t push for more but instead pushes you forward back toward the ship. The closer you get to safety the more you start to notice the way his right arm hangs more loosely at his side than the left.
You ask, “Are you hurt?” and he quickly squares his shoulders, but you catch the sound of a hiss.
“I’m fine,” he states and Grogu makes a sound of suspicion.
“No one asked you,” Djarin says and starts to walk faster.
“He’s grumpier than usual,” you mutter.
Grogu’s sound of agreement covers up whatever Djarin grumbles.
You slide into your seat in the Razor Crest as Grogu hops into his, noticing again that Djarin is averse to using his right arm.
“You’re hurt.”
It’s a statement this time and you try to put some force behind it.
“We need to get out of here,” is the only answer you get as he plugs in coordinates and starts to get the ship in the air. “We’re going into hyperdrive as soon as we’re out of the atmosphere. Buckle up.”
You brace yourself, quickly checking that Grogu is safely secured, smiling despite the circumstances when you see him shoving a cookie in his mouth.
Once the ship is safely through hyperspace, Djarin leaves the cockpit. You follow right behind.
“Let me see your shoulder,” you say when he gets to the med bay and slumps onto a bench.
“It’s fine,” he says, more harshly than intended and you hear his soft sigh that follows after.
He doesn’t protest when you reach for the pauldron that covers his right shoulder, careful as you remove it to reveal the blood stained cloth beneath.
“Shit,” you say and quickly stand to grab some medical supplies.
“I’m fi…”
“If you say, ‘you’re fine,’ one more time…” you threaten.
“What?” he counters in a huff. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll…I’ll pry that helmet right off your stupid head.”
“Stupid!?”
“Yeah.”
He’s quiet as you peel away the sleeve of his shirt to reveal a deep gash where a blaster shot grazed his shoulder. He only winces slightly when you start to clean it, a light hiss escaping through his clenched teeth.
“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, knowing it must sting badly.
“Thank you,” he says, just as quietly and you look up, finding his head tilted in your direction.
You nod and hold his gaze, letting your eyes wander over the scuff marks on his helmet.
“No other injuries,” he states as if knowing you were assessing him.
You purse your lips and focus on his wound once again. He shifts just so he can take off his gloves, uncovering strong hands and thick calloused fingers. You stare a bit too long, trying to shake off the thoughts of what else he’s hiding under all the armor.
He reaches up a hand and wraps his fingers around your wrist, the feeling of his warm skin against yours sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine. He brings your hand to his helmet before taking the other and doing the same on the opposite side.
Your eyes widen and you stay paralyzed in that position, your splayed hands gripping the sides of his helmet.
“What are you waiting for?” he asks, his voice husky.
Your tongue darts out to wet your parted lips and with shaky but deliberate hands you gently start to lift his helmet. The first thing you get a glimpse of is his neck, the muscles flexing with his hard swallow.
As your breath hitches you continue to pull his helmet upwards, revealing next the chiseled edge of his jaw, lined with a dark shadow of hair. After that it’s his lips, and you can’t stop your gasp. They’re perfect. Pouty and soft.
You finally see the hint of a smile pull at the corner of his mouth and when you get the helmet free of his head and your eyes lock with his you’re sure all your breath whooshes out of you.
“That bad huh?” he says with a chuckle.
His hair is slightly mussed, and you tentatively reach up to run your fingers through the soft curls before dropping your hand to his temple and further to trace the line of his jaw until your fingertips press softly to his lips.
Your head slowly moves back and forth since the word of disagreement has escaped your now muddled brain.
Your fingers spread over his cheek, and you drag his face closer, feeling the soft escape of his breath against your lips. His gaze drops to your mouth and without another second of hesitation you close the distance and press your lips to his.
His hand immediately glides up the curve of your spine and around the nape of your neck, tugging you closer until your bodies are pressed together. He reaches up with his injured arm, intending to brush his thumb across your cheek but the pain catches him off guard and he hisses against your lips.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, keeping you just a breath away.
“Maybe we should get that bandaged first.”
His nose lightly bumps yours before he pulls your bottom lip between his teeth, gently sucking before soothing it with a soft kiss.
“Mm,” he hums. “Not yet.”
The next kiss steals your breath and you’re sure even if he were bleeding out you wouldn’t stop him from kissing you. You’re so lost in the feel of him against your skin that it’s only the loud crash from across the room that startles you enough to have you break apart.
Your heads turn and you see Grogu sitting on top of one of the rolling trays, the medical supplies that were just on it now littering the floor, with a cookie in hand, proceeding to make crumbs everywhere.
“He really likes those cookies huh?” you joke.
A firm press of warm fingertips turns your head back until your eyes lock with his.
“You have no idea,” he whispers before pressing his smile to yours.
warnings: intimate, possible spoilers from The Mandalorian and Grogu, way too cute, din being smitten asf, kinda smutty
The hyperspace tunnel finally dissolved into streaks of blue and black, and the old gunship groaned like it, too, was exhausted.
Din Djarin sat heavily in the pilot seat, one gloved hand still on the controls while the other rubbed slowly down the front of his helmet.
Behind him came a tiny, sleepy chirp.
“I know,” Din muttered. “I’m tired too.”
Grogu blinked at him from his seat, ears drooping dramatically in betrayal.
The mission had gone wrong approximately seventeen times.
First, the Hutt they were hired to escort had attempted to betray them. Then pirates got involved. Then the Empire. Then, somehow, an exploding fuel station. Din still wasn’t entirely sure how Grogu had gotten hold of detonators.
The child made an innocent face.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
Grogu cooed louder.
Din sighed. “You’re lucky she likes you more than me.”
At that, Grogu perked up immediately, tiny claws tapping excitedly against the seat.
Home.
The ship descended through the atmosphere toward the hidden repair dock tucked deep into the canyon settlement. Warm lights glowed through the dusk, and Din felt that familiar pull in his chest the second he saw the open hangar doors.
Her.
He could already picture her standing there with grease on her hands and that unimpressed expression she always wore when he came back half-dead.
The ship landed rougher than usual.
“Easy,” Din grunted.
Grogu squealed as the ship bounced once.
The ramp lowered with a hiss.
And there she was.
Y/N stood beneath the workshop lights with a hydrospanner hanging from her belt, dark streaks of grease smeared across one cheek. One side of the docked ship behind her was still open from repairs, sparks occasionally flashing inside its exposed paneling.
Din’s heartbeat slowed instantly at the sight of her.
Stars.
Every single time.
She crossed her arms immediately. “You’re late.”
Grogu launched himself down the ramp with a happy shriek.
“Hey, my little green love—”
You barely had time to crouch before Grogu collided with your chest, climbing up you like a tiny monkey. You laughed breathlessly, kissing the top of his head while he made clingy little noises into your neck.
“Oh, I missed you too.”
Din watched silently from the ramp.
He always did that.
Watched the two of you like you were something sacred.
Your eyes finally lifted to him. “What happened this time?”
“Mission complications.”
“That means something exploded.”
“A few things exploded.”
You narrowed your eyes instantly.
Din knew that look.
“I had it under control.”
“You always say that right before you almost die.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
Grogu made a very dramatic sad noise.
You looked down sharply. “What happened?”
The little traitor pointed at Din and babbled furiously.
Din actually stiffened.
“You snitch.”
Grogu barked happily.
Your expression darkened more and more the longer Din explained.
“You WHAT?”
“The Hutt wasn’t the target—”
“You took on three Imperial cruisers for a HUTT?”
“There were not three cruisers.”
“How many?”
Din paused.
“…Two.”
Your jaw dropped.
Grogu slowly hid his face against your shoulder.
“You are unbelievable.”
“It worked.”
“You got shot!”
“It barely hit me.”
“You crashed the ship!”
“We landed.”
“You are impossible to—”
Grogu suddenly grabbed your face with both tiny hands.
You stopped instantly.
The little green child pressed his forehead against yours and gave the saddest little whine imaginable.
Your anger melted so fast Din almost laughed.
“Oh, no,” you whispered, rubbing his ears gently. “You thought I was mad at you?”
Grogu nodded pitifully.
“I could never be mad at you.”
The child chirped triumphantly and immediately cuddled closer.
Din shook his head.
Manipulator.
You pointed at Din over Grogu’s shoulder. “We are continuing this argument later.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t ‘yes ma’am’ me.”
Din almost smiled beneath the helmet.
Home.
This was home.
Later that night, the ship was quiet.
For once.
Grogu had finally fallen asleep in his little bunk after demanding approximately forty-seven minutes of cuddles from both of you.
Din had taken the first real shower he’d had in days, steam still curling through the tiny fresher as he stood shirtless beside the sink.
Water rolled down scarred skin.
Old knife wounds. Burn marks. Bruises spreading dark along his ribs.
New ones.
He stared at them silently in the mirror.
The door slid open behind him.
Din looked up immediately.
You leaned against the doorway, arms folded loosely across your chest.
Your eyes traveled slowly over him.
Not teasing.
Not joking.
Just… looking.
Din suddenly became very aware of every scar on his body.
“You got hurt,” you said quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that too.”
He watched your reflection approach him.
Closer.
Your fingers brushed carefully over the fresh bruising on his side, and Din inhaled sharply despite himself.
Your gaze lifted instantly to his.
There it was.
That shift.
The air changed all at once.
Din’s hand closed around your wrist before he could stop himself.
You didn’t pull away.
Neither of you spoke.
Then you kissed him.
Hard.
Like you’d been waiting for it.
Din backed you against the wall so fast the metal clanged beneath you both, his hands instantly at your waist while your fingers tangled into his damp curls.
The sound he made against your mouth was low and rough.
Hungry.
Stars, he’d missed you.
The kiss turned messy almost immediately, all breath and restrained frustration and months of near-misses between missions.
“You drive me insane,” you mumbled against his lips.
Din laughed once under his breath before kissing you again, harder this time.
“You like me insane.”
“I like you alive.”
His forehead pressed briefly against yours before his mouth found your jaw, then your neck.
You gasped softly as his hands tightened on your hips.
Without the armor, without the helmet, without all the layers between you, Din always felt overwhelming.
Large hands. Warm skin. Quiet little sounds he only made around you.
“You worried about me?” he murmured against your throat.
“You almost got yourself killed over a Hutt.”
“Mhm.”
“I should hit you.”
“Mhm.. Try me..”
Instead, your hands slid into his hair, tugging gently.
Din groaned softly against your neck, kissing lower, pressing his hips on yours while you laughed breathlessly at the sound.
“Careful,” you whispered.
“You started this.”
“You pinned me to a wall!”
“You kissed me first.”
You opened your mouth to argue—
Tiny footsteps.
Rapid little pitter-patters approaching the fresher.
Both of you froze.
Din lifted his head slowly.
The door slid open.
Grogu stood there holding his blanket.
Silence.
The child looked at Din.
Then at you pinned between him and the wall.
Then at Din’s mouth on your neck.
Grogu’s face scrunched instantly.
A tiny offended growl left him.
Like: yuck.
You burst into laughter immediately, covering your face.
Din closed his eyes in defeat.
“Kid…”
Grogu made another judgmental noise and waddled over, demanding uppies with both hands.
Just like that, the moment shattered.
Din stared down at him for a long second before reluctantly picking him up.
Grogu immediately wedged himself between the two of you possessively.
You laughed harder. “I think he’s jealous.”
“I noticed.”
Grogu glared at Din.
Din stared back.
“…I fought pirates for you.”
Grogu blinked once.
Then deliberately snuggled into your chest instead.
Little traitor.
Guys, would you like some Mando smutt??
Tell me by the comments 🙏
!!edit: i've done a mando nsfw alphabet, you can acess by this link here
SUMMARY. Life after high school has been pretty mundane. Give or take a few breakups, a few quarter life crises, you’ve done well for yourself. Enter Jeon Jungkook: a blast from the past and your ex-Chemistry tutor, except now, it seems he's traded in his glasses and textbooks for a lip piercing and tattoos. The universe is clearly testing you... or maybe it's giving you one last shot to get it right.
pairing. jeon jungkook x reader
word count. 21.7k
warnings/genre. ex-cheerleader!reader, oc used to be a mean girl, ex-nerd!jungkook, jungkook used to be OBSESSED with oc, like clinically obsessed (what is wrong with him), slight sexting (kinda maybe) alcohol consumption, jimin instigating but what’s new, making out in dirty club hallways, fingering in an uber, he’s HUNGRYYY, he has a d*ck piercing!, oral (f receiving), you bounce on it, he fucks you while carrying you, idk read the rest they have sex, he cums inside you
note. WE NEED TO BRING BACK THE DYING ART OF A 10k+ WORD ONE-SHOT. the concept of publishing a 7k celly when my 6k celly hasn’t even been posted yet… i hate me too. i hit 7k a few days ago but this has been in the works since man’s best friend dropped. i’m quite proud of this, if i do say so myself. also before anyone yells at me, this was NOT on the to-do list but when there’s a will, there’s a way (or in my case, if you get a little tipsy, your brain starts thinking of ex-nerd!jungkook and this happens). this is just a fun little thing. porn with plot! but anywho, thank you all for following me, for engaging with my work, for continuing to give me a platform to share my passions. i love you all. here’s to many more celly’s!
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| when did you get hot? by sabrina carpenter
banner creds | masterlist
Saturdays. 3 PM. Brunch. It’s been carved in stone since the day you met Park Jimin during your freshman year at Yonsei University, when he was still closeted and you were still treating every night like your last on earth.
Today, he’s on a rampage about his fiancé of two years, Kim Taehyung.
“Do you know what he did? He bought a twelve foot cactus. Twelve. Fucking. Feet. And guess where it is now?” Jimin waves his fork dramatically, almost stabbing two nearby patrons in the process. “In the middle of our beautifully crafted living room. He’s lost his fucking mind.”
You hum, twirling a straw in your iced latte, half-listening and half-focused on the couple next to you who seems to be arguing. “So sorry, Jiminie. I don’t know how you do it.”
“Thank you.” He sighs. “It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen when I inevitably walk into it. You know, when I told Tae to pursue art, I didn’t think it meant this.”
Taehyung and Jimin have the kind of love story that makes romantic comedies look documentary-level realistic. By comparison, your love life is a blooper reel that never made it to air. They’ve been disgustingly in love since senior year of university, and you’ve been their trusty little third wheel. While it’s comforting to hang out with a couple that has a dynamic as healthy as theirs, you do have to fight the pang of jealousy that hits you everytime.
“Last week it was the sculpture made of kitchen utensils. This week, desert plants. Next week? Probably something with a blow torch,” Jimin carries on, poking at his salad mercilessly.
You snort. “Tae doesn’t know how to work a blow torch.”
“He could, is my point. He’ll try anything once.” Jimin’s eyes light suggestively, and the gag reflex hits fast and mercilessly. “Like that one time he wanted to try out suspension and—”
“Jimin. Please. I am trying to enjoy my coffee,” you plead.
He rolls his eyes. “Like you don’t love us.”
“I do,” you reply quickly. “But please spare a girl the details of your sex escapades.”
“Maybe you’re bitter because you need some sex escapades of your own.” Jimin shrugs. He’s not saying it to be rude—the man doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, unless someone’s rude to his fiance.
Poor Park Jimin has been running a one-man campaign to get you laid for months. The last time you remotely showed interest in a man was a year ago, and that catastrophe ended with you sobbing on their couch for 72 hours straight while Taehyung made you soup and Jimin burned sage to ‘cleanse the toxic energy.’
You have no interest in any of it.
Sure, sex is cool and all, but the idea of the emotional turmoil that comes with the territory seems like something you can do without.
“What did I say about bringing up this topic again?” you groan.
“C’mon, please tell me you have something new that’ll make me feel better about my cactus situation.”
Your fingers collect the condensation on your plastic cup, pretending to be deeply engrossed by it. “I have nothing.”
“So as exciting as my cactus?”
Your foot kicks his ankle under the table and the noise he makes in retaliation is enough to get dirty looks from the other patrons. “Jesus Christ. Aren’t you a ball of fucking sunshine?” he moans in agony. “This is why you need to have sex. You get all crabby and violent when you don’t. When’s the last time you had sex again?”
Okay—there was that guy from the marketing conference in March…. No wait. That was last year. February? No, that was the guy who ghosted you after two dates. January? You weren’t even in the country in January. December feels like a decade ago but that was... oh god, was that really eight months ago? Nine? The guy with the man bun who worked at the bookstore and couldn’t find your—
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Yikes.” He gives you a dramatic side-eye, one that screams you are a pathetic loser, but lovingly. “You need to stop getting coffee with me and go get coffee with a man.”
You frown. “Well, you’re a man?”
He rolls his eyes. “A man who doesn’t enjoy the good ol’ cock up his ass.”
Fair play. Jimin leans back in his chair, studying you intently. Never a good sign. “You know what your problem is?”
You pick up your latte, taking a few sips. “Enlighten me, Park Jimin.”
“You’re too picky.”
Coffee snorts out of your nostrils, landing right onto the table. Jimin flings napkins at the mess, disgusted. “I’m sorry, have you met me? I’ve went out with some weirdos.”
“No, no, not the weirdos.” He waves a hand in the air. He;s about to go on one of his famous monologues, and all you can do is sit back in horror and watch. “I’m talking about the good ones. The ones you actually like. You find one tiny flaw and suddenly it's ‘oh, he chews too loud’ or ‘he uses the wrong there, their, they're.’ Like, relax. Nobody’s perfect.”
“Really? Says the guy currently plotting his fiance’s death over a home decor choice.”
“That’s different.” Jimin’s pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, something he truly only does when you’ve exhausted his last nerve. “Taehyung and I are past the point of no return. We're in too deep. You, my dear sweet angel, are sabotaging perfectly good opportunities because you're scared.”
Of course, you’ve had this conversation with your therapist numerous times, and you’ll do anything to avoid the topic in your personal life.
But before you can open your mouth to argue, a voice cuts through. It’s low but polite, maybe a little uncertain.
“Jimin-ssi?”
You don’t bother looking up to see who it is. Jimin knows everyone and their mother, their cousin, probably their dog too. Walking down the street with him is no easy feat, considering half of Seoul stops to talk to him. So, you do what you always do: focus on your phone and ignore the small talk about someone’s new job or whatever mundane life update they’re dying to share.
You scroll through Instagram, half-listening as they exchange pleasantries. Something about the gym, mutual friends, weekend plans. Standard small talk that you've heard a thousand times.
“Yeah, bro, it’s been forever,” Jimin’s saying. He sounds happier than he normally does when he talks to these people. “I saw your LinkedIn update. How’s the new job treating you? Still insane?”
“Better now that I’m settled in,” the mysterious voice responds, and there’s something familiar about it that tickles the back of your brain, but you’re too busy watching someone's Instagram story about their breakfast to pay attention. “The team’s chill, and I don’t have to be on call on weekends anymore.”
“You deserve it after all that overtime hell,” Jimin laughs. “Oh, hey, you should totally meet my friend [YN] here. [Y/N], this is Jeon Jungkook.”
Your head snaps up. Your phone falls to your lap.
What. The. Fuck.
You haven’t heard that name since high school.
High school you, to put it mildly, was kind of a bitch.
You were a cheerleader, top of the social food chain. Naturally, you failed a few classes because you were too busy making out with Kim Mingyu behind the bleachers and planning which party to hit up on Friday night to care about things like academic integrity.
When your GPA started looking tragic enough to threaten your spot as cheer captain, the guidance counselor assigned you a tutor. And since the universe loves to have fun with you, you were paired with Jeon Jungkook. Lanky, awkward Jeon Jungkook, with messy brown hair that looks like he cut it himself with safety scissors, thin silver glasses that slid down his nose every five seconds, and wide, innocent boba eyes.
All that to say—you did what any mean girl would do and took advantage of him. Batted your eyelashes, laughed at his terrible jokes, and suddenly your chemistry homework was getting done without you having to lift a finger.
Tests? He'd leave his answer sheet just visible enough for you to copy.
Lab reports? Practically wrote themselves, if by ‘themselves’ you mean Jungkook wrote them while you filed your nails and complained about how boring science was.
So, this? This has to be a comedic joke. This is a prank. Jimin is pranking you—it’s an elaborate one, you'll give him that. That's the only logical explanation because there is absolutely no way that the scrawny, stuttering kid who used to turn tomato red everytime you asked him to explain a chemistry problem is now standing here, towering over your table.
The man who stands before you has a lip piercing, one that hugs the curvature of his pink lips. A sleeve of tattoos that curls down his arm in vivid ink. His hair is perfectly tousled, dark chestnut locks falling into each other.
And most importantly, those arms. Biceps. He could probably bench press you. Why are you thinking about him bench pressing you? Stop thinking about him bench pressing you. Oh god, you're staring. You're definitely staring. Say something. Anything. Be cool.
He is—there's no other word for it—buff. Like, really buff.
And he's looking right at you with dark eyes that definitely weren't that intense in high school, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“[Y/N] [Y/L/N]...” His voice has a deeper timber to it, with a confidence that high school Jungkook could never have. His tone alone is enough to send a shiver down your spine. “It’s been a minute.”
“Uh, I—yeah,” you gulp down a quarter-sized lump that magically appears in your throat. “It has.”
Smooth. Incredibly smooth. Someone needs to hand you a medal for conversational excellence.
His eyes narrow into slits, like he’s analyzing you and your pathetic life. Sizing you up to discover that you’ve lost all importance in the world, and are now just another girl in the world.
Jimin, completely oblivious to everything, beams at the two of you. “Amazing! You two already know each other.” He claps his hands together. “Jungkook, you should sit. [Y/N] and I were just catching up on her sad little love life.”
Damn you, Park Jimin.
Maybe ten years ago, you wouldn’t have cared if he knew about your romantic failures, but with the black shirt hugging his biceps so perfectly, you resent Jimin’s openness.
“I was not—” you protest, but Jungkook’s already got a hand on the empty chair between you two, plopping into it.
“Was she now?” Jungkook tuts, looking over at you expectantly. “How sad is sad?”
“Okay, not sad.” You roll your eyes. “It’s just… quiet.”
His eyes dance with amusement, and you sink into the chair. “I can’t imagine you having trouble in this department.”
If only he knew the half of it.
You open your mouth to combat the embarrassment, maybe to come up with some elaborate lie about how you have three dates lined up tomorrow night, but a server interrupts you before you get the chance. She smiles at Jungkook, and you can't help but note how her eyes twinkle when she realizes how utterly attractive he is. You sink one inch lower into the chair.
Please don’t order, Jungkook. Ordering means staying and your brain (or your ego, for that matter) can’t take a second more.
She asks what he wants, pearly whites on display, and he replies smoothly, “Just a black coffee is fine. Thanks, sweetheart.”
He turns back to you and Jimin, smiling lightly. Behind him, the server trips over her own two feet a bit before adjusting her shirt and walking off. You watch the whole exchange with a weird feeling in your chest. It's not jealousy—you have no claim to be jealous. But it's something. Maybe annoyance that she was so obvious about it. Maybe annoyance that he didn't seem to notice.
“So, how do you two know each other?” Jimin’s smile resembles a mischievous cartoon villain who just tied someone to railroad tracks. Vibrating with joy, eyes gleaming, the whole nine yards. You don’t even need to hear him speak to know what he’s thinking.
“High school.”
You and Jungkook both say in unison, surprising even yourself. He glances over at you before elaborating. “I was her Chemistry tutor.”
The memory alone sends shivers of disgust down your spine. You can still picture it so clearly: high school you in your cheer uniform, sitting across from him in the library with phone in hand, texting Mingyu about whose parents were out of town that weekend while Jungkook explained electron configurations. He’d push his glasses up his nose, stumble over his words when you’d sigh and lean forward, watch him turn crimson red and stutter through the rest of the explanation.
Evil. Pure, unadulterated evil.
“You needed a tutor in high school?” Jimin snorts, taking a long sip of his drink.
“Hey, that shit isn’t easy.” You push his shoulder playfully.
Jungkook cocks an eyebrow, leaning forward in his chair. “Definitely not easy when you’re too busy with cheerleading practice to study.”
“And you were a cheerleader?” Jimin gapes.
“Okay, that’s enough reminiscing for today.”
Jimin raises his hand. “I’m not done reminiscing. I want to hear more about cheerleader [YN].”
Your face falls flat. Luckily, before Jungkook can embarrass you more with tales from a decade ago, the server comes back with his coffee, making sure to toss him the widest smile her pearly whites can muster.
Jungkook’s lips wrap around the cup. Your eyes just so happen to fall on the movement, on the way they hug the rim. Were they always that kissable or did he get lip filler?
He meets your gaze.
Shit.
You turn back to Jimin, who’s eagerly awaiting more from Jungkook. “What else don’t I know about high school [Y/N]? She’s never told me anything.”
“Well,” Jungkook starts, and by the way his lips curve upwards, you can tell the next anecdote won’t be endearing. “She did ask me once if we could ‘skip the math parts’ of chemistry.”
Jimin bursts out in laughter. “You’re kidding me.”
“In my defense, chemistry is like, ninety percent math,” you retort. “That’s a reasonable request.”
“It really wasn’t,” Jungkook counters, and his grin widens. There’s something almost… predatory about it. Like he’s enjoying watching you squirm. “But then again, you always did think the rules didn’t apply to you.”
For a moment, you can’t do anything but stare at him. This confidence, this self-assured way he’s teasing you without a hint of anxiety that used to color every interaction, is foreign.
The absolute worst part of it all is that if he wasn’t currently roasting you for being a shallow human being, this might be the sexiest thing you’ve ever witnessed.
The eye contact, the slight smirk playing at his lips, the veins poking out of his biceps. All of it both excites and confuses you.
“What do you mean?” You tilt your head, feigning innocence.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head, laughs to himself. “Just that some things never really change.”
A pregnant pause fills the space. Jimin’s eyes dart between you two like he’s at the US Open and this is the match of the century.
“You know, she also once asked me if atoms were contagious," Jungkook adds, turning to Jimin like you’re not even there. It’s a fucking power play—one that high school you invented—and you hate how effective it is.
A long exhale leaves your mouth, and you have to bite back a thousand venomous words in retaliation. Jimin laughs. “Oh, don’t worry. In college, she asked me if square roots were plants.”
Okay, so math wasn't your strongest suit. Sue a girl.
Jungkook’s hands wrap around his cup, taking a quick sip. They’re bigger than you remember, rougher, with calluses to match.
Truthfully, everything about him is just… more. Bigger, broader, bolder.
You shift gears, clearing your throat to interrupt whatever powwow Jungkook and Jimin have going on regarding your academic life. “What do you do now?”
“Software development.” Jungkook almost seems surprised that you have an interest in his life. “Started at a startup, but I just moved to a bigger company.”
“What kind of software?” you ask mindlessly, happy to have the attention finally off you.
“Mobile apps. Some web development.” Jungkook shrugs like it’s nothing, but you catch the hint of pride in his tone. “Nothing crazy.”
Jimin chimes in, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You know, [Y/N] works in marketing for a tech company. You guys probably have tons in common now.”
You want to sink through the floor. Actually—scratch that. Sinking through the floor isn’t enough. You need the floor to open up, swallow you whole, digest you, and then launch whatever remains into the sun.
You can see exactly what's happening here. You can see the gears turning in Jimin’s pretty little head. He’s planning your wedding, probably picking out centerpieces. He thinks this whole encounter is fate, some kind of romantic star-crossed lovers nonsense where the nerd gets the girl who was too stupid to notice him the first time around.
He’s going to be insufferable about this. Probably loop Taehyung into this delusion as well. There will be betting pools on when you finally hook up with Jungkook.
Which—okay, fine—you wouldn’t be completely opposed to. Hypothetically. In theory.
“How’s that going for you?” Jungkook turns to you.
“Good. I’ve been at my current company for a few years now. I just got promoted last year.” Your chest puffs out a little. There’s nothing you need to prove to him. But it doesn’t hurt, especially as he validates your words with a slight nod in approval.
“That’s awesome. I’m happy for you.”
Not said with even an inch of malice.
“Thank you.” You flip your hair over your shoulder. “See, and I didn’t even need math or chemistry to be successful.”
He chuckles. “Fair enough.”
“I know how emotionally tolling it was to tutor me, so at least your efforts didn’t go to waste,” you joke, and he cracks a smile at that, bunny teeth poking out.
“It wasn’t that emotionally tolling.” He shrugs, lifting his coffee to his lips. “It was fun. Y’know, when you weren’t texting that guy you used to date.”
He maintains eye contact with you as he takes one, two sips, and you have to clench your thighs to ignore the second heartbeat that’s beating in your vagina.
Jimin opens his mouth—probably to ask approximately eight thousand invasive follow-up questions about your high school love life—but his phone buzzes violently against the table, the vibration loud enough to rattle his fork.
Glancing down at his phone, his expression shifts from pure glee to actual panic. “Shit, I need to head out. Taehyung’s making dinner and if I’m late, he’s gonna put that weird purple pesto in it again.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Purple pesto?”
“You know how he is, babe.” Jimin frantically flags down the waiter, motioning for the check.
You and Jimin always split Saturday brunch. It’s a tradition, one that you don’t plan on breaking. You reach for your wallet in your bag, prepared to pull out your trusty debit card.
But before you or Jimin can get too far, Jungkook smacks his AMEX Platinum card down like it’s nothing.
You blink at the shiny metal. “Jimin and I always—”
“I’ve got it,” he says, all casual, like dropping 100,000 won on lunch for three people is normal for him.
To your left, Jimin has the biggest shit-eating grin of all time. “Thanks, Jungkook. You don’t have to do that.”
“It’s my treat. It’s nice to run into old friends.” He tosses you a side glance when he says the word friends, because that’s hardly what you two ever were.
Jimin’s phone buzzes again, and his eyes widen as they scan the new message. “Oh no. No, no, no.”
“What?!” You lean forward, trying to peek at his phone.
“Yeontan threw up all over the new rug. Taehyung just sent me a picture, it’s…” He makes a sour face. “I gotta go. Code red dog situation.”
“Is he okay?” you ask, because despite Jimin’s dramatics, that little ball of fur is your ray of sunshine.
“He’s fine.” He stands, shrugging on his thin sweatshirt. “He probably ate something he should have. This was great though! We should all hang out again soon!”
And then he’s sprinting out of the cafe, leaving you all alone at the table with none other than Jeon Jungkook.
If you didn’t know better, you’d say Jimin planned this. Although, to be fair, you do know better, and he one hundred percent planned this. You're going to kill him. You're going to actually murder your best friend.
The waiter comes by, charging Jungkook’s card while you sit there awkwardly, twiddling your fingers. You don’t know what to do with yourself, quite frankly.
“Jimin isn’t very subtle,” Jungkook says, signing the receipt and placing it aside.
“Jimin doesn’t do subtle.” You fidget with your napkin. “He probably planned this.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Oh, really? You think so?”
“I know so. He’s been trying to set me up with someone for months.”
Crossing his bulky arms over his chest, he leans back in his chair. “How’s that working out for him?”
“Well,” you begin, “Considering the last attempt was one of his coworkers who turned out to be married, I would say pretty terrible.”
“Jesus.”
“I’m not really into the whole polyamory thing,” you joke.
Jungkook laughs and stands, and you follow suit, realizing how much taller he is than you. Not that he hasn’t always been tall, but now he has the ego to match it.
“Want me to walk you to your car?” he asks.
You bashfully look down at your feet. In your years of living in Seoul, you’ve never once been embarrassed about taking the bus before. The Korean bus system is efficient and better for the environment. But Jungkook, with his fancy tech job, probably has some sleek car that makes the bus system look like a clown car.
“I took the bus, actually.”
Immediately, without so much as a second thought, he goes, “I’ll drive you home.”
“You don’t need to—”
“I know I don’t need to.” He strolls towards the exit, holding the door open for you to glide through first. “I want to.”
Wait. Is he… is he flirting? That was definitely flirting, right?
If he is very specifically flirting with you, that means he either has a terrible memory or some kind of revenge plot in the works. Both options seem likely and panic-inducing.
When you finally get outside, the crisp afternoon air dances across your skin. The autumn leaves crunch beneath your feet. You keep a few inches for God between you and Jungkook, and he falls into a comfortable pace beside you, matching you.
His hands are nestled into his pockets, kicking leaves as he walks. Now that you two are alone, he’s returned to some of his old habits, like being quiet around you when there’s nothing to fill the noise with.
“How do you like your job?” he finally decides upon asking, and your head lifts to peer at him. He’s gazing at you intently, clearly waiting for an answer.
“I like it. Most days, it’s creative, but we do a good amount of analytical work too.”
“Why did you choose marketing?” He seems genuinely interested in your answer, which sends tingles down your spine. It’s been a while since someone has cared enough to ask about your life beyond the standard two questions.
“Well, you know I suck at math,” you start, and he laughs at that. A deep sound that reverberates in his chest and makes your insides mushy. “I also hate science, so that wasn’t an option. I like being creative, and I’m a visual person. I took an intro class and it stuck.”
He nods, soaking it in. “Was college you the same as high school you?”
You know what he’s asking. Was college you also the biggest bitch alive, or did you grow out of that phase?
“Nah.” You shake your head. “I’m not as shallow… or annoying.”
He smiles. “Good to know.”
You reach his car—a black BMW that looks like it was ripped right off the set of Fifty Shades of Grey—and he unlocks it with a soft beep.
“Your car is nice,” you note, and his cheeks turn a soft pink at the compliment.
“Thanks. I figured I should probably upgrade from the bus at some point.” He opens the passenger door for you, causing you to almost trip getting in at the sheer thoughtfulness.
You frown. “Hey! I still take the bus.”
He raises his hands up in surrender. “Not hating on the bus. I took that bad boy for years.”
Jungkook closes your door, rounding the car to the driver's seat and hopping in. the inside of the vehicle smells like leather, mixed with the faint scent of his cologne. Your brain can’t help but go a little fuzzy—scents are your weakness. Any man who smells good deserves to get their dick sucked, period.
“Address?” he asks, starting the engine.
You give it to him, and he inputs it into the GPS. Fifteen minutes, it spits back. Fifteen minutes in a car alone with Jeon Jungkook, the most confusing blast from your past.
Peeking over at him, you take his appearance in. His jaw is defined and sharp. Could probably cut glass on that thing. His nose juts out, big enough for you to wonder if he’s ever let a girl sit on his face. God, you really need to get laid. You’ve resorted to sexualizing the man you used to tease in high school like some kind of medieval man who just saw an ankle for the first time.
The guilt of your past sits heavy in your chest, but your body doesn’t seem to care. It wants what it wants, ethics be damned.
You don’t deserve to be this turned on by someone you treated like human furniture for two years. But here you are, wondering about the logistics of his face between your thighs, and maybe that makes you exactly as terrible as you’ve always suspected.
Your eyes wander down to his biceps, down to his arms that are cluttered with tattoos. Different designs snake down his skin, some with color, and it takes all your might not to reach out and trace them. Fuck, now you’re thinking about his hands gripping the steering wheel. The veins. Those long fingers—
“You have a lot of tattoos,” you blurt out.
His eyes remain on the road, but his lips curl upwards. A little bit like a smirk. “I do.”
“When did you start getting them?” you wonder aloud.
“College. I started with one, but then I got addicted and kept going.” He glances at you for a second before turning his attention back to the road. “You disapprove?”
“No! No, they’re… they look good. Really good.” You want to die. “But it is different from what I expected from you.”
His gaze hardens. “A lot of things are different from high school.”
Silence fills the air as you two continue along the highway in the direction of your neighborhood. Your town is quaint, not too far outside of the main downtown area of Seoul. It’s so peaceful that your neighbors are two elderly women who treat you like their daughter.
You wonder where Jungkook lives. If you had to guess, he probably lives in Gangnam, the upscale area in Seoul. Fancy tech job, fancy car… he must have a fancy house to match. Or a fancy girlfriend.
“Do you live near here?” you ask, hoping to sound as casual as possible. Although, realistically speaking, there is nothing casual about interrogating your ex-Chemistry tutor.
“Not too far. I’m about ten minutes by car.” His grip loosens on the wheel a little. “Near Hannam-dong.”
So, you were kind of right. Hannam-dong, where all the celebrities and rich people live.
Before you can stop yourself, you say, “Do you live alone, or…?”
It’s possibly the least subtle question in the history of subtle questions, but you need to know.
Jungkook’s grip on the wheel tautens, and when you look over at him, there’s a scarlet flash creeping up his neck. “I—yeah. Alone. It’s just me.”
Is he… blushing?
“Oh, cool.” You try not to sound too pleased by the information. “That’s really cool. I mean, not cool that you’re alone if you don’t want to be alone, but cool that you have your own space and— y’know, everything.”
Nailed it.
“It’s—yeah, it’s good.” He clears his throat, and suddenly, you get a glimpse of the man you remember in high school. Less like the confident, macho guy from the cafe, and more like the boy who used to stumble over his words when you asked him questions. “No one to, uh, bother me or anything. Not that having anyone would be bothering, I just meant—I live alone. No girlfriend or—”
He stops himself, like he’s just realized what he’s saying, and the flush spreads to the tip of his ears. Oh my god. He’s flustered. Jeon Jungkook, with his tattoos and lip ring and his whole sexy confident energy, is flustered because you asked if he lives alone.
The ex-mean girl in you rises to the surface, bubbles in your throat. It’s been a while since you’ve activated her. Not since college, that one time when Park Eunji threatened your spot as sorority president. That version of you knew exactly what to do: touch his arm, squeeze once, watch him stutter. Make him want you so badly it hurts, then pull away. It's muscle memory, this kind of manipulation. You hate that it's still there, your instinct to weaponize attraction.
You want him to be nervous around you. It’s a sick, twisted thought you have, and you don’t know where it comes from, but you want it. “No girlfriend,” you repeat, trying to hide your smile. Reaching out, you place a small hand on his bicep, squeeze once. His bicep is firm under your palm, and the second you make contact, you realize what you've done. That was flirting 101. High school you would’ve done that without thinking twice, but current you? Current you doesn’t have that kind of game anymore. Abort mission. Abort.
You yank your hand back to your lap like he’s made of volcanic ash.
“I didn’t—that’s not—” He runs a hand through his locks, messing it up even more. “I’m just giving context about my living situation.”
“No, I got it.” You keep your eyes trained on the road, even though your heart is doing somersaults in your chest. “Though, I have to admit, I’m shocked.”
He gulps thickly. He pulls up to a red light, finally looking over at you directly. There’s vulnerability in his expression, polar opposite to his earlier reactions to you. “Are you making fun of me?”
Huh. You don’t know why, but the fact that old, anxious Jungkook still lives somewhere deep within him makes your stomach backflip. “I would never,” you reply dramatically, waving your hand for emphasis. “I’m just speaking aloud.”
Jungkook hums at that, focusing his attention back onto the street. It’s quiet again, if not for the sound of the engine purring and the awkward tension that’s loitered in the car since you stepped inside.
He doesn’t need to ask you anything else anyway, since Jimin did a good job of outing you as the most single girl in the history of single girls. He might as well have just admitted you’re a born again virgin.
The familiar road of your neighborhood looms ahead, and a pit of despair swallows your stomach whole. You really don’t want to get out of the car that smells like him. It would be embarrassing how you’ve begun to thirst over him, but after not getting laid in a while, you’re about ready to unzip your pants and jam your fingers in there.
“Is it the building up ahead?” he questions, pointing to the cream apartment complex that you reside in. You nod sweetly, smiling brightly. You dial up the ol’ high school charm.
“Thanks, Jungkook. I really appreciate it.” Another quick flutter of your lashes as he puts the car in park, taking a deep breath and angling his body to look at you.
“Of course. Anytime.” His face remains stoic, probably hoping to not look like you affect him anymore than you already have.
Your fingers land on the handle, pushing it open to let the brisk air in, replacing the suffocating tension in the car. “Well, I wish you the best. It was nice running into you today.”
Maybe you should invite him to come up. Maybe you should invite him for a nightcap? Granted, it is midday and there’s no actual alcohol in your home, but you can think of something real quick.
But he doesn’t move toward you, or show any other inclination of interest. In fact, you’re feeling kind of slutty right about now. He probably thinks you’re some kind of embarrassing gold digger—which like, yes, you might be. For him only.
Quietly, he says, “You too,” and that’s the end of that.
And just as you’re about to slam the passenger door shut and head upstairs to scream into your pillow, Jungkook abruptly speaks. “[Y/N].”
You whip around as fast as your body will let you. “Yeah?”
His big eyes twinkle under the sunlight rays reflecting on the car, two bunny teeth poking out as he sheepishly smiles. You’re going to have fantasies about that mouth later.
“Just so you know, today wasn’t planned. But I’m really, really happy I ran into you.”
Huh Yunjin’s birthday bash has never been an easy feat. Every year, without fail, there’s a table bought at an exclusive club, and your entire friend group blacks out within the hour. You’re not sure how she gets away with it, but your love for her and mild fear of disappointing her clearly gets her very far.
Hence why you’re standing in a shopping mall at 3 PM, trying to decipher what makeup product she would like best. Her birthday gift needs to be top notch, because you’re up against Kim Taehyung and Park Jimin, and those two have some kind of gaydar for gift-giving. Last year, Taehyung got her a vintage Chanel bag he “just found” at a thrift store. The year before, Jimin surprised her with tickets to see Beyonce. You’re operating at a disadvantage here.
You pick up another lipstick, eyeing the two intensely. A salesperson loiters over your shoulder, waiting to pounce at any given moment. In the end, you opt for a sleek red lip gloss, one that you know will pair well with her peachy skin. The relief that washes over you at finally securing her gift is endless.
Pushing past the doors of the shop, you blend into the rest of the mall-goers. It’s pretty packed for an afternoon, but you figure it has something to do with the sales going on. 50% off for shoes… hm. Across the way, you see a sign for 25% off scarves, and you squint to try and make out the tiny writing. Buy one, get one free—
“Oof!”
Your body collides into something firm, something warm. It’s fleeting, and you jump back several feet, immediately armoring yourself with numerous apologies. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going—”
A deep chuckle. “I’m not mad about it.”
You know that voice. That voice has been haunting your wet dreams and your poorly-written mental fanfiction.
When you were ten, you got chosen to attend a unicorn retreat. It was a glorified horse camp, but it was five days of pure magic. Horses walking around with plastic horns on their head, offering unlimited rides to anyone who wanted one. Magical doesn’t even feel like the proper word to describe it.
You thought that was the most enchanting moment of your life. But this… this rivals any stupid pony. This makes those ponies look like donkeys. In fact, with the luck you’ve been given, you might rent a unicorn and a castle.
In front of you stands Jeon Jungkook, looking somehow more scrumptious than he did a few days ago. Defying the damn laws of hotness. You’d spent a good few hours tossing and turning in bed, dreaming about his lips, his eyes, his veiny hands. He looks like he stepped straight out of your wet dream, adorned in a zip-up sweatshirt and black t-shirt, fluffy hair askew.
His eyes still carry that same twinkle from the last time you saw him, and you wonder if they’re like this all the time, or if it's just for you.
“Hi,” you exhale breathily.
“Hello.” He smiles at you, and it’s sweet, just a little dopey, and so decidedly adorable that you want to gnaw on his cheeks like a dog with a chew toy. “Must be my lucky day to run into you again.”
“Clearly.” He is flirting. Sure, there were doubts in your mind before this, but anyone who says those kinds of things, is someone who wants to be balls deep inside you. “I don’t normally treat pedestrians like bumper cars, though.”
Jungkook laughs at that, a melodic sound that sends vibrations from your head to your toes. “If I was a better man, I might’ve moved out of the way to make room for you.”
“Well, then I guess it’s my lucky day you’ve decided to not be a better man,” you counter, and he takes a step closer to you, allowing the people behind him to filter around. A mom of three tosses him an evil glare, but you could care less.
“I was actually hoping to talk to you again so I could ask you a question.” His eyes bore into you, the eye contact making the walls of your vagina contract incessantly. His confidence from the cafe has returned with a vengeance, and you’re not sure what’s gotten into him, but you hope it never leaves.
“I might have an answer,” you tease.
His lips quirk upwards into a soft smirk, one that would normally disgust you but doesn’t whatsoever. “I was thinking you and I should get dinner sometime. Maybe catch up one-on-one.”
If this were a game of tennis, you just won match point. He served, you returned, and now the ball’s sitting in his court while he watches it roll away. Checkmate. Victory. Crowd goes berzerk.
But you know how to play this game. Even though you’re a little out of commission, you still invented half the rules in high school. And rule number one: never let them see you sweat. Rule number two: make them work for it.
Tilting your head, you pretend to consider it like you haven’t thought about what underwear you would wear to this hypothetical one-on-one time. “Maybe,” you say, drawing out the syllables. “I’ll have to check my calendar.”
Your calendar is wide open. Your calendar has been wide open for months. Your calendar is begging for plans. Your calendar is weeping with joy at the possibility of having something on it besides ‘therapy 2 PM’ and ‘don’t forget your lexapro.’
But here’s the thing: if you say yes immediately, if you're too eager, too easy, he’ll figure it out. He'll realize you're still that girl who only wants things because they're shiny and new, who gets bored the second the chase is over. Except this time, the thing you want isn’t a spot on the homecoming court or the captain of the basketball team’s attention—it’s him.
“Maybe?” He’s grinning now, full teeth, like he’s finally been let in on how the game works. “I pour my heart out and I get a maybe?”
“You didn’t pour your heart out. You asked to get dinner.”
He scoffs, “Same thing.”
“Not even remotely close, lover boy.” You migrate an inch backwards, so miniscule he hardly notices.
Something flickers across his face at the nickname—amusement, or something darker, more interested. His eyes track your movements like a predator watching prey.
“I feel like you’re just testing fate at this point,” he jokes. You can see the gears turning in his head, shifting and transforming to try and get to his end goal: you.
“It’s worked once before already.” You shrug, taking a few more steps back.
“Alright, well, can I at least get your number? Not really feeling like leaving it all up to the universe.” The color drains from his face slowly as he realizes you’re really, truly, going to walk away. His voice raises a little at the end of the sentence.
“I’ll see you around, Jungkook.”
With that, you turn on your heel, bags in tow, and make your way towards the exit of the mall with what you hope exudes confidence, and not like someone who’s about to sprint outside and scream into the void. His eyes burn into your back the entire way. Don’t turn around. You’re doing so well. You’re a mysterious enigma. You’re unattainable.
You trip over your own two feet and have to do some weird stumble-hop recovery move just so you don’t eat shit in the middle of the mall.
Okay, so maybe not entirely mysterious. But you do make it outside with a goofy grin on your face, caught in some kind of daze, all because your ex-Chemistry tutor has made it abundantly clear he wants to see you again.
The following Saturday, you and Jimin cozy up at a nearby cafe—a different one than last week’s. You suggested it over text a few days ago, after you had run into Jungkook, because there was some perverse thrill to testing fate and the universe’s weird way of working. Jimin, who could care less where he got his cup of coffee, agreed with a shrug of his shoulders.
“So, tell me again why you didn’t give him your number,” Jimin furrows his brows, picking at his limp salad in disgust. He’s trying this new diet that only allows for 1000 calories a day, and it’s made him even more judgmental than usual. “Walk me through your thought process here.”
You sigh. “Jiminie, I told you already. I’m playing the game.”
“The game… I hate straight people.”
“Hey, you did the same thing with Tae when you guys first started out,” you frown, taking a prolonged sip of your iced latte. Senior year, Jimin refused to see Taehyung more than once a week in fear of seeming too desperate and clingy, even though he texted him every five minutes anyway.
Jimin lets out a long-suffering sigh, pushing the soggy lettuce into the corner of his plate. “Tae and I are different. We’re homosexuals. There’s no rules when society already hates you anyway. But you are playing a dangerous game with him.”
Rolling your eyes, you scoff. “I’m not. I’m playing hard to get.”
“How do you know he won’t get bored?” It’s an innocent question that, when asked, makes you want to bash your head into a concrete wall. “I mean, you’ve seen the guy. He probably has a roster of girls throwing their phone number at him.”
You pause mid-sip, straw frozen against your lips. You… hadn’t actually thought about it like that. In your mind, this whole thing has been about you trying to regain an inch of the upper hand, about making Mr. Cocky work for it. But Jimin's right—Jungkook isn’t the same nerdy kid who would wait around forever for a crumb of your attention. You’re also not the cheerleader that everybody’s dying to get their hands on. He could have anyone, and yet his sights are set on you (or well, as far as you know).
“Then I guess we’ll just have to see how into me he is.” You shrug, but no ounce of you feels calm.
Jimin quirks an eyebrow. “Really? Off of one conversation after ten years, he’s supposed to be magically in love with you?”
“Okay, first of all, it was two conversations, and second of all, do you have no faith in your hot and sexy best friend?” You swish your hair for good measure, but Jimin doesn’t buy it for a second. Your charms have no effect on his gay self.
“I do have faith in you. However, I can’t recall the last time you’ve successfully kept a guy around after the first kiss…” he trails off, pretending to count on his fingers. You gasp, appalled by the insinuation.
“Park Jimin,” you scold. He bursts into a fit of laughter, wiping faux tears from his eyes, and you really can’t help but follow suit at the hysterics of it all. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m honest, babe,” he says through another fit of giggles. “You hate to see it.”
“Jimin? [Y/N]?”
The laughter dies down within a millisecond. Somewhere in the distance, you swear you hear a record scratching.
Tentatively, you crane your neck upwards. Lo and behold, Jeon Jungkook stands before your table, holding an iced coffee and looking between you and Jimin in bewilderment. He must have a tracker planted inside you, because although you had daydreamed about this scenario approximately ten times in the past few days, never did you actually think it would come to fruition.
“Why are you here?” you blurt, and Jimin throws you a glare, facepalming. You slap a hand over your mouth. You have the sudden, embarrassing, debilitating urge to vomit.
Jungkook laughs, and you notice the tip of his ears turning pink. “I could ask you the same thing. This is my regular spot.”
“This is—” You glance around the cafe, like the answer will appear written in invisible ink. “Since when?”
“Since I moved to the area?” He’s donning a massive grin now, one that lights up his entire face.
Your face falls flat. In your frantic search for a new cafe, you neglected the fact that the new spot you selected is located in Hannam-dong. Exactly where he told you he lived last week.
Jimin’s completely forgotten his salad, jumping in to save you from the depths of shame. “Jungkook! Join us.” He’s already pulling out an empty chair before he can protest.
Jungkook shakes his head, the hoop earrings in his ear moving with him. “I don’t want to interrupt—”
“Don’t be silly,” Jimin retorts quickly, shooting you a look that both screams: you’re an idiot and this is fate knocking at your door. “Come, sit here.”
Jungkook hesitantly sets his drink down, sitting down in the chair. “So, what were you guys laughing at before?”
You blink a few times, utterly speechless. There’s no universe in which you admit to Jungkook what you two were discussing before his appearance.
“Nothing crazy,” Jimin starts, and he has this glint in his eyes he only gets when he’s about to do something so diabolically crazy you’ll have to second-guess your friendship. “She was just telling me about this guy she’s playing hard to get with. Real shame, honestly. He sounds great.”
What the fuck is going on? you ask yourself silently. Your mind is shooting blanks.
Jimin sips his water nonchalantly as if he didn’t just throw you under the bus.
You finally muster up the courage to speak. “Jimin’s being crazy,” you say, trying to recover some dignity. “There’s no guy.”
“Really?” Jungkook’s smirk is unrattled. “At the mall, you said you had to check your calendar. It sounds like you’re pretty busy.”
Oh, he wants to play this game.
“I am busy.” You lift your chin in defiance.
“Doing what?” Jimin chimes in. After this lunch date, he’s lucky if you ever respond to one of his texts ever again. “You texted me yesterday saying you were bored.”
“I hope you die, Park Jimin,” you mutter.
He turns to Jungkook, a conspiratorial grin plastered on his face. “She’s playing hard to get. I told her it's a terrible strategy, but does she listen? No.”
Jungkook’s eyes don’t waver from your face. “Hard to get, huh?”
“That is not what I’m doing,” you huff, even though that’s exactly what you’re doing, and all parties present at the table know it.
“No, it makes sense.” Jungkook nods, leaning forward in his chair. “After all, you have that busy calendar… you know, the one you need to check.”
“Exactly,” you agree.
“And have you? Checked it, I mean?”
You stare blankly at him.
“I’ve been meaning to.”
“Mm,” Jungkook hums, sipping his coffee. The white t-shirt and grey sweatpants combo he’s wearing today makes you feel like a rabid animal who’s been deprived of food for too long. “Who’s the lucky man?”
“Get this,” Jimin jumps in eagerly. “She met him at the mall.”
“The mall?” Jungkook asks incredulously, dropping his chin into his open palm.
“And she didn’t even give him her number.” Jimin continues this charade as if you’re not even sitting there. Which, you really wish you weren’t. In fact, you might just bury yourself six feet under this cafe after everything’s said and done.
“Wow,” Jungkook tuts. “I hope that guy gets her number somehow.”
“Seems like a long shot.” You shrug, fiddling with your straw.
“Right. I mean, we can’t forget about fate, because fate’s probably working in that guy’s favor.”
It hits you square in the chest, that Jungkook really does know exactly what he’s done, that he is perfectly aware of the effect he has on you.
There's a pause. A long pause. Jimin is grinning like the Cheshire cat, and you're seriously considering faking a medical emergency.
Jungkook’s biceps strain against his shirt, tongue darting out to play with his lip ring. “You know what I think?” His voice drops several octaves, low enough for you and Jimin to hear. “I think this guy should just show up at your door. Skip all the games.”
“That would be weird,” you quip.
“Would it?” Tilting his head, Jungkook observes you. Feels like he’s seeing right through you with x-ray goggles. “Even if you’ve been thinking about him too?”
You’re painfully aware of how close he is, how his knee is almost touching yours under the table, how his eyes keep dropping to your lips. Your brain is short-circuiting. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything except stare at him and wonder what would happen if you just gave in.
“There’s rules to be followed,” you finally mumble.
“Rules for what?” Jimin snorts.
In hindsight, that probably wasn’t the smartest excuse you could’ve conjured up. No one seems to understand the dying art of playing hard to get anymore.
But, really, it was only a matter of time before you lost your temper and threw in the towel. You were never good at winning anything besides cheerleader championships, anyway. “The game, Jimin. The fucking game I explained to you already. Just so we’re all clear, by the way, I was trying to enjoy my lunch before you two decided to gang up on me, so thank you both very much.”
Jimin and Jungkook deadpan, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.
Embarrassment courses through your veins, choking your throat. It’s not like you meant to have an outburst and openly admit you’re playing the game with Jeon Jungkook, a man who you used to ignore as if he were invisible. Sometimes a girl gets sexually frustrated and it manifests in interesting ways.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” you grumble. You speed-walk as fast as your legs will take you, all the way to the restroom, locking yourself in one of the stalls and plopping down on the toilet. You can’t pinpoint why you’re suddenly overcome with some silly desire to win this ‘game’ you conjured up in your head, why you won’t just give in to what he so clearly wants to offer you.
But maybe—and you don’t want to admit it—there’s a residual guilt that lives deep inside you. One that when you really face, reminds you of just how cruel you were to others in high school. There was a time in your teenage life where you thought being the queen bee of high school meant you were at the apex of the universe. Now that the tables have turned, and you’re not as big as you once were, maybe you don’t deserve what the universe is trying to offer you.
Maybe you don't deserve what Jeon Jungkook is trying to offer you.
It’s Sunday, but it’s hardly peaceful or restorative. Saturday night was spent partying with Yunjin and Chaewon at some club in Gangnam that served drinks comparable to battery acid, which is why you’re currently battling the worst hangover of your entire life. Your head is pounding so hard you can hear your heartbeat in your eyeballs. And you're pretty sure you're still drunk, which means the real hangover hasn't even hit yet.
There’s no one to blame but yourself. Your brain was a broken record last night: Jungkook, high school, the game. The only way to stop the endless loop was to wash it down with copious soju shots.
Groggily, you roll over and unplug your phone from the charger. A quick scroll through your missed notifications and it’s the usual suspects: Jimin, Yunjin, Taehyung…
Wait.
Your eyes squint into slits, trying to make sense of the unknown number that sent you one message at 8 AM. You don’t recognize it. Spam, probably. Or maybe someone from last night asking if you got home okay. You don’t remember giving your number to anyone, but then again, you don't remember much after midnight.
You unlock your phone, rub your eyes, and adjust to the bright white light of your messages.
+823137565798 waited ten years to run into you again, [Y/N]. im not really interested in waiting another ten to see if fate brings us together a fourth time
It doesn’t take much time for you to put together the puzzle pieces.
You gasp, nearly flinging yourself off your bed at the realization. You reread the message one, two, three times, just to confirm he really said your name in it. You try to do a little excited kick under your covers, but your legs are tangled in your sheets and you nearly fall off the bed.
After yesterday’s temper tantrum, you had exited the bathroom to see Jeon Jungkook no longer present at the table. Jimin shrugged, said ‘he was tired, so he went home,’ and that was the end of that. You were under the impression that you ruined the entire charade, that you wouldn’t have to worry about the game because you already lost anyway.
But here he is, in your messages, contradicting your worst fears.
you who’s this?
Squealing, you throw your phone to the side, but within a few seconds, it lights up again with a new message.
+823137565798 wild guess?
you my amazon package?
You snort as you watch him read it and begin typing.
+823137565798 close. even better
An unwarranted smile sneaks its way onto your face.
you enlighten me
+823137565798 it’s your ex chemistry tutor from high school. that weird dude
you weird dude is how you’re choosing to introduce yourself?
+823137565798 trying to be humble
+823137565798 so about yesterday
Your hangover creeps back into your skull, your head pounding to the beat of a drum.
you we don’t need to talk about yesterday
+823137565798 why not?
you because i embarrassed myself?
+823137565798 you didn’t. thought it was cute
+823137565798 may have also told your best friend i needed your number in the name of saving you from your drought, so you’re not the one who embarrassed themselves
Staring at the message, your alcohol-riddled brain struggles to make sense of the words in front of you. Heat spreads from your chest to your neck to your cheeks. The guilt tries to claw its way up—you don’t get to feel this giddy, not about him—but your body overrules it with a decisive vote. Your hangover is completely forgotten now, replaced by a warm flutter in your stomach that has nothing to do with last night's tequila.
It’s so unlike him, the polar opposite of what Jeon Jungkook used to evoke in you, but the mere thought of him ending your sex drought sends a tingle down your spine.
You’re grinning like a foolish schoolgirl now, dignity be damned. You save his number to your contacts, makes it official in your brain.
you are you offering to get me out of my drought?
You fling your phone to the opposite side of the bed, and scream into your pillow.
The buzz causes you to shoot back up, heart thumping in your throat as you read his response.
jungkook possibly
Somewhere in the sky, your guardian angel is doing backflips.
Hands shaking, heart pumping blood erratically, you type back:
you take a girl to dinner first
The three dots pop up almost immediately, and then:
jungkook tried that already. the girl ran away from me :/
Technically, he’s right. You did run away. And now he’s resorted to joking about it, like it doesn’t bother him. But it should bother him. Should annoy him that the girl who didn’t acknowledge his existence in high school is now playing games with him like she has any right to.
You don’t know how to let him be nice to you, how to let him want you, when all you can remember is a younger you rolling your eyes while he patiently explained molecular bonds. You were cruel. Mostly in small ways that probably hurt more than massive shows of dismissiveness, but harsh nonetheless.
Guilt sits burdensome in your chest, a thorn in your side. Deep down, you’re terrified that when he finally sees you clearly—really sees you, not the filtered version you're trying to present—he’ll realize what you already know. That you were never worth the wait.
Your fingers loom over the keyboard, twiddling. The guilt is there, always there, always a dark cloud hanging. You were cruel to him. Casual about it, even. Used him like a tool and never once considered that he was a person with feelings that could be hurt.
But maybe—and this is the thought that's been needling at you since the cafe—maybe the worst thing you could do now is waste his second chance on you by playing games. Maybe the cruelest thing would be pretending you don’t want this when you so obviously, desperately do.
On the one hand, honesty is terrifying and vulnerability makes you nauseous.
But, on the other hand…
you well maybe the girl wants to see if you’re full of shit or not
Your heart speeds up behind the confines of your ribs.
jungkook i’m not the same guy from high school. i don’t play about what i want
With bated breath, you type your response. It’s a question that you know the answer to, and you don’t know why you need him to say it, but he will anyway.
you and what is it that you want?
jungkook you.
The night of Huh Yunjin’s birthday creeps up slowly on you, amidst a week busied with work, adult errands, and most stupidly, thoughts of Jungkook. The thoughts of him play, pause, tape spooling, and then rewind on a constant loop, unrelenting in their nature.
You hadn’t spoken to him much after your last exchange, minus some ‘good morning’ texts from him that you responded to politely. It’s foreplay, if nothing else, because even a few words from him are enough to leave you giddy for days to come.
You fully intend to take him up on his offer, you just don’t know when. .
Sinkhole is packed to the brim, sweaty bodies colliding in an attempt to feel human intimacy. A disco ball hangs loosely from the ceiling, transmitting silver light across the dance floor. The DJ is spinning up cringy Top 40 hits you haven’t heard since college, but the amount of soju shots you’ve consumed within the past hour masks the embarrassment you feel.
“Cheers to my 28th!” Yunjin yells in your ear, raising her shot glass in the air. Jimin abandons making out with Taehyung in favor of lifting his shot glass with hers, and you can’t help but join in on the festivities.
Yunjin keeps toasting to things that get progressively more unhinged. ‘To being 28! then ‘To my IUD!’ then ‘To tax evasion!’
You're not sure she's even joking on that last one.
You’ve lost count of how many you’ve taken, but the liquor burns less with each passing shot.
“Happy birthday, baby!” Jimin leans over the table you’re all perched at, pressing a chaste kiss to Yunjin’s cheek. She giggles in delight, smiling brightly in the way only a drunk person could.
“Oh, why thank you, Jiminie,” she laughs. “And thank you, Tae and [Y/N] for buying the table!”
It was 75% Taehyung and 25% you, but you’ll accept her gratitude. Buying a table at the club with unlimited alcohol was also part of your master plan to get absolutely obliterated and halt all thoughts of Jungkook, at least for the night.
“[Y/N], we need to find you a hot guy tonight. That dress is doing insane things to your legs,” Yunjin whines, pushing your shoulder. “There’s soooo many boys here.”
Jimin and Taehyung share a meaningful look, one that you don’t miss. Rolling your eyes, you say, “I’m not looking for anyone tonight. I want to spend it with you.”
“Booooring.” She pokes your side, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of Usher. “If you ditch me on my birthday to fuck a hot dude, I won’t be mad.”
“But I don’t want to fuck a hot dude—”
Jimin clears his throat. “Well, actually, you do. He’s just not here right now.”
There goes your vow to ignore all Jungkook thoughts this evening.
“Jimin.”
“What? It’s true,” he giggles, cozying up into Taehyung’s side. “The guy practically sexted you last weekend.”
Feeling caught, you busy yourself with the hem of your black bodycon dress. “Whether I fuck him or not is nobody’s business but my own,” you mumble.
“Oh, please,” Taehyung rolls his eyes. “You’ve been needing to get laid for months. We’re your best friends, which makes it our business.”
“She’s just upset that she ignored him in high school and now he’s this big, hunky guy,” Jimin snickers.
Taehyung frowns. “Bigger than me?”
“Okay, enough,” you snap, pouring more soju into the empty shot glasses. “I just wanna get drunk and enjoy my night.”
“I’m sure you would enjoy your night more if you had a big, sexy man to take care of you. I know I would,” Jimin chuckles. Not in a mean way, but your heart does sink a little as you watch him give Taehyung an open-mouthed kiss.
Yunjin turns to you. “Why haven’t you fucked him?”
You don’t know when this became an intervention, but everyone seems arduously interested on whether or not you fuck Jeon Jungkook.
You shrug. “I don’t know. It’s not that I don’t want to—trust me, I do—I just… feel a little bad about how I treated him in high school.”
Your friend snorts, rolling her eyes with an affectionate smile playing upon her lips. “If he felt bad about how you treated him, he wouldn’t be pursuing you.”
“She’s right,” Jimin jumps back in, and you fight the urge to slam his head into the table. He picks up a soju shot. “It’s kinda cute how desperate he seems for your attention. That’s a guy who’s gonna eat you out like his life depends on it.”
The mental image of his moist, plump lips wrapping around your clit has your thighs trembling under the table, but you clamp them before anyone can notice.
“I’m gonna fuck him,” you promise. “I swear.”
Taehyung raises an eyebrow. “I hope you do, before someone else snatches you up.” He tilts his head in the direction of a man eye-fucking you, and your stomach queases.
“He’s cute,” Jimin takes his shot, and you follow suit. There’s no way you’re getting through this night without getting absolutely obliterated.
“Oooo, there’s a really cute guy over there. 12:00,” Yunjin leans into the group, whispering as lowly as she can over the sound of Kesha.
You refuse the desire to look. Taehyung, however, lets his eyes wander to who she’s talking about. Luckily, Jimin is too entranced by pouring himself another soju shot to care. “Oh fuck me. He’s fucking sexy. I would let that man give me a rimjob.”
You slump into the chair. Somehow you have a feeling you’re about to undergo the world’s least subtle setup.
Jimin’s eyes nearly roll into the back of his skull. Slowly, he angles his body to see who his boyfriend is talking about. “He can’t possibly be that hot—oh my god. Oh my god.”
“What?” you and Yunjin say in unison. If you had to guess, based on Jimin’s track record and the specific tone of that ‘oh my god,’ he’s either spotted a celebrity, a firefighter in uniform, or someone from his legendary whore phase. And given that you’re at a nightclub, you're betting on option three. Jimin’s whore phase is the stuff of legend—a six-month period during sophomore year where he worked his way through half of Seoul's gay club scene. He doesn't talk about it often, mostly because Taehyung gets a very specific look on his face when it comes up, but every once in a while someone from that era will resurface and Jimin will make that exact noise.
“Who is it?” you press on, heart thumping in excitement.
Jimin’s blonde hair sways as he turns to look back at you. “Okay, don’t panic.”
Furrowing your brows, you start, “Don’t—”
“That’s Jungkook, you idiots. The fucking guy from [Y/N]’s high school we’ve been talking about,” he says in a hushed tone, punching Taehyung’s shoulder.
There’s a warm feeling hugging your chest, your body feeling as though it’s been lit on fire. It might be the alcohol, or the sheer joke of it all. Out of all the scenarios you’ve conjured up in your daydreams, this wasn’t one of them.
You turn your body to track where your friend’s eyes were just a minute ago. Even though Jimin already confirmed it, there’s a tiny part of you hoping his eyes deceive him. But there he is, Jeon Jungkook, in the flesh, talking to one of his equally attractive friends. He’s wearing all black—black t-shirt that sculpts his biceps, black baggy jeans that sit tightly on his slim waist. His hair is ruffled, hoop earrings dangling from the holes in his ear. And really, the most sickening part of it all: he has two lip rings instead of the usual one. You’re gonna be sick.
“Earth to [Y/N]...” Yunjin waves a shot in front of your face, and without preamble, you take it from her, swallowing it in one easy sip. The alcohol travels down your throat, but you barely feel the burn.
“You good?” Taehyung raises an eyebrow.
“Just peachy,” you lie. You smile at your friends, but they don’t seem convinced.
Jimin guffaws, leaning back in his chair with an evil grin. “Is that why you just downed another shot?”
“I’m thirsty.”
“For alcohol or for Jungkook?” Yunjin bursts into a fit of giggles, high-fiving Jimin across the table.
Groaning, you let your head fall into your hands. “I hope all of you die a slow and painful death.”
“He’s gotten even hotter since the last time I saw him,” Jimin notes, sipping his untouched margarita. “How is that possible?”
“Can we please talk about anything else?” You reach for the soju bottle, pouring the last of the clear liquid into your glass. Your second in thirty seconds. A new personal record.
“We will do no such thing,” Jimin’s eyes are gleaming with elation. “You need to go talk to him.”
You nearly choke on the liquor. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Go. Talk. To. Him.” Jimin enunciates each word like you’re a toddler.
“Are you insane?” you deadpan. “Like, actually stupid? Have you suffered a brain injury I don’t know about?”
Both Jimin and Taehyung share another unspoken look. “I’m trying to help you.”
“But I don’t want help—”
“[Y/N].” Jimin doesn’t often get very serious, but the expression on his face makes you squirm. “I’m not letting you fuck this up.”
“I;m not fucking anything up by staying exactly where I am.” You cross your arms over your chest. Realistically, you know he’s right. If you were more drunk, maybe you would bite the bullet, march over there, and plant a kiss right on those lips you haven’t stopped thinking about. But you’re not, so at the table you will stay.
“This is fate. This is the universe putting him a few feet away.” Jimin gestures vaguely at Jungkook.
“The universe can fuck off, honestly.”
He sighs, “I’m doing this for your own good.”
And before you can process his movements, a lag in your brain, Jimin turns in his seat, arm raising in a wave, mouth opening to call out his name.
“No!” You lunge across the table, knocking over Taehyung’s drink, causing him to groan. You latch onto Jimin’s arm, yanking it down forcefully. “Don’t you fucking dare, Park Jimin—”
It’s too late.
Because in your desperate scramble to stop Jimin from committing social suicide on your behalf, you've made a scene. Swiveling your head slowly, you see Jungkook staring directly at you.
His eyebrows are raised, a hint of a smirk playing upon his lips. His tattooed fingers toy with the straw in his drink. It feels as though time drags on for hours, as if the hands of a clock are being lugged through molasses.
You slowly extract yourself from on top of the table, slinking into your chair with as much dignity as you can muster. Your hand comes up in the world’s most awkward, tentative wave. The tiniest flutter of your fingers.
Jungkook’s lips stretch wider, raising his hand in return. It’s a proper wave, filled with that newfound confidence of his. Then he turns back to his friend, resuming their conversation. It’s not like you expected him to drop everything for you—or well, you kind of did. You exhale a deep breath. “Oh my god.” You slump in your chair. “That was horrible.”
“That was… bad,” Jimin tiptoes around the word, twiddling his thumbs.
“I’m going to have to fake my death and move to a different country—”
“Stop being a drama queen,” Yunjin cuts in, sliding a shot towards you. You don’t even know or care where it spawned from, but all you know is you need it. “He waved back. He probably thought it was cute.”
Sighing, you shake your head. “There is nothing cute about what just happened.” You down the shot, and you’ve completely lost count at this point of how many you’ve ingested.
“Okay, new plan,” you announce, slamming the glass down. “None of that happened. We enjoy Yunjin’s birthday. We do not make eye contact with Jungkook, we do not speak about Jungkook.”
“Yeah, about that,” Jimin trails off, eyes glued to somewhere behind your shoulder. “It’s too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“He’s coming over here.”
Your entire body halts all movement, rigid like a statue. “What?”
“He’s coming here. Right now,” Taehyung repeats, and your heart drops to your feet. A hornet’s nest of anxiety swarms your stomach, filling your body with buzzing fear.
You shake your head frantically. “Please say you’re messing with me.”
Yunjin turns to see where Jimin and Taehyung are staring, and the moment she touches your arm, you realize you’re trapped. There’s no way out but through.
“[Y/N]. It’s nice to see you here.”
His voice is deeper, a low timbre that makes your brain go all fuzzy around the edges. He stands in front of the table, and you peer through your eyelashes to look up at him.
Fuck. Fuck, he looks even better up close.
The two lip rings catch the light of the disco ball. A silver chain dangles from around his neck and you briefly wonder what it’ll look like hanging over you while he pounds into…God, get a grip. You can catch a whiff of his cologne, something citrusy and woodsy that causes a pool of arousal in your underwear.
“Hi,” you manage a smile, struggling to hold the intense gaze he’s sporting.
He breaks it for a moment, turning to your best friend, nodding. “Jimin, good to see you again.”
“You too, Kook. You should join us!” He scooches closer to Taehyung, patting the minimal space beside him. Jungkook stares at it, then looks back at you with a hunger in his eyes that almost has you keeling over.
“Actually,” Jungkook begins, “I was hoping I could steal [Y/N] for a drink. If that’s okay with you all?”
He wants to... what? Steal you? For a drink? Alone? You turn to Yunjin, eyes pleading. Help me. Save me. Make up an excuse. But she was never going to let you escape where he’s involved. She looks you dead in the eye, smiles sweetly, and says, “No, she’s all yours.”
You’re going to remember this. You’re going to bring this up at every possible opportunity for the rest of her natural life.
Jungkook’s hand extends towards you, palm up, awaiting yours. For a brief second, you stare at it, at his long fingers, at the veins running down his forearm, at the silver rings stacked on his nimble fingers. The hand that's now being offered to you, in public, in front of all your friends.
You can either take his hand and let whatever this is happen, or you can make up some excuse and run away for the fourth time.
Your heart starts cartwheeling in your chest. You can’t look away from his hand, the one you desperately want to take. Jungkook watches patiently, confidently, like he knows just what you’re deciding between.
Fuck it.
You place your hand in his, let your fingers intertwine with his warm ones. It’s secure, and his fingers tighten around yours as if to remind you he has you. Jungkook pulls you to your feet gently. He doesn’t let go as he guides you through the crowd toward the bar, and you’re trying very hard not to think about how right it feels, how you never want him to let you go.
He parks you at the bartop, where a woman who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else is serving alcohol to a group of minors. Jungkook pats the stool beside him, and you’re more than grateful to take the chair. Your heels have been hurting like a bitch all night. When you sink into the chair, his eyes follow the way your dress hugs your thighs, revealing more skin than your old cheer uniforms. You debate tugging it down, but a warm feeling is flooding your insides at the thought of him wanting to see more of you. He towers above you, his AMEX hanging loosely from his deft fingers.
“What do you like to drink?” He leans down, whispers it directly in your ear. The heat of his breath makes your entire body feel like molten lava.
The bartender begins to make her way over, eyes gleaming when she spots Jungkook. If you were less tipsy, you might come up with a witty response, but your current state only allows you to say, “A dirty shirley, please.”
He doesn’t make a face at the girly drink, nor bats an eyelash when the bartender touches his arm four times while he recites his order. You can only watch in awe as he hands over his card and turns his attention back to you, body angling toward you as if to shield you from every other patron who might be able to see you. The slight possessiveness he’s exhibiting would normally make you hurl, but he’s so unapologetic about it that you could care less. You hope he puts his mark on you so no man will ever speak to you again.
Jungkook fiddles with his fingers on the counter, unsure where to put them. The only glimpse of high school Jungkook you’ve seen in days. His hand hovers near your thigh, then his jeans pocket, then back to the counter. For all his cockiness over text and possessiveness, still lies a man who’s intimidated by the thought of truly having you.
The soju in your body hums through your veins, making everything feel hazy and like a really good idea. Liquid courage, Yunjin calls it. Liquid stupidity, sounds more precise.
But right now… you’re thinking liquid courage might be onto something.
Because he’s standing so close you can smell his cologne, something that smells like grapefruit and lemon. Because he angled his body to block out the rest of the bar like you’re the only person here. Because his hand is right there, inches from you, and looks like he wants to touch you so badly it’s causing him physical pain.
And you’re tipsy enough to think: yeah, liquid courage is real.
Before the sober, anxious part of your brain can intervene with a thousand reasons why this is a horrible idea, you reach out. Your fingers wrap around his wrist, and his eyes snap to yours, surprise written across his features.
You don’t utter a word, just simply guide his hand until his palm settles at the small of your back. Every place where his skin connects with yours seems to tingle.
“Is this okay?” he asks, voice low and chest rumbling with the sound. Again, his mouth is right by your ear, and you can’t think, can’t breathe, can't hear anything but him.
“Would I have moved it there if I wasn’t?”
His thumb strokes once against your side. “Just making sure.”
“I’m tipsy, not drunk,” you clarify, only because you need him to know this is a choice. This is something you tried to talk yourself out of over and over again, but you want this. Liquid courage is making you brave enough to admit out loud what you only ever thought to yourself sober. “I know what I’m doing.”
“And what are you doing?” His breath hits your cheek, the side of your mouth, and it’s laced with peppermint and whiskey, and you’re dizzy with need.
“Giving you the green light,” you say, tilting your head to meet his gaze. His eyes are hooded, trained on your lips that are coated in shiny gloss. “That okay with you?”
His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you incrementally closer. He doesn’t need to say anything.
“Very okay,” he murmurs into your hair.
The bartender returns with your drinks, but Jungkook doesn’t move his hand. He takes your dirty shirley with his free hand, passing it off to you. His grip becomes more secure, more selfish, like now that you’ve given him permission, he’s never planning on letting go.
Good, you think. You don’t want him to.
Jungkook’s hand wraps around the glass of whiskey, taking a slow sip. “Seems like fate was on my side tonight.”
You take a gulp of your dirty shirley, the sweetness coating your tongue. “I’m starting to think you might be stalking me.”
His eyebrows raise, a tiny upward twitch in his mouth. “How do I know you’re not stalking me?”
“Oh, you would know.”
“Really?” He leans in, brown eyes sparking like pools of chocolate. “And how’s that?”
“Because I’d be better at it,” you proclaim, emboldened by the alcohol. “You wouldn’t catch me three times in two weeks. I’d have a whole system. Disguises, a wig collection..”
He laughs loudly. You notice that his dimples pop when he does so, eyes crinkling. “A wig collection.”
“At minimum. Maybe some fake glasses and a trench coat.”
“Clearly, you’ve thought about this,” he hums.
You raise your hands in defense. “I’m just saying, if I were stalking you, you’d never know it unless I wanted you to know.”
“Should I be concerned?” he questions, but he’s grinning.
“Depends,” you tilt your head. “Are you worth stalking?”
His fingers spread across the expanse of your spine. “I’d like to think so.”
“Confident.” Another sip of your dirty shirley snakes down your throat, your lips toying with the straw as you peer up at him.
His gaze never leaves yours. “Besides, you’re the one who guided my hand to your back. If anyone's being forward here…”
That almost makes you choke on your sugary drink. “I was just—”
“Giving me the green light,” he finishes. “I remember. Trust me, I remember.”
Your mind stumbles, then short-circuits.
You resort to drinking more alcohol, needing something to do with your hands that’s not touching him. “This is crazy, right? Us, here?”
“Crazy how?”
“You know how. I mean, ten years ago, I was copying your chemistry homework, and now you’re so… you’re…”
There’s not a single English word that properly describes what present day Jeon Jungkook does to you, with his tattoos and lip rings and expensive cologne and platinum credit card and… fuck.
“I’m what?” He leans closer, waiting, expecting.
“This.” you say helplessly. “All of this.”
“Is there something wrong with.” he uses his free hand to motion over his toned body, “this?”
“No. Nothing. That’s the problem.” It slips out before you can stop it. “It would be easier if something was wrong with it.”
The hand not looped around your waist moves from the bartop to your dress, fingers finding the hem where it’s ridden up on your thigh. He plays with the fabric absentmindedly, rolling it between the pads of his fingers. “If no one’s told you, by the way,” he mutters just loud enough for you to hear him over the music, “this dress looks insane on you.”
The wind is knocked out of your chest, a jolt of electricity flashing through your core. “No one’s told me yet. You’re the first.”
His eyes drag up from where his fingers are flirting with your dress, traveling up your body until they meet yours. “You look fucking gorgeous,” he says. “There. Now I'm the second to say it.”
It’s hard to breathe, hard to swallow. Even harder to find words, or form a coherent sentence.
“You—I—you can’t—”
“Can’t..?” His hands don’t dare move from your dress, knuckles occasionally brushing against your thigh. “Can’t tell you the truth?”
“You know what you’re doing, Jungkook.”
“I do,” he agrees. “Is it working?”
You want to lie. Want to play it cool. Want to maintain some semblance of the upper hand.
But your downfall was inevitable, right from the moment you saw him standing in the cafe. Like a champagne bottle that someone shook a little too hard, a balloon pressed against a thumbtack. It was always meant to explode.
“Yes,” you admit.
“Good.” Both of his hands move to grip the side of your barstool. In one smooth movement, he turns you to face him completely. His legs spread, creating space, and he guides the stool forward with his toe until your thighs slot between his. He’s caging you in, hands landing atop your thighs, palms warm against your bare skin.
You’re practically pressed against him, his face level with yours, “Is this okay?” he asks again, fingers digging into the flesh.
Suddenly, it’s like you’re painfully aware of all the places where he isn’t touching you. Your faces, your chests. You want more, need more.
“Stop asking me that,” you mumble, looking away, but he guides your gaze back with a finger under your chin.
“I need to know, princess.” His tone is serious, but you want to smile from the pet name. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
“It’s not,” you whisper. “It’s not too much.”
“No?”
“No.”
His hands slide up your thighs, hiding underneath the fabric, pushing a boundary that hasn't been tested in a long time. “What about now?’
You’re going to combust. Right here, in the middle of Sinkhole, surrounded by people, you're going to burst into flames.
“Still okay,” you exhale.
For one exhilarating second, his eyes drop to your lips, and you think you’ll get what you’ve been seeing in your dreams the past few nights. You need to get out of here. Away from the crowd, away from the noise, somewhere you can actually hear yourself think—or not think. Preferably not think.
“Do you want to…” you start, then hesitate. The words die on your tongue.
He cocks his head, hair flopping into his eyes. “Do I want to…”
Your heartbeat reverberates in your throat. “Talk somewhere more private? It’s loud here.”
His composure shifts, and you watch the realization hit him. What you're suggesting. What that implies.
“Private,” he repeats. “To talk.”
“Yes.”
“About?”
You deadpan, brain racking for a subject, any subject. “Stuff,” is what you come up with.
A dry laugh escapes him. “And maybe things as well?”
You pout. “Important stuff.”
“I’m sure.” His smile is lopsided, goofy and full of light. He pulls you up from the barstool until your feet touch the ground again. His hand finds your fingers, easily lacing them. “Whatever you want, princess.”
Where the fuck did that come from? When did he become the type of person to use pet names? And why is it working? Why is that single word making your entire nervous system light up like a Christmas tree?
Tugging you through the crowd, he peers behind him every few seconds to make sure you haven’t floated away. His hand is firm around yours, guiding you through the mass of bodies, and you try and catch a glimpse of any of your friends.
Unfortunately, you do spot Jimin and Taehyung, pressed against a wall, entranced in a makeout session so intense that they’re definitely not coming up for air soon. At least you won’t have to explain to them where you went. Yunjin is nowhere to be found, probably on the dance floor or already home with one of her many flings.
Jungkook pulls you through another section of the crowd, leading you down a side hallway that’s mercifully empty. The music is muffled, bass still thumping through the walls but not deafening anymore. You lean back against the cold concrete, the chill a shock against your overheated skin. The wall vibrates with each bass drop, humming in your chest.
Jungkook stops in front of you, and you have to tilt your head back to see his face. “What did you want to talk about?”
Your mind shoots blanks. In this dim hallway, you’ve become aware of how completely the tables have turned. Ten years ago, you held all the cards. You were the girl who made him nervous, who had him stumbling over words, who could get him to do anything with a smile and a flutter of your eyelashes. But now you’re the one who’s heart is racing, who feels like you might explode from a single touch. He has the upper hand, utterly, entirely. And you handed it to him willingly. Put his hand on your waist, guided him here, and now you’re putty in his hands and he knows it.
“You make me nervous,” you blurt out.
The silence that engulfs you feels like punishment. Your mouth goes dry, palms sweating under the guise of his stare.
He takes a step closer. There’s little to no space between you. “That’s interesting.”
“Why is that interesting?” Your back is pressed against the wall. Nowhere to go.
“You used to make me nervous,” he says, bracing his hand on the wall. His bicep strains and you have to fight the urge to ogle at them. “For years.”
“That was different, Jungkook.”
“Was it?” He studies you. “In what way?”
“Well, because now you’re you, and I’m—“
“I’m me?” His eyebrows raise an inch, lips curling upwards in a smirk. “What does that mean?”
Why did you drink so much alcohol? Why, why, why? Maybe if you hadn’t, your lips wouldn’t be so goddamn loose. Your filter would still be in tact. You wouldn’t be staring at him like you want to devour him whole.
You peer up at him, eyelashes fluttering. His cheeks are flushed from the amount of drinks he’s consumed, and he’s close enough that you can see the moles that litter his face. The one under his lip. The one on his nose. You want to kiss each and every single one of them. Map them out with your lips until you have them memorized.
You give up on any pretense of playing it cool. “You know you’re hot, Jungkook.”
“Do I know?” The smirk on his face grows tenfold, and god, you want to kiss it off him. “You’ve never told me this before.”
“High school was different.”
“You’ve said that a lot, but it’s actually not that different,” he murmurs.
“Hm?”
His gaze drops to your lips for the hundredth time tonight. “Because I’m still so fucking unbelievably, out of my mind, attracted to you.”
Your brain struggles to process it—that he’s felt this way for years. That it never went away. That all the confidence and cockiness is built on top of the same desire that made teenage Jungkook stutter around you.
“You’re just saying things,” you whisper. But you’ve known. You’ve always known.
His hand falls from the wall to cup your jaw. “You think I begged Jimin for your number because I was just being polite? You think I showed up at three different cafes hoping fate would bring us together because I’m casual about this?”
“But you said that cafe was your regular spot—”
He fights to hide the smile creeping onto his face. “I’ve wanted you since I was a teenager.” His thumb brushes across your cheekbone. “Somehow, impossibly, I want you even more now.”
Your heart is trying to break out of the confines of your ribcage. “Jungkook.”
His forehead is almost touching yours. “What’s different is that now I’m not terrified to tell you.”
You don’t know what else to say to him, so you smile as brightly as you can, letting your happiness live on your face.
“How many drinks have you had tonight?” he asks.
You scrunch your brows together. “A lot of soju. That dirty shirley. Why?”
Bluntly, he says, “Because I want to kiss you. But not if you’re too drunk to remember it tomorrow.”
You squeak, back slightly arching off the wall. You’ve never wanted anything more, never ached to feel someone the way you do him. Heat travels through your veins, burning you to your core.
“I told you, I’m tipsy,” you rush to protest. “I’ll remember this tomorrow.”
It should be embarrassing how quickly you reassure him, how the words tumble out of your mouth.
His forehead presses against yours, and it’s a miracle you don’t dissolve into a puddle. “Then can I—”
“Yes,” you interrupt. If he doesn’t kiss you in the next five seconds, you might actually die.
“I didn’t finish the question.” His lips ghost over yours, a gentle taste of what you yearn for.
“I don’t care what the question is,” you exhale. “The answer is yes.”
And then his lips are on yours.
Never in your high school years did you imagine how Jeon Jungkook kissed. Never thought about how his lips would feel against your own. Never cared to think about it.
This past week, however, you’ve spent more time imagining this exact scenario than you’ve spent breathing. But reality is superior to whatever your brain could conjure up. Your imagination could never describe Jungkook’s demanding kiss, or the way his lips melt into yours with utmost certainty. His hand slides from your jaw to your cheek, cradling it. The other hand finds your waist, pulling you flush against him.
A mix of a gasp and a moan falls from your lips, and he swallows it wholly. Your fists find his shirt, tugging on the fabric, pulling him closer even though there’s no space between you. His lip rings are cold against your mouth, a contrast to the heat of his lips and the heat between your thighs. Parting your lips, his tongue sweeps in, tastes just like you smelled earlier—whiskey and peppermint. Your lip gloss is definitely everywhere at this point—on him, on you, probably on the wall behind you—but you couldn’t care less.
His strong hand travels from your cheek down, down, fingers wrapping loosely around your throat. Claiming, holding. The possessiveness of the gesture sends heat pooling low into your stomach. Jungkook’s thumb presses into your pulse point, feeling how your heart is racing.
And when you do finally pull away, your heart is still going berzerk. His lips are shiny with your gloss, pink and swollen and thoroughly kissed. You can't help but giggle at the sight.
“What?” he asks, breathless. The tips of his ears are tickled pink.
“You’re wearing my lip gloss,” you giggle again, reaching up to wipe it with your thumb. But he doesn’t let you get far, catches your wrist and presses a kiss right where your flowery perfume is sprayed. He takes a deep inhale and smiles back at you like you hung the moon and stars. Your heart is pumping so wildly you’re worried it might actually burst out of your chest.
Then his lips are on your neck, trailing down to your exposed collarbone, finding every sensitive spot with ease like he already knows you, like he holds the map to your body. He holds you tight to him, grounding—and thank god because your legs are shaking so badly that you're not sure you could stand without him holding you up.
“Jungkook,” you gasp, and he hums against your skin. His mouth finds your jaw, pressing open-mouthed kisses, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to pass out. Your fingers thread through his unruly dark brown locks, tugging slightly at the nape.
And you can’t really help the intrusive thoughts that leap in your mind, the tidal wave of desire that keeps lapping at your core. He’s insatiable, and you feel gluttonous. “Do you wanna—” you start, but his teeth graze your pulse point and your brain turns to mush. “maybe—ahh—go to mine?”
He halts, pulls back enough to look at you. “Is that what you want?” His voice is strained, the thread of self-control growing weaker and weaker.
Your brain is fuzzy from alcohol and kissing and the feeling of his hands on your waist, but you know what you're saying. You know what you're offering. You’re done fighting whatever decade-old guilt lives inside you, because you deserve him. Maybe you’re finally ready to accept it. To trust that you’ve grown, that you’re growing, that you’re not done growing and thats okay. You deserve all the good that Jeon Jungkook has to offer. “Yes,” you breathe, “I want—I want you.”
His eyes search for hesitation. “You’ve been drinking, and I don't want you to feel like you need to—”
“I’m sure.” Cupping his face in your hands, you cut his sentence in half. Don’t even let it slip between you. “I know what I want.”
Somehow, his eyes have gone darker, fingers tightening for purchase. “Say it again,” he murmurs.
“I want you, Jungkook.” Your thumb brushes against his bottom lip, catching on his lip rings. “Take me home.”
“Fucking hell,” he practically moans, and then his lips are on you again with an urgency that wasn’t there before. “We should probably tell your friends we’re leaving.”
“Jimin’s busy.” If you had to guess, he’s on his knees at home, getting topped by Kim Taehyung. “And Yunjin will understand. Your friends?”
“They know who you are.”
A swarm of butterflies kick up in your stomach.
You tug on his shirt. “Now can we please go before I lose my mind?”
His answer to that is another quick kiss—but still thorough, because who is he if not a man starved—and he pulls you through the hallway, back into the club, into the thick of the chaos still lingering this late in the night. You hardly register any of it. The lights, the bass of the music, the bodies pressing against you as you squeeze by. None of it matters.
You feel like you’re floating, like your feet are moving but you can’t feel the ground, like you’re walking on clouds. His hand is wrapped around yours, pulling you forward, and you’d follow him anywhere right now. To the ends of the earth. Off a cliff.
Once the crisp night air hits your skin, Jungkook is already scanning the street, hand raised to hail a taxi. One pulls up within seconds—it’s got to be fate, or the universe supporting your agenda to get laid—and he opens the door, ushering you inside with a hand on the small of your back.
Jungkook shuts the door forcefully, immediately snuggling into your side, leaving little to no room for you to create space between you two. Not that you wanted to, but you want to giggle at how utterly fearful he seems of distance from you.
“Where to?” the driver asks, eyeing Jungkook in the rearview.
You rattle off your address, and the cab pulls off into traffic. Seoul at this hour is never quiet—in fact, it’s usually more lively, since clubs stay open until the wee hours of the morning. But all you can really focus on is Jungkook beside you, his thigh pressed against yours in the cramped backseat. His fingers lace through yours. An innocent, sweet gesture, a complete contrast from what was happening ten minutes ago against that hallway wall.
You look down at your intertwined hands—his so much larger than yours, rings cool against your skin. A smile bestows upon your lips. When you glance up at him, he’s staring at you with this fond expression that makes your heart stutter.
“What?” you ask, giddy.
“Nothing,” he replies, but the smile on his face doesn’t disappear. “I just can’t believe this is happening.”
“Me neither,” you admit sheepishly.
His hand reaches over, tugging the hem of your dress down where it’s ridden up your thigh. The action would be chivalrous, if not for the way his fingers linger, if not for the way his jaw clenches, if not for the way his fond expression darkens into something sinister.
“You need to stop moving,” he says, a deep exhale following his words.
You roll your eyes. “I’m not even moving.”
“Your… dress is moving.” His hand remains on your thigh, holding the fabric down. “I can’t hold it together if this dress rides up any more.”
“Oh.”
He shifts in his jeans, clearly uncomfortable. You have to fight not to avert your eyes to his crotch.
“Do you know how long it’ll take to get to her apartment?” Jungkook asks the driver. You snort loudly.
He shrugs. Clearly, the man has never shared Jungkook’s predicament, because he looks unbothered by the urgency in his voice. “About twenty minutes.”
Jungkook groans, leaning back into the seat, closing his eyes for a second. When he opens them again and catches your gaze, he has to close them to calm his friend down there. And it does make you giggle again, but what you want more than anything is to feel him. For him to give you a part of him that you didn’t know you needed until now.
You whisper in his ear. “I don’t want you to hold it together.”
His eyes fly open, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Don’t tempt me right now, [Y/N].”
“Why not?” And you pull out your tricks—you bat your eyelashes, tilt your head down, lick your lips to wet them. His face grows pale.
“Because we’re in a cab,” he murmurs, staring at your lips. “And I’m trying to be respectful.”
“Maybe I want you to disrespect me right now.”
The words are barely out of your mouth before he's kissing you again. His hand leaves your dress to cup your face, angling your head so he can kiss you deeper.
The cab driver clears his throat. You both ignore him, too hypnotized by the other to think about stopping. He pulls you as close as he can, and a frustrated noise escapes from your lips. There’s too many layers, too much distance, and he smiles knowingly against your lips.
He seems to know just what you need.
Jungkook’s large hand lands on your knee, caressing the supple skin.
“You know how to be quiet, baby?”
You nod meekly.
His voice brushes against the shell of your ear, hand traveling up your thigh to mask itself under the fabric of your dress. “Good girl. Spread your legs for me.”
Eyes widening, you stare up at him blankly. There is no way on this planet, Jeon Jungkook, the man who you were sure—up until now—never had his first kiss, is about to finger you in a taxi. But his hand moving near your lace panties says otherwise. You jolt forward at the feeling of his deft fingers swiping at the fabric as discreetly as possible. You gasp, and he tosses you a look before you slap your hand over your mouth. Luckily, the taxi driver seems more focused on the fastest route to your apartment than whatever debauchery is occurring in his backseat. It’s also dark in the car, impossible for the naked eye to see Jungkook’s movements.
He presses against the wet spot on your underwear, and heat creeps up your neck at the realization of just how turned on he’s had you since the hallway. Maybe even before then, if you’re being honest. He smiles at the revelation.
Your nails dig into the leather seat of the cab. Jungkook’s tattooed fingers push aside your underwear, his pointer finger collecting the arousal. A whimper escapes you, and when you look at him, the look on his face sends another round of wetness dripping down his finger. “God, baby, you’re so fucking wet,” he whispers into your ear, letting two fingers ghost over your clit, gently pushing the bundle of nerves. “Didn’t know public sex turned you on so much.”
You bite back a moan. The teasing pace he’s set over your clit would be fun, if you had a constant stream of sexual endeavors, but unfortunately, you’re as desperate as a raccoon sifting through trash. Gripping onto his wrist, you push him onto you fiercely. “Needy, aren’t we?” he mutters.
All you can reply with is a quick nod. He chuckles softly, rubbing circles on your clit with the pad of his pointer and middle finger. Your head falls back on the headrest, eyes squeezed tight, tight, tight as you try to calculate how he found your clit so fast. It’s so wet, dripping onto the seat, his hands, that you could cum just from the stimulation of it all.
“What do you want, princess? Hm?” Somehow, it sounds like he’s far away from you, like you’re caught on your own cloud of bliss. You want to ask for more, need more like it’s oxygen. His rhythm slows just a tad, enough to have your eyes flying open. “I asked you a question.”
Oh. Oh. So he’s that kind of guy.
“I want—I want your fingers,” you whisper feebly.
“Yeah? Where, princess? I’ll give you whatever you want.” he kisses your shoulder, your jaw, and it makes your brain fuzzy around the edges.
The tantalizing pace he’s set on your clit makes it hard to speak. “W-want you to fuck me with them.”
His lips curl upwards, eyes blazing. “You like my fingers?” Another nod. He removes his fingers from your clit, slipping back out underneath your dress. You’re about to protest, maybe even kick him out of the car, until you watch him make direct eye contact with you, and place his fingers in his mouth, letting his tongue swirl around the digits. You blink. What the actual fuck have you gotten yourself into?
“Please, Jungkook,” you beg, your nails scrambling to dig in his clothed thigh. He chastises you, laughs at you, before slithering under your dress again, plunging his fingers directly into your sopping entrance. You gasp, loud enough to make the driver look in the rearview, but you bite your bottom lip before any more can escape. “I know you can take it. If you can take that douchebag Kim Mingyu, you can handle me. Although, after I’m done with you, my name might be the only name you moan for the rest of your life.”
You should hate that. You really, really should. But clearly, your dignity has taken the night off, and in its place is a woman who is so endeared over being degraded by Jeon Jungkook.
His fingers pump in and out, achingly slow, making you feel every inch. You’re gripping his thigh so tightly you swear there’ll be claw marks. Your head rests on the back of your seat, chest heaving. If not for the sound of traffic outside, the driver might be able to hear the way your pussy squelches with each movement.
Jungkook’s lips press against your jaw, litter around your neck. “More,” you mumble, sounding drunker than you did in the club.
“God, you’re so fucking wet. I can’t wait to be inside you. Gonna fuck you all night.” Lewd words continue to spill from his lips. Sending waves of arousal onto his fingers, more for him to play with as he picks up his pace. He curls his fingers upwards, reaching that sensitive spot that far and few men have ever found. Your body trembles, thighs shaking, and Jungkook’s hand lands on them to try and steady you.
His thumb finds your clit, rubbing sloppy circles as he brings you to the brink of your orgasm. Your eyes fight to stay open, looking over at Jungkook—and holy hell. His arm veins are popping out, mostly from the amount of effort he’s putting into fucking into you to completion, his dark hair flopping over his face. His silver chain bounces off his chest, reflecting on the city lights outside.
And you don’t even realize how quickly you’re about to cum, tears brimming your eyes from the way his fingers pump in and out you wildly, thumb matching his pace over your clit. “So tight around my fingers, princess. You gonna cum?”
There’s no way you can be quiet about this. Not with how fucking good he looks, not with how easily his fingers slip in and out you, hitting your sweet spot. You bury your head in his neck, moaning into his warm skin, trying to muffle the sound as much as possible. “Fuck, Jungkook.”
“Want you to cum on my fingers, princess. Can you do that for me?” You nod into his neck.
Your walls clench around his fingers one last time, to the point where he can hardly move them, his thumb working you through the orgasm that ripples through your body. Your fingers claw at his arm, teeth biting at his neck. You can feel yourself lose control, heart beating erratically in your chest.
Jungkook’s fingers halt inside you, thumb coaxing you through the rest of your orgasm. “It’s okay, princess. I’ve got you.”
Your body completely slumps into him, still feeling full with his two fingers inside you.
Finally, after he allows you a moment to catch your breath, he pulls them out of your pussy, soaked with your creamy arousal. “Open,” he says gently, but when you look up at him, his gaze is hardly sympathetic. Your lips part for him, and he places his fingers on your tongue. You swirl it around, tasting yourself, sweet and salty and warm, foreign to you. Jungkook’s eyes never leave yours.
“Good job, baby,” he says as he removes his fingers, pressing one, two chaste kisses on your lips.
All things considered, you’re in absolute shock. Somewhere between high school and now, Jeon Jungkook learned how to kiss like he’s trying to ruin you for all other men. Where did he learn all this? Who taught him to do that thing with his fingers? How does he know exactly where to put his hands, exactly how much pressure to use to make you lose your mind?
The thought of him practicing on other people—other girls—makes something ugly twist in your stomach.
You’re an evil, evil girl. “Where’d you learn all that?”
He raises an eyebrow, tucking a strand of your loose hair behind your ear. “Are you asking about my sexual history now?”
“No.”
“You are,” he teases. “You’re not jealous, right?”
If only he knew how ill you felt at the idea of another girl knowing how his fingers can easily find their g-spot.
“I am not jealous.” You feign indifference, but your voice comes out all defensive and petulant, which kind of ruins it all. “Just asking a question.”
“You want to know who I've been with?” he asks, clearly trying not to laugh.
“Never said that.”
He presses another soft kiss against your lips. “There’s been other people. I’m not going to lie about that. But that’s not a big deal.”
You furrow your brows. “Why?”
His thumb traces circles on your thigh. “Because I thought about you during all of it. I wondered what you’d feel like, wondered what sounds you would make. So, yeah,” he continues. “I learned some things. But I only ever wanted to use them on you.”
You kiss him again because you don’t know what else to do with the feeling expanding in your chest. Because he’s looking at you like that and saying things like that and your heart is fluttering out of your body. God, if that doesn’t make you want to drag him upstairs immediately.
The cab pulls up to your building and Jungkook is already pulling out his wallet, throwing bills at the driver without checking the amount. "Keep the change," he says, and then he's out of the cab, pulling you with him.
Your legs are unsteady when you stand—from the alcohol, from the kissing, from everything—and his arm wraps around your waist, steadying you. “I’m not done with you yet, princess.”
And, really, he’s not joking because he’s on you the second you step through the door to your apartment. Barely even crosses the threshold before his lips are colliding with yours passionately, slamming your spine into the wall by your entryway. His hands cup your cheeks entirely. He can’t get enough of you, like opposite poles of a magnet attracting. Shortly after his affair with the entryway, Jungkook moves a little more down your hallway, but you’re too focused on kissing him to direct him. Your shoes are discarded, purse on the floor, and then your back finds another cool wall to rest against.
Jungkook assaults your neck, leaving a trail of bruises that are going to take a hell of a lot of explaining tomorrow. Your apartment probably sounds like the set of some cheap porno, what with Jungkook’s whimpers and your moans, and neither of you are even naked yet. Your hands run over the front of his chest, feeling his sculpted body underneath his shirt.
“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs into your collarbone, where he’s leaving hickeys in his wake. His hands wander over your chest, cupping them over your dress. Without another word or warning, he yanks down the top of your dress, your breasts spilling out. You can’t help the gasp that escapes you as he manhandles you, his lips coming to wrap around your hardened nipple. His tongue swipes over the sensitive nub, eyes peering up expectantly, watching every facial expression that contorts on your face.
Your eyes squeeze tightly, a kaleidoscope of color blooming behind your vision. “Jungkook,” you moan, carding your fingers through his unruly hair.
Without preamble, Jungkook kisses your nipples one last time before dropping to his knees on your hardwood floor with a resounding thump.
You open your eyes. The sight in front of you is fucking ungodly. If you look closely, you can see Jungkook from high school, expectantly looking up at you with puppy dog eyes, pushing your dress up to hang around your waist.
“W-what are you doing?’ you ask.
He looks drunk. “Need to eat you out. I want to taste you, princess.”
You don’t remember the last time a man has looked so needy to feel you, to taste you. Actually, you can’t remember a time this even occurred.
You exhale. “Yes. Yes, please.”
That’s all he really needs. Jungkook doesn’t waste a moment more in burying his face between your folds as though it’s his last meal on earth. His fingers come to spread your lips open for him as he flicks his tongue over your nub, sending you bent over as you scramble for purchase in his hair, his shoulders, anything. “Oh, fuck, Jungkook, right there.”
He notices your struggle to stand upright, and then he’s guiding your leg over his shoulder, toes dangling. He moans into your pussy, a breathy little exhale that sends fire shooting through your veins. Jungkook’s strong arm holds your leg in place over his shoulder. His tongue fucks inside of you shallowly, your eyes rolling backwards. “Tastes so sweet, so fucking heavenly, baby,” he mutters but it barely makes its way into your ears. You can feel his lip rings swiping over your arousal, the cool metal causing your thighs to quake uncontrollably.
And then you’re just babbling profanities, a mantra of his name, curse words. A litany of praise. Some other embarrassing things you hope he never remembers.
“I feel g-guilty. For the way I treated y-you in high school,” you stammer, quivering against his face as he licks another stripe up your slit.
You don’t know why it’s all coming out now, but it is. God, you were such a bitch in high school. Such an egotistical brat who was too caught in her own ways to ever see that there was more to life than social status and cheerleading.
His tongue encircles your clit, one of your hands flying to his hair to tug. “Don’t feel guilty,” he murmurs. “That’s not what I want you to feel right now. I want to make you feel good.”
His tongue travels from your hole to your clit, and normally the rhythm would throw you off, but he’s so skillful about the whole thing that you’re teetering on the brink of an orgasm. And he must know, must be able to read your body like it’s something he spent years studying, because he’s sucking on your clit, letting his tongue flick over it repeatedly, maintaining a rhythm that has you screaming, “Oh fuck, oh shit, I’m gonna—Jungkook, I’m gonna cum.”
That doesn’t deter him the slightest. Spurs him on like he’s entered in some kind of pussy-eating competition. You’ll spend years talking about this experience, you think.
Your fingers tighten in his hair, tangling, tugging, and your entire body vibrates as your orgasm crashes over you in waves. He fucks you through it, keeps going until you’re pushing him away with your toe forcefully. When he finally gives up, he says from between your legs, “Better than Kim Mingyu?”
Maybe you shouldn’t care about high school anymore, but you can’t help but laugh, smile at him. “He never even ate me out, Koo.”
His face softens— whether that’s because of the nickname you adorned him with or the fact that Mingyu was an asshole, you’ll never know—and he’s standing up, pressing a dirty kiss to your lips. It’s messy, sloppy, tongue over teeth, but so undeniably him that you cling to him like a koala. “He’s the biggest idiot of all time to miss out on that.”
“Hmm,” you hum against his lips. They taste just like you, and it sends another gush of arousal pouring out of you. His hands slide down your sides, gripping your waist, your hips, pulling you impossibly closer. You’re drowning in him—his taste, his smell, the way he’s kissing you like he’s been starving for it. You can feel his length poking against your thigh, and your heart skips at just how large it al;ready feels through his jeans.
Your hands roam down his chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath his shirt, tracing lower until your fingers find his belt. You fumble with the buckle, fingers clumsy with desire. Jungkook looks down at your manicured fingers, easily working, speaking to how much experience you have. His cock throbs at the thought.
You’re about to get on your knees, return the favor, but he stops you as soon as you lower an inch.
Jungkook simply says, “The next time I want you to cum, is going to be on my cock.”
Okay, yes sir. He’s all dominating and commanding and it makes your pussy clench around nothing.
His forehead drops against yours, breath punching out of him. “Fuck, I need to be inside you.”
The metal clinks as his pants drop to the floor, his Calvin Klein boxers doing little to hide how big he is. Jungkook kicks them off, eager to remove as many layers as possible. Your mouth salivates, and you’re positive a sliver of drool is slithering out of your mouth. His hands tighten on your hips, bruising the skin.
You kiss him again, but this time, it’s rougher, faster, hand slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers, and he makes a sound between a groan and a whimper that makes you feel powerful. Your hands roam, searching, until—
Holy shit. You gasp into his mouth, feeling his length. He’s big, no doubt about that. But it’s the fucking girth of it that has your mouth watering. He’s thick, and you can feel the veins that decorate his cock.
Jesus Christ. This is what your Chemistry tutor was hiding under his pants. A fucking anaconda.
But you’re not about to admit that.
No shot in hell.
“Mhmm, I feel like you’re kinda small,” you tease, battling your eyelashes at him as you stroke his hardened length dangerously slow.
His nostrils flare. “Yeah? Think I’m small, baby?”
“Tiny.”
Your thumb drags over his tip, and then you feel it. A piece of metal. Jeon Jungkook has a fucking dick piercing.
His eyes set ablaze as he realizes that you know. “Fucking hell, you’re still the same brat you’ve always been.”
Jungkook’s lips collide with yours, and he kicks off his boxers urgently. “Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth. Suddenly his hands are gripping the backs of your thighs, lifting you up like you weigh nothing. You gasp, legs wrapping around his waist as your back hits the wall harder. The new position puts you at eye level with him, head spinning. He reaches down between your bodies to let his cock sit in between your wet folds, ever so teasing.
Your fingernails dig into the nape of his neck, head lolling back against the wall. “Please fuck me, Koo. Wanna feel you inside me.”
“Oh, now you want to beg? After you called me tiny?” He hisses as he swirls the tip over your clit, the cool metal of his piercing sending shockwaves down your spine.
“Please,” you beg. “Pleasepleaseplease.” It’s slurred when it leaves your mouth, breath catching when you look down and see the way the metal reflects off his soaking tip, encased in your juices. “I need it.”
With that, he pushes into you, all inches of his length, squirming in his arms. You scramble to hold onto something, opting for his biceps that are straining with the weight of holding you up. A moan leaves both of your mouths. He waits until you’re fully adjusted, taking every inch of him. “Feels so good, princess. So tight and warm, holy shit.”
“Jungkook,” you pant. You’re so full of him, he’s everywhere. Stopping is the last thing on your mind. You’re a woman made of greed. “You’re so—fuck—big.”
He smiles triumphantly and takes that as his sign to move. He uses his arms to slide you up and down his cock, slamming you onto him, your clit meeting his pubic bone. The piercing drags against your walls with each thrust, hitting the sweet spot inside you that has you screaming a litany of crude words that’ll have your neighbors knocking your door down tomorrow morning. His head falls to the crook of your shoulder, burying himself in your scent.
It’s more than you’ve ever taken, beyond any sex you’ve ever had in your life. You’re going to be ruined for all other men and you haven’t even made it to the bedroom yet. Your past lovers are about to become a footnote. A distant memory. Ancient fucking history.
The sound of your pussy squelching with each rough thrust fills the room, Jungkook’s hairline beading with sweat as he furiously pounds into you, tits bouncing in his face. He begins to babble, “Used to cum so hard thinking about you, baby. You in that—fuck—cheer uniform, with your nipples hard. I wanted to push it to the side and fuck you.”
You moan at the thought. “Yeah, why didn’t you? I would’ve rode your face with your glasses on.”
He presses a sloppy kiss on the side of your mouth. “Bet you would’ve loved that, huh? Deflowering the nerd?”
The mental image flashes through your mind—seventeen-year-old Jungkook, all awkward limbs and nervous stammering, those thick-framed glasses sliding down his nose while you sat on his face in the library after hours. You would’ve been so mean about it too. Would’ve made him beg, would’ve had him so desperate and eager to please that he would’ve done anything you asked. Would’ve probably given him the best night of his teenage life and then ignored him in the hallway the next day because you were dating Mingyu and had a reputation to maintain.
“I would’ve made you cum—ahh, shit—so hard.” You try your hardest to maintain eye contact, but everytime you do, your walls flutter around his cock. “You would’ve been obsessed.”
“I was already obsessed,” he groans, nipping at your jaw. His balls slap against your ass, adding to the horrific amount of sounds eliciting from your apartment. “It couldn’t have gotten much worse.”
He has a very fair point.
You thread your fingers through his hair, already on the brink of another orgasm. Everything about him—his scent, the way his tattoos glisten with sweat, how his bottom lip is tugged underneath his front teeth—sends your mind into delirium. He’s fucking you with enough force to have your head bouncing off the wall every few thrusts, that you feel it resound along your bones.
“Fuck, I don’t wanna cum yet,” he whimpers into your skin. “But god, I don’t think I’ll be able to last.”
Neither will you, but an idea sparks in your pretty little head. You crook a finger under his jaw, making him look at you. His expression is completely fucked out, lips swollen, cheeks ruddy. His thrusts slow, enough so that he can pay attention to your words. “I want to get on top. Let me fuck you, Jungkook.”
He nods, and then he’s readjusting you in his arms, with you clinging to him like a newborn baby. You giggle as he frantically tries to find your bedroom, pausing every few moments to press a few kisses to your cheeks and lips.
Finally, he locates your room, plopping you down on the bed, and you moan at the sudden emptiness you feel with his cock gone. He tosses his t-shirt over his head.
Jungkook sits up against the headboard, gently stroking his length as he watches you move to bracket his thighs, settling over his tip. “Ready for me, princess?”
Eagerly, you shake your head in approval, and you sink down inch by inch onto his length. For some reason, in this position, it feels like he’s stretching you out more, your walls sucking him in greedily. Your hands come to rest on his beefy chest, nails digging into the skin.
There’s not many things you're good at, but one thing you are insanely talented at? Riding cock like it’s your god given right. Your hips undulate wildly, bouncing up and down to accommodate his full length. Jungkook watches in awe, in a trance, as you cream his cock. His hands come to sit at your hips, guiding you the best he can. His head rests against the headboard, lazily watching as you play with your tits. “Ride my cock,” he groans, “just like that, princess.”
“You stretch me out so good, Jungkook,” you moan, thighs trembling with each movement. He can feel you getting closer to the edge, already riled up from the previous position. Your walls clench around him, sucking him in. His thumb falls to your clit again, finding it so easily after so many rounds. “Right there, baby,” you chant, eyes closed. “Right fucking there.”
“Jesus, I'm so close,” he grunts, beginning to thrust upwards into you as your own pace slows. The sounds are beyond obscene—his cock plunging into your wetness, headboard slamming against the wall. You don’t care about any of it, not one bit, as long he keeps fucking into you.
It was always obvious from the moment he kissed you at the club that neither of you were going to last long, anyway.
“Fuck, I’m cumming,” you practically scream, which would have you embarrassed, but he seems just as ruined as you.
Your orgasm washes over you, legs shaking as your mouth tears open around a sound that might be his name, might be something else entirely. Your walls flutter around him, and Jungkook can’t help himself anymore. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna cum too. Can I—fuck—can I cum inside?”
You nod like a broken bobblehead. Thank god for modern medicine.
He empties into you, bruising your hips with his hold. He’s so attractive when he finishes that you almost orgasm again from the sight. His bare chest heaves, a slight sheen of sweat layered on the skin.
For a few moments, you two catch your breath, letting his cock soften entirely inside you. He looks worn, eyes drooping.
But after an eternity, you finally roll off him. You’re not sure what you were expecting in terms of aftercare, but your heart flutters when he lazily wraps his arms around you, tugging you into his side to rest your cheek on his chest. It’s comforting, with his hands playing with your hair, his own heart thumping along in his chest. Reminding you that you’re here with him, and this is real.
Silence has never been so peaceful.
You think you’ll fall asleep like this, but then he says, “I want to see you again.”
Your heart softens around the edges, at the notion that he believes you’ll never speak to him again after this. You can’t blame him for it. It’s exactly what high school you would’ve done.
But you’re not 17 anymore, and you deserve all the good he has to offer you. No more silly little games.
“I would really like that,” you whisper back.
He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Mind checking your calendar for me?”
You grin like a lovesick idiot. “Yup. Checking right now. And it looks like I’m free this whole week.”
“Thursday, then. Dinner at 7,” he confirms. “You’re not going to, like, make me beg for a real answer this time, are you?”
Giggling, you respond, “Maybe I should check that calendar again…”
He sits up, pouting. “Don’t. Don’t you dare,” he warns, and then his hands are moving to tickle your sides.
You squeal, squirming away, but he just pulls you back against him. The laughs that escape you are so full of sunshine that you hardly recognize them. You’ve been living under a fog for so long that when it lifted, you forgot how bright life could be.
“Okay, okay!” you gasp, and his fingers still. “Thursday. 7 o’clock.”
“There we go.” He kisses your forehead. “Was that so hard?”
“Hardest thing I’ve ever done,” you say dramatically, resuming your post, nestled into his side.
“Liar.” His fingers resume playing with your hair. “You like me.”
You feel like a kid in kindergarten, caught passing a note in class with “do you like me? check yes or no” scrawled in messy handwriting. Like you’re on the playground at recess, heart racing because your crush smiled at you across the monkey bars. But it’s got you just as giddy. “I guess I do.”
Jungkook reaches over to pull the blanket over you two. “So what happens now?” you wonder aloud. It’s an innocent question, but somehow loaded with more intent than you realize.
“Now?” he yawns. “Now you let me stay the night. Then tomorrow I’m gonna make you the most fire breakfast of all time. Then Thursday, I’ll take you to the best dinner of your life. And then—”
“There’s more?” Your eyes widen in sarcasm.
“And then I keep taking you out until you realize you’re in love with me too.”
Your heartbeat is quick but steady in your chest. “Pretty confident about that, hm?”
“Extremely so.” Jungkook yawns again, voice getting drowsy. “I’ve got years of romcom knowledge. I’ve read those Tumblr fanfics. You don’t stand a chance.”
He’s probably right. You don’t stand a chance. In fact, you didn’t from the moment he stood in front of you at that cafe.
Before you close your eyes and float off into sleep, you mumble out, “God, when did you get so hot?”
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|| mr. jeon wasn't looking for a girlfriend when he hired you as a babysitter for his 5 year old son - however, he took a liking to seeing you in his own home, way more than he'd realized. (13k words)
content : age gap (31 & 22) , secretly down bad jungkook, mini slow burn, sensitive reader, teasing, jealousy moment, eventual smut (mention of m. masturbation, unprotected p in v, oral f. receiving, praise and degradation, edging, doggy, hair pulling, talking her thru it, small boobs appreciation, clit play ..), fluff, lwk mean dom kook, they want each other bad, reader has long hair, jungkook is kinda grumpy, themes of dom & sub faintly underlying
♡ bunny´s notes : dad jungkook is my fav trope ! i worked hard on ts,, lmk what u think (This took ages to write) >.< may contain typos or errors
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Life looks different twice a week.
On boring mondays and long wednesday evenings, you'd been making your way over to a neighbourhood that seemed far out of reach before, getting on a bus you'd never thought to ride. Lavish residences with blooming gardens line the streets of his district, among them, a rather dark looking, simple house; plain garden with a swing placed thoughtlessly right in the middle of the neglected front lawn, a broken porch light glowing whenever it felt enticed to.
Yet the herbal, earthy and simultaneously fruity scent of bonterra organic cabernet lingers in the air from what feels like a mile away. The artificial sweetness of your 16 euro body spray - notes of sugar and vanilla - create a mismatched harmony that infiltrates Mr. Jeon's home.
His son fell in love with you at the first meeting.
The puppy-like looking little boy had nannies on trial and error before - highly paid, recommended ones, the kind that have a linkedin, like all the other rich bastards in Jungkook’s circle have. While the first two's soft approach got the occasional giggle out of Jukyung, the following three, stricter ones, failed to do anything but make him cry and refuse to eat the meals they had spent so much time preparing. All of it seemed to make no sense since - he is by no means a difficult child to charm, proving equal habits by the time you came around. Hiding behind his dad’s leg and clinging his tiny hands to the cashmere pant, eyes wide and already glossy from glancing up at the fresh face in front of him.
Maybe that's why Jukyung came to adore you so quickly. Sweet faced and unmistakably younger than any of the other women his dad hired. Old enough to be old in his eyes - but young enough to know the shows he watches, recognize marvel superheroes and play the songs currently on the radio - when he repeats them with a jumbled melody and made up, Incoherent lyrics.
“He's a bit shy” Jungkook sighs, muttering as his fingers skim down the kid's tiny shoulders soothingly. You reply with a small hum, offering an inviting smile to him as you talk,
"That's okay. I'm sure we will get along. I'm – , nice to meet you Jukyung.”
He blinks slowly, the big doe eyes that match his dad's shine with childish excitement Jungkook lost somewhere along the way of becoming a man.
“Namjoon said you're good with brats like him” Jungkook continues, a curious glint in his serious gaze, his friend's judgement remaining under scrutiny.
“Mr. Kim?”
He nods, “He suggested you to me”. While adjusting his tie, he spares a quick look at the golden watch on his wrist.
“I hope you get along. Don’t hesitate to call me if there is an emergency.”
Jukyung pouts as he looks up to his dad, his iron man shirt bunched up in angry little grips of his hands. You stay quiet, listening to the serious tone in Jungkook's voice fade out into a parental gentleness, wiping the look off his son's face as he crouches down, giving him a kiss to the forehead and a reassuring pat on the head. “Appa is gonna be home in a couple hours. Be nice, okay?”
“Okay” he grumbles in return, almost managing to sound annoyed - if it wasn't for him nodding enthusiastically. The determination of his dad is wearing off on him even at this age.
Overall, the resemblance is striking, which is definitely why your eyes keep scanning over Jungkook's form. Noticing his full, pierced bottom lip, the slenderness of his fingers, the sharp contours of his jaw and round tip of his nose that looks exactly like his sons.
Jungkook also thinks his son is just like him.
The panorama window sits high above the rest of the city, his desk overlooks people scrambling for a taxi, kids leaving their school's building with a backpack that's almost bigger than their own body. The corner of his office desk is decorated with a frame holding a picture of his son on his third birthday, smiling at him. The assistant left long ago, the humming of the radio turned off with her departure, Jungkook always works in silence when he is in solitude. His mind was filled with enough noise.
Vibrations drumming against his desk snap him out of the deep focus read he was loosing himself in, his eyes feel dry from the screen's blue light that glowed continuously - picking up his buzzing phone, trading for a smaller blue light to stare at him.
A picture of Jukyung takes up his screen, a large wooden spoon clutched in his hand, his feet anchored to the stepper in order to reach their stovetop. From the caption, it reveals the orange hued, vegetable filled pan to be a coconut curry that his son has, supposedly, made all on his own.
He huffs in the memory of Jukyung attempting to help him with pajeon when it had rained two days ago - knowing from extensive experience that his five year old may be a talented boy, but certainly no chef.
The screen turns dark again, leaving a read notification on your end. Streetlights down the line start turning on their yellow glares, the sun’s glow replaced as it bids goodbye slowly, notifying him that it is time to go home soon.
“Appa!”
“You’re not sleeping yet?” he tuts, loosening his tie and pulling off his suit jacket that survived another day. Jukyung shakes his head, a mischievous look proudly displayed on his face.
“You should have put him to sleep” Jungkook says, looking over at the neatly cleaned kitchen. From his distance, he can make out a covered pan still filled with a generous portion of food.
“He has a set bedtime” he continues, brushing past you as you walk to the front door, picking up your shoes.
Up until now, you assumed to have done a good job with his son. He was quick to talk to you, engage - reluctantly - with your suggestions, his shy and guarded posture loosening into clumsy movements as time went by.
“Right, i’m sorry, i guess i forgot about it”
Your reply is timid, shoulders raised against your knowledge, voice lowering into a smaller, flowery tone. The coconut curry’s aromas fly their way from the kitchen into the rest of the house, lingering in the air like an apology.
“Next time then”
Next time - Jungkook wants you to come back for a next time. Satisfaction runs through you quietly, Jukyung’s sleepy face looking up at you as he waves goodbye,
“Yes, see you next time” you say, waving back at the two politely.
It’s even quieter in his home than it is in his office once his son has fallen asleep. There’s no loud clock ticking on a wall, no background of employees talking in the hallways or printers working.
But there is a warm, home cooked dinner, sitting on his stove for him to eat.
Upon lifting the pan’s cover, the scent gets stronger, delicious spice and freshness rise with the steam of the dish. Jungkook doesn’t recall the last time he came home to the warmth of someone else’s cooking. Since Jukyung was born, there might have been a day - once or twice - where someone was watching him and there was food left over for him to eat. A day or two, where he didn’t need to carry his tired hands to rummage through his cabinets after vast hours of working. It was always cold, he knows that for a fact.
It wasn’t the comfort of a hot meal, the embrace of a taste that was seasoned with care - the picture of Kyung stirring the curry flashes in his mind as he scoops another spoonful into his mouth. He groans, aware of the inevitable look of anger crossing his expression. Jukyung pointed it out to him a couple months ago, how he always looks mad when he likes the taste of something he’s eating.
The static rush of water running is the loudest one in his house as he rinses off the empty plate, even with the pressure turned up to it’s fullest - with the water splashing over the rim, wettening his underarm, the rhythmic beating of his heart sounds loudly within his ears.
It’s the last sound he hears before he goes to sleep, the last thing he feels when his eyes are closed and his body feels warm, even with the AC running in the background.
Mondays always brought giddyness into his home. Jukyung got to pick the movie for the night- which typically ended up being either ponyo or spiderman into the spiderverse. His matching spiderman socks glide against the wooden floor as he sprints towards the front door, where you're sliding into the cotton slippers Jungkook bought for you to wear on your visits.
“You're gonna hurt yourself Kyung” Jungkook calls out, walking up behind him in slower strides.
“Hey Kyungie” you greet while his giggle starts up your own. Freely letting it out, the smile lines craving your skin, the scrunch in your nose blooming. You're reaching to mess up his hair a little, as he peers into the large tote bag hanging from your hand, the coloring book you brought looks very tempting.
“Noona, you have one?” he gushes.
“Of course. Told you I would bring you one didn't I?”
Nodding, he looks at his father who's displaying a lighter version of the same grin he's got on his face.
“What do we say?” Jungkook raises an eyebrow, turning his expression into a playful look of strictness.
“Thank youuu” Jukyung sings, sporting another giggle. He probably never wanted his dad to leave the house this badly, the idea of filling out little bear drawings with you couldn't wait any longer.
"That's right” his dad retorts.
“Give that to me” he continues, grasping the handles of the bag with his hand and pulling it out of yours. He must've noticed how it looked filled to the brim, now setting it on his couch as you pour yourself a glass of water.
“You can leave your things here, no need to carry everything over and make hassle”
You set the glass down, smiling at him awkwardly. “You’ve been saying that for weeks”
“Exactly” he says, buttoning up his coat, “And you keep ignoring it”
“Most of it is my uni stuff, Kyung's been sleeping early lately”
"You're studying that late?” he asks, narrowing his gaze at you. You hum in confirmation, explaining that the exam you're about to write has been driving you crazy. “I just can't get the hang of his writing. You’re not secretly a kant lover, are you?”
Jungkook scoffs, shaking his head abruptly. Philosophy has never been his thing and probably will never be. His life lessons wouldn't have been avoided by knowing what some old man thought a thousand years ago, his business would not have grown to be any bigger either.
"Unfortunately not. My advice is to keep reading. You'll get it eventually”
“Stellar, Mr. Jeon” you say, watching him shut his eyes in response. Juykung's laugh sounds faintly in the back of the open living room, busying himself with the crayons he snuck out of your bag.
"There's money on the counter for food, I didn't have time to go grocery shopping”
You look over to the couch as you speak, purposefully raising your voice to get the kid’s attention.
“That’s okay. I was thinking of making pizza from scratch”
Jukyung's doe eyes widen at your suggestion - snapping towards you for the second time, his excitement spills over into the room, flooding it with infectious, childish happiness.
“Pizza, I love pizza. Appa never makes it”
You gasp loudly at the perfectly reasonable revelation, shaking your head at Jungkook with faux disappointment.
“Really? That's no good”
Jungkook, a bit caught off guard at his son's cheekiness though it should come to no surprise, crosses his arms over his chest as he defends himself with the excuses of that being untrue, that if Jukyung ate his vegetables, maybe he'd consider pizza more often.
Their back and forth grants a glimpse into the home the way nothing material ever could. His son's expensive backpack and cheap pokemon bodywash don't account for the late nights that he lets him crawl into his spacious bed, strokes his head and mumbles made up stories to get Jukyung to fall back asleep. Domestic bickerings of father and son that are too alike and yet, couldn't be more different.
Jungkook's face never looks more handsome than it does when he's with his kid, his smile only reaches his eyes in moments like this. It's a sight you felt privileged to, a sight you, admittedly, called back into your thoughts often.
“Noona always gets to be the nice one, isn't that a bit harsh on me?”
“No, no you aaare is nice too. But noona is so nice. Just like you said noona is...” he trails off, pursing his lips and really straining his thoughts. He's thinking hard, and the adults have to hold back a laugh at the deep frown in his brows, the angry purse of his lips. At least before you understand that he's trying to recall something Jungkook had said about you.
“That's enough” he cuts in, reaching his hand down to high five his son,
“Don't cause trouble”
The front door creaks open, turning back with a composed expression, he nods at you, stepping out of the house without another goodbye to spare.
The sun is high up in the sky even in the afternoon. Rays of light reflect on the metal slide tucked into the back of the playground, scorching and unusable on days like these. From the bench you're sitting on, next to moms spreading the newest affair stories coursing through the neighbourhood, Jukyung is in perfect view. Running around in the knee long denim shorts he begged you to let him wear - they look just like ones his dad has on when he's not in a suit, he said. Watching his short legs scramble around among the equally tiny ones of his two friends, you could make out that they must be playing catch - or something akin to it. His giggles are loud and his friends laughter bright, it felt impossible not to smile at the combined sound of it.
Jungkook spots you as he rounds the corner, his shortsleeved button down shirt and black jeans sticking out sorely in a crowd of floral dresses and lightly colored Tshirts. The low call of your name gets you to notice him taking a seat on the bench as well.
“Mr. Jeon, you're early”
“My meeting was cut short” he replies, facing the playground in search of his kid. You can tell the moment he spots Jukyung, the frown in his brows evening out, his upper back now rests against the bench in relaxation.
“Has he been good?”
“Of course. He's really energetic today” you chuckle, meeting his eyes that have shifted over to you. He huffs out a short laugh, “Yeah, Kyung loves this weather” he adds, seeing a strand of your hair swaying past your face in the breeze. You tuck it back in place, holding a hand up to see past the blaring sun.
Your words about the new show Jukyung started watching turn into background buzz for him as Jungkook's gaze wanders off to the side, trailing after a mother holding hands with her son as they make their way out. Heesung, the little boy and Soojin, his mother, live a block down from him. Kindergarden has caused their worlds to collide in more than one way - Jukyung frequents their home, Heesung and him play football in their yard - while Soojin sometimes laughs a tad too loudly at Jungkook's sarcastic remarks and accidentally goes to pick up her son in a shirt that might've been washed too hot. Watching her now, his expression doesn't change, his frown never returns as though there is nothing present to bother him. Maybe there wasn't, maybe he had five years to get used to being a single father, to this inner feeling of somehow taking something away from his son.
He pushes it back down, letting his thoughts run back to routine - when his next meeting starts tomorrow, what he'd be cooking for dinner later.
“Sounds like something he'd like” he states, unsure if that's even the case. “How was your exam?”
“Oh, it went well, I think. I'm just glad it's over now” you reply, sighing with the relief of long studies that have come to an end. The glimmer of initial surprise doesn't go unnoticed, he himself is a bit stunned he managed to remember anything outside of his own schedule.
“I was always stressed in uni. I'm sure you did a good job” he says, seeing the exhaustion behind the coralish blush and the concealer you wear daily.
You try not to visibly melt at the validation, it was like he could pick out on your underlying insecurity, your silent need for something as simple as reassurance - someone to tell you that you did well, as embarrassing as that is.
“It is stressful. I have a paper due next week and I haven't had time to start it”
Jungkook hums, "Shouldn't have come today. You never cancel” he mutters almost disapprovingly, the image Jukyung swinging next to his friend reflects in his eyes.
“I wanted to see Kyungie. Promised him we'd be going to the playground”
A subtle, sunny smile takes its place on your lips when it’s your turn to face the swings - just as he's pulled to look at you again, because as time went on, it's been becoming increasingly, infuriatingly difficult to stop himself from doing so. Reluctantly, he allows his focus to remain on the sheer softness he can make out by looking at your lips, the fondness painting your face in peace. Something compels him to mumble that you're too nice to his son, wishing for you to overhear. He knows you do hear him once that gentle smile turns into an actual chuckle again and suddenly, he is almost grateful that you did.
Jungkook also knows what classes you have on the days you watch Juykung, he knows that the dress you’re wearing is your favourite because his son said it makes you look like a pretty princess - and he knows that he tried his hardest to pretend that he does not know any of those things. Just like he ignores how you remembered to ask him about the marketing deal that'd been stressing him out lately and how you noticed that he fixed the porch light after months of putting it off.
“Seriously, how long was that thing flickering for, it would drive me crazy”
Jungkook snarls briefly, the way he does when his son is being a bit of a brat, before searching for the answer to your question in the back of his mind.
“I don't remember a time it ever worked. When Hyejin and i first moved in it was already like that”
Hyejin.
It wasn't like you'd never thought to ask. Never sat in their home looking for evidence of another parent - pictures where she'd be seen moving in the background or posing with him. The absence of a mother was impossibly evident, regardless, never making the home feel incomplete. Jukyung never asked complicated questions about his mother, never had a complaint about her working too much, like appa does, or why all the other kids had one to come home to. But there had to be one, gathering from that one time he asked you if your mother and you are still friends, he knows he has one too.
The first ten seconds after he says her name are silent, it's always like that when he does mention her to anyone, like a curse you weren't supposed to say out loud.
“She's..?”
“His mother” he finishes, the uncomfortably familiar tightening in his throat fails to climb all the way up to shake his stable reply, practice over the duration of five years does that to someone.
“I see. I've never heard you talk about her” you say awkwardly, only noticing how that sounded once the sentence is spoken, you open your mouth to stumble over words that tell him “It’s not like you have to, i just meant-”
"No need to get scared” he says, the rough laugh that follows makes a flash of heat go through your stomach and an embarrassed flush flood your system. His unshakeable calm and stupid, serene seriousness even whilst laughing - rattled you every single day since meeting him. It makes you nervous by default, to engage with someone that seems to have it all together. So unlike you, so unlike any of the men that you’ve come in contact with in university frats and hallways.
“It’s not like there's much to say, she didn't want to be in his life, so she isn’t”
Occasionally, fragments of life were really that plain. That easily explained, a history of grief, longing, hard work and separation summarized into a bite sized answer that accomplished as much answering as a question like that can be answered. The addition of her leaving Jungkook stranded at 26 with a newborn that, he now has to raise into a functioning human, didn't serve any purpose. The detail that they had just begun renovating the house was useless. Five years later, all that matters is that the world kept spinning, that Jukyung may not have a mother but he does have a father that loves him unconditionally. A father that's happy with the way things are, for the better.
The simple answer sunk in and now, it didn't matter to you either, insignificant how's and why's vanished because of how hollow it felt to look into a story that ended in a content little boy.
“I don't think he needs more than his dad. You're doing amazing at giving him what he needs to be happy”
Jungkook’s throat tightens again, unfamiliar this time, fondly, like he wants to bathe in the compassion of that sentence and remind you - that Juykung needs you too.
“Thank you” is what he settles for, allowing enough space for quiet appreciation to sit down between you.
It doesn't stretch on much longer, interrupted by the high pitched crying ringing through the otherwise tranquilly chaotic playground. Crying that sounds too much like Jukyung. You're on your feet before he registers; it is indeed his child that's sitting on his newly scarped knees, sobbing tears that tumble down his chubby cheeks in a stream.
“Shh, it's okay Kyungie, come here.. Let noona see..” you mumble into his black messy hair, the wetness on his face seeps into your shirt as he molds himself into your chest. You're crouching form has Jungkook standing uselessly to your right, looking down at your hand that soothes his kid's back, the comfort of your embrace sparks Jukyung to sniffle in order to catch his breath and explain that he fell, only for his voice to break at the end.
You place a kiss on his temple, picking him up to sit on your underarm while inspecting his minimal wound with worried eyes that look suspiciously glossy. Jungkook's whispering gruff “It’s okay" 's, the unease in his own body diffusing when Juykung naturally reaches for your embrace, seeks your soft words with tiny hiccups. Softening even further, as his miniature fingers brush a salty tear from your own cheek.
Jukyung pouts, telling you not to be sad, that he's a big boy. He knew he’d be safe when you came walking, knew you’d be there to hold him when he was hurt and Jungkook now knew - that his son's trust in you is the biggest blessing a curse could possibly bring. Butterflies that he thought lost their wings half a decade ago begin to fly through his stomach briskly, the tingle so juvenile and youthful it feels almost wrong to pay attention to.
“You need to be more careful buddy” he grumbles, hugging the small boy to his chest as you´re passing him over, listening to his sobs subside slowly.
“Do you wanna eat ice cream before we go home?”
Jukyung's mood brightens in a bat of his long eyelashes, the glossy doe eyes staring into his dad's demandingly and he knew no better than to give in. “I want choco ice cream" he nods enthusiastically, forgetting all about his scraped knee at the thought of tasting chocolate that melts into his mouth.
“Would you like one too?”
“Yes, yes noona take one! You like strawberry” Jukyung says proudly, stealing the polite no off your lips, declining the idea of you missing out on something as amazing as ice cream. Jungkook looks at you to confirm,
“You're right, I do like strawberry” you say to Jukyung, though you're looking at his dad, who is already pulling out cash from his wallet, whilst his son is beaming about being able to recall the flavour you favor most.
“Thank you Mr. Jeon” you tell him after he's done ordering for the three of you. He's about to open his mouth to tell you that it's really nothing, but Jukyung butts in.
“Jungkook”
Both of you share a look of confusion, tilting your head at the little boy apparently does the trick, he repeats his father's name - this time elaborating simply,
"Appa's name is Jungkook”
Jungkook's puzzle pieces fall into place before yours do, huffing at the innocent ease of his words, the weight behind them invisible and unimportant in the mind of a five year old. Jukyung takes the icecream into his greedy little hands as soon as it's in reach, licking away at it like there was a timer running - the pain of his previous injury long left in the dust.
“You're right Kyung” he enforces after a split second of bravery in his weakness, handing over your own portion and hoping - that you'd understand the message he's trying to send.
Normally, you’d refuse. Immediately result in professional smiles and head shakes, saying that there is no need to skip formalities. It might have been the intensity of his brown eyes as he established what he wanted, how there was never an offer as much as there was a demand. Doomed to the beauty of his name and the honey as he said it, there remained no bone in your body that craved to deny him. Your throat itches to say his name, let it roll off your tongue delightfully, let the sound hang in the thick summer air.
“Jungkook” you repeat, satisfied at hearing yourself say it. The wall tore down loudly, echoing a minimized space between you two. Realistically, it was nothing more than his first name - but also, nothing less than being called by his first name.
“Getting used to that will take time”
"Don't stress out” he exhales heavily, facing his kid that's succeeded in smothering his mouth in chocolate ice cream.
“Noona, can you not stay for longer? pleeeease?”
“Jukyung, let noona go home, she's been entertaining you all day” Jungkook chimes in, picking up his whiny kid by his armpits, the stretched word please becoming background noise as he groans, settling him against his broad chest.
“Enough, it's late and you're sleepy, say bye to noona” he says, a slightly worn out edge to his tone. Jukyung pouts as he waves in your direction, watching you zip up your jacket with glassy puppy eyes.
“Bye bye noona” he mumbles dramatically, making a kissy face afterwards. With your fingers scratching at his head that rests on Jungkook, you tell them, “Goodnight, sleep well”
Jungkook's tiling his head down involuntarily - closer, focusing his unguarded gaze on the genuine smile on your face, the tenderness in your words as you speak to his baby. His heart thumps stupidly loud when Jukyung giggles at your touch and he hates how submissive he feels to all of it. To the ridiculous image of extending the hold to include you, attach his lips to your head because it'd be so easy to just lean down and -
"Mr. Jeon?”
“Yes”
Sharp. Maybe too sharp - too forced against the silent, pillowy warmth that bubbled up inside him moments ago. He notes your startled blink, the sweet innocence of those pretty eyes that don't understand what it does to him when you stare up like that. He doesn't correct you, respects the much needed, accidental distance in the usage of his last name.
“I uhm, just wanted to say goodbye”
“Yeah” he grumbles, roughly wiping a hand down his tired face, his other holding on to the squirmy child, “Goodnight”
The door shuts, Jukyung is rubbing his eyes sleepily and it's just them now. He's just Appa now, and you're on the bus - on the way back to the university dorm you live in. At times that felt like a united world broke its illusion. You were, whether you yourself knew or remained painstakingly unaware, in utterly incompatible worlds. That is his mantra, his voice of reason anytime he starts drifting into thoughts that notice how much your dynamic creates a harmonious balance despite it all. Despite him being nearly a decade older, a single dad, a rich business man.
Because as much as he feels sick being stripped down like this, naked in the shower - exposed to his bare thoughts - in your eyes, all he truly ever was, is Jukyung's dad. Just Appa - just Mr. Jeon, Jungkook. He desires nothing more than to solely be Jungkook, that's who stares back at him with every glance in the fogged up mirror. But he isn't, or more so, he cannot be. Not when you have too much ahead of yourself, the youth of nine years he'd lived through already- and deserve so much better than a thirty-two year old single father that fists his cock to the remembrance of his first name on your lips, in that sweet, girlish voice.
He groans your name quietly - like the sound hurts and scratches its way up his throat because it feels wrong, so wrong how naturally it seeks to slip out no matter how much he forbids himself to voice it. Slow drags of his hand over his aching cock transform into hasty strokes that crave a smaller, softer hand to tip him over. The blurry picture of you earlier, in that pretty dress that hit just below your knee, the fabric denting at the curve of your waist just enough to make out the dips and curves - felt sinfully beautiful in his mind's eye. It would've felt much more satisfying to spill into a hand that has polka dotted gel nails, watch his milky arousal drip from those feminine fingers instead of his tattooed digits. He wouldn't be washing it away shortly after, there would be no shameful cloud to loom over his head as he shampoos it.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?”
“Sorry,” you hush, gathering up the limp child in your arms. His head lolls back, pouty lips parted in a relaxed snore. Jungkook’s fingers brush yours when he takes his sleeping kid into his arms, bicep straining against the black button down, “I tried to keep him awake. The playground really did a number on him”
"Not surprised” he says, stroking some long strands from Jukyung's forehead, “So?”
“Oh, right” you almost forgot he asked you something. It was just so distracting - the subtle ways he would soften when looking at his son, the way his shirt clung to his arms and chest in an intimidating contrast, “Sure, if it's no issue”
“Of course not” he mutters back like the question was an inconvenience, the width of his shoulders coming into view as he steps up the staircase, getting ready to lie Jukyung into his racecar bed.
Jungkook’s long day shows up in his slower movements as he chops up the ingredients, adding that tired rasp to his already sultry voice as he talks.
“You bought it for him”
“What?” his eyes narrow a little, swinging the noodle pan with an easy wrist,
“The bed he's been rambling about” you answer, standing just shy of brushing against his frame when attempting to pull out two plates from the top cabinet. Your stance proves unstable, fingertips reaching for lengths out of reach even on the balls of your slippers,
“Yeah. He wouldn't let it go” Jungkook says with a short exhale, his fingers reach beyond yours, pulling out the two plates with a clank that's too loud in the sudden silence. His chest brushes against your shoulders with the slight lean, the ghost of his contact haunts your skin with shivers, no matter how brief it had been.
“Here” he says, his gaze dropping to meet yours, already looking up at his face that seemed too close - even though there is a respectable distance, you could clearly see the mole under his bottom lip, the silver ring in the corner that glistened in the fluorescent kitchen light. The action remains uncommented but you swear you see his eyes dart to your parted lips for an unusually long second- just as he returns his attention back to the curry pasta, leaving you to set the plates down like nothing had happened, because nothing did happen.
The unforeseen pulse between your thighs would beg to disagree. Embarrassingly it blooms, causing you to press your legs together secretly - hidden under the dark wood table just as he sits down next to your tense figure. Not across, not facing you with the length of his table separating you. On the chair next to yours, body angled in to fill up your empty plate with a delicious smelling dinner. The action is careful, caring in a way that only worsens the ache with its underlying dominance, with the gruff mumble of him telling - or rather, ordering you to start eating. You wait for his plate to be full before you do, and with the first bite always comes that satisfied, low moan. Jungkook knew it was coming, he'd first lost his mind when you got icecream together and braced for its arrival ever since. Your reactivity had him fantasize about how stupidly easy it is to make you moan, how he would probably be able to make you cry if he just kissed you for long enough, deeply enough.
“You should eat too” you mumble, covering your mouth. He's staring, he just now realises.
“Is it good?” Jungkook questions, taking a first bite himself - the flavours spark on his tongue in the familiar comfort of a dish he has cooked a dozen times over.
“Soo good” you hum, nodding your head as if to support the statement while chewing. He hums too, beginning to feel the heat rise up his neck and it steals his ability to speak momentarily.
“Yeah?” he huffs, a swipe of his tongue over his lips accommodate the strangely sultry intonation that's laced itself into the conversation,
“You like it?”
The way he asks feels loaded. You do like it. Both of you know you do. The simple answer is yes, the complicated one is the softer sounding yes you give him;
eyeing his lips, voice quieting to mirror the weight of his own gaze.
“I'm glad. It's nothing elaborate” he mutters, spinning his fork slowly with a stern glare into the plate. He was getting distracted.
“I saw normal people by sally rooney in your bag” Jungkook states, remembering how the cover caught his attention. He read that book a while back, turning the pages about stories of, well, normal people. Relationships, lives. From the handful of books he read, he wouldn't shy away from crowning this one as his favourite. Something so ordinary and complicatedly mundane felt like second nature. You, on the other hand, take another bite as you gather your thoughts.
“Terrible book. Don't read it, it's a waste of time”
“What?” he fires back, a sharp huff of air leaving him.
“What? It's so boring, basically nothing happens in it” irritation laces quietly into your words, watching him get increasingly more irritated in return. He sets his fork down, a tinge of sarcasm accompanying him, “Right, nothing in 300 pages”
“Yes” you say, barely smiling while gesturing his way, “Now you get it”
Jungkook shakes his head, grumbling that, “You have terrible taste”
“Because I don’t wanna read about someone’s daily life?”
“Because you think that slice of life is boring. It's social commentary” he says, his voice getting a tad louder with his increased annoyance and it hits him then, that he's getting way too worked up over this. He can’t help it, the feeling of being misunderstood prickles underneath his skin. Instead of going on a tangent about the lessons in life and the beauty of normalcy in a society where there’s so many expectations thrust on you, he resumes eating.
“If I wanted philosophic takes I’d read my classes notes”
“Maybe you should”
“Sorry?” you say, more mockingly than seriously offended. Jungkook, looking back up at you with his signature, neutral expression tells you; “Apology accepted” before breaking out into what can only be described as an indefinite smirk.
“Once you get older, you’ll understand wanting to know about lives like your own” he retaliates, eating another mouthful of pasta to let the statement settle first.
“I’m not saying it’s not understandable, i’m saying i think it’s boring”
Your explanation doesn’t pull an answer from him, pushing you to start talking again. “I like when a book takes me places that.. aren’t realistic”
“Most people do”
“Yeah, i guess”
You’re looking at him from the lens of someone that has lived an equally as normal life - maybe even more so, without a child to take care of on your own, without the headstart of abundant money, the responsibility of a business on your shoulders.
“But I guess it’s nice to read something boring once in a while. Makes you feel less boring yourself”
"Recommend me one. Maybe it can change my mind” you add after a moment of consideration, the olive branch fragile and swaying as you wait for him to take it.
“Intermezzo. Also by sally rooney.”
“Are you a fan?” you joke, raising an eyebrow at him. He tuts, his shoulders shaking slightly with a gentle, low laugh spilling from his lips. Ease takes over your body, a smile openly shines on your own lips now, the thought of wanting to hear his laugh again makes you feel impatient.
Impatient to listen to more of his opinions, unwrap the tangled ropes that tie together his thoughts.
Perhaps too impatient, too uncoordinated as you brush the fork past your lips.
"There's something” he begins, inching closer with intent. His hand reaches to your face, thumb swiping at the corner of your lips with added pressure as he mumbles the remainder of his sentence, “... on your face”
He’s unable to stop looking, unable to pretend he does not see your eyes widening, your breath catching in your throat. The tiny sound of surprise has him holding down a deep moan. He doesn't let his finger linger afterwards, his thumb is gone from your skin as fast and unexpectedly as it had landed there in the first place. However, you would be able to feel it tingle there for hours later. Even days.
Like on this quiet friday evening, standing in your cozy bathroom, looking into the mirror as you tie your hair back, remove your hoops - wash off the make up that’s been marinating on your face for longer than it should have. You scrub, closing your eyes, the warm water feels like a hug on your stripped skin. In the black behind your eyelids, the touch on your face feels lively - and you can almost hear his voice too, telling you to read the book that’s now sitting on your nightstand, halfway into a story of grief, love, family.
A story about a part of life everyone will be confronted with. An ending no one can escape witnessing and falling victim to. Nature taking its breath back, people losing each other and gaining vital epiphanies, long winded stories that end in questions and answers. Reflection, a window into your own life and it's fragile evanescence. Death isn’t the only grief a person can experience. Losing someone - something, the effects of that run through your veins because of absence. Learning to fill the hole - whether by stitching it up or embedding its presence into routine, isn’t a task exclusive to the aftermaths of a death.
The text message notification dings, transferring you out of the story that’s been playing out on the laid out pages.
“Can you watch Kyungie today? It'd be from 7pm to around 9:30pm.”
With a glance to the time on top of your screen, you close up the book, letting him know that, yes - you’d be there soon.
When you arrive after taking the usual route, nothing is particularly unusual, though something is different. Impossible - to - ignore - kind of different. He stands in front of the hallway mirror for much longer than normal, adjusting his tie for what seems like the seventh time in five minutes. And when he walks past to slip into his jimmy choo's, the air reeks thickly of bleu de chanel.
Manly, fresh, deliberate.
“What’s the occasion ? You never make me watch him on weekends”
“It was a bit spontaneous. I’ll pay you extra for the short notice - and I’ll text you if it gets later.”
You nod in agreement, give him another questioning look he fails to acknowledge as your heartbeat continues to speed up, the clingy awareness of insecurity providing its steady beat. He swings his coat over his shoulders, slipping into it carefully. The gust of wind that passes when he closes the front door behind him is cool, uncovering how suffocating the air in your lungs is. Suddenly, you knew what this was. Why it might get later than anticipated, later than how things usually are.
Jungkook is going on a date.
It doesn’t matter, does it?
That you’ve never seen his hair styled like this and you're already mentally scrolling through restaurants he might be taking her to, silently wondering If he kisses on the first date,
If he tastes like nicotine and sugary maturity.
It matters when the strong feeling of disappointment rushes to your chest and your mind wraps itself around the concept of Jungkook looking to date. The quiet intimacy from your perspective now staring back at you like a huge misunderstanding. It didn't vanish - if anything, the plunging feeling only grew with his son that is already tugging on the sleeve of your oversized sweater, babbling about wanting to watch ponyo and do puzzles. Activities with his noona, the babysitter that watches Jungkook’s son.
Jungkook's son, who’s so completely in love with you, who you've sung to sleep with Jungkook admiring quietly, leaning against the doorframe - hoping you didn't spot his shadow. Jungkook who'd heard you tell Jukyung your favourite fruit and somehow, always ended up buying tangerines at the end of the week after that
“Noona actually brought you a new puzzle”
His smile widens into an innocent giggle, wrapping his little grubby hands around your arm and you can not be asked not to chuckle in return, letting him walk you to the couch. “Did you eat dinner Kyungie?”
“I’m starving” she chuckles, "Haven't eaten in hours”
Boring, god the woman in front of Jungkook is so incredibly boring to him.
Soojin's pretty, with long brown hair and a low cut shirt, a gentle voice and a nice smile. The faint touches of her hand on his arm when she laughed at something he had said - or the way her eyes darted to his lip ring - didn’t reel him in. Not like it did with you, where he felt the pull of wanting to kiss that needy look off your face. Everything she said, about her yoga studio and the way she liked going golfing, was so boring to Jungkook. He wondered, at some point of watching her sip the wine he ordered, if you had already put Jukyung to bed, if your hair is pulled into a messy pony yet and if you knew what he was doing right now.
Something about it made him feel almost guilty. He'd avoided saying it on purpose, why you're watching over his son today and yet, when he glanced back at you through the window, It was obvious you had caught on. Obviously, whatever you were feeling about the realization, you did not look happy for him. In a twisted way, it made him happy, even if for a mere moment.
Dinner tastes good, steak always does the trick - wine always relaxes him. Unable to indulge in it to the full extent, he had to drive - but getting wine drunk has never sounded more appealing. Especially after the fifth failed attempt of intellectual conversation. Words were not getting him anywhere but deeper in thought, nowhere and yet, parked in front of her apartment, with a slightly frustrated frown in his eyebrows - his lips kept colliding with hers anyways, allowing her warm tongue to lip past and explore his mouth. His eyes shut tightly in an effort not to sink into this burdening feeling, the low groan that he lets out sounds more frustrated than blissful. Frustrated with himself, with the fact that Soojin's hands on his shirt buttons fail to faze him, that he doesn't move his hands up and down her body to map out the curves she has - but simply anchors them to her hips. He was holding on to the denim like the image of you, despite wanting nothing more than to let go of both at that very moment.
“I should get going” she mumbled breathlessly, the desperation in her airy voice sounded like she imagined him to refuse, to keep her in his car and mess up the make up she'd spend so much time putting on, let her undo the very last buttons of his shirt too. So when he hums and agrees, saying that it is getting late and they both do have a child at home after all, her slick smile turns almost polite. Straightening out her hair with her fingers, she stepped out without meeting his gaze once more.
Jungkook exhales heavily after the Mercedes door slams, running a sweaty hand down his handsome scowl and begins driving home, to his son, to you.
The rattling of his keys don’t wake you from the slumber you’d fallen into about halfway into the second round of ponyo playing on the flatscreen. It laughs at Jungkook, mocking the storm that was already rampaging his thoughts. You looked like a domestic wet dream; Jukyung's sleeping from with his head laid on your chest that is rising and falling, comfortably matching the rhythm of his son's slowed breathing. With unspoken awe, he notices how his son holds on to your shoulder loosely, how your soft hand looks big on the little boy's back and your eyelashes fan so prettily against your rosy cheeks. Noting the absence of a blanket, he’s already halfway into laying one over the both of you, ignoring the sheer fact that, realistically, he would need to wake you and you should be making your way back home.
“Jungkook?”
The dazed mumble of his name halts him in his tracks, widened blanket hanging in his hands without a purpose. He lets you wake up, waits until the fog of sleep disappears from your eyes to continue talking. The taste of his date's lips haunts his mouth in a bitter aftertaste now, seeing how your first instinct was to pull Juykung closer to your body, perching him upright as you sit yourself up.
“Shit I must've fallen asleep. Did you just get back?”
“Yeah, about a minute ago” he answers, folding the blanket back up, “Did he make you watch that fish movie again?” he mumbles, nodding towards the tv.
You nod too, groaning softly while tucking the sleeping child into the corner of the couch, coming to yourself from the nap. “Probably why we fell asleep, seen it about a hundred times now.” A beat of silence passes, your voice turns painfully careful,
“ How.. was it?”
Jungkook stills, the air between you both growing thick. A tense glance is exchanged as he steps forward an inch, his fully dressed-up form standing right in front of where you are sitting on his couch with a softness he isn't familiar with. He tried to clear himself of his actions - weak attempts in forgetting about you, buttoned his shirt back up and reapplied his perfume to overpower her stench. He was aware it was to no use, not when you could see his well gelled hair now beginning to fall loose, how a trace of red was smeared slightly around his lips and the pristinely ironed shirt looked just a tad messed up. He clears his throat, answering the question you never wanted to ask in the first place.
“Okay, I think”
“Okay?” you echo, the curious undertone smells like a hope you didn't dare to have. Misplaced, possibly unwelcomed.
He sighs, a quick shake of his head following,
“Nothing special. "Didn’t feel it.”
It was short, direct. An answer that was true to his nature and another relief to yours.
“Not your type?”
“No, not my type” he says, his body slumping down on the couch next to yours with a hand reaching to caress Juykung’s back - his head tips back against the couch with a delicious stretch of his neck. No purple bruises, no wet patches of skin decorating the road down to his shoulder. The darkness of the living room provides you with a slight comfort, swallowing details of your feelings, like the slight shake in your fingers when you too - lean back against the couch, head tilted enough to face him. He looks at you for that brief lapse of time, vulnerable wordlessness settles down, taking up the remaining inches between your faces. Raw and hidden all at once, the absence of light strikes Jungkook to be honest with not only himself, but you.
“It just felt unnatural. I didn't really.. want to be there”
He murmurs, his eyelids feeling heavy with drowsiness, “Wanted to go home”
“Sounds boring. We had fun here, you really missed out” you mumble back with withheld amusement, feeling the effects of this moment take a toll on you. It’s easier to tease him when you feel unseen, there is less resistance to the pull that always wants to tug you together adjacently.
The hum he lets out sounds from deep within his throat, almost rumbling through his deep, quiet words.
“Like I said, I wanted to be home”
Home, didn't just mean at his house, inside his walls without anyone to bother him but his kid. Home meant being somewhere you were, somewhere he had his son in reach, somewhere he knew he belonged. There was no use in explaining his favourite book to a woman that wasn't interested in the workings of his mind, no use when you'd read the same book and - hated it, listened to him bitching about you not getting the point but nonetheless, ended up reading another one of those just because he saw value in it.
When you breathed a part back into his lungs that was devoid of air, that now longs for warm meals after a long work day, the sight of a woman sleeping with his kid in her arms, a soft laugh he helped elicit.
Utterly, devastatingly terrifying.
“I felt like that with my ex boyfriend. Like I had to be what.. he wanted me to be” you say after a deeper inhale, the breath filling your tight chest with courage. You learned not to cry because he would get annoyed, mastered to dim your light for comfort, but it's plastered all over your face, how much allow yourself to show when you feel like it's just Jungkook that's watching.
“Unnatural, if that's what you meant”
“I did” he clarifies, “How long were you together for?”
“Not too long, I broke up with him after six months” you explain, reminded of the day you chose yourself. It must be laughable in his eyes, you think. Six months was nothing compared to his break up. Instead, he sympathetically quiets his words, mist of late hours making them feel too loud anyway.
“I’m sorry to hear that”
"Don't be” you shake your head, "It's better that way. I don't want to pretend”
“Neither do I” he admits, running his fingers through his hair, the previously formal style now messily sitting on his head with wear. He looks comfortable.
“Was.. this your first date after Hyejin?”
The question is a leap, a gap you didn't know you had permission to breach. As the question leaves your lips, the dark gives away how he doesn´t seem fazed or surprised, he just presses his lips together, nodding “Yeah. Had a baby to raise”
“Do you feel ready now?”
Jungkook cocks his head, his body instinctively turning towards you. The invisible string of rough, vague want and deep, intricate need for connection pulls tighter.
“Ready?” he hums, a moment of debating his answer goes by “Ready isn't a feeling. You decide ready”
Control is a possession he kept dearest to him. Decide how people look at you. Decide what they know. Decide when you're ready, no matter how much his heart rebels against it with its violent beat, no matter how much his hands long for a counterpart to lace his finger through and squeeze when things get overwhelming.
“You shouldn't pretend. There's nothing you have to hide”
You mutter, turning to your side as well. Whilst looking at him with the slit of separation that presented as a large wall, there still wasn't anything he could hide under. You'd seen him, even with his suit on and his back turned, you were always able to see Jungkook.
Midnight struck on his rolex like lightning, the string that's been pulling at your heads and hearts snaps underneath the tension of him deciding - that he isn't ready yet.
“You should go home, you'll be exhausted for your 8:00 am class”
He rises to his feet, cracks in his surface blend back together as the newfound space creates enough room to stop breathing in each other's exhales, swallow each other's words.
A sinking feeling comes up back as you do from the suede couch, the distance is notable, your smile adjusts into one he knows is restrained and it makes him feel like an asshole. He doesn't fight it, tells you to be safe after you open his front door, stepping outside of the isolated world they created.
The candle, a big, blue and sparkling six, is lit with its swaying flame moving in the wind passing through the Jeon’s kitchen window. Jukyung leans forward, his lips pursed as he blows out the candle with his birthday wish rooted deep in his mind, letting the smoke from the extinguished flame carry it out into the world.
“Did you wish for something good buddy?” His dad asks, wiping off the chocolate icing sticking to the bottom of the candle.
“Of course I did” he smiles proudly, the shimmer of childhood bright and alive as another year of life is ahead for him. His eyes widen in amazement the second the knife slides into his belgian chocolate mousse cake,
“What did you wish for?”
“That’s a secret, silly” Jukyung nods enthusiastically, watching as his dad raises a questioning eyebrow, placing a generous slice down on to the plate laying on the table.
“Alright, Alright” Jungkook says, pressing a kiss to his son's ruffled hair. In true Jukyung fashion, the chocolate spreads beyond the corners of his lips and somehow always ends up all over his fingers. But it's his birthday today, so all Jungkook can really do is watch, smile and hold back the current of emotion raving through his pulse.
After dropping Jukyung off at his best friends house, he drives back up the road, spotting someone waiting on his porch.
“What are you doing here?”
“Hey” you start, shuffling the blue paper bag from one hand to another,
“Sorry, i just wanted to drop off a gift for Kyung. Guess I'm a little late” you smile, reading him unlocking the door as a silent invitation for you to follow. Taking off your shoes as always, sliding into your house slippers laying right next to his.
“What did you get him?” Jungkook grabs two glasses from the cupboard, holding up a bottle of lillet. You nod, “A coloring book. The totoro one, i'm tired of ponyo”
Jungkook grins, pouring the both of you a refreshing, full glass. The weather is beautiful today, breezing romantic summer air. His eyes note the pink lipstick stain on his glass after you took a sip, sitting prettily.
“I can't stand that stupid fish” he grumbles, bringing his glass to his lips, concealing the way his smile widens at the sound of your laugh.
“He's growing up fast. He was so much more.. baby like when i started”
“Yeah. He's a little gentleman now” Jungkook rests his forearm on the counter, leaning against it casually by your side.
“He starts preschool soon right?”
He hums, looking into his glass,
"In September"
You hum too, the marble counter reflecting a ray of setting sunlight into the room. Glows of the golden hour soak his honey skin in it's hues, the glint of fresh tears in your eyes is more obvious when colorful.
“Ahh..” you shake your head, smiling to suppress it further, your finger already on the way to catch what's threatening to fall from your eyes, “Sorry, i get emotional so quickly”
Jungkook shifts closer, the natural black strands falling over his forehead - his body folds slightly to adjust to you, he knows this feeling. He recognizes it for what it is, for what it has always been with you around. He's not good at hiding it this time.
There's beauty outside control.
“That's okay. I get it, he's my son” he murmurs, brushing his fingers against yours, resting on the cool surface. You wait for them to disappear, but they never do. His fingers stay on top of yours like a feather light kiss, brown eyes refusing to look away from your face as the sadness disappears into sheer relaxation.
“You do realise that he loves you” Jungkook says, his thumb slowly moving against your hand,
“Do you know what he wished for, when he blew out the candle?”
His body moves forward again, you shake your head no, letting him continue, the words drowned in quiet affection.
“He said it's a secret, but that lasted for maybe 10 minutes”
Another smile blooms on your lips, waters the one growing on Jungkook's as he continues, focused on keeping that devastatingly heartfelt look all over your face.
“He wished for you to keep watching him when he gets older”
Jungkook is mesmerized with the first tear that truly tumbles down the apple of your cheek, a single, short sigh passing through your lips as you do nothing but look at him. Into his eyes, searching for something.
He inches his fingers closer, time feels stretched out into slow motion as his thumb makes contact with the wetness on your cheek, swiping it away carefully. You don't shatter under his touch, encouraging his thumb to wander down your jaw, caress again, until, unwillingly, tilting up the tip of your chin subtly.
He's powerless as he leans down, breathless at the first angelic touch of your lips on his.
Jungkook wants to kiss you until the world fades out.
Your lips attach to his too, slowly at first, testing how good it feels in your whole body every time his quiet sounds slip into your mouth, getting louder once your arms have made their way around his neck. His kisses grow demanding at the closeness, the warmth of your body creeping from your waist into his palms, your sweet moan of satisfaction makes him smile faintly right into the kiss, sliding his tongue against yours to pull another moan from your mouth.
“We need you” he mumbles, the words swallowed under more passionate collisions, drowning in your combined heavy breathing that resulted from being each other's source of air.
“Do I kiss better than Soojin?” you mumble after a hitch of your breath, his swollen lips trail down your tilted neck eagerly and patiently all at once. The memory of her makes his skin prickle, wanting nothing more but to tie himself to you further. Wet, open kisses punctuate his response, the nickname seeping into your skin, embedding its low sound into your body.
“Jealousy looks cute on you, sweetheart”
“M'not jealous" you chuckle, airy and full of lies. You can feel his grin resurface against your jaw this time, his hands slip underneath the hem of your blouse, tracing the slit of skin with slow strokes,
“Don't lie to me” he murmurs, brushing his lips against yours for another taste of you. “M'gonna take this off”
He announces it, waiting for your nod to confirm before pulling the fabric over your head. The white, lace adorned bra cups your small chest beautifully, pulling his eyes to trace down the curve of your neck, the line of your shoulders, down to your breasts. He attempts to soothe his ragged need by running his hands up and down your back, feeling the skin grounding him.
Your manicured fingers pull him in by his tie, loosening the patterned fabric as he works on shrugging his heavy jacket off his shoulders. The rings on his finger are cool against your cheek, while your fingertips thrum against his chest once you've managed to unbutton his shirt. The desire in your eyes is honest as you do nothing but look at each other, painted under the light of the kitchen, shifting as he carries you up the stairs, lays you down into the plushness of his large bed. His black covers dip underneath your combined weight. There's gentleness in this heat, in the way his fringe tingles on your forehead as he supports himself - bicep flexing next to your head.
“You're so fucking beautiful” he whispers, nipping at your bottom lip the moment a pout forms on your face. Inside his chest cracks open the sentiment of being naked. Everything you know about the way he is, the pressure of his kisses and the taste of his skin, how his muscles flex and his eyes get heavy lidded - made him so, so naked.
Above you, the warmth radiates from him, forgetting that your skin is exposed to the cold nightly air taking up most of the tranquil room. Birds singing outside remind you that there's a whole word beyond this moment and these four walls that surround you.
Jungkook, most of the time, knows what he wants. His lips and hands wander all over you, rounding your shoulders, unclasping your bra with distracting flicks of his tongue on your collarbone. The bra gets tossed somewhere unimportant, his mouth devotes itself to leave every patch of your chest kissed, tracing down the subtle swell of your breasts - but there's only so much throbbing you can take between your thighs, so many little nibbles until you get restless and dig your nails into the naked muscle on his back.
“Stop whining” he huffs, tugging sharply at your right nipple while lapping at the equally stiff left one, his lips close around it with a rougher suck. You naturally whimper again, raising your back off the bed to indulge into his touch as much as you try to squirm away from it. The only place you wish to run to right now is this.
Alternating sides, he glances up at your pleasure clouded face, circling your bud the tip of his tongue torturously slowly, rubbing against the other one with the pad of his thumb without necessary roughness.
Too shallow, too soft.
“Please”
Jungkook hums at your whiny plea, noting the furrow in your eyebrows that's formed in concentration to, somehow, feel more of his touch.
“Ask nicely for what you want” he retorts, continuing to suck on your skin with time entirely at his mercy. Your fingers curl into his hair, voice coming out quietly and stained with embarrassment.
“Please.. give me more”
“Not so hard, is it?”
You shake your head no - breaking into a louder moan as he sucks more insistently, lips smacking against your skin. “Yes- mh -mmh”
“Like this yeah?” he mumbles, the breathless moans coming from your lips fill up his ears with motivation to keep kissing at your chest until your palm flattens on his forehead, pushing in overstimulation. He smiles, dominant and beautifully dangerous while dancing down the line of your stomach, kissing along your navel with his tongue dipping just a slither below your pant line. Warm fingers cup your thighs, carrying the need to rip off your pants to be gratified with the feel of your skin on his own.
If both of you listened closely enough, the joined, rapid thumping of two interlinked hearts could be heard below Jungkook's deep murmurs.
“You're so needy, what are you squirming for?”
“You, Jungkook” you pout again, unfamiliar with the desperate edge in your voice and the urge to beg for something like the touch of another person. His grip on your thighs loosen, repositioning to rub your hips on either side.
“What do you want from me? Talk to me”
“Something, just do something” you groan impatiently, biting the corner of your lip at the sudden sting after the smack he lands on your thigh, shaking his head to retaliate.
“Ask nicely. You want me to take this off and touch you?” he asks, narrowing his voice down into a delicious, low rumble that melts you down further, sinking into the intoxication he's drunk with. His dark eyes look straight up at you, expecting you to answer him. Still, there's an underlying question in the way he brushes his thumb over your hip bone as he waits for your response.
“Can you please.. take it off”
“And do what?”
He slowly unzips your pants, popping the button and getting a glance of the tiny bow sitting obediently atop your panties. Teasing, so sweet.
The sensation of your pants sliding down your legs feels freeing, an obvious damp spot greeting Jungkook as he tugs your legs free - making his painfully erect cock twitch against the material of his boxers.
“Touch me, please” you finish, a glossy layer overshadows your eyes and a slight sheath of sweat coats your palms. Nervously, you grip the dark sheets, closing your thighs to hide your growing arousal from him. His demeanor shifts to compliment your surfacing emotion, sliding his warm, steady hands up and down your arms, placing a longing kiss to your forehead. Your chest deflates with a heavy exhale into the safety.
“Good girl, that's it pretty. I'm gonna touch you, just like you want”
His own need is mere background noise the minute he parts your thighs again, sees the reciprocated craving of your body for his. The tip of his index draws a line on your inner thighs, touches the scruff lace edges of your panties before laying his palm out, cupping your mound into his hand possessively.
His round nose brushes your cheek as he just holds patiently, grinding ever so slightly against where you need it most. Jungkook’s tongue comes out to take a brief lick at the shell of your reddened ear as his whispered lures taunt you.
“M'gonna be so good to you. You want that don't you? You want me to make you feel good?”
The depth of his fingers circling your tender clit is sufficient for a gasp to leave you, for your lips to seek out his in order to dim down the volume of desire coursing through you. He doesn't respond by engaging in your kiss, rather by slipping his fingers below the cotton to find a small sea to dip in, trail back up to more gratifying touches on your most sensitive part.
“You gotta use your words” he insists, the circles growing smaller, faster against your slickness. Practically coaxing the words he needs to hear out of you, the want much greater than any fear.
There's beauty outside control.
If Jungkook was pretty before, he's striking now. Buried deep between your thighs that he has hooked over his shoulders. Inhaling the scent on you, tangy candy and musk, coating his tongue from the first long stripe he licks up your center. Your thighs tighten, secure in his hands that lock you down on his mouth.
The slow, long licks don't last for long, shift into sharp, short flicks against your swelling clit. Feeling him strum the pad of his fingers against your entrance, you break out into another helpless whimper, tightening around nothing but the sole thought of his thick fingers nestled inside your cunt.
Knowingly, he doesn't push in, keeps sucking on your clit, letting his saliva run down your puffy folds, you know what he needs to hear, you know what he wants you to do.
“Please, put it in - haah”
Jungkook groans, the deep noise vibrating against your soaked skin. One of his fingers slide in slowly, pausing his mouth's actions as the warmth welcomes him in like it had been awaiting his arrival. He uses the pause to listen to his name falling from your lips, appreciating your eyes shutting when, without a warning, a second finger sinks in, curling both digits upwards deliberately.
“You're so good, look at you” he mumbles, plunging his fingers in and out of you slowly enough to feel them drag against your walls, making a mess with relentless laps on your clit.
“I - fuck i'm gonna come” you squeak, tugging the strands of his hair weakly, your lower stomach is full to the brim with pressure, a large wave of pleasure tips right over you, swimming into his mouth greedily.
“That's it, come right into my mouth” he moans, licking up every drop of delightful pleasure spilling from you. Your taste hits him all at once, eyes closed and frowning for more. He doesn't stop you, lets you rock your hips into his mouth, unfiltered.
“Needy fucking thing aren't you? Not enough?” he huffs, rising back to his original position of hovering over you. Flushed, trying to suppress the panting and submission. Red looks elegant on your face, his thumb traces the color in adoration, watching the pupils dilate in your eyes.
He looks just like you do, exhales heavy and raw, desire replacing the blood in his veins.
The tension winding in his toned stomach snaps at the brief, careful touch of your warm hand on his bulge. Hard, straining aggressively. Your hand rests there, feeling out his thick shape, his length below your fingers.
“I need to feel you” he breathes out, permanently etching the words into your brain despite how softly they were spoken. Quickly returns to smash his lips onto yours with a rough kiss as if to consume you whole, passing the taste of yourself onto your tongue.
“Lift a little f’me”
One of his many pillows slides under your stomach, the imprint of his hand burning your bare hips, knees rooted in his sheets. Jungkook takes a shaky inhale, gathers your hair into his hand to reveal the curve of your spine, there for him to kiss reverently.
“Fuck, you’re soaking” he bites down on his lip, a groan ripping from his throat at the sinful sight below. Your thighs gleam, the same shine coating his heavy cock as he grinds it through your folds, slapping the pink tip against your glossy, tight hole once, then twice.
“Thaaaat’s right, take my cock so well”
Praise soothes the stretch he’s giving you, building a cozy home inside your body to reside in. You know now, that you want it all. His heart, his mind, his body craving itself into yours on nights like these. Your hands are planted down securely, though your elbows wobble under his impact.
Pushing in further until his pelvis makes contact with your backside. At the first feel of him, entirely sunken into you, intertwined, both of you remain melodically silent.
He adjusts the position of his hips, angling until a spongy, soft spot nudges his tip - and starts moving his hips. Deep with a craving for connection in this messy pleasure. It’s been so long since he felt himself burn with another person, smell the sex in his bedroom and enjoy the taste of salty sweat and sweet skin to skin.
“Good, so so good” your broken words buzz inside his head, making the deep and rhythmic ruts get sloppier. Moans, groans and whines come together in harmony, loud, shameless.
“Suck on it baby, c’mon” Jungkook threads his strong arm around your throat, holding his thumb on your plush bottom lip. When you don’t open your mouth right away, too lost in the vast ocean of pleasure, he shoves it past your lips - grinding against the wet muscle.
Your lips close around it instinctively, mindless callouts muffled by sucking just like he’d ask. Your obedience sparks him to thrust deeper, pushing your body back into him gets you another reward - his wet thumb finds your oversensitive clit, stimulating it wildly. No direction, no even movements as he seeks you out and you keep calling for him.
“I’m gonna come jungkook”
“You're gonna hold it” he gruffly says, taking away the additional pleasure to run his fingers through your hair, pulling your head back at the roots. Your neck stretches - back arching more than either of you thought possible and it stings better than you’ve ever felt it before.
The thorough, overwhelming orgasm building in your body is impendant, you clench on his big cock and whine for him louder,
“Can- can’t, please, mhh- fuck”
“You can, you can. C’mon be good and hold it” he grits out, jaw tense as his hips snap ruthlessly, chasing his own high.
You’re so soft and warm and so fucking tight - the arch of your back clings with sweat against his will and he loves it. The knowledge of you wanting to break all over his cock - all of it comes together to push him over the edge he’s been dancing on. He’s falling fast, closing his eyes for one last time to pull the strings of his voice together,
“Let go for me, let go baby”
“Fuck” he whispers, pumping his cock into his fist, right after feeling you gush on him. He throbs in his own hand, then you feel it - sticky, warm as it leaks down onto your back, drips down while he’s attempting to catch his ragged breath. Your knees finally give out - with a long, tired sigh, your sore chest makes contact with his bed, head buzzing, aware of your body’s heat and unaware of the look in his eyes, the heaving of his broad upper body.
Footsteps sound behind your closed eyes, inching closer to you. He places the damp towel on your spine, wiping away the traces of his cum, kisses the spot after, pats your butt like he had every right to that normalcy.
The normalcy of laying down next to you, wrapping his still bare body around yours - heart beating against your back. You still don’t see him, your open eyes scan his colorful tattoos contrasting your skin.
“Are you feeling okay?”
His voice is rough, the aftermath of what you did audible, louder in the proximity of his mouth to your ear. You give something close to a nod, a mumbled yes in response. You are okay. More than okay.
“Not too rough?”
“No”
“No?” he buries his nose into your neck, mumbling your words back in a question.
“No,” your body moves before you could stop it from happening and finally, after everything, you’re looking straight at him.
“Was perfect”
It’s not monday or wednesday today, which is precisely why Jukyung is confused for the first minute of seeing you take your jacket off.
It’s saturday, his dad has a day off and is wearing black sweats and a dark grey t-shirt. So he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
What matters though, is that his favourite person is in his home unexpectedly, so he runs up to you, flinging his arms around you in a rush.
"Noona! "
“Hey there” you greet back, returning the hug. Jungkook watches with his arms crossed and his head slightly tipped to the side.
The confusion in Jukyung’s eyes returns when you give the same greeting to his dad - allowing him to sneak his arms around your waist. This is new.
“We’re having movie night, i told you buddy” Jungkook says, reading the question off his child’s lips. He did tell him, however, Jukyung naturally assumed it would be on the following Monday. Not a boring, 7pm saturday - an hour before his technically strict bedtime.
“You decide on a movie while appa and i make snacks yeah?” You add, smiling at Jukyung warmly. Behind you, the older man waits impatiently, holding the edge of the door in his hand. Jukyung nods, taking charge of the remote to select a movie - all three of you knew what it’d be, you’ve been unsuccessful in redirecting his favourite ghibli movie.
“Missed you” Jungkook mumbles against your lips, the door mostly closed - shielding you from the curious pair of eyes his son holds.
Smart kid.
You tell him you missed him too, breathing in the subtle perfume on his shirt. His palm holds the side of your face, making an effort to keep your eyes on his.
“He’s used to sleeping early, an hour and he’s dozing off, promise” he says quietly, knuckles grazing your powdery soft skin,
“I know” you whisper, closing your eyes to soak up his touch. When Jukyung would find out is still undecided - it hasn’t been long but, sneaking around creates a guilty cloud to float above your heads, raining down anytime the three of you come together.
Jungkook smiles, precious and simple, then leans down again to feel your lips on his to reassure that - soon, you’d tell him soon.
A gasp erupts in the silence but neither of you are the cause of it.
Or.. right now.
“Appa - you’re -” the childs eyes widen alongside his big, toothy smile.
“Kyungie - listen to me-” you start - frantically turning to him while Jungkook shuts his eyes tightly, accepting their dooming defeat.
“Appa likes noona, Appa likes noona” Jukyung sings loudly, skipping around the kitchen.
kimi antonelli x !bearman popstar reader (smau/written)
you don’t hear the rumors at first. but then ollie calls. he doesn’t say hello—just breathes your name in that overprotective twin way that tells you something is wrong. and suddenly the lights feel too bright. the world too quiet. because he’s seen the photos. and so has everyone else. and before you can even speak, before you can explain, before you can cry—hector posts his statement. “mutual.” “nothing but love.”
you stare at the words until they blur. and somewhere across the world, kimi sees them too. he’s in his driver's room when he opens twitter to the post and his stomach sinks, because he knows how much you loved that boy. he knows how hard you tried. he knows what this kind of hurt feels like.
he types are you okay? deletes it. types i’m here if you need me. deletes it again.
a simple text finally makes its way to you and somehow, it’s the first thing all day that makes you exhale. you don’t know it yet—not standing under the stadium lights, not blinking back the sting of a public heartbreak—but this is the moment something shifts. kimi won’t push. he won’t rush. he won’t try to fix you. he’ll just be there.
and somewhere between broken pieces and rebuilding, between late night calls and soft laughter, between the girl you were with hector and the girl you’re becoming again—you’ll fall for him. slowly. naturally. unexpectedly.
but for now, all the world knows is that at midnight, you drop your new single, and everyone finally understands: you’ve got anything but love for the boy who hurt you—and a future you don’t see yet with the one who never would.
fc : shanaeden_ on ig (+ used one pic of tate for paparazzi purposes)
a/n: hi hi hi! got so inspired after tate dropped the deluxe that i needed to create SOMETHING. and i just used hector bc i needed someone out of the f1 world to be the bad guy for the ficccc. (and everyone wanted more kimi)
⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
celebgossiproomx
3,450,000 likes.
celebgossiproomx : after weeks of whispers, sources finally confirm that global pop sensation yn and elche right-back hector fort have ended their relationship after a year together. according to statements from hector and his team, the split was “mutual” with “nothing but love” between the two — and he claims to have already “moved on.”
but fans are not convinced 👀 hector has been spotted multiple times with different women while yn has been busy performing sold out shows across the world and supporting her twin brother ollie at recent f1 races. yn has remained completely silent on the breakup, as it seems she is focusing on her tour and family… but the internet is waiting for her side of the story — and if history tells us anything, she doesn’t stay quiet for long.
—
view 150,000 other comments.
username007 : oh he def cheated and his team is trying to cover his ass rn. im so sorry yn
liked by celebgossiproomx and 1,234,000 others.
username010 : he said “nothing but love” but was that before or after he was photographed with mystery girl #4???
liked by celebgossiproomx
username090 : yn hasn’t said a WORD. this is either very bad or we’re getting the greatest breakup anthem of the decade.
username101 : the only man in her life she needs is her twin. thank you and goodnight
liked by celebgossiproomx
username0007 : remember when she said “i write best when i’m heartbroken” ??? guys we’re about to EAT.
username089 : i am waiting for little, innocent, cute ollie to rip this man to shreds.
olliebearman : mutual breakup? you mean the breakup my sister didn't even know about? he is a fucking cheater. he will say anything to cover his own ass.
this comment has been deleted.
↳ celebgossiproomx : ohhhh ollie. we saw that...hector has some explaining to do 👀
⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
You still remember the way he held you that morning.
It was two weeks before the tour, sunlight spilling through the thin curtains of your shared apartment in Barcelona. The sheets were warm, tangled around your legs, and Hector was lying beside you, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear with the kind of tenderness that used to melt you instantly.
“You know,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your temple, “I hate that you have to leave again.”
You smiled, because he always said that. “It’s only six weeks, love. I’ll be back for a few days in between shows. And you’ll come to the last stop, remember?”
He nodded, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I know. I just… miss you even before you go.”
You laughed quietly, tracing the tattoo on his forearm. “Don’t get sappy on me now.”
“I’m allowed to,” he murmured, rolling you onto your back so he could hover above you, eyes warm. “I’m in love with you.”
Your chest tightened, the good kind, the kind that made everything feel slow and dreamy. “I love you too.”
He kissed you then—soft, unhurried, sweet. The kind of kiss that promised futures you both said you wanted. Houses. Kids. Summers in England with your family. Winters in Spain with his.
“I’ll be waiting for you,” he whispered against your lips. “Always.”
You believed him.
God, you believed him.
The memory dissolves the same moment a speaker cracks onstage, snapping you back into the present. Soundcheck. Your dancers waiting for your cue. Your mind locked on the melody rather than the ache blooming in your chest.
You’re halfway through the chorus when your stage manager rushes over, mouthing, “Your phone keeps ringing.”
You wipe sweat from your brow, confused. “Who is it?”
He shrugs. “Your brother. About ten times.”
A chill hits your spine. Ollie never calls you repeatedly unless something is wrong. You jog offstage, grab your phone, and immediately see the missed calls—twelve of them. You call back. He picks up before it can ring once.
“YN?”
His voice is tight. Panicked. Breathless.
Your stomach drops. “Ollie? Hey, what’s going on?”
He hesitates. That alone terrifies you.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he finally breathes out. “Why didn’t you tell me you and Hector broke up?”
Your heart stops. Actually stops.
“What?” you whisper. “Ollie… what are you talking about?”
“You didn’t…?” He exhales sharply, and you can hear him pacing. “YN, he posted a statement. He—he said the breakup was mutual. And that he’s moved on. And there’s nothing but love between you two.”
Every word hits like a punch to the ribs. Breakup. Mutual. Moved on. The room tilts.
“Ollie,” you say, voice breaking, “I didn’t break up with him. We didn’t break up. I—what?”
Your twin goes silent, and that hurts even more. He’s trying to figure out how to say the next part. You already know you won’t like it.
Then gently, heartbreakingly: “There are pictures, YN. Many. He’s been seen with… someone.”
Your throat tightens, breath shaking. You grip the edge of the makeup table to stay upright.
“Oh,” you manage. “Okay.”
“No. Not okay.” Ollie’s voice cracks with protective anger. “Listen, I’m flying out. I’ll get the first plane. I don’t care about training, I don’t care about anything, I’m not leaving you alone—”
“No,” you whisper. “Ollie, no. You have a big weekend ahead of you. Prep. You can’t drop everything. I’m okay.”
“You’re not,” he fires back, voice thick. “You don’t have to be okay for me.”
Your eyes burn. You swallow hard. “I just… I need to be by myself right now. Please.”
He hates it. You can hear it. But finally, softly: “I love you. Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”
“I will,” you say, lying. “Love you.”
When the call ends, the backstage hallway feels too narrow, too echoing, too much. You slip into your dressing room, lock the door, and let yourself fall apart. You sink to the floor, hands trembling, trying to breathe through the betrayal you never saw coming. The heartbreak you never prepared for. The humiliation of the world knowing before you did.
You cry once—quiet, fast, messy. And then… you shut it down. You stand. You adjust your mic pack. You redo your eyeliner. You look at yourself in the mirror and say, “The show goes on.”
Because that’s what you do. You survive publicly and break privately. The show is a blur. Lights. Screams. Sweat. Choreography. Forced smiles. Your chest aches through every lyric—especially the love songs. You want to crumble, but autopilot carries you through the final bow.
When you step offstage, you don’t go to the car. You don’t go to the hotel. You go to the studio your assistant scrambled to book for you.
The second the engineer turns on the vocal booth light, something in your chest snaps open. The lyrics spill out of you like they were waiting.
My dad hates you, my dog hates you, my brothers hate you… and I do too…
Your voice shakes, then steadies. You write like the words are dragging themselves out of your veins. You record like it’s the only way to breathe.
Halfway through the second verse, your phone buzzes. You don’t expect to look. But you do.
Are you alright?
Your chest softens—actually softens—for the first time all day. Kimi Antonelli. Quiet. Steady. Gentle in ways people don’t see. Someone who has always felt like safety without ever trying.
You call him before you can overthink it.
He answers instantly.
“YN?”
His voice is so soft you almost cry again.
“Can you…” You swallow. “Can you just talk? I don’t care about what. I just need—something.”
“I can,” he says immediately. “I’m here. Just breathe with me, okay?”
And you do. You breathe. You let his voice ground you. You let yourself feel held without anyone actually touching you.
He asks nothing. He judges nothing. He just stays. And for a moment, the world is quiet enough to survive.
When the demo is half finished, exhaustion hits you like a wave. You head back to your hotel, hoodie pulled over your head, security guiding you through back entrances.
When you open your room door, you stop short. There are flowers everywhere.
A bright orange bouquet from Ollie and Alicia, with a note in Alicia’s handwriting:
“We love you. He didn’t deserve you.”
A gentle, elegant bouquet from your parents:
“We’re here. Always. — Mum & Dad”
You sit on the edge of the bed, surrounded by petals and comfort and reminders that you’re not as alone as you feel. Your phone buzzes once more. Kimi again.
Text me when you get some sleep, please. I want to know you’re okay.
You smile. Just a little. Just enough. Because something in your life is breaking apart— but the people you love know exactly how to stitch it up.
⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
You wake up the next morning with the kind of emptiness that sits in your bones before your brain even wakes up.
Your phone is on the nightstand, buzzing every few seconds—notifications, calls, tags, news alerts, trending topics. You don’t touch it. You don’t even look at the screen. You know exactly what’s waiting there, and you don’t have the strength for it yet.
Your assistant, Claire, taps lightly on the door before slipping inside. She takes one look at you—swollen eyes, hoodie pulled over your head, blanket cocooned around you—and her expression softens.
“Hey, sweetheart,” she says quietly. “How are you feeling?”
You stare at the ceiling for a long moment. “I don’t want to look at social media.”
“Good. Don’t.” She sits on the corner of the bed. “What do you want to do today? I’ll handle anything you need.”
You breathe in. Then out. Then say, very simply:
“Nothing.”
Claire nods, not pushing. “And… do you want me to handle the public for now?”
You shake your head slowly. “No. I’ll handle it myself.”
And you will. Not with statements, not with interviews, not with PR-approved speeches. You’ll do it the only way you know how— with a song that wounds exactly the way you were wounded.
You spend the next five hours in the studio, hair tied back, oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, pen tapping against your notebook as you finish line after line.
Every lyric feels like a pulse you’re reclaiming. Every harmony feels like stitching yourself back together. Every scream-sung line of the bridge feels like armored healing.
When you record the final chorus, the engineer looks at you through the glass, eyes wide. “You sure you want it that raw?”
“Yes.”
Because heartbreak isn’t pretty—and you refuse to pretend it is. When it’s done, you grab your phone for the first time all morning and type into the team group chat.
I need a simple studio, good lighting, minimal props, four dancers who can learn choreo fast, and availability in the next three hours. We’re filming a music video.
Your phone floods with pings.
Wait—A music video for what?
WHAT DID YOU DO
Don’t play with me. Are we getting the heartbreak track??
You grin, just a little.
You’ll hear it when I get there.
Before you leave, you scroll to the name you want to see most.
Kimi. You don’t hesitate. You call. He picks up instantly—like he was waiting for it.
“YN,” he says softly, morning-raspy voice sending a warm flutter through your stomach. “You slept?”
“A little,” you answer. “I… just wanted to tell you I’m okay. And I finished the song.”
His breath catches—not dramatic, just a tiny, instinctive sound of someone who cares too much.
“Can I hear?” he asks.
You put him on speaker, play the rough mix. It’s raw and sharp and vicious in the most gorgeous way. You don’t say anything while it plays. Neither does he. When the song ends, there’s silence for a moment.
Then Kimi says, in the softest, most Kimi way imaginable:
“That was… really good. Like, scary good. He’s probably crying somewhere.”
You laugh—an actual laugh, the first real one since the world collapsed.
“Is that your version of cheering me on?”
“Yes,” he replies. “Should I try again?”
You shake your head, even though he can’t see you. “No. That was perfect.”
A beat. Then, shy but earnest: “I’m proud of you, YN.”
Your throat tightens, but not with sadness this time—
with something warm and new blooming in a place that had been all ache yesterday.
“Thank you, Kimi,” you whisper.
The space your team rents is small but perfect—stark walls, dark lighting, reflective flooring. The dancers arrive within an hour, and your choreographer is already crafting fast, sharp, sultry movements to match the chorus.
You pull on a tiny white two piece. Your makeup is darker than usual—smoky, sharp, powerful.
Claire looks at you and murmurs, “This is revenge served hot.”
You grin. “Good.”
The cameras roll. The lights shift red. The bass thumps through your body as you mouth the words into the lens:
Tryna step on my neck, I'm tryna step in Jimmy Choo's
The shit your punk ass does for views
You run your hand down your neck. You throw your head back. You dance like you’ve shed the last pieces of who you were with Hector.
You’re not heartbroken in the video. You’re dangerous.
By the last shot—knees against the floor, breathless under a spotlight—you know exactly what this video will do. It won’t just break the internet. It’ll bury him.
You don’t post a teaser. You don’t announce anything. At 11:58 PM, you get nervous. At 11:59 PM, you nearly pull the plug. But at 12:00 AM, the song goes live. The video goes live. The world explodes. Your phone rings exactly two minutes after midnight. You answer before it hits the second ring.
Ollie screams. Alicia screams even louder.
“YOU DID NOT—”
“ARE YOU CRAZY—”
“WHAT THE HELL YN MN BEARMAN—”
“OH MY GOD I’M SO PROUD OF YOU—”
“YOU ATE HIM UP—LIKE LITERALLY ATE HIM—”
“THIS IS YOUR BEST SONG EVER—”
You laugh into the phone, cheeks aching, heart suddenly feeling lighter than it has in days.
“I guess the world knows how I feel now,” you say.
Alicia fake-sobs. “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU JUST DROPPED THAT WITHOUT WARNING, YOU MENACE.”
Ollie sounds like he’s smiling. “I love you. And I’m so proud of you. Hector deserved worse.”
You smile, eyes warm. “I love you both.”
You fall into bed, exhaustion finally hitting you all at once. Your phone buzzes. It’s Kimi.
Just listened. Again. You sound strong. Like yourself. (Also… the video… wow.) Sleep well, YN. I’m really glad you’re okay.
You stare at the message a long moment, warmth slipping into the cracks still healing. You type back:
Goodnight, Kimi. Thank you for today.
And… for being you.
He replies almost instantly— as if he’d been waiting.
Always.
Your heartbeat stumbles. Soft. Steady. Growing. You fall asleep feeling… not whole yet, but no longer shattered. Not alone. Not unloved. And definitely not done.
⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
yourusername
liked by olliebearman, kimi.antonelli, alexandrasaintmleux and 9,700,000 others.
yourusername : surprise song to celebrate the surprise breakup! anything but love available everywhere ! x
—
user has limited comments on this post.
olliebearman : i have created 20 + fake twitter accounts to tweet this song to him
liked by yourusername
↳ isackhadjar : oh i've just been tweeting from my main account. oops.
liked by yourusername
kimi.antonelli : così orgoglioso di te 😻
liked by yourusername
alexandrasaintmleux : his loss<3 you are soooooo 🔥
liked by yourusername
haasf1team : WE HATE HIM TOO!!!!!!🙋🏻♀️
liked by yourusername
olliebearman : heavy on my dad and my brothers hate you. thomas and dad were contacting every etsy witch in existence this morning
liked by yourusername
flavy.barla : im OBSSESSED with you 💕
liked by yourusername
yourmanager : made the song in less than 12 hours and broke several records ALREADY.
liked by yourusername, olliebearman, kimi.antonelli and lando
alicia_torriani : ATE DOWN. i am so proud<3
liked by yourusername
⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
celebgossiproomx
5,800,000 likes.
celebgossiproomx : YN’s surprise single “Anything But Love” just went live, and let’s be honest… this is not a breakup song — this is a demolition. And yes, the title alone is a direct hit at Hector’s statement last week claiming they had “nothing but love” between them. Clearly… she disagrees.
From the first verse, YN makes it extremely clear that someone has been lying — and it wasn’t her. Fans are already dissecting lyrics like: “Tryna step on my neck, I’m tryna step in Jimmy Choo’s / The shit your punk ass does for views” and “My dad hates you, my dog hates you, my brothers hate you and I do too”
which, by the way, Ollie has been reposting everywhere like it’s his full-time job. He even liked several edits using that lyric before accidentally drawing blood on a gossip account.
Speaking of which — yes, the deleted comment is real. After a gossip page posted about the “mutual breakup,” Ollie swooped in with:
“mutual breakup? you mean the breakup my sister didn’t even know about? he is a f**king cheater. he will say anything to cover his own ass.”
Deleted within minutes… but screenshots live forever. And he wasn’t the only one supporting her. Within half an hour of release, Kimi Antonelli, Lando Norris, Lily Muni He, Alexandra Saint Mleux, Isack Hadjar, and even Charles Leclerc reposted the song to their stories.
Hector, the entirety of the internet is expecting an explanation.
-
user has disabled comments on this post.
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a few weeks later...
It’s been three weeks since Anything But Love detonated across the internet, and somehow, the noise still hasn’t died down. But you have. Quietly. Slowly. In the smallest, most human ways.
A little less shaking when your phone lights up. A little more laughter when Kimi calls. A little more sleep. A little more you.
So when Ollie asks — softly, tentatively —
“Come to Barcelona if you feel up for it. It might help. I miss you.”
…you say yes. You need family. You need normal. You need a break from being the girl who dropped the biggest breakup anthem of the year. And Spain has always been kind to you. Most of it at least.
Your jet lands just as the sky bleeds into navy blue, the runway lights blinking like tired stars. You keep everything discreet — no posts, no PR, no team announcement. Only one person knows you’re here.
And when you walk into your hotel suite, the air still warm from the summer evening, there’s a knock almost immediately.
You open the door before you even speak.
Kimi.
A little breathless. A little flushed from rushing. Holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers like he wasn’t sure if it was too much, but brought them anyway.
“Hi,” he says softly — the kind of soft that reaches straight into your ribcage.
You breathe out for what feels like the first time all day.
He steps forward, arms lifting instinctively, and you melt right into him as if your body has been waiting for this exact shape, this exact calm. His hug is warm, steady, grounding — everything your last three weeks weren’t.
“You’re here,” he says into your hair, relief threaded through his voice.
“I’m here,” you whisper back.
And somehow that moment — just being held — feels like coming up for air.
You end up on the balcony, night breeze brushing your skin, Barcelona glowing gold beneath you. Kimi leans back in the chair beside yours, legs stretched out, posture relaxed in that very-Kimi way, but his eyes soft and focused only on you.
You talk about nothing important at first — the flight, how rehearsals are going, how he’s been preparing for the weekend. He listens like it’s the only thing happening in the world.
And then his voice goes quieter.
“You look tired,” he says gently.
“I am.”
It’s the truth. All of it. Unpolished and real in a way you only let yourself be around him now.
He nudges your knee with his.
“I’m glad you came.”
You smile. “I’m glad you’re here.”
You don’t tell him that he’s the reason this trip doesn’t feel terrifying. You don’t have to. The way he looks at you says he already knows.
The moment is peaceful until your door slams open so hard it rattles the frame.
“YN!?”
You jump — Kimi doesn’t, because of course he doesn’t — and then there’s a blur of curls and long limbs sprinting across your suite.
“Ollie—?!” you barely get out before he crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly your feet leave the ground.
“YOU’RE HERE? You’re ACTUALLY here?”
He sounds half ecstatic, half offended you didn’t burst into the paddock with confetti cannons.
You laugh into his shoulder. “I literally got here an hour ago!”
He pulls back just enough to pout dramatically at you.
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t tell anyone,” you say. And then, suspicious, “How did you know?”
Ollie releases you slowly… then grins.
“Dad’s tracking your jet.”
You stare. Kimi snorts. Of course David Bearman is monitoring your whereabouts like a CIA parent.
“I swear I told him to stop doing that,” you mutter.
“Yeah, well,” Ollie flops onto the outdoor sofa, “he doesn’t listen. Anyway, I’m glad. I tried to get to you before anyone else.”
He gestures between you and Kimi with a mischievous eyebrow raise that Kimi deliberately ignores.
Minutes stretch into hours. The city hums beneath you. Warm wind tangles through your hair.
You sit on the balcony floor, your back against the railing, knees pulled up. Ollie sprawls on a lounge chair, long legs everywhere. Kimi sits beside you on the floor, shoulder brushing yours every so often like he’s making sure you haven’t drifted too far away.
You talk about everything and nothing — Ollie’s last sim session,the disaster of Hector trying to “reach out” twice, the ridiculous edits fans keep making, what the weekend will look like.
You laugh more than you expected to. You feel lighter than you have in weeks. At some point, you lean your head against Kimi’s shoulder — just for a moment — and he doesn’t move. Doesn’t tense. Just sits there, steady and warm and quietly yours in a way that isn’t official but feels just as true.
Ollie watches it happen with the softest, least twin-coded smirk you’ve ever seen.
“You’re actually coming to the race, right?” he asks.
You nod. “Yeah. I think I need this.”
He beams. “Good. Because I need you.”
And unexpectedly — beautifully — you feel needed. Wanted. Safe.
You don’t realize you’ve been smiling the whole time until Kimi nudges your hand lightly against his knee and murmurs,
“Welcome back.”
⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
You wake up peacefully. No buzzing phone. No notifications burning holes in your screen. No headlines with your name in all caps.
Just sunlight warming your sheets, the smell of fresh air drifting in from the balcony, and the soft hum of Barcelona waking up.
You breathe. Deeply. Fully. And then someone slams into the door.
“YN OPEN UP—THOMAS, MOVE—I SHARED THE WOMB WITH HER—”
Before you can even sit up, Ollie and Thomas tumble into your room like two golden retrievers who learned how to operate a keycard.
Ollie jumps onto the bed. Thomas—taller than you remember, but still baby-faced—launches himself right after.
“GOOD MORNING!” they yell in unison, absolutely feral.
“Jesus Christ—” you wheeze under the weight of teenage limbs, “Have you two ever heard of knocking?”
Thomas wraps his arms around your middle and squeezes.
“I haven’t seen you in forever. You’re not allowed to complain.”
You melt immediately. You’ve always had such a soft spot for him.
He pulls back, cheeks pink. “You look pretty even when you’re asleep.”
Ollie rolls his eyes. “Okay, shut up. Stop trying to be the favorite sibling.”
You laugh, pulling them both closer.
Ollie nudges his head onto your shoulder.
“Room service is on the way. I ordered, like, half the menu.”
“Please tell me you used your card.”
Ollie smirks. “Nope. Dad’s.”
Thomas cackles. “Dad’s gonna KILL you.”
“Worth it,” Ollie grins.
Breakfast arrives—pancakes, churros, fruit, bacon, the works—and the three of you sprawl out across your king-sized bed like you’re ten years old again.
Cartoons play on the TV. Thomas steals half your pancakes. Ollie keeps trying to spoon-feed you fruit like he’s your caretaker. You threaten to beat both of them with a pillow.
It’s loud, messy, comfortable. A pocket of childhood in the middle of chaos. And for a moment, you forget about the world outside this room.
Eventually, you kick them out so you can get dressed.
You choose something simple but bold—a red dress that fits like confidence, even if you’re still piecing yours back together.
You accessorize lightly. A touch of gloss. Loose waves. No theatrics. Just you.
You snap a picture and send it to Kimi:
Does this look okay for today?
You expect a text back. Instead, your phone starts ringing.
You answer, confused. “Kimi?”
He doesn’t waste a second.
“You look beautiful.”
Just like that. Soft. Steady. Sure. No hesitation, no overthinking.
Heat flushes across your cheeks.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
You can hear the smile in his voice.
“Red suits you.”
You end up smiling like an idiot at the screen.
“Thank you, Kimi.”
Any other guy would have made it weird. But not him. Never him.
You arrive with Ollie and Thomas flanking you like two personal bodyguards as the press immediately fires questions your way.
“YN, any comments about Hector—”
“Is Anything But Love about—”
“How are you feeling—”
Thomas, literal child, hisses at one of them. Ollie physically blocks another camera with his hand. You don’t answer a single question. Inside Haas hospitality, chaos meets you instantly.
Your mum, dad, Amalie, and Alicia all bolt toward you at once.
Your mum nearly knocks you over with the hug. Your dad keeps a hand on your cheek.
Amalie cries into your arm. Alicia squeezes you so tightly you squeak.
It’s chaotic. And warm. And so needed.
“Baby, we missed you so much,” your mum murmurs.
“You look good,” your dad says gruffly, which is Bearman-speak for I was worried sick.
Alicia loops her arm through yours.
“You’re not allowed to leave us ever again.”
You laugh, but your eyes burn. Home. You feel home.
Ollie heads off for qualifying prep, leaving you with Alicia and Amalie.
The three of you wander through the paddock, taking pictures, catching up, laughing. Cameras flash, but you feel insulated by the people around you.
Until a voice stops you cold.
“YN.”
Everything inside you freezes.
Hector.
He’s standing a few feet away, invited by a sponsor, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes searching your face with a familiarity he no longer has the right to claim.
Alicia tenses instantly. Amalie moves closer to your side.
He lifts a hand. “Can we talk? Alone.”
Alicia steps forward like she’s ready to fight. “I don’t think—”
“It’s fine,” you whisper, even though you don’t believe it.
“It’ll be one minute.”
Alicia’s jaw clenches, but she nods and takes Amalie back toward hospitality.
And suddenly it’s just you and him. He steps closer. Too close.
“You dropped that song about me?” he scoffs.
“You think that’s fair?”
Your stomach twists.
“You announced a breakup I didn’t know existed,” you say quietly.
His jaw tightens. “Oh, please. You were never around. What did you expect? This is your fault. The touring. The fame. You made this relationship impossible.”
Each word hits like a bruise. He lifts his hand like he’s about to make another point— But he never gets the chance. Because someone steps between you.
“Kimi?” Hector snaps.
“What the hell are you—”
“You’re done.” Kimi’s voice is calm, cold, terrifying in its clarity.
He stands taller. Broader. Between you and Hector like a shield.
“You don’t talk to her. You don’t raise your voice at her. And you don’t blame her for your mistakes.”
Hector scoffs. “Oh, what—are you her guard dog now?”
Kimi doesn’t react. Doesn’t blink.
“She doesn’t owe you anything,” he says simply.
Then he turns to you, voice softening instantly.
“Come on.”
He places a warm, protective hand on your back and guides you away. Every touch is careful, like he’s making sure you don’t shatter.
Fans with cameras notice.
Of course they do.
You don’t even make it to his motorhome before the tears spill.
Inside, the door shuts behind you, and Kimi pulls you gently into his chest. You sink into him immediately, fists curling in the fabric of his shirt.
“He said—it was my fault—” you choke out.
Kimi’s arms wrap around you, solid and steady.
“It wasn’t,” he murmurs into your hair.
“It wasn’t. Not even close.”
He presses a quiet kiss to the top of your head.
“You didn’t deserve any of that.”
You cry until the pressure in your chest loosens and your breathing evens out.
And he stays. Holding. Calming. There.
A knock on the door breaks the silence.
“YN?” Ollie’s voice cracks. “Can I come in?”
You let out a small "yes" and the door opens. Ollie rushes in and immediately wraps his arms around you, pulling you away from Kimi and into his chest.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into your hair.
“Alicia told me what happened. Dad and I already had him removed from the paddock. You won’t see him again. Not this weekend. Not ever.”
Your chest breaks open again — but this time from relief. Ollie holds you tighter. Behind him, Kimi stands quiet, hands still open as if ready to steady you again. Ollie meets his eyes over your shoulder and mouths: Thank you.
Kimi gives the smallest nod.
⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
The paddock is still buzzing with post-race adrenaline—mechanics running, reporters shouting, teams celebrating or sulking. But you slip away from all of it. The sun is low, gold and sleepy, turning the pit lane into something warm instead of metallic.
You climb up onto the pit wall, legs dangling over the edge, notebook open on your lap. Your pen moves slowly, half-formed lyrics and broken phrases littering the page. You hum a melody under your breath, soft enough to be a secret.
For the first time all weekend, you breathe without feeling the weight of a camera on your skin. A few minutes pass. Then— You hear footsteps. Quiet ones. You don’t look up. You don’t have to.
Kimi sits beside you without a word, dropping down onto the pit wall like he belongs there next to you—like it’s the most natural place he could be.
He doesn’t ask what you’re writing. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t even try to fill the silence. He just sits there. Close enough that your shoulders touch, warm enough to settle the restlessness in your chest.
Your melody floats between you, and without thinking, Kimi’s arm slides around your back. Gentle. Protective. Inviting. You lean into him. Head on his shoulder. Eyes on your notebook.
And for a moment, you feel weightless. That’s when two blur figures come running by. Whispers. Snickering. The sound of a camera shutter. You look up just in time to see Ollie and Thomas. Running. Laughing. Holding up their phones like paparazzi.
Ollie calls out, “Don’t worry, I’ll pick the cutest one to post!”
Thomas adds, “I’m sending this to Mum!”
You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.
Kimi actually laughs. A quiet, warm rumble in his chest that you feel beneath your cheek.
“They’re never going to let us live this down,” you sigh.
“I don’t mind,” he says softly.
Your heart does something traitorous.
The silence returns, but it’s different now—softer, charged in the best way. You close your notebook, fingers brushing the edges of the pages, and Kimi traces slow circles along your back with his thumb.
“YN,” he says quietly, eyes still forward, as if he’s afraid to spook the moment.
“I’m… heading to Italy tomorrow. Before the next race. Just a few days to rest.”
A beat passes. Then, with a nervous little breath:
“I thought… maybe you’d want to come with me?”
You turn to him, surprised.
“To Italy?”
He nods. “Somewhere quiet. No cameras. No press. Just… space. I think it would be good for you.”
He doesn’t say I want you there, but it hangs in the air all the same.
“Okay,” he murmurs, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.
“Good.”
Now you’re curled up on a private jet flying toward Italy—toward quiet, toward peace, toward something new.
Kimi claimed the window seat and didn’t even bother hiding the way he motioned for you to sit beside him.
Your legs are draped over his lap, comfortably tangled.
He rests one hand on your shin, thumb brushing slow, gentle patterns across your skin—completely subconscious, completely natural.
You’re working on your laptop, tweaking a melody, adjusting a line of lyrics you wrote on the pit wall.
Every once in a while you hum something under your breath, and without fail, Kimi pauses whatever he’s doing to listen.
“You like that part?” you ask, noticing him stare.
He nods. “It sounds incredible”
You blush, pretending to refocus on your screen. Outside the window, the sky is lavender and fading into night. Inside the cabin, it’s quiet. Warm. Safe.
Every few minutes, Kimi adjusts his hand on your leg—sliding a little higher, squeezing gently, tracing a new pattern—never crossing a line, but making it very clear he doesn’t want to let go.
You stretch your toes toward his hip, nudging him playfully. He smirks, cheeks flushed, trying to hide it behind a dismissive shake of his head.
But you see it. The softness. The fondness. The way his eyes flick toward you like he’s memorizing the moment.
“Thank you for inviting me,” you say quietly, voice barely above the hum of the jet.
Kimi looks at you—really looks at you.
“You don’t have to thank me,” he says, thumb brushing one last soft circle on your leg. “I wanted you here.”
Your chest finally doesn’t feel heavy. It feels hopeful. You might be falling. Slowly. Softly.
And this time… you’re falling into arms that won’t let you break.
⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
yourusername
liked by olliebearman, kimi.antonelli, alicia_torriani and 4,300,000 others.
yourusername : italia, ti amo<3 🇮🇹🍝❤️
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⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
kimi.antonelli
liked by olliebearman, isackhadjar, yourusername and 1,234,000 others.
kimi.antonelli : little rest and relaxation before canada!
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⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
The first morning in Bologna feels like a completely different world.
The sun pours into the wide stone courtyard of the home — all soft gold and warm terracotta, with flowering vines curling along the old balcony railings and the faint scent of citrus from the orchard just beyond the back terrace. It’s quiet here in the way that makes your shoulders drop, the way your pulse settles. Kimi watches your reaction the moment you step inside, keys still in his hand, smile already tugging at his mouth.
“Welcome home,” he says quietly — and it does feel like a kind of home, even if it’s temporary.
He’s planned the entire day, of course he has. Kimi isn’t showy about his affection, but when he loves someone, he pours into them through actions. There’s a note stuck to the fridge with magnets, written in his messy handwriting:
– breakfast in the garden
– walk to the market
– surprise (no peeking)
– nap time because someone never sleeps enough
– dinner in the city
You laugh, the exhaustion of the last few weeks melting off you. “A surprise?”
He shrugs, smug. “Several.”
Breakfast is outside, under a set of stone arches draped in wisteria. He made sure espresso and almond pastries were there when you arrived, he insists you sit while he plates everything, then pushes a strand of hair out of your face before sitting beside you. It’s peaceful… almost unreal after everything that’s happened.
Then it’s onto the narrow cobblestone streets of Bologna. Kimi keeps a hand lightly on your lower back as you weave through the weekend crowds — protective without being overwhelming, grounding without being possessive. He buys you fresh flowers from a stall run by an elderly woman who winks at him as if she knows exactly what’s going on. He buys you gelato afterwards, even though it’s barely noon. Strawberry for you, pistachio for him.
The surprise is a private tour of a tiny old music shop tucked between two brick alleys. The owner leads you upstairs to an attic full of vintage instruments — guitars, strange little keyboards, even a dusty accordion. You light up immediately, and Kimi pretends he’s not watching you with the softest, most adoring expression he’s ever worn. You test out a battered, beautifully warm-sounding acoustic guitar, humming a melody you started writing back in Spain. Kimi closes his eyes and listens as if it’s a privilege.
Later, you both nap on the couch back at the house — or, rather, you attempt to work on your notebook and end up falling asleep halfway through a lyric. Kimi drapes a blanket over both of you, pulling you into his side. For the first time in weeks, your entire body relaxes.
That night, he takes you into the heart of the city — old cobblestones shining under the streetlamps, people laughing from balconies, warm summer air soft on your skin. The restaurant is tiny, candlelit, tucked inside a side street only locals know. The waiters greet Kimi by name.
“Regular?” one of them asks.
“Something special,” Kimi answers, and his eyes flick toward you.
The table is small, round, set with white linen and a single candle. He sits close to you, his knee brushing yours, and orders for both of you in Italian — low, confident, familiar.
Dish after dish arrives: tortellini in brodo, truffle tagliatelle, ricotta-stuffed ravioli with lemon zest. He insists you try every single one, cutting little bites with his fork, lifting them to your mouth with a soft, “Here. You’ll like this one.”
And you do, because he knows you better than you realized.
There’s laughter — the kind that feels light instead of forced. There are lingering glances, his fingers brushing yours across the table, the candlelight reflecting in his eyes. It feels intimate, safe… something blooming.
When you walk home afterwards, he keeps you close, thumb brushing the back of your hand even though he hasn’t fully taken it yet.
Back at the house, the guest room is made up beautifully — crisp sheets, fresh flowers on the bedside table, soft lighting. He sets your suitcase inside, clears his throat, and gives you a small, gentle smile.
“I’ll let you get ready for bed,” he says, starting to step back.
“Stay,” you say instinctively, quietly. Vulnerable. “Please.”
Kimi pauses like the air has been knocked out of him. Then he nods — slow, warm, heart-meltingly soft.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “I’ll stay.”
You turn around so he can unzip your dress, and he does so with careful, steady hands — not rushed, not suggestive, just tender. His fingers skim your spine, slow enough to make your breath catch but safe enough to make you feel grounded.
You change into one of his shirts — it hangs off you perfectly — and when you climb into bed, he follows without hesitation. He pulls you into his chest, your head tucked beneath his chin, one arm secure around your waist.
Neither of you speak for a long time. There’s only the hum of the quiet house, the soft rhythm of his breathing, the warmth between you in the dark.
Eventually, he presses a light kiss to your forehead — gentle, reverent.
“Goodnight,” he whispers.
You melt into him, eyes fluttering shut, and murmur back:
“Goodnight, Kimi.”
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For once, you wake up without alarms, without jet lag, without stress snapping you back into reality. There is only warmth — the warmth of sunlight sneaking through the curtains and the warmth of Kimi wrapped around you.
You’re still tangled together, exactly how you fell asleep. His arm is under your head, his other arm is draped over your waist, holding you close. Your legs are intertwined under the sheets. His breathing is slow, steady, deep — the kind of sleep he only seems to get when he’s at home.
You shift a little, and his arm tightens instinctively.
“Five more minutes,” he mumbles into your hair, voice low and rough with sleep.
You smile. “You said the same thing an hour ago.”
“I meant it then,” he says, eyes still closed, “and I mean it now.”
You stay like that for a long time — a long, long time — because neither of you want to be the one to break the moment. You feel safe here, held like this, like nothing outside that room can touch you.
Eventually, your stomach growls loud enough that Kimi cracks one eye open and huffs a sleepy laugh.
“Okay. Breakfast.”
But he doesn’t let go right away. He presses a kiss to your forehead first, slow and warm, before finally releasing you.
The kitchen is bright morning gold, the stone floors cool beneath your bare feet. You’re wearing his shirt again, sleeves rolled up, hair messy from sleep. Kimi’s hair is even messier, sticking out in ways that make you laugh every time he turns his head.
You stand at the stove making eggs while he cuts fruit beside you, close enough that his hip keeps brushing yours.
“Wanna hear something?” you ask softly, unlocking your phone.
He nods immediately — that soft, private smile reserved only for you. “Always.”
You play him a demo from the new album — one you recorded in a moment of vulnerability, something gentle and raw. The melody floats through the kitchen, and you glance up at him nervously.
Instead of commenting, he steps behind you and wraps his arms around your waist. He sways you lightly, moving with the rhythm. His chin rests on your shoulder. Your breath catches.
He doesn’t say anything.
He just holds you and dances with you in the kitchen while your voice fills the room.
It’s slow. It’s intimate. It’s everything you didn’t know you needed.
When the song ends, he turns you around. His fingers trail down your arms until he’s holding your hands.
“That one’s my new favorite,” he says softly. “You sound like an angel.”
After breakfast, he packs a bag — sunscreen, towels, water, snacks, a spare hoodie for you even though it’s warm, because he’s thoughtful like that. You pack the picnic from the night before.
The beach is quiet, tucked away behind a line of rocky cliffs. The sand is warm, the sea a deep, sparkling blue.
You lay together on your towels, your head on his chest, his fingers brushing up and down your arm. He hums occasionally — off-key, but adorable — as you draw little shapes on his skin.
Eventually, he pulls you up and toward the water.
“It’ll be cold,” you protest.
He smirks. “I’ll keep you warm.”
And he does — once you’re waist-deep, he wraps his arms around you from behind, lifting you slightly as the waves move around you. You lean back against him, chilled by the water but warmed by him.
At one point he turns you around and you wrap your arms around his neck. He holds you at the waist, pulling you close, your legs brushing under the surface. He smiles at you — really smiles — and you feel your heart trip over itself.
It is easy. Effortless. Safe.
You return to shore and dry off, then settle on the blanket together as the sun softens to orange and pink. You eat the picnic you made — fruit, pastries, sandwiches — talking quietly about everything and nothing.
At some point you fall silent, staring at the horizon.
Kimi immediately notices. “What’s wrong?”
You swallow. “I’m scared.”
His whole body stills. He shifts, giving you his full attention. “Of what?”
“Of getting hurt again,” you whisper. “Of trusting the wrong person. Of… losing myself the way I did before.”
He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t rush you. He just lets you speak.
“But…” you continue, voice barely above a breath, “I know you would never do that. I know you. And that scares me too.”
His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”
“Because I—” you exhale shakily, “—I’m starting to care about you. Really care. And I don’t want to be broken again.”
There’s a beat. Then another. And then he blurts it out — too fast, too honest, too raw to be anything but true:
“I love you.”
Your breath catches.
He looks almost startled by his own words, then steadies himself.
“I love you,” he repeats, softer now. “Way too much to ever hurt you. Way too much to even think about it.”
He lifts a hand to cup your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.
“You don’t have to be scared with me.”
You lean into his touch without meaning to.
“Kimi…”
He moves closer, so close you feel his breath against your lips.
“Can I—”
You don’t let him finish.
You kiss him.
His hand slides to the back of your neck, the other around your waist, pulling you into him as if he’s been holding back for weeks. The kiss is slow — god, so slow — warm and tender and full of everything he hasn’t said until now.
You feel safe. Wanted. Cherished.
When you finally pull back, foreheads touching, he whispers: “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
You smile — soft, breathless, certain. “Do it again.”
And he does. Again and again, until the sun disappears and the stars blink awake above you.
⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
The house is quiet except for the gentle hum of the ocean outside. The sky is deep blue, nearly black, stars scattered like glitter over the water. The windows are open, and warm night air drifts into the living room where you and Kimi are curled together on the couch.
You’re tucked against him, your legs across his lap, his hand resting on your thigh as if it belongs there. He’s wearing a loose white t-shirt, hair messy from the day, eyes soft as he watches the waves hit the rocks below.
It feels like a bubble — a perfect, secluded, golden bubble — and tomorrow you both have to fly back into the noise and chaos of racing, music, cameras, people. But right now? It’s just the two of you.
Kimi’s fingers draw slow circles on your leg. “You’re quiet,” he murmurs.
You swallow. “I… have something to show you.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “Yeah?”
You shift off his lap just enough to reach your laptop, then settle right back against him, thigh pressed to thigh. His arm instinctively wraps around your shoulders.
You take a breath and open your files. “I’ve been working on something.”
The screen fills with a timeline — audio, video clips, color-coding. Kimi leans in closer, curiosity soft on his face. You hit play.
A gentle guitar line begins.
When you smiled at me
Something changed in my brain chemistry
A love felt infinitely
was my heart's remedy
Your voice fills the room, soft and dreamy and honest.
On the screen, a video clip plays — shaky phone footage of him in the kitchen, hair sticking up, wearing an apron he definitely stole from his mother. He’s plating breakfast with ridiculous concentration. You filmed it while trying not to laugh.
Kimi freezes, then looks at you with a shocked little smile.
The next clip is of you both dancing in the kitchen, his arms around your waist, your head tipped back laughing at something he whispered. Then it cuts to the beach — him lifting you out of the water, you clinging to his shoulders, both of you smiling like you haven’t smiled in a very long time.
Heaven on earth may fade away
But you and I are forever to stay in love…
You feel him exhale — one slow, shaky breath. His thumb brushes your upper arm.
The video shifts to a sunset shot you set up with your tripod: the two of you lying on the blanket, his hand in your hair, your head on his chest. You didn’t even know you were smiling that much.
'Cause I don't care about much anymore
It’s just us…
Kimi is completely silent. And you’re suddenly terrified.
Touring the entire world? Sure. Performing at the grammy's? Easy. But showing someone the song you wrote about them — the confession hidden in lyrics, in melody, in every clip?
It feels like handing him your heart. The video ends on a clip you almost didn’t include — you kissing on the beach, just silhouettes against a pink sky. The audio fades into the last line:
You and I are forever to stay in love…
You close the laptop slowly. For a moment, all you hear is the ocean. You don’t look at him at first. You just play with the zipper on his hoodie, your voice barely above a whisper.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever release it,” you say. “I can keep it just for us. Or… or I can put it on the album. Or just drop it as a single. Whatever you want. It’s yours as much as it’s mine.”
Another beat of silence.
Then Kimi takes the laptop out of your hands, sets it aside carefully, and turns your body toward him fully.
His voice is low. Steady. But full of emotion in a way you’ve never heard from him.
“I love it.” He swallows. “I love you.”
Your breath catches. He cups your jaw gently, thumb brushing your cheek. “And I want the whole world to know that you’re mine. That I’m yours. That it’s us.”
The words hit you like warmth.
You blink up at him, breath trembling. “You’re sure? Once I put this out there, people will talk. A lot.”
He nods without hesitation. “Let them. I want them to know how happy you look in with me.” He leans closer, forehead resting against yours. “I want them to know what you make me feel.”
Your heart melts.
You whisper, “Okay. Then we’ll share it.”
Kimi kisses you — not rushed or heated, but slow, deep, full. The kind of kiss that feels like a promise. His hand slides to your waist, pulling you onto his lap again.
When you finally break apart, both of you breathless, he murmurs:
“It’s just us.”
Your smile is small and emotional. “It’s just us.”
You curl into him as the laptop plays the instrumental softly in the background — your voice humming under the sound of waves outside. His arms circle around you, holding you against his chest.
And for the rest of the night, you don’t talk about the flight, the cameras, the world waiting outside.
You just stay there, wrapped in him, wrapped in Italy, wrapped in something that feels beautifully, terrifyingly like forever.
⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
kimi.antonelli
🎵 it's just us - yn
liked by yourusername, olliebearman, alicia_torriani and 8,900,000 others.
kimi.antonelli : mine forever ♾️🤍
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⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
f1gossipgirls
1,345,000 likes.
f1gossipgirls : i knew bearnelli was real...just not in this way. SO HAPPY FOR KIMI AND YN!!!!!!
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The air is crisp and cool when you and Kimi step out of the car — hand in hand, sunglasses on, matching soft smiles that could power the entire paddock. Cameras flash instantly. Reporters shout. Fans SCREAM.
Kimi’s hand is warm in yours, thumb brushing the back of your knuckles in that sweet, grounding way he always does. He leans in, murmuring just for you:
“You okay?”
You nod, smiling. “Perfect.”
He smiles back — the smile that started everything in Italy — and presses a kiss to your temple right as the photographers get the shot of the century.
You can already imagine the headlines. You don’t get two full steps into the paddock before chaos hits.
“OI!”
Ollie and Thomas come barreling toward you both. Thomas jumps in front of Kimi, arms crossed, trying to look intimidating despite being sixteen and built like a string bean.
Ollie squints at Kimi suspiciously. “So. You’re dating my sister.”
Kimi lifts a brow. “Yes.”
“Yeah,” Ollie grumbles, "So I’m allowed to interrogate you.”
“You’ve known him since we were kids,” you argue with a laugh.
“I CAN STILL INTERROGATE HIM.”
Thomas nods aggressively. “Yeah. Don’t hurt her. Or we’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Kimi asks, amused.
Thomas opens his mouth. No words come out. He looks to Ollie for help.
You burst out laughing. Kimi does too, shaking his head.
“Noted,” he says gently. “And don’t worry. I won’t hurt her.”
Ollie’s fake-tough facade cracks into a grin. He claps Kimi on the shoulder. “Good. Because I’ve been silently rooting for this since like 2022.”
“Knew it,” you mutter.
The boys check the time and realize they need to go get ready. Kimi pulls closer, fingers curling lightly under your chin as he gives you a soft, quick kiss — one you immediately feel in your stomach.
“Good luck,” you whisper.
Ollie fake-gags behind you. “DISGUSTING. NO PDA IN FRONT OF ME.”
“Shut up,” you and Kimi say in unison.
He gives your waist one last squeeze before heading off with Ollie, talking strategy like he hadn’t just melted you five seconds ago.
You meet Alicia, your mum, and Amalie just outside Haas hospitality. They’re waiting with the biggest knowing smiles on their faces.
Mum pulls you into a mother-crush-hug. “Sweetheart, you look glowing.”
Alicia grabs your hands, bouncing. “TELL ME EVERYTHING.”
Amalie is practically vibrating. “Did he kiss you this morning? Has he said he loves you? Do you think you’ll—”
“AMALIE,” you laugh, “one question at a time!”
But you spill. Every detail you haven’t told them yet — the beach, the dancing, the cooking, the song, the soft moments. All of it.
Your mum wipes her eyes. “He sounds like he adores you.”
Alicia hugs you tight. “I’m so happy you got something so good after everything.”
You all stand together in the garage as the lights go out — your heart racing as the cars roar into Turn 1.
Lap after lap, your nerves get worse. Alicia clutches your arm. Terri has an arm around both you and Amalie. And the screen flashes:
P2 — KIMI ANTONELLI
P3 — OLLIE BEARMAN
You scream. You swear. You pray. You don’t breathe for the last five laps.
And then— checkered flag securing both positions for the race.
You and the girls lose it completely — shouting, hugging, jumping. You’re shaking with adrenaline and pride.
Before you can even find your breath, two familiar suits appear in front of you.
Kimi and Ollie run straight into you — helmets halfway off, half-laughing, half-crying — and drag you into the tightest three-person hug imaginable. You’re crushed between your twin and your boyfriend, and you’ve never felt more safe or more loved.
You kiss the side of Kimi’s cheek. Ollie squeezes you so hard you squeal.
You stand with your family — Terri, David, Amalie, Alicia — all arms linked, all emotional wrecks. Your dad wraps both you and Alicia in a huge hug as tears slip down your cheeks.
You look up at the podium. Kimi catches your eye immediately. Ollie waves dramatically. They look so happy. So proud. So perfect up there together — the two boys who’ve carried you through everything.
When the champagne sprays, they both point down at you, laughing, and your family cheers like it’s the most magical moment in the world. Because it is.
The post race chaos dies down hours later, and you finally collapse onto the plush hotel bed with Kimi curled around you from behind. His arm is snug around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.
“You were amazing today,” you whisper. “I’m so proud of you.”
His lips brush your neck. “I’m proud of you too.”
You smile, turning your head to kiss him softly. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”
He blushes — blushes — and hides his face in your shoulder. “Stop.”
You laugh and stroke his hair.
For a moment, the world is quiet again, like Italy all over.
Then— back returns the storm that is Oliver Bearman.
“HELLOOOO?” Ollie shouts, stumbling into the room.
You jolt upright. “Ollie! What are you doing?!”
“There you are!” he beams. “We’re going OUT. I already told the Haas boys and some Ferrari guys and Alicia said she’s coming and Esteban said he’ll cry if you don’t come.”
Kimi groans softly into your shoulder. “Ollie…”
“NOPE. UP. BOTH OF YOU.” Ollie marches across the room and rips the blanket away. “Come party with your podium boys.”
You and Kimi look at each other — exhausted, happy, and completely in love.
You sigh dramatically. “Fine. One drink.”
“FIVE DRINKS,” Ollie corrects.
Kimi stands, laces his fingers through yours, and kisses your temple before whispering:
“This is your fault. You raised him.”
And you smile back, heart full, as the three of you head out into the Montreal night — Together. Happy. Healing. And finally, finally, whole.
Heyo!! Can you write a fluff for Kimi Antonelli. Where on the kids interview they asked Kimi about his girlfriend. And he talks so sweet about her
The Kids Know Everything
Kimi Antonelli x Girlfriend!reader
Synopsis: Kids interview Kimi and ambush him with questions about his girlfriend, making him blush as he accidentally gushes about how much he loves her.
Patreon - Exclusive Content
Kimi had faced pressure before — race starts, qualifying laps, simulator tests with engineers watching his every move — but nothing, nothing, compared to the chaos of being interviewed by a group of kids.
They were tiny. They were loud. They had no filter. And they were staring at him like he was some kind of superhero.
You stood off to the side with his PR manager, trying not to laugh as Kimi sat in the little chair they’d set up for him. His knees practically reached his chest. He looked like a giant in a kindergarten classroom.
One of the kids raised her hand before the interviewer even finished introducing him.
“Kimi, do you like going fast?”
He nodded, smiling. “Uh… yeah. That’s kind of the job.”
The kids giggled like he’d just told the funniest joke in the world.
Another kid shot his hand up. “Do you ever get scared?”
Kimi shook his head. “Not really. I trust the car. And the team. And myself.”
You could see the pride in his posture — the quiet confidence he carried everywhere. But then a girl with pigtails leaned forward, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
Kimi froze.
You watched the tips of his ears turn pink. His PR manager whispered, “Here we go,” under her breath.
The kids leaned in, sensing weakness like tiny sharks.
“Um…” Kimi cleared his throat. “Yes.”
The kids erupted into squeals.
“What’s her name?”
“Is she pretty?”
“Do you kiss her?”
“Does she like racing?”
“Is she here?”
Kimi’s eyes darted to you instinctively, and you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. He looked like he wanted to sink into the floor.
“She’s, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Her name is… well, I call her my girl.”
The kids melted.
“Awwwwww!”
Kimi’s blush deepened. “And yes, she’s very pretty.”
You felt your heart flip.
One of the boys leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “How pretty? Like… princess pretty?”
Kimi didn’t even hesitate. “Better.”
Your breath caught.
The kids gasped dramatically, as if he’d just confessed to loving a mermaid.
Another girl chimed in. “Do you love her?”
Kimi blinked, startled by the bluntness — but then something softened in his expression. He didn’t look embarrassed anymore. He looked sure.
“Yes,” he said simply. “Very much.”
Your chest tightened in the best way.
The interviewer tried to move on, but the kids were relentless.
“What’s your favorite thing about her?”
“Does she make you snacks?”
“Does she watch your races?”
“Do you miss her when you’re away?”
Kimi laughed — actually laughed — shaking his head as he tried to keep up.
“Okay, okay,” he said, holding up his hands. “One at a time.”
A tiny boy with glasses asked, “What’s your favorite thing about her?”
Kimi didn’t even need to think.
“She makes everything feel calmer,” he said softly. “Even when I’m nervous. Even when things are crazy. She just… makes me feel like I can breathe.”
Your eyes stung.
He continued, voice warm and steady. “She believes in me. Even when I don’t. And she’s kind. And funny. And she makes the best pancakes I’ve ever had.”
You covered your face with your hands, laughing quietly.
One of the girls gasped. “Does she make you happy?”
Kimi’s smile was small but certain. “She makes me the happiest.”
The kids collectively sighed like they were watching a romance movie.
Then one bold little boy pointed directly at you. “Is that her?”
Kimi’s head whipped around so fast you thought he might get whiplash. When he saw you, his whole face lit up — that soft, shy smile he only ever gave you.
“Yeah,” he said, cheeks pink. “That’s her.”
The kids turned to stare at you like you were a celebrity. You waved awkwardly.
“HI KIMI’S GIRLFRIEND!” they shouted in unison.
You laughed, covering your face again.
Kimi looked at you with so much affection it made your knees weak.
The interviewer finally wrapped things up, thanking the kids and Kimi for participating. As soon as they were dismissed, the kids swarmed him for high‑fives. He gave every single one.
When he finally made it over to you, he was still blushing.
“Don’t,” he warned softly, pointing at you before you could speak.
You grinned. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“I’m thinking you’re adorable.”
He groaned, burying his face in your shoulder. “They asked so many questions.”
“And you answered them beautifully.”
He mumbled something into your shirt.
“What was that?” you teased.
He lifted his head, eyes warm. “I meant what I said.”
Your breath caught. “All of it?”
He nodded. “Every word.”
You cupped his cheek, brushing your thumb over the faint pink still lingering there. “You make me the happiest too.”
Kimi leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because those kids are terrifying, and I think they’ll hunt me down if I ever break your heart.”
You laughed. “They absolutely will.”
He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close as you walked out of the room together.
“Next time,” he murmured, “you’re doing the interview with me.”
“Deal.”
And as he laced his fingers with yours, you realized something:
Kimi Antonelli might be fast on track, but when it came to loving you, he was steady, sure, and impossibly sweet.
A wild night in Vegas left you hungover, married, and shocked to discover your new husband is Max Verstappen, four-time Formula 1 World Champion. What starts as a drunken mistake turned into something more and a question you never thought you’d ask—was this really just a stupid decision, or the best thing that ever happened to you?
pairing. Max Verstappen x wife! fem! reader.
warnings. rom-com (i tried), 10,6k words, accidental marriage, soulmates-ish, love at the first sight, my poor humor, soft! max, reader is clueless about f1, domestic fluff (literally just reader and max bullying each other white they’re married) alex s. m., lestappen bromance, pet names (schatje, baby).
YOU CAME TO LAS VEGAS FOR ONE REASON: to have fun. Maybe gamble a little, maybe dance a lot, and definitely forget about the stress of your everyday life. It was supposed to be a wild weekend with your friends—filled with overpriced cocktails, glittery outfits, and questionable decisions. You knew the Grand Prix was happening the same weekend, but you weren’t exactly a sports girl. Formula 1 meant fast cars and loud engines, and the only thing you really cared about was how the race would mess up traffic. You had no idea how much more it would mess up your life.
One night, your friend—who always seemed to know someone who knew someone—dragged you to a party she swore would be crawling with celebrities. You didn’t believe her, but you went anyway, dressed in something sparkly and slightly too short, because why not? Vegas was built for nights like this. The party was on a rooftop, lights glowing against the desert sky, music thumping through your bones, and drinks flowing like water. You weren’t sure who was famous and who was just pretending to be, but everyone looked expensive and slightly untouchable.
And then you met him.
He was tall, with messy hair and a grin that made you feel like you were the most interesting person in the room. Dutch, he said. His name started with an M—Mark? Max? You couldn’t quite remember. He was charming in a way that felt effortless, confident in a way that bordered on cocky, and somehow still made you laugh until your cheeks hurt. You didn’t know who he was, but you liked him. And the drinks kept coming. Tequila shots, champagne, something neon blue that tasted like candy and regret.
The night blurred into a haze of laughter, dancing, and whispered conversations that felt like secrets. You remembered him pulling you onto the dance floor. You remembered him saying something about fate and bad decisions. You remembered kissing him. And then—
Well, no drink could have prepared you for what came next.
───
You woke up with a headache so sharp it felt like someone was playing drums inside your skull. The room was too bright, too quiet, and far too unfamiliar. But what truly terrified you wasn’t the pain—it was the man sleeping beside you.
His back was turned, broad and bare, the sheets tangled around his waist. His hair was a mess, sticking out in every direction. He looked peaceful, annoyingly comfortable, like he belonged there. Like you belonged there.
You sat up slowly, clutching the sheet to your chest as if it could shield you from the chaos of whatever had happened the night before. Your dress—what was left of it—was draped over a chair like it had given up. One heel peeked out from under the bed. The other was missing entirely.
You glanced at him again, trying to piece together the night, and that’s when your eyes caught something that made your stomach drop.
A ring.
On his left hand.
Bold, shiny, and impossible to miss.
Your heart stuttered. Oh God. Did you sleep with a married man? You stared at the ring, panic rising in your throat. But something about it tugged at your memory—a flash, a moment, a laugh. You looked down at your own hand, slowly, carefully, like you were afraid of what you’d find.
And there it was. The same ring.
Only yours had a diamond. A very large, very catchy diamond.
You blinked. Once. Twice.
Oh fuck.
Your heart was already racing, but it kicked into overdrive when your eyes drifted to the nightstand. Amid the clutter—an empty glass, a phone, a crumpled napkin—was a piece of paper that looked far too official for a party night in Vegas. Thick, cream-colored, with bold lettering across the top. You leaned closer, squinting through the haze of your hangover, and your stomach dropped.
It wasn’t just a piece of paper.
It was a marriage certificate.
You froze, staring at it like it might disappear if you blinked hard enough. But it didn’t. It stayed right there, mocking you with its very real, very legal presence. You reached out with a shaky hand and picked it up, scanning the names printed neatly in black ink.
Max Emilian Verstappen.
You blinked. That name sounded… familiar? Maybe? You weren’t sure. It rang a bell, but not loud enough to make sense of it. You looked down, and there it was—your own name, printed right beneath his. Only now it had a new addition. His last name. Your name, with his last name.
You stared at it, mouth slightly open, brain refusing to catch up.
You married him.
You didn’t walk. You launched yourself out of the bed like it had burst into flames, nearly tripping over the twisted sheets as you scrambled to grab your phone. Your heart was racing, your brain still foggy, and you had no idea what you were doing—only that you needed to not be in that room. You bolted to the bathroom, slammed the door shut behind you, and locked it like you were hiding from a monster. For what? Safety? Privacy? Maybe just a moment to breathe. Or maybe in case Max Verstappen woke up and decided it was time for a honeymoon on a yacht. You didn’t know what married people did. You weren’t supposed to be one of them.
The bathroom light was way too bright, and you winced as it hit your face. You blinked hard, trying to adjust, and caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. It wasn’t pretty. Your makeup was smeared like a bad painting, your hair looked like it had fought a tornado, and your eyes were wide with panic. You looked exactly how you felt—like a disaster. A very confused, slightly drunk, newly married disaster.
Your thumbs were shaking as you opened Google, typing in the name from the certificate as fast as you could.
Max Verstappen.
And then your screen exploded with results.
Photos. Headlines. Videos. Interviews. All of it.
“Four-Time World Champion Max Verstappen Wins in Las Vegas.”
“Verstappen Dominates Under the Vegas Lights.”
“Undeniable King of Formula 1.”
You stared at the screen, jaw slowly dropping.
There he was. The man in the bed. Standing tall in a sleek racing suit, champagne bottle in hand, sweat glistening on his skin under the podium lights. His arms were raised in victory, his grin wide and confident, like he owned the world. Another photo showed him on the top step of the podium, gold trophy in one hand, waving with the other. Cameras flashed around him. Fans screamed his name.
And okay. You could admit it.
Your husband? He was hot.
Like, really hot.
Of course he had to be the kind of guy who looked even better sweaty. Of course he had to have that smirk. That face. That body. That entire vibe. And of course he had to be one of the best athletes in the world.
“Fuck!” you hissed the second your phone buzzed in your hand, nearly dropping it into the hotel sink.
Incoming call: my girl xx
You didn’t even hesitate. You smacked the green button and brought it to your ear like it was a direct lifeline to reality.
“I think I married Max Verstappen!” you whisper-screamed the second the call connected, pacing across the bathroom in bare feet, trying not to pass out or throw up or—god forbid—wake him up. You had no idea if the feeling in your chest was joy or terror. Probably both. Definitely both.
There was a beat of stunned silence on the other end.
Then: “Y/n, what the fuck? Did you take something? Are you high?”
You let out a strangled laugh, half-sob, half-manic giggle. “No! I mean—I don’t think so? But like… I woke up next to this guy, okay? Big, hot, Dutch guy. Tall. Sleepy. Smug. And he had a ring on. And then I had a ring on. And then—” you reached over to snatch the paper from the counter again, yes you took it with you “—there’s literally a marriage certificate. Signed. With both our names. His is Max Emilian Verstappen. I googled him. He’s a four-time Formula One World Champion?!”
You stopped to breathe, then whispered aggressively, “I married a rich race car driver.”
Your best friend went quiet again, then finally said, “Wait… Max Verstappen? Like, actual Max Verstappen? The hot one who wins everything and never smiles?”
“Yes!” you hissed. “Except he does smile, and I think he kissed me last night, and he definitely slept next to me—and with me, and now I don’t know if I should cry or call Vogue and pitch a cover story as his wife.”
“Y/n, I left you alone for five minutes and you got married?!” your best friend shrieked so loudly through the phone that you had to pull it away from your ear before it shattered your eardrum.
“I didn’t do it on purpose!” you whisper-yelled, pacing the bathroom like a wild animal trapped in a cage. Your bare feet slapped against the cold tile, your sheet toga flapping behind you like a cape of shame. “There were drinks! There was dancing! He had a really nice smile, okay? I don’t even like racing! I came to Vegas for overpriced cocktails and bad decisions, not a whole husband!”
You were so deep in your meltdown that you didn’t hear the footsteps until they were right outside the door.
Then—two soft knocks.
“Are you panicking in there?” a deep, amused voice called through the bathroom door.
You froze. Completely. Like a deer caught in headlights. Like someone had hit pause on your entire body.
Your eyes went wide. Your mouth opened. That voice—it was him.
Your husband.
Max Verstappen. Actual Max Verstappen. Speaking. To you.
You turned toward the door, heart pounding like a drum in your chest. “Yes—I mean no!” you called back, instantly cringing at how weird your voice sounded. You sounded like someone who had definitely married someone by accident.
There was a pause. You thought you heard him laugh. Just a little. Low and quiet. Like he found this whole thing funny.
You turned back to your phone, whispering like you were in some kind of spy movie. “Gotta go. I’ll call you later.”
“Wait, Y/n! Does he have any hot fri—”
You hung up before she could finish the sentence and dropped the phone onto the counter like it had burned your hand. You stared at the door, heart racing, brain spinning, and absolutely no idea what you were supposed to say next.
You couldn’t stay locked in the bathroom forever, no matter how much you wanted to hide from the world—or from the man waiting outside. You had to face it. Face him. Face the fact that you were somehow married to Max Verstappen.
Slowly, you reached out and unlocked the door, pushing it open just enough to peek your head out. You weren’t sure what you expected—maybe chaos, maybe cameras, maybe him halfway through packing his bags to escape this mess. But instead, you saw him standing there calmly, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed and into a magazine cover. His hair was still messy, shirtless, but he looked relaxed. Too relaxed. Like this was just another normal morning.
“There you are,” he said, his voice soft but amused. “Do you want something? Coffee? Water? You look pale.”
You blinked at him, stunned. “Yeah, and you look completely fine! You shouldn’t!” you said, stepping out and slowly making your way back to the bed. You sat down carefully, still wrapped in the sheet, trying to keep your brain from short-circuiting.
He tilted his head, clearly confused. “Why?”
You stared at him, trying to find the right words. “Because you’re Max Verstappen! You’re like… F1’s big dog. The guy who wins everything. You married a random girl in Vegas!” You paused, trying to breathe, trying to make sense of it all. “Oh my god, can you imagine the drama? The headlines? The press? The fans? Your team? Your mom?”
“We can keep it secret for now, if you want,” Max said, his voice calm and casual, like he was suggesting you skip breakfast or order room service. Not like he was talking about hiding a marriage from the entire world. He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, looking way too relaxed for someone who had just woken up married to a complete stranger. His expression was unreadable—cool, collected, almost amused.
Meanwhile, you felt like your entire body was buzzing with panic. Your heart was racing, your thoughts were spinning, and you were pretty sure your eye was twitching. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a sheet, trying to figure out how your life had turned into a headline overnight.
You stared at him, trying to process what he’d just said. Keep it secret? Like it was no big deal? You couldn’t even think straight, and he was already planning how to cover it up. Your mouth moved before your brain could catch up.
“We should annul it,” you blurted out, the words tumbling out fast and loud. “Obviously.”
Max turned his head slowly to look at you, like you’d just said something completely ridiculous. His eyebrows lifted, and he tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were a puzzle he hadn’t quite figured out yet.
“Why?” he asked, voice still calm. “I like you.”
Your brain stopped working.
You blinked at him, mouth falling open, unsure if you’d heard him right. “Wh—what?” you stammered, eyes wide. “You like me? We met like—what—ten hours ago?”
Max shrugged, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “And I liked those ten hours.”
You stared at him like he’d just suggested you move to Mars. “That’s not a reason to stay married!” you said, your voice high and full of disbelief. You couldn’t believe you were even having this conversation. You were wrapped in a hotel sheet, hungover, and somehow arguing about the validity of a marriage with a man you’d met less than a day ago.
Max didn’t flinch. He didn’t laugh. He just looked at you with those stupid, perfect blue eyes—calm, steady, and annoyingly unreadable. “It’s not a bad one either,” he said, voice smooth and quiet. But there was something in his eyes. A spark. A glint of amusement, maybe interest. Maybe even a challenge. Like he was waiting to see what you’d do next.
You clutched the sheet tighter around yourself, trying to hold onto reality, but your brain had already started to drift. You couldn’t help it. You imagined it—being his wife. Not just the ring on your finger or the chaos of last night, but the life that came with it. The luxury. The attention. The private jets and race paddocks. The kind of dinners where the wine cost more than your rent. The interviews where people called you Mrs. Verstappen. Waking up in Monaco. Falling asleep in Italy. Kisses in Singapore.
It was ridiculous. It was insane. It was completely out of your comfort zone.
And yet… it didn’t sound bad.
Okay. Maybe annulment was a little dramatic.
“Okay,” you sighed, dragging a hand through your tangled hair as you sat up straighter on the bed. The sheet was still wrapped around you like some kind of makeshift armor, and you were starting to feel like you’d need it. Your head was spinning, your heart was still racing, but you knew you couldn’t keep dodging the reality of what had happened. “We should… talk about this. All of it.”
Max’s lips curled into a smirk the moment the words left your mouth. He looked far too amused for someone who had just woken up married to a stranger. “That’s how I like you,” he said, clearly enjoying your slow descent into chaos. “Assertive. Calm. Rational.”
You gave him a look. A sharp, tired, are-you-kidding-me look. “I’m none of those things right now.”
He shrugged, completely unfazed, his eyes still sparkling with mischief. “Still. Be grateful you married me and not Lando.”
You blinked. “Who’s that?” you asked, your eyebrows pulling together in confusion.
Max paused, then actually laughed. A real laugh. Not a smirk or a chuckle, but a full, amused laugh that made his shoulders shake slightly. “Oh wow. You really don’t know anything about Formula One, huh?”
You stared at him, unsure if you should be embarrassed or proud. “Is he, like… worse than you?”
Max tilted his head, clearly enjoying the question. “Debatable,” he said, his grin growing wider. “He’s a walking red flag though.”
You didn’t know what that meant exactly, but the way Max said it made you laugh. Just a little. Just enough to forget, for one second, that your life had completely flipped upside down.
───
The hotel breakfast room was way too quiet. That strange kind of quiet that only happens when everyone’s hungover and pretending they aren’t. Even the soft clink of a spoon against a coffee cup felt like it echoed through your skull. You were surrounded by people who probably had millions in their bank accounts, all dressed in expensive clothes and sipping tiny espressos like they hadn’t made a single bad decision the night before. But you knew better. You could see it in their tired eyes and slow movements. Vegas had worked its magic on everyone.
You sat across from Max, your very real, very hot husband of roughly ten hours, trying to act like this was normal. Like you did this kind of thing all the time. Like waking up married to a stranger and then sharing breakfast with him was just another part of your weekend plans. You picked at your croissant, trying to look casual, even though your brain was still spinning.
“So,” you said, raising an eyebrow as you tore off a piece of pastry, “tell me something about you, my husband.”
The word husband still felt strange coming out of your mouth. It made your stomach flip a little. It was weird, but also kind of exciting. You barely knew anything about Max—other than the fact that he was ridiculously attractive, strangely calm about the whole situation, and apparently some kind of international sports legend.
Max leaned back in his chair, looking relaxed, like he had all the time in the world. “Well,” he began, “I’m Dutch, but I was born in Belgium. So technically I’m Dutch-Belgian. My mum’s from Belgium.”
You nodded slowly, pretending to take that in like it was important information. But honestly, your brain was stuck on the way he said my mum. It sounded so soft, so sweet, and it didn’t match the image of a guy with arms like his and a face that belonged on a billboard.
“I started karting when I was four,” he continued, “then got into Formula One when I was seventeen. And now I’m here—with four world championships.”
You blinked. “Casual,” you muttered, trying to sound unimpressed, even though your jaw wanted to drop.
Max gave a small shrug, like it was no big deal. He wasn’t bragging. He was just telling the truth. And somehow, that made it even more impressive. You could tell he wasn’t trying to show off. He was just… being himself.
And honestly? He was kind of a racing nerd. You could see it in the way his eyes lit up when he talked about karting, in the quiet pride in his voice when he mentioned his career. You weren’t into sports. Like, at all. But there was something really endearing about how much he cared. It wasn’t just a job to him. It was his whole world.
And because you couldn’t help yourself—because even though you didn’t follow racing, you did know the one headline that had practically broken the internet—you tilted your head and asked the question that had been sitting quietly in the back of your mind.
“Aren’t you the one who robbed Lewis Hamilton of his eighth title?”
Max didn’t answer right away. He paused, his eyes narrowing just slightly, like he was deciding how honest he wanted to be. There was a flicker of something in his expression—not anger, not guilt, just… something unreadable. But then, slowly, his lips curled into a smile. Calm. Cool. A little smug.
“That’s what some people say, yeah.”
You blinked, surprised. That was not the reaction you expected. No awkward laugh. No defensive speech. No attempt to explain or justify. Just a simple, quiet answer that carried more weight than a whole press conference. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t back down. He just sat there, sipping his coffee like he hadn’t just casually admitted to being part of one of the most controversial moments in sports history.
It was the kind of energy that made your stomach twist. The kind that said he knew exactly who he was and didn’t feel the need to explain it to anyone—not the media, not the fans, and definitely not the girl he’d accidentally married in Vegas.
You chewed slowly, studying him. You weren’t sure if you wanted to punch him or kiss him. Maybe both.
But deep down—and you’d never admit it out loud—you were starting to think you might’ve married someone weirdly interesting. And dangerously charming.
“But that’s a long, boring story,” Max said with a casual wave of his hand, brushing off four world championships and one of the biggest rivalries in sports like it was nothing. Then he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, and gave you a look—the kind that made your heart skip a beat. There was a mischievous glint in his eye, playful and curious. “I want to know something about you, Mrs. Verstappen.”
The way he said it—so smooth, so relaxed, like it wasn’t the most insane thing either of you had ever done—made your stomach flip. Mrs. Verstappen. You’d been trying not to think about how official that sounded. How serious. How… weirdly not awful. It was ridiculous, but hearing it out loud made something flutter in your chest. You weren’t sure if it was panic or something else entirely.
You cleared your throat, trying to snap out of it. “Uh—well,” you began, suddenly feeling very aware of how painfully normal you were compared to him. He had trophies and fans and a career that spanned continents. You had… a messy Instagram feed and a half-used planner.
“Mostly I live off my dad’s money,” you said, giving a small, awkward laugh. “Because, you know, he prefers to pay me to leave him alone.” You took a sip of juice, hoping it would make you sound less ridiculous. “But I studied art. And now I sort of work in marketing? Like, social media stuff. Influencer-adjacent.”
You winced a little as the words came out. God, you sounded lame. Like you were trying to explain your life to someone who’d never had to worry about rent or job interviews or whether their post got enough likes. You were sitting across from a man who drove cars at 300 kilometers an hour for a living, and you were talking about hashtags.
Max didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just nodded, like everything you’d said made perfect sense. Like you made sense. It was strange, really—how someone so far removed from your world could listen like he’d known you for longer than ten hours. His expression was calm, open, and maybe even a little curious.
“And I, uh, moved to Monaco a few months ago,” you added, almost as an afterthought. You weren’t sure why you said it. Maybe because you wanted to sound a little more interesting. Maybe because you wanted to find some common ground with the man sitting across from you.
But that got a reaction.
Max’s eyebrows lifted, surprise flickering across his face. “No way,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “You live in Monaco?”
You nodded, feeling a little sheepish. “Yeah. Mostly for the tax thing, but let’s pretend it was for the vibe.”
Max grinned, and it was the kind of grin that made your stomach flip again. “Me too.”
Your jaw dropped a little. “You’re kidding.”
He shook his head, still smiling. “I’ve lived there since I was eighteen.”
You stared at him, trying to wrap your head around that. Eighteen. Already living in Monaco. Already racing in Formula One. Already building a life that sounded like something out of a movie. Meanwhile, you were still figuring out how to pay your phone bill on time at that age.
“I mean, most of the drivers do,” Max said, leaning back in his chair, eyes wide with disbelief. “You live in Monaco and don’t know anything about Formula One? Even though there’s a Grand Prix happening there every year? It’s like… the biggest event in the city.”
You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to look offended, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “Hey! I do know who Charles Leclerc is,” you said, lifting your chin slightly. “He’s Monaco’s bias—the hometown hero everyone pretends they’re not obsessed with.”
Max blinked, then burst out laughing. Not just a chuckle, but a full, warm laugh that made his shoulders shake and his eyes crinkle at the corners. It was the kind of laugh that made your chest feel lighter, like you’d said something genuinely funny and not just accidentally charming.
“I married the right girl,” he said, still grinning, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe his luck.
You felt your cheeks warm, and you looked down at your plate, trying to hide the smile that was now impossible to fight off. It was ridiculous. You were still hungover. You were still confused. You were still technically married to a man you barely knew.
You loved every second of it.
───
You’d been in Monaco for a few days now, and somehow, without really planning it, you’d spent most of that time at Max’s place. His apartment was sleek and modern, with huge windows and a view that looked like it belonged in a travel magazine. Sometimes he came over to your place too, and it was starting to feel… normal. Comfortable. Like you’d known each other for way longer than just a few chaotic days. You went on cute dates—late-night walks by the harbor, quiet dinners tucked away from the cameras, even a grocery run that turned into a mini adventure. You’d both agreed to act like you were just dating, like the marriage part was a funny secret between you. And honestly? It worked. It felt easy. It felt right.
So when Max insisted that you had to bake a cake for your one-week anniversary, you didn’t argue. You went out and bought all the ingredients, found a beginner-friendly recipe online, and tried to convince yourself this wasn’t going to end in disaster.
Standing in his kitchen, surrounded by flour, eggs, and a very confused Max Verstappen, you gave him a look. “I’m warning you,” you said, tying your hair up and glancing at the recipe again. “The last time I baked anything, I was eighteen. It was a birthday cake for my best friend, and it was… not great.”
Max raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “Well,” he said, gesturing to himself, “do I look like I’ve baked anything in my life?”
“No,” you said as you rolled up your sleeves, determined to make this cake happen—even if it ended up more like a sweet disaster than a masterpiece. Max stood beside you, watching the recipe on your phone like it was written in a foreign language. You handed him the whisk and pointed to the bowl.
“Okay, start mixing the eggs and sugar,” you said, trying to sound confident.
Max squinted at the bowl, then at the whisk, then back at you. “You’re trusting me with this?”
“You drive cars at 300 kilometers an hour,” you said, grabbing the flour. “I think you can handle a whisk.”
He gave you a dramatic nod, like he was accepting a mission, and started whisking with way too much enthusiasm. Sugar flew out of the bowl. You gasped and jumped back, laughing as tiny crystals landed in your hair.
“Max!” you shrieked, swatting at him with a dish towel.
He grinned, completely unbothered. “Precision is overrated.”
You tried to stay focused, measuring flour and butter, but Max kept sneaking little pokes at your side, bumping your hip, stealing spoonfuls of batter when he thought you weren’t looking. At one point, he dipped his finger into the mix and held it out to you.
“Try it,” he said, eyes sparkling.
You leaned in, tasted it off his finger, and paused. “Not bad.”
He smirked. “Told you. Natural talent.”
You rolled your eyes, but your heart was fluttering. The kitchen smelled like vanilla and sugar, and the air was warm with laughter and something softer—something sweeter.
The cake was safely tucked away in the oven, and for the first time in the past hour, the kitchen was quiet. Warm. Sweet-smelling. You leaned against the counter, catching your breath, your cheeks flushed from laughing too hard and moving too fast. Max stood nearby, watching you with that familiar smirk that made your stomach flip every time.
“You have flour on your nose,” he said, pointing at you and laughing softly.
You reached up to wipe it off, but then paused, a mischievous idea forming. You looked at him, narrowing your eyes playfully, and moved your hand toward his face.
“Oh, don’t you dare,” he warned, stepping forward just as you lunged.
Before you could get him, Max caught both of your wrists in his hands. His grip wasn’t tight—just firm enough to stop you, but gentle enough to make your heart flutter. You tried to wriggle free, laughing, but he was too strong, too steady. And honestly? You didn’t really want to escape.
He pulled you closer, slowly, until your body was pressed against his. Your chin rested just under his collarbone, and you tilted your head up to look at him. His eyes were soft now, not teasing, just… warm. You smiled without meaning to, and he smiled back, like he couldn’t help it either.
And in that moment, something shifted.
You felt it in your chest—a quiet, fluttering feeling that wasn’t panic or confusion anymore. It was something sweeter. Something softer. Were you falling for your own husband? The thought hit you like a whisper, unexpected but not unwelcome.
Max leaned down and pressed a light kiss to your lips. It was gentle, slow, like he was testing the waters. Like he wanted to make sure you were still with him in this strange, beautiful mess.
You smiled against his mouth, pulling back just enough to speak. “Was this part of the recipe?”
He grinned, eyes sparkling. “Obviously,” he said, and kissed you again—this time longer, deeper, like he didn’t care if the cake burned.
When the oven finally beeped, you jumped a little, startled out of the warm haze you’d been floating in. You grabbed an oven mitt and carefully pulled the cake out, setting it down on the counter. You blinked at it, surprised. It actually looked… good. Like, really good. Golden, fluffy, not burned. You tilted your head, inspecting it like it might suddenly collapse, but it held its shape perfectly.
“See?” Max said proudly, stepping beside you. “It looks fantastic.”
You laughed, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “Yeah, but does it taste fantastic?” you teased, eyeing the cake like it might be lying to you.
Max didn’t answer. Instead, he turned toward the fridge and pulled out a bowl of whipped cream—dark blue, of course. “I want to decorate it,” he said, already grabbing a spoon and getting to work.
You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Okay, Picasso,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter to watch.
Max was focused, tongue slightly poking out in concentration as he carefully spread the whipped cream across the top of the cake. He wasn’t fast, but he was determined. You stepped closer, peeking over his shoulder, and smiled at the mess he was making. The letters weren’t perfect, the spacing was off, and the whipped cream was a little too runny—but it was adorable.
And then you saw it.
Written in slightly crooked, slightly smudged letters across the top of the cake:
Max + Y/n, always and forever
Your heart did a little flip.
You stared at the words, warmth blooming in your chest. It was silly. It was messy. It was whipped cream on a cake made by two people who barely knew what they were doing. But it was also sweet. Thoughtful. Real.
You looked up at Max, who was still focused on smoothing out the edges, and felt something soft settle in your chest. This wasn’t just a joke anymore. It wasn’t just a wild Vegas story. It was starting to feel like something more.
“Aww,” you whispered, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.
Max glanced at you, eyes twinkling. “Too cheesy?”
You shook your head. “Just cheesy enough.”
───
One thing about your husband, Max Verstappen—he adored Charles Leclerc. Like, actual bromance level. The kind of friendship that involved inside jokes, constant teasing, and way too many shared podium selfies. So when the idea of a double date came up, it wasn’t dinner or drinks or something chill. No. It was karting. Because of course it was. The most on-brand plan imaginable for two Formula One drivers who couldn’t go five minutes without turning something into a race.
The guys were hyped. Already texting about lap times and trash talk before you’d even left the apartment. And you? You were nervous. Really nervous.
Alex was everything. Fashion icon. Gorgeous. Confident. The kind of girl who looked like she belonged on magazine covers and red carpets. She was Charles Leclerc’s girlfriend—the it-girl of the paddock. And you were… well, you. Clumsy. Still adjusting. The newly accidental wife of Max Verstappen who had only just learned what a pit stop was.
You clutched Max’s hand tighter as you both walked toward the karting center, your stomach bubbling with nerves and regret over the fizzy energy drink you’d chugged earlier. Your heart was racing, and not in the fun, adrenaline kind of way. More like the what if I embarrass myself in front of Monaco’s golden couple kind of way.
“Max,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, “what if they don’t like me? I mean, I’m not exactly—”
“Schatje,” he cut in gently, turning his head to look down at you. That soft half-smile was already forming on his lips—the one that always made your brain short-circuit a little. “They’re both excited to meet you. Charles has heard so much about you already.”
You blinked up at him, heart still fluttering, but something about the way he said it made you feel a little steadier. Like maybe you weren’t walking into a disaster. Like maybe you did belong here, even if you weren’t sure how yet.
You stepped inside the karting center, your nerves buzzing just beneath your skin like tiny sparks. The smell of rubber and engine oil filled the air, and the sound of distant engines revving made your heart beat a little faster. You spotted Charles and Alex waiting near the entrance, both dressed casually but somehow still looking like they belonged on a magazine cover. Max’s face lit up the second he saw them. He walked straight over and pulled Charles into one of those quick, half-hug, half-pat-on-the-back greetings that guys do when they’re trying to act cool but are clearly happy to see each other.
Before you could even process the moment, Alex stepped toward you with a bright smile and zero hesitation. “You must be Y/n,” she said, her voice warm and confident. “You look stunning, girl.”
You blinked, caught off guard by how friendly she was. Before you could even say thank you, she pulled you into a hug—not the awkward kind, but the kind that felt real. The kind that said, you’re safe with me. It was soft and strong all at once, and something in your chest loosened. Just like that, you knew: this girl was going to be your girl.
“And you’re even prettier in person,” she added with a grin, looping her arm through yours like you’d been friends forever.
You laughed, the tension in your shoulders finally starting to melt. “You’re literally so cool, this is unfair.”
Max, overhearing your comment, smirked and leaned toward Charles with a playful glint in his eye. “Maybe we should do a few laps without them,” he said, voice teasing. “You know, as revenge for that time you pushed me off track.”
Charles rolled his eyes, already used to Max’s drama. “You brake-tested me,” he replied, deadpan.
Max waved him off, already distracted by the sight of you and Alex laughing together like old friends. You could feel his eyes on you, and when you glanced over, he was smiling—that soft, proud kind of smile that made your stomach flutter.
Alex leaned in and whispered, “I think we’ll definitely find something to talk about.”
You nodded, heart lighter than it had been all day. You weren’t just the accidental wife anymore. You were part of something. Something fun. Something real.
Max walked over, his voice quieter now, just for you. “Cheer for me, schat,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek. The warmth of it lingered as he grabbed a helmet and headed toward the karts with Charles, already tossing playful insults back and forth.
You and Alex sat down on the bench near the track, the loud buzz of go-karts filling the air as Max and Charles disappeared around the first corner. At first, the sound was a bit much engines roaring, tires screeching—but after a few minutes, it started to feel kind of normal. Like background noise to a day that was already turning out better than you expected. You leaned back, letting the sun warm your face, while Alex pushed her sunglasses up and turned to you with a friendly smile.
“So,” she said, her voice light, “how’s it going? Being a WAG and all?”
You laughed softly, brushing your hair behind your ear. “It’s new. I didn’t grow up watching racing or anything, so I’m still learning. But… I’m happy.”
And you meant it. Even though everything had happened so fast— the wild Vegas night, the surprise marriage, the dates, the quiet mornings—it felt good. Like you’d landed somewhere that made sense, even if it was unexpected.
Just then, a blur of navy and red flew past the pit lane. Max’s kart. He lifted one hand off the wheel and waved as he sped by. Even with the helmet on, you could tell he was smiling. And without thinking, you smiled too—like it was automatic now.
Alex saw it and grinned. “You’ve got it bad,” she teased. “But don’t worry—Max is even worse.”
You blinked. “Really?”
She nodded. “He called Charles the morning after Vegas. Didn’t even say hi. Just started talking about you. Said you were funny, smart, and somehow kept up with him better than anyone else.”
Your mouth opened a little. You hadn’t known that. Max had never told you. You’d been wondering if this was just fun for him, something casual. But hearing that he’d been excited enough to call his best friend the next morning?
Your heart did a little flip.
Alex leaned closer, her voice softer now. “He’s serious about you. I’ve never seen him like this.”
Max and Charles walked over with matching grins, the kind that spelled trouble in the most entertaining way. Their hair was messy from the helmets, their cheeks slightly flushed from the race, and they looked way too proud of themselves for two grown men who’d just spent twenty minutes trying to out-drive each other.
“They’ve got two-seater karts,” Charles said, clearly amused. His eyes sparkled with mischief, and you could already tell he was up to something. “Wanna race?”
Max stepped forward, smirking straight at you like he was already imagining the chaos. “And you two are driving,” he added, handing you a helmet like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Your eyebrows shot up. “Me driving? With you in the kart?”
“Exactly,” Max said, his voice calm but teasing. “Don’t worry, I trust you.”
You stared at the helmet in your hands, heart thudding a little faster. You weren’t a racer. You weren’t even sure you knew how to start the kart. But Max was looking at you like you could do anything. Like he believed in you without question. And somehow, that made you want to try.
Charles turned to Max with a smug smile. “We’ll see which couple’s faster. Verstappen’s or Leclerc’s.”
There was something in his tone—playful, yes, but also curious. Like he was watching closely. Like he could feel there was more going on than you were letting on. You were still supposed to be just Max’s girlfriend, after all. But something about the way Charles looked at you, then back at Max, made your stomach twist. He was catching on. Maybe not the whole story, but something.
You and Alex exchanged a quick glance, wide-eyed and a little too in sync. You could tell she felt it too—the shift, the tension, the unspoken truth hanging in the air.
Alex leaned in, her voice low and full of humor. “If we crash,” she whispered, “at least we look cute doing it.”
“M’lady,” Max said with a dramatic little bow, holding the helmet like it was a crown. You laughed, nerves still buzzing in your chest, as he gently placed it on your head. His hands were careful, adjusting the straps with surprising focus, making sure everything was secure. His fingers brushed your skin, and even through the nerves, you felt a little spark—soft, warm, grounding.
You took a deep breath, the weight of the helmet settling over you like a reminder that this was real. You were about to drive a kart. With Max Verstappen sitting beside you. No pressure, right?
“I’m sorry in advance if we crash,” you said quietly, trying to joke your way through the nerves.
Max looked at you, that familiar grin spreading across his face— confident, playful, and just a little smug. “We won’t,” he said simply, sliding into the seat next to you like he’d done it a thousand times. “You’ve got this. You’re a Verstappen now.”
Your heart did a little flip at that. The way he said it—not as a joke, not as a tease, but like it meant something. Like it was something.
You glanced over at Alex one last time, catching her smile through her helmet. She gave you a thumbs-up, her eyes full of encouragement. You smiled back, grateful for her calm energy, her warmth, her quiet way of saying you’re not alone.
The countdown lights began to flash in front of you—red, red, red— and your grip tightened on the wheel. Your heart was racing now, faster than the engines around you. You weren’t sure if it was fear or excitement, but it didn’t matter.
The lights turned green, and you hit the gas a little harder than planned. The kart jolted forward, and Max let out a quick laugh beside you—not mocking, just amused. “Okay, okay, not bad,” he said, gripping the side of the seat. “Keep it steady, baby. Eyes on the track.”
You nodded, trying to focus, but everything was moving so fast. The wind rushed past your face, the engine roared beneath you, and the track curved ahead like it was daring you to mess up. Max leaned slightly toward you, voice calm but firm.
“Brake a little before the turn. Not during. You’ve got this.”
You followed his instructions, easing into the curve, and to your surprise—it worked. The kart glided through the corner without spinning out or crashing into the barrier. You grinned under the helmet, adrenaline buzzing through your veins.
“See?” Max said, clearly proud. “Natural talent.”
You barely had time to process anything—the speed, the noise, the curve ahead—before Max reached over and casually placed his hand on your thigh. It wasn’t rough or rushed. Just steady. Warm. Like it belonged there. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.
Your brain short-circuited.
Your heart jumped straight into your throat, and your grip on the wheel faltered for just a second. The next turn came up fast, and you almost missed it entirely.
“Max!” you shouted, half-laughing, half-panicking, as you swerved a little too wide. Your voice was breathless, your cheeks burning, and you couldn’t stop smiling even though you were trying to act annoyed.
He didn’t move his hand. Didn’t even flinch. Just leaned in slightly, his voice low and full of amusement. “What? I’m just helping you relax.”
You glanced at him, eyes wide behind the helmet visor. “You’re distracting me!”
Max grinned, completely unfazed. “Not a chance. You’re doing great.”
You shook your head, trying to focus again, but your heart was racing faster than the kart. His hand was still there, grounding you and distracting you all at once. And somehow, even with the chaos of the track and the roar of the engine, you felt safe. Like you could crash and it wouldn’t matter—because he’d be right there, laughing beside you.
The checkered flag waved, fluttering in the wind like a final exclamation point, and your kart zipped across the finish line just a breath ahead of Charles and his. The moment you passed it, your heart nearly exploded with adrenaline. You’d done it. You’d actually won—with Max beside you, coaching you, cheering you on, and somehow making you feel like you belonged in his world.
Max let out a triumphant laugh, the sound full of pride and joy. He turned to you, eyes shining. “See? Told you we wouldn’t crash,” he said, grinning as you both reached up and pulled off your helmets at the same time.
You were breathless, cheeks flushed, hair a mess, but you couldn’t stop smiling. The rush of the race, the thrill of the win, and the warmth of Max’s presence all wrapped around you like a hug. You barely had time to catch your breath before Max leaned over, grabbed your waist, and lifted you out of the kart like it was nothing.
Your feet left the ground, and you gasped, laughing as he held you close. His arms were strong and steady, and you felt completely safe in them—like the world could spin out of control and you’d still be okay as long as he was holding you.
Before you could even react, Max leaned in and kissed you. It was warm, gentle, and full of everything you’d been feeling but hadn’t said out loud. Your knees went weak, your heart fluttered, and for a moment, everything else disappeared.
As Max pulled back from the kiss, still holding you close, you both heard the unmistakable sound of clapping—slow, exaggerated, and clearly sarcastic.
Charles stood a few feet away, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, well, well,” he drawled. “Didn’t realize the winner got a kiss as a trophy. Is that FIA-approved?”
You laughed, cheeks burning, but Max just grinned and tightened his hold on you. “Oh fuck FIA.” he shot back.
───
People always say that if your marriage can survive building IKEA furniture, it can survive anything. And honestly? They weren’t wrong. Because if there was one thing Max Verstappen could do—besides win races and make your heart race—it was turn even the most ordinary task into something dramatic, chaotic, and somehow… special.
It had all started so innocently. One quiet evening, Max looked around the apartment, spotted the overflowing corner of helmets, trophies, race gloves, and random F1 gear, and casually announced, “I need another shelf.” Like it wasn’t already the fifth one. Like his personal shrine to motorsport wasn’t slowly taking over the living room.
You’d barely finished your tea before you were in the car, heading to nearest IKEA. The store was a maze of bright lights and confusing arrows, and the two of you spent way too long arguing over shelf designs and trying to pronounce the Swedish names printed on the boxes. Max insisted that sturdiness could be judged by how aggressive the name sounded. You ended up choosing one that sounded like someone sneezing mid-sentence and tossed it into the trunk, blissfully unaware of the emotional damage waiting at home.
Now, you were on the floor, leaning against the couch, a half-eaten bag of chips beside you and How to Train Your Dragon playing softly in the background. The room smelled faintly of wood and frustration. Max sat cross-legged across from you, surrounded by a chaotic sea of screws, wooden pegs, and panels that all looked suspiciously similar. He studied the pieces like he was preparing for a race — focused, intense, and slightly overconfident.
You held the instruction manual in your lap, flipping through the pages with growing dread. The diagrams looked like they’d been drawn by someone who hated happiness. You glanced at Max, who was already trying to fit two pieces together that clearly didn’t belong.
You squinted at the instruction manual, turning it sideways, then upside down, then back again. The tiny drawings made no sense, the arrows pointed in every direction, and the parts in front of you looked nothing like the ones in the pictures.
“I can’t understand a single thing,” you groaned, tossing the booklet onto your lap. “This is actual nonsense.”
Max glanced over, already halfway through trying to jam two wooden panels together. He reached for the manual, flipping it over with a smirk. “Maybe because you’re looking at the French side,” he said, holding it up and pointing at the tiny flag in the corner.
You blinked. “Oh.”
He handed it back to you, this time opened to the English section, like it was some sacred scroll. “Voilà,” he said dramatically. “Now we build.”
You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. “You’re so annoying.”
You were twenty minutes into building the SNÖRKLIG—or whatever—shelf—and already three emotional breakdowns deep. Your patience was dangling by a thread, or more accurately, by one tiny wooden peg that refused to fit anywhere it was supposed to. The living room looked like a battlefield. Panels were scattered across the floor, screws rolled under the couch, and the instruction booklet had become your personal lifeline.
“I told you that piece goes on the bottom, Max,” you said, clutching the manual like it was sacred scripture. Your voice was calm, but your eyes were wild. You’d stared at the same diagram for so long, you were starting to see it in your dreams.
Max, sitting cross-legged across from you, held a long wooden panel sideways like it was a sword. “No, it doesn’t,” he insisted, pointing at the drawing. “It clearly goes on top. Look at this!”
You leaned over, squinting at the page. Then blinked. Then sighed. “Max… the drawing is upside down.”
He paused, looked at the manual again, then slowly rotated it in his hands. His face shifted from confident to sheepish in about two seconds.
“Oh.”
You stared at him, deadpan. “You’ve been building this thing backwards.”
Max shrugged, still gripping the panel like it hadn’t just betrayed his entire sense of confidence. “Well, it’s a shelf,” he said, voice casual. “It’ll still hold stuff.”
You stared at him, completely deadpan. “No, Max. It will fall. With all your trophies. Do you really want to explain to Christian why your 2023 championship is lying in shattered pieces on the floor because you refused to read IKEA instructions?”
That made him pause.
His eyes flicked to the mess around you—screws scattered like confetti, dowels rolling under the rug, and a pile of wooden panels that looked more like a failed art project than a shelf. He blinked slowly, like reality was finally catching up to him.
“…Maybe we should build it again,” he said, voice quieter now. Almost humble.
You didn’t respond. You just stared at him, blinking once. Slowly.
Max dragged a hand down his face, groaning like he’d just lost a race by half a second. “Oh, fuck this,” he muttered. “Can’t we just steal Charles’s?”
You blinked. “Wait… you actually want to steal a shelf?”
Max held up a screw like it was proof of his suffering. “Yes. I’d rather get arrested in Monaco than build another one of these Swedish nightmares.”
You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your water. “You’re ridiculous.”
He gave you a serious look. “Schat, I drive F1 cars. I build engines in my sleep. But this shelf?” He pointed at the wobbly mess in front of you. “I’m ready to throw it out the window.”
You slid off the couch and sat beside him, bumping his shoulder. “Okay, okay. We’ll do it together. I’ll read the instructions. You build. And no making it up as you go.”
He sighed, but a small smile crept onto his face. “Fine. But if it breaks again, I’m calling Charles and asking for his shelf. I’ll say it’s an emergency.”
You snorted. “Deal.”
Max grabbed the screwdriver like he was on a mission, mumbling in Dutch as he started taking the whole thing apart. You sat cross-legged next to him, reading each step slowly while Toothless blinked on the screen, like he was silently cheering you on.
Halfway through, Max smacked his forehead. “Wait—this piece was upside down the entire time?”
───
The whole evening had felt strange from the start.
You’d just gotten back from the Red Bull event, and something heavy had settled over you, like a weight you couldn’t shake off. Everyone at the event had seemed so sure of themselves. They walked through the room with ease, dressed perfectly, laughing like they’d known each other forever. They spoke in a language you didn’t quite understand—F1 slang, sponsor talk, inside jokes that flew right past you. They belonged there. They fit.
And then there was you.
You’d stayed close to Max, smiled when people looked your way, nodded politely during conversations you didn’t know how to join. You weren’t rude. You weren’t awkward. But you felt like a shadow—present, but not really part of the picture. You weren’t one of them. You didn’t have the same shine, the same confidence, the same rhythm. You were just… there. A little too quiet. A little too unsure. A little too you.
And that thought had stuck. It had crawled into your chest and made a home there, whispering doubts every time you tried to push it away.
You didn’t belong in Max’s world. Not really.
And now, sitting in the quiet of your shared space, that realization was louder than ever. It stirred inside you, uncomfortable and sharp, making you question everything. Not because Max had done anything wrong—but because you weren’t sure you were enough for the life he lived. The spotlight. The pressure. The people who seemed born to be part of it.
You slipped off your heels slowly, one by one, letting them fall to the floor with soft thuds. The dull ache in your feet was familiar, but it was nothing compared to the heaviness pressing down on your chest. It had been building all evening, creeping in during small moments—quiet glances, awkward silences.
Max sat beside you on the edge of the bed, close enough that your shoulders touched. He didn’t speak right away, just let the silence stretch for a few seconds. Then his voice came, low and steady, but with that quiet edge that meant he wasn’t going to let it slide.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Talk to me.”
You kept your eyes forward, staring at the wall like it might offer you a way out. You blinked slowly, trying to keep your voice from cracking. “Nothing’s going on,” you said, flat and controlled, like if you said it calmly enough, it might become true.
Max didn’t respond right away, but you could feel the shift in him. The way he turned slightly toward you. The way his gaze settled on your face, searching. You didn’t have to look to know he wasn’t buying it.
“Don’t lie, baby,” he said quietly.
“No—I just think you shouldn’t be with someone basic like me,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Your voice cracked at the edges, soft and shaky, but honest. “I feel like I don’t belong in your world.”
You didn’t need to look at Max to know he was staring at you like you’d just said the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. You could feel the shift in the air, the way his body tensed beside you, the way his silence turned sharp.
“Don’t ever say that again,” he said, voice low but firm, no hesitation. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. What the fuck do you mean I shouldn’t be with you?”
You shook your head, tears brimming, frustration bubbling up. “I mean—I don’t know what tyre strategy works best in fucking Barcelona—“
He snorted, cutting you off before your spiral could go any further. “Neither does Red Bull, so what’s your point, schatje?”
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden humor in his voice. It was dry, sarcastic, but warm. And it made something inside you loosen just a little.
You tried to fight the smile tugging at your lips, but the weight in your chest hadn’t quite lifted. It was still there, lingering beneath the softness of the moment. “You know what I mean,” you said quietly, voice barely above a whisper.
Max tilted his head, eyes warm and steady. “Yeah, I do,” he said. “But I don’t need you to know every world champion since 1960. You’re not Sebastian Vettel.” His tone was light, teasing, but full of truth. Then he reached out, palm open, waiting. “I just want you to be my wife. My Y/n. The one who makes me laugh when everything feels too damn heavy.”
You looked at his hand, heart thudding, and hesitated for only a second before slipping yours into his. His fingers curled around yours instantly, like they belonged there.
A small smirk played at the corner of his mouth, eyes glinting with mischief. “My wife Y/n, who had to Google me the morning after marriage.”
You let out a soft laugh, cheeks warming a the memory, “I thought you were footballer!”
“Just remember that you belong with me. Always,” Max said, his voice low and steady, each word wrapped in quiet certainty. He looked at you like you were everything—like nothing else in the world mattered more than you sitting right there beside him. “And the rest? Fuck it.”
You didn’t even get the chance to respond. Before your thoughts could catch up, he leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss into your hair. It wasn’t rushed or dramatic—it was grounding. The kind of kiss that said I’ve got you, even when your doubts were loud and your heart felt unsure. The kind that made the noise fade, just for a moment, and reminded you that with him, you were safe.
─── FEW MONTHS LATER
You were home alone while Max was away for the race weekend. Originally, you’d planned to go with him—packed your bag, even picked out your paddock outfit—but work had piled up fast, and someone had to stay back with the cats anyway. Max’s spoiled little shadows had made it clear they preferred you when he was gone, taking turns curling up beside you or watching your every move from the couch like tiny, judgmental bodyguards.
Evening had settled in quietly. The sky outside was a soft shade of blue-gray, and the apartment was filled with the low hum of your laptop fan and the occasional sound of a cat jumping down from furniture. You were slumped behind your screen, shoulders aching, eyes twitching from too many hours of emails and spreadsheets. You blinked hard, rubbed your temples, and muttered to yourself, Just one more email. Then I’m done.
And then—ding-dong.
You jumped, heart skipping. The sound sliced through the quiet like a siren.
You hadn’t ordered anything. You weren’t expecting anyone. Max was halfway across the world, and no one ever just showed up.
Brows furrowed, you pushed your chair back slowly, the cats immediately hopping down to follow you like a tiny security team. One brushed against your leg, the other sat at attention near the hallway, tail flicking.
You padded toward the door, cautious, curious, and just a little unnerved.
You opened the door slowly, still unsure what to expect—and were immediately met with a wall of white lilies. A bouquet so massive it looked like it might swallow the delivery man holding it. You blinked, momentarily stunned, the soft scent of the flowers already drifting into the hallway.
“I didn’t order anything?” you said, brows furrowing as you tried to peek around the blooms.
The man glanced down at the tag, then looked back up with a polite smile. “Are you Mrs. Verstappen?”
Your heart did a tiny flip at the sound of the name. Mrs. Verstappen. It still felt surreal every time someone said it out loud. You cleared your throat, suddenly warm all over. “Uh… yeah. That’s me.”
He nodded and gently passed the bouquet into your arms. “Then these are yours.”
You took them carefully, the weight of the flowers surprising, petals brushing your cheek as you stepped back inside. The cats stared up at you like you’d just brought home a jungle. You sighed, closed the door behind you, and locked it with a soft click.
You carried the bouquet to the kitchen, heart fluttering, mind already racing with one thought:
Max.
You placed the stunning bouquet into a vase, the lilies blooming like soft stars across your kitchen island. Their scent filled the room, light and calming, and for the first time all evening, the apartment didn’t feel so quiet. It felt like Max had somehow reached across the distance and wrapped the space in warmth.
As you adjusted the stems, fingers brushing against soft petals, something caught your eye—a folded piece of paper tucked gently between the flowers. Your name was scribbled across the front in Max’s unmistakable handwriting, a little messy, a little rushed, but so him.
Your heart fluttered as you pulled it free and unfolded it slowly, careful not to tear the edges.
I wish you were here. Don’t work too hard, and please—eat something other than burnt toast. Even though I’m halfway across the world, I need you to remember how deeply loved you are. Always and forever. With love, Verstappen.
babsie radio ! hope u’re not disappointed y’all cuz this is literally fluff w little plot…still was fun to write <3 love love downbad! max. also yes, i love pet name “schatje” i am not sorry if it’s too many times 🤗
taglist. @lvrpiastri @athanasia-day @hott1es @scarlettxx389 @haniette xx
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⤷ carlossainz55 He isn’t even trying to be subtle anymore
⤷ charles_leclerc where has being subtle ever gotten me?
sharls_lerklerk something good to come out of this whole thing is the fact that charles crushing on y/n has practically made him and lando best friends
⤷ carlossainz55 No cause why is Charles at Lando’s more then me? 😒
kikagomes body tea 😍😍
kikagomes wow who took this amazing picture?
⤷ charles_leclerc I bet I could take better pictures of her
⤷ lando leave my baby sister alone charles
⤷ charles_leclerc NEVER i WILL be your brother in law one day little lando
⤷ yn stop
⤷ charles_leclerc okay 👌
alex_albon who allowed charles to be this down bad for a girl 6 years younger than him
⤷ georgerussell63 We did actually…
⤷ alex_albon oh yeah…
⤷ kimi.antonelli I guess us constantly sending ship edits to the drivers gc didn’t help…
danielricciardo y/n stronger then me cause if charles leclerc was openly crushing on me i would not shut up about it
⤷ yn ???
⤷ danielricciardo what?
🝮
charles_leclerc
🎵 sienna • the marías
liked by georgerussell63 and 1,617,324 others
charles_leclerc 🌙
lando what are you doing with my baby sister in the middle of the night charles leclerc
⤷ charles_leclerc enjoying life
⤷ yn we’re with kika and pierre
⤷ lando that’s not easing my nerves those two are the biggest shit stirrers other than george and alex
ihatemymiserablelife she’s obviously playing with his feelings like bro take the hint she doesn’t like you
⤷ charles_leclerc goodness forbid a guy likes a girl who makes a man work for her love
kikagomes i guess your photography skills aren’t the worst
lilymhe this is giving mysterious baddieeee
olliebearman he’s in loooveeee
lando i don’t like you hanging out with my little sister without my supervision
⤷ charles_leclerc lando i would never do anything inappropriate to your sister
⤷ charles_leclerc without her consent 😈👅👅
⤷ lando CHARLES YOU BETTER NOT TOUCH MY SWEET LITTLE INNOCENT BABY SISTER
⤷ kikagomes innocent?
⤷ lando NOT NOW KIKA
⤷ yn i’m in bed lando you don’t need to worry
⤷ lando who’s bed
⤷ yn mine
⤷ lando with who
⤷ yn me, myself, and i
⤷ charles_leclerc i can fix that mon amour
⤷ lando charles don’t make me come sit with you all night to make sure you don’t sneak out to see my baby sister
⤷ charles_leclerc i wouldn’t mind some cuddles 🥰
⤷ lando oh i’m omw baby boy
⤷ charles_leclerc doors unlocked ;)
⤷ yn what 😟
🝮
yn
🎵 forrest gump • frank ocean
liked by serenaapagee and 1,294,055 others
yn soaking up the sun
lando silverstone babyyyy 🇬🇧
⤷ yn manifesting that lando lewis max podium
oscarpiastri Forrest Gump? Sure
⤷ yn whatchu out here being messy for 🤨
charles_leclerc absolutely beautiful
lilyzneimer Cutie girl 🥰
♥︎ by author
charles_leclerc My feed is just obsessed with you
⤷ arthur_leclerc Is it or did you just mute everyone’s posts except hers?
⤷ charles_leclerc shut up arthur no one asked you
olliebearman she’s in loooveeee
⤷ yn what i can’t listen to good music anymore?
⤷ arthur_leclerc she said she will not stand for everyone thinking she’s in love with charles 😂
⤷ charles_leclerc fuck you
⤷ arthur_leclerc oops touched a nerve there
⤷ lando he in fact does not play about her. i said she was acting like a brat once and he gave me a wedgie. it was extremely humbling
⤷ charles_leclerc ah good times good times
charles_leclerc drop the haircare routine 🗣️🗣️
charles_leclerc we need a youtube channel bébé
⤷ lando BÉBÉ??????? oh we’re getting real comfortable huh
⤷ charles_leclerc uhhh I meant mon ange
⤷ lando just shut up
⤷ charles_leclerc Okay
danielricciardo I just have a hard time believing that someone so cool and beautiful and funny and kind is related to someone like lando
⤷ yn thx king i do too 😘
⤷ lando umm okay??
🝮
yn
🎵 middle • dj snake, bipolar sunshine
liked by charles_leclerc and 1,301,688 others
yn livin that sweet life
charles_leclerc if I speak
⤷ lando don’t
charles_leclerc just one chance
kikagomes the best traveling buddy, i love our cuddles 🥰
⤷ yn me 2 😘
lando delete this
lewishamilton You broke him
charles_leclerc yk you wrong for that
⤷ yn i was feeling bold
⤷ charles_leclerc you’re feeling bold, i’m feeling hard we’re meant to be
⤷ lando what the hell charles
⤷ charles_leclerc in a respectful way you know??
⤷ lando no i don’t know, that’s my baby sister you pedo
⤷ charles_leclerc I thought we agreed you would stop calling me that if I stopped sending you ship edits of me and your sister
⤷ lando yeah then you started openly thirsting over her again
⤷ yn maybe i should delete this post
⤷ charles_leclerc go ahead I already took a screenshot of everything I need
⤷ yn okay creep
⤷ charles_leclerc only for you mon cœur 😘
lilymhe so hot wow 😍😍😍😍
alex_albon i dare you to date charles leclerc
⤷ lando she said truth
🝮
charles_leclerc
🎵 pipe (feat. xdna) • christina aguilera, xdna
liked by charles_leclerc
charles_leclerc one like and I’ll ask her out on a date
lando did you seriously just like your own post?
⤷ charles_leclerc pfft no, that’s so lame
yn what the fuck why do you have a picture of me sleeping in the doctors office when i was sick
⤷ charles_leclerc shhh don’t worry about it
mclaren The way everyone collectively decided to not like his post is hilarious
⤷ charles_leclerc oh who is you
alex_albon This post reeks of desperation and I love it
lewishamilton Are you drunk?
⤷ charles_leclerc drunk in love 🥰
alex_albon YES CHARLES A MAN WHO YEARNS IS A MAN WHO EARNS
danielricciardo Wow you just unlocked a whole new level of pathetic yearning
⤷ charles_leclerc only for my baby 🥰
⤷ lando boi
charles_leclerc sooo @yn what do you say about that date??? me + you + sushi??? 😁😁
⤷ yn what the hell, sure
⤷ lando excuse me?
⤷ lando are you guys serious i thought this was just a joke
⤷ lando guys??? no
⤷ lando GUYS??? NO
⤷ lando I HAD ONE RULE CHARLES
⤷ alex_albon LFGGGGGG
⤷ kimi.antonelli HE DID IT
⤷ olliebearman MAMA Y PAPA
⤷ pierregasly MY BOY DID IT
⤷ oscarpiastri What a time to be alive, truly
⤷ arthur_leclerc big bro finally grew a pair 🥹
lando i had one rule for her, don’t date any f1 drivers. what does she do? goes out on a date with an f1 drivers
⤷ lorenzotl I had a rule for him too, don’t get involved with anyone’s sister. What does he do? Gets involved with someone’s sister
⤷ lando they grow up so fast don’t they? 🥹
⤷ lorenzotl They sure do
⤷ arthur_leclerc acting like they just got married and you’ll never see them again, they haven’t even went out for their date yet jeez
⤷ charles_leclerc and for my next trick, i WILL pull my best friends sister
🝮
yn
🎵 kind of • faye webster
liked by lando and 2,416,815 others
yn i like em french
charles_leclerc yk what, I don’t even care as long as i’m yours
⤷ lando how come she gets to call you french and not me?
⤷ charles_leclerc she lets me do things you wouldn’t let me do to you
⤷ lando i hate you
⤷ charles_leclerc I love you too BROTHER
⤷ lando yeah yeah 😒
alex_albon i used to pray for times like this
oscarpiastri This is hope core
carmenmmundt So cute 🥰
arthur_leclerc he is a proud frenchmen 🇫🇷
carlossainz55 He can die happy now
charles_leclerc MON AMOUR ♥️
kimi.antonelli We got chayn before gta6
georgerussell63 You have my etsy witch to thank for this 🙄
⤷ yn girl
⤷ charles_leclerc THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU
⤷ yn girluhh
🝮
charles_leclerc
🎵 best part (feat. h. e. r.) • daniel caesar, h.e.r
liked by lewishamilton and 2,164,973 others
charles_leclerc thank you george russell’s etsy witch for making my girl mine
georgerussell63 I take PayPal, Cash App, or Venmo,
⤷ charles_leclerc just sent you 16 dollars ❤️
⤷ georgerussell63 Dafuq am I supposed to do with that
⤷ charles_leclerc get some tea or something, I know you buss down on some good matcha
oscarpiastri What am I looking at here
⤷ charles_leclerc the intro to our sex tape
⤷ lando what the actual fuck
⤷ oscarpiastri And the crowd is not surprised
⤷ francolapinto Need a third? 🌹
⤷ charles_leclerc I don’t share
⤷ francolapinto 🥀
lando i guess out of all the men out there i’m glad my baby sister ended up with you 😒
⤷ charles_leclerc OHHH YOU CANT WAIT TO HAVE ME AS YOUR BROTHER IN LAW
⤷ carlossainz55 Lando acts like he doesn’t like you two together but I caught him telling his mom that you two are “definitely gonna last”
⤷ yn awhhhh landoooo 🥹
⤷ charles_leclerc HE LOVES ME
alex_albon Oh ya’ll are freaked out
⤷ lilymhe Oh yeah he wants that cookie
⤷ yn real bad
⤷ lilymhe 👏👏👏
francolapinto Can I at least watch?? You won’t even know I’m there
⤷ charles_leclerc You wanna sit in the cuck chair?
⤷ francolapinto I’m open to anything 😸
⤷ charles_leclerc No
⤷ francolapinto 😾😾 sharing is caring
⤷ charles_leclerc I don’t care
🝮
charles_leclerc
🎵 i always wanted a brother • lion king
liked by maxverstappen1 and 1,862,343 others
charles_leclerc my brothaaaa
lando BROTHAAAAAAA
⤷ charles_leclerc YES LANDO YES LFG
lorenzotl What am I then??
arthur_leclerc Ungrateful, as always
⤷ charles_leclerc oh bug off
⤷ alex_albon you’ve been hanging out with lando too much
summary: you accidentally repost a random f1 driver edit on tiktok, and fans have a lot to say about it. surprisingly, so does said driver.
contains: strangers to friends to lovers, a few curse words and online hate i think. also a lot of references to sabrina carpenter's new songs
author's note: oh i'm so new to this i'm so sorry. also english is not my first language please forgive any mistakes
masterlist!
liked by yourusername, tatemcrae and 274,201 others
f1gossip BREAKING: yourusername, pop star that has recently released her new album "Man's Best Friend", has reposted a video edit on TikTok about F1 Driver Charles Leclerc with one of her new songs, "When Did You Get Hot?". Fans wonder if this may indicate some sort of relationship between the two.
username1 is she shooting her shot orrrr 😭😭😭
ynfan1 oh I wish this actually meant something but she would not give me that pride it's just unlike her
username2 SHE'S AN F1 FAN?
yourusername omfg can't a girl think a guy is cute give me a BREAK ♡ liked by f1gossip and 17,892 others
↳ username3 you did not have to expose yourself like this 😭😭😭😭😭
↳↳ yourusername i thought it'd be less embarrassing to own up to it
liked by tatemcrae, lando and 1,954,294 others
yourusername just a nice girl who pressed "repost" instead of "download" ♡
chappellroan beautiful as always ❤️ choosing to ignore the caption for my own sanity ♡ liked by yourusername and 238,892 others
ynfan1 THIS IS WORSE YOU DO SEE HOW THIS IS WORSE RIGHT
tatemcrae please don't post anything ever again 🙏
↳ yourusername errrm fan or hater?
username1 WHAT IS LANDO NORRIS DOING IN THE LIKES
username2 you are so pretty please don't date an f1 driver
↳ username3 CHARLES LECLERC OF ALL PEOPLE... GOD NO
liked by carlossainz55, yourusername and 1,128,942 others
charles_leclerc P3 babyyyyy 😘 good to be back here in Austin. Also, I was not an ugly kid.
maxverstappen1 Congratulations! Not sure about that last part though. I was there.
lando I BEG TO DIFFER
carlossainz55 i mean...
yourusername pretty cute dog ♡ liked by charles_leclerc and 138,895 others
↳ username1 GO AWAY
↳ username2 please what is this 😭😭😭
↳ username3 is this flirting? are they flirting? oh my god
liked by tatemcrae, charles_leclerc and 2,251,466 others
yourusername ACL weekend 2🖤 such a special night
you were so loud and rowdy Texas i miss you already but i do nottt miss that heat thank you goodbye
till next time Austin x
username1 wait charles was also in austin that weekend 👀👀
↳ username2 that means absolutely nothing pls
tatemcrae PRETTY GIRLLLL ♡ liked by yourusername and 194,637 others
username3 WAS CHARLES THERE?
username4 CHARLES LECLERC IN THE FUCKING LIKES BRO
ynfan1 IT WAS SO GREAT 🫶 PLEASE COME BACK AS SOON AS POSSIBLE
ynfan2 i'm also a ynclerc gal but why is like 90% of this comment section about him... the post has nothing to do with him...
liked by lando, ynfan1 and 365,795 others
f1gossip After weeks of rumors regarding a potential relationship between F1 Driver Charles Leclerc and pop star yourusername, a source says the pop star's management team has reached out to Charles to offer him an appearance in the star's next music video.
yourusername why do y'all keep tagging me in these
username1 YNCLERC VIDEO????????
ynfan2 "a source" brother what fucking source
username2 omg what song will it be omg
↳ username3 maybe when did you get hot because of the tiktok thing? she does seem like the person who would lean into it tbf
lando @.charles_leclerc if you don't take it can you ask her to ask me please i'm such a fan
↳ username4 lando wtf 😭😭😭
↳ yourusername noted ♡ liked by f1gossip and 37,892 others
liked by tatemcrae, charles_leclerc and 3,658,124 others
yourusername "address the rumors" please i'm on a trip with the girls reconnecting with nature and shit
tagged: tatemcrae, lola.tung
tatemcrae lovely weekend ❤️ ♡ liked by yourusername and 94,637 others
chappellroan invite me next time?!?!?!
↳ yourusername WE DID STOP BEING BUSY EVERY WEEKEND
username1 you are such an icon in every possible way
charles_leclerc pretty cute horse ♡ liked by yourusername and 1,032,126 others
↳ username2 YOU DOG WERE YOU WAITING FOR HER TO POST AN ANIMAL SO YOU COULD DO THIS????????
↳ username3 omfg
↳ username4 you did NOT
liked by yourusername, lando and 1,333,451 others
charles_leclerc Incredible weekend but I'm excited to get back to racing 🏎️
yourusername already?! ♡ liked by charles_leclerc and 149,875 others
↳ username1 I think they did it but I just can't prove it
↳ username2 oh there's something going on alright
↳ username3 please leave i'm asking nicely
username1 who took that first picture that's a candid charles doesn't post candids WHAT IS THAT WHO ARE YOU LOOKING AT LIKE THAT
lando what were you up to this weekend mate
↳ charles_leclerc nothing
↳↳ lando LIAR
liked by charles_leclerc, lando and 3,571,977 others
yourusername HOUSE TOUR VIDEO OUT NOW!!!! 🏠🏠
featuring none other than former ugly kid Charles Leclerc and beautiful beautiful Leo ❤️
p.s. @.charles_leclerc LOVED that your car self drives
tagged: charles_leclerc
username1 SHE'S FUCKING INSANE FOR THIS
tatemcrae oh you COOKED AND ATE
↳ yourusername 😘😘😘
charles_leclerc my car does NOT self drive ♡ liked by yourusername and 294,638 others
charles_leclerc thank you for having us ❤️
↳ yourusername anytime
↳↳ username2 THIS IS FLIRTING THEY'RE FLIRTING IN FRONT OF US
username3 that hand placement they're in love
username4 the way they don't even kiss and yet i've never seen stronger sexual tension in my life
ynfan1 I'M SO FUCKING SHCOKED I CANT EVEN TYPE RN
liked by username1, username2 and 486,291 others
f1gossip A couple of weeks after the "House Tour" music video was released, starring Y/N L/N and F1 Driver Charles Leclerc, the pop star has been seen in Mexico City during this race weekend. Fans wonder if the singer will be on the paddock for the Mexican GP.
username1 since when are you guys posting about random pop stars, I thought this was an f1 page...
username2 they're SO dating
username3 he deserves better than her tbh i hope it's just a coincidence
liked by charles_leclerc, scuderiaferrari and 2,164,874 others
yourusername now THAT'S an incredible weekend. thank you @.scuderiaferrari and @.lewishamilton for inviting me to the Mexican GP! ❤️
username1 she's so fucking unserious i adore her
lewishamilton Lovely to have you on the paddock! ♡ liked by yourusername and 494,638 others
scuderiaferraria please come back next weekend ♡ liked by yourusername and 187,123 others
username2 THAT'S LEO
charles_leclerc my dog, my car... lewis in the caption... okay...
↳ yourusername 💋💋💋
↳ username3 BROTHER ARE YOU JEALOUS
↳ username4 i'm 100% sure that they're going out and no one believes me
lando IT WAS SO FUN TO MEET YOU
↳ yourusername YOU TOO ❤️❤️❤️❤️
charles_leclerc posted to the stories
yourusername oh my that's not helping the dating allegations bestie
charles_leclerc blowing me a kiss doesn't help the dating allegations either 🤨
yourusername it was a kiss to the AUDIENCE. TO THE AUDIENCE. YOU JUST HAPPENED TO BE THERE.
charles_leclerc suuuuuure ♡ liked by yourusername
lando i can't believe you didn't fucking take me i was a fan way before you guys started flirting
charles_leclerc I'M SORRY
liked by charles_leclerc, tatemcrae and 4,297,163 others
yourusername THANK YOU MILAN FOR THIS AMAZING NIGHTTTT IT WAS LOVELY TO SEE YOU ❤️ and to hang out with friends!
ynfan1 DON'T THINK WE WON'T NOTICE JUST BC YOU PUT HIM DEAD LAST. I'M NOTICING. I'M NOTICING.
lando WISH I HAD BEEN THERE 💔 ♡ liked by yourusername and 194,637 others
charles_leclerc ❤️
↳ yourusername ❤️
↳↳ username1 please just hard launch already i'm losing it
tatemcrae BEAUTIFUL ♡ liked by yourusername and 94,637 others
username2 he went to milan in the middle of the season during one of the only free weekends just to see her and watch her perform... okay charles leclerc... i see you...
liked by ynfan1 and 359,264 others
f1gossip After being seen together multiple times in Italy for the past week, a source close to the F1 Driver Charles Leclerc says Charles and pop star Y/N L/N are "good friends" that have been "getting to know each other" ever since the House Tour music video was released.
username1 good friends... THEY'RE DATING
username2 i truly hope they're just friends, she doesn't deserve him
ynfan1 almost three months ago i said she wouldn't give me this pride... will she... will she date a cute guy for once...
ynfan2 "a source close to charles" WHOOOOOO
↳ username3 maybe lando is giving f1gossip fake news again
↳↳ ynfan2 omfg he so would
liked by yourusername, tatemcrae and 2,006,978 others
charles_leclerc Good week with a friend in Italy :)
tagged: yourusername
username1 SHUT UPPP OH MY GODDDDDDDDDD
username2 did she take these pictures?????? that's a look of a man in LOVE
username3 A FRIEND. A FRIEND. STOP LYING.
username4 oh so they're CUTE cute
tatemcrae @.yourusername you look fucking GORGEOUS in that picture ♡ liked by charles_leclerc and 75,264 others
yourusername cutie (talking about leo btw) ♡ liked by charles_leclerc and 349,875 others
✶✶✶
✶✶✶
liked by charles_leclerc, lando and 2,367,199 others
yourusername here again to be the BEST good luck charm the world has ever seen LET'S GO CHARLES LET'S GO #16
tagged: charles_leclerc
charles_leclerc damn, no lewis this time, huh?
↳ yourusername shut up
username1 OH MY GOD GO AWAYYYYY
scuderiaferrari ❤️❤️❤️ ♡ liked by yourusername and 147,369 others
lando bring me some good luck too??? please sign my cap or something
↳ charles_leclerc okay back off a little
↳↳ lando jealous bitch
liked by scuderiaferrari, ynfan1 and 1,297,385 others
yourusername FUCKING CHARLES WIN CHARLES WIN CHARLES WIN I'M SHAKING OH MY GODDDDDDDDDDDDDD MY MAN WON THE GP FUCKING CONGRATULATIONS
username1 fyi for those getting here late she posted this like 5 minutes after he won
username2 YOUR MAN?
↳ username3 LITERALLY WHY IS NO ONE MENTIONING THIS
username4 these pop stars are always ruining sports why do they keep showing HER on tv
liked by tatemcrae, ynfan1 and 789,456 others
f1gossip BREAKING! Y/N L/N and Charles Leclerc caught kissing after his Las Vegas GP win.
ynfan1 she fucking did it i can't believe this i'm so proud
username1 oh my god
ynfan2 PACK IT UP. OH MY GOD.
tatemcrae FUCKING FINALLY ♡ liked by f1gossip and 47,369 others
liked by yourusername, f1gossip and 3,657,489 others
charles_leclerc P1 AND got to kiss the prettiest girl on the paddock. Win after win around here. Thank you so much, Vegas!
tagged: yourusername
yourusername i love how subtle you are
↳ charles_leclerc you called me your man and kissed me in front of everyone
↳↳ yourusername because you OWED me that kiss. that friend kiss.
↳↳↳ charles_leclerc please don't tell anyone i said that
ynfan1 love this btw might start watching f1 now
liked by charles_leclerc, carlossainz55 and 4,789,321 others
yourusername ferrari red ❤️
he was an ugly kid, now he's my sexy man. everyone thank that milisecond when my finger slipped and i pressed "repost" instead of "download"
tagged: charles_leclerc
tatemcrae CUTIESSSSS ♡ liked by yourusername and 47,369 others
chappellroan thank GOD
ynfan1 WHAT A WONDERFUL COUPLE
charles_leclerc i was NOT an ugly kid
↳ maxverstappen1 Not sure about that.
↳ yourusername i've seen the pictures babe, pack it up
check out my masterlist!
hiii hope you enjoyed it! this was my first ever f1 fic kinda nervous...
accepting requests if anyone has any ideas :)
your ex cheated. you dumped him. simple, clean, no tears—just a block, a race win, and an innocent instagram post. you are over it. but your rookies? not so much.
somehow, they’ve formed a secret matchmaking club and are now trying to set you up with half the grid. you know. max knows. (he’s your very smitten, very amused boyfriend.) but neither of you say a word.
because watching them try? is way too entertaining.
fc : luvstruck on ig (love a tattooed baddie as a face claim)
original request is here.
(a/n) : this was so much fun for me. i hope you all enjoy! love youuuu
—
yourusername
liked by kimi.antonelli, olliebearman, isackhadjar and 4,550,700 others.
yourusername : his loss.
—
view 285,003 other comments.
username000 : did she finally leave that ugly demonic man?????
liked by yourusername
↳ username1 : oh thank god. we got our baddie back🙏🏻
liked by yourusername
yourbff : man just couldn’t handle having a baddie. the funny thing is he can’t watch the race without seeing your name or face 😏
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : he shall never know peace.
liked by yourbff
yoursister : i can hear the streets callin’🧏♀️
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : call me pluto cuz im alr in them
liked by yoursister
↳ yoursister : where are your children? its rare i make it here before they do.
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : oh they will be here within like the next 10 seconds
liked by yoursister
↳ olliebearman : heyyyy so what’s his address? so i can send a hitman.
liked by yoursister, yourbff and yourusername
isackhadjar : if i see that man IT IS ON SIGHT.
liked by yourusername
lando : if i were him id never leave the house ever again, not just because of the 6 angry children at my door but just out of sheer embarrassment from what i fumbled.
liked by yourusername
kimi.antonelli : im small but i can bite ankles. he is a dead man. im going to kill him
liked by yourusername
gabrielbortoleto_ : yn i cannot handle these vague captions. pls answer the group chat. im spiraling and about to hire someone to do horrible things.
liked by yourusername
↳ isackhadjar : i feel sick to my stomach.
liked by yourusername
↳ olliebearman : i just threw up
liked by yourusername
↳ kimi.antonelli : i am pacing
liked by yourusername
↳ jackdoohan : just threw my phone across the room
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : guys, im fine. truly. it was for the best. i will call you all later!
↳ kimi.antonelli : yn did he hurt you?? i destroy his entire bloodline
↳ isackhadjar : stop lying. you are ignoring our texts. you never do.
↳ olliebearman : ok well he hurt you so we will just find him and kill him. its all taken care of
↳ gabrielbortoleto_ : cannot believe you are just ghosting your six emotionally unstable children.
username07 : the rookies falling apart in the comments while yn is unfazed is taking me OUT.
alex_albon : he peaked in high school and drives a toyota 💀 and now fumbled an f1 driver…him being him is punishment enough
liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername : i can’t with you 💀
oscarpiastri : absolutely no clue what happened but i instantly take your side. he is a dick.
liked by yourusername
alexandrasaintmleux : he fumbled so i could have you😇
↳ kimi.antonelli : you let us in or we break the door down
↳ yourusername : im sure that breaking and entering is already somewhere on oliver’s crime list so lets not add to it. come on over kids.
↳ gabrielbortoleto_ : YAYYYYYYYY
↳ jackdoohan : on my way! (already outside of your apartment)
↳ isackhadjar : i have been sitting in the hallway since this was posted.
↳ yourusername : get in here🙄
username15 : these kids love their grid mum 🤧
—
flashback
You hadn’t expected the night to end in a breakup. But maybe you should’ve.
It started with his phone—left unlocked, screen facing up, buzzing like a warning. You hadn’t meant to look. But you did. A message preview lit up like a punch to the chest.
last night was the best;) miss you already xx
You didn’t open it. You didn’t need to. The way your stomach dropped told you everything you weren’t ready to admit.
You sat there for a few seconds, staring at the screen. His voice filtered in from the bathroom—some off-key humming, clueless and careless. It made you feel numb. Or maybe free. You weren’t sure which yet.
When he walked back in, grinning like he still had you, you held the phone up.
“You should really be more careful with your passwords,” you said calmly.
His expression dropped. “Babe, it’s not what it looks like—”
“It looks like you’re sleeping with someone who isn’t me.”
You didn’t yell. Didn’t cry. Didn’t even let him finish his half-assed explanation. You just grabbed your heels, your pride, and your keys, and walked out the door like it owed you nothing.
You texted your girls on the way out.
club. now. i finally left the bum.
By midnight, you were wrapped in black mesh and revenge-red lipstick.
The bass vibrated through your bones, and the margarita in your hand burned in the best way. Your friends were already dancing like the world was ending, and for the first time in months, you felt alive.
And then you saw him. Max.
Standing at the bar with a half-finished drink and that usual unreadable expression—until he looked up and saw you.
His eyes flicked over you once, slow and deliberate, before his lips curled into the smallest smirk. He lifted his drink in silent acknowledgment, and you raised your brow like, Don’t test me. But he didn’t walk away.
No, he walked toward you—unhurried, completely sure of himself, like he’d been waiting for you to show up all night.
“You good?” he asked, leaning in just enough to be heard over the music.
You shrugged, grinning. “Better than ever.”
He studied you for a second longer. “You look free. Like you finally let go of that one thing that was dragging you down.”
You met his gaze head-on. “Maybe I did. But I don’t regret it.”
Something about your voice—clear, certain, maybe a little dangerous—made him nod slowly. Like he knew that version of you. Like he’d met her before in himself.
He didn’t say anything for a moment, just offered his hand. “Come dance with me.”
And God help you, you said yes. One song bled into another, and suddenly you were dancing like your skin was on fire, like the world couldn’t touch you anymore. Max wasn’t just keeping up—he matched you. Step for step, stare for stare, like the two of you spoke the same language in a rhythm only you could hear.
You didn’t remember leaning in. You didn’t remember whose hand touched whose waist first.
But you do remember the way his lips brushed yours, soft and warm and slow at first—like he was asking a question. And how you answered with a kiss that tasted like tequila and freedom.
When you finally pulled away, breathless, Max just looked at you with that same amused smirk and said, “Definitely his loss.”
You laughed. You weren’t just fine. You were starting over.
—
The sunlight hit your face before the memory did. Warm. Gentle. Relentless.
You blinked a few times, groggy and still wrapped in that heavy limbed softness that comes from too many drinks and not enough regrets. The room smelled faintly of something distinctly Max—clean, expensive, and just a little smug.
You rolled over. He was already awake.
Lying there, one arm folded behind his head, chest bare, the sheets dangerously low on his hips. His other hand held his phone, which he casually tossed aside when he noticed you looking.
“Morning,” he said, voice rough, sleepy.
You groaned into the pillow. “Tell me we didn’t do something stupid.”
Max tilted his head. “Define stupid.”
Your eyes narrowed. He smiled.
“We danced,” he said. “You kissed me. Twice. And then you tried to start a debate about tire compounds in the elevator.”
You winced. “Sounds like me.”
He laughed under his breath, that low rumble sending a shiver down your spine.
“But no,” he added, softer this time. “You were upset. So I brought you back here. You changed into my shirt, stole all the covers, and fell asleep with your face in my shoulder.”
You blinked. “I didn’t kiss you again?”
He hesitated. “You almost did. Then you said something about how ‘this doesn’t count when you’re drunk’ and knocked out cold.”
You groaned again. “God. Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said, without missing a beat. “It was the best night I’ve had in a long time.”
You looked over at him, eyes soft. “You sure? I was kind of a mess.”
Max shrugged. “You were real. That’s what I want to see.”
For a second, the air stilled between you. No jokes. No tension. Just quiet understanding. You’d kissed him the night before thinking it was a one time thing—sparked by adrenaline, tequila, and heartbreak. But lying here now, in his bed, wearing his shirt and breathing in his space.
He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. “So… breakfast?”
You blinked. “You’re offering to feed me now?”
“I’m offering to bribe you with pancakes so you don’t ghost me later.”
You smirked, climbing out of bed and grabbing your phone.
“I don’t ghost,” you said, pausing by the door. “But fair warning—once I post a thirst trap, our children are going to lose their minds.”
Max grinned, already reaching for his shirt. “Perfect. Let them panic.”
And as you headed to the bathroom, still wearing nothing but his t-shirt and a smirk, you realized something—You really, really didn’t miss your ex.
—
present day
It’s been a few weeks since that night. Since tequila and heartbreak and Max Verstappen.
You’ve seen him a few times since then—quiet dinners in hotel rooms, lingering handholds between debriefs, shared glances across the paddock that made your stomach flip like a rookie on their debut lap. It’s easy, exciting, safe in the strangest way. No pressure, no labels.
And somehow, for once, no noise. Just the two of you, figuring it out behind closed doors. Which is exactly why you should’ve known that post would send the entire grid into DEFCON 1. Because you barely have time to finish brushing your teeth when it sounds like your whole front door is being broken down.
You freeze, toothbrush halfway to your mouth. Then—
DING DING DING DING.
“YN OPEN THE DOOR RIGHT NOW.”
You peek through the peephole. And there they are. All six of them. Kimi. Ollie. Isack. Jack. Franco. Gabriel.
Every last one of them in complete disarray. Jack’s hair is still wet. Gabriel’s holding a box of oreo’s, one stuffed into his mouth. Franco has absolutely no shoes on.
You blink. “Good morning?”
“You can’t just post that and disappear,” Ollie blurts.
“Disrespectful,” Franco agrees. “Honestly rude.”
“You owe us answers,” Jack adds, pushing inside like this is a crime scene. “Did he cheat? Did you dump him? Do I need to start training for violence?”
“I’m already in shape for violence,” Isack mutters.
“I brought Oreo’s,” Gabriel says, holding them up as a gift of peace.
Kimi just crosses his arms and stares you down. “What happened.”
You close the door behind them and sigh.
“Nothing crazy,” you say, voice steady. “I found out he wasn’t who I thought he was. So I ended it.”
You head to the kitchen and start making coffee. Like this isn’t the opening scene of a Netflix special where the 2025 F1 Rookies begin a manhunt.
“But… are you okay?” Franco asks gently.
You turn and smile. “Honestly? I’m great. It’s probably the healthiest decision I’ve made in years.”
Kimi leans against the counter. “You don’t have to be fine right now, you know.”
You sip your coffee and shrug. “I am fine. Genuinely. I don’t miss him. There’s nothing to cry over.”
There’s a beat of silence. Six sets of eyes narrow, exchanging looks like they’ve rehearsed this. You can feel the shift in the air. The whisper of an unspoken plan forming. But no one says it. No one says “we’re going to find you someone better.” No one says “we’ve already made a list.”
Instead, Gabriel sits beside you. “Okay. Well, if you’re fine… we’re still staying for brunch.”
“Obviously,” Franco says.
“Non-negotiable,” Isack adds.
Ollie leans forward, fake-casual. “So… no one new in the picture yet?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Are you taking attendance for my love life now?”
He shrugs. “Just making conversation.”
You laugh. “Well, no. There’s nothing to report. I’m enjoying being single.”
Half-true. You take another sip of coffee and hide your smirk. They all nod slowly. Quiet. Suspicious. Too quiet.
Gabriel’s already texting someone under the table. Jack’s typing into his Notes app. Franco looks like he’s trying to remember every eligible man on the grid. Kimi is definitely plotting a background check. You say nothing.
Because letting them believe you’re freshly single, emotionally vulnerable, and in need of saving? Is way too fun to correct.
—
The brunch was meant to be a quick thing. A little comfort, a little check-in, maybe a pastry or two.
But somewhere between the third round of pancakes and Kimi yelling at Jack for putting ketchup on eggs, it turned into something else.
You knew you were doomed the moment Ollie declared, mouth full of toast.
“You’re not allowed to be alone today. We’re going with you.”
You’d laughed. Thought it was a joke. But now it’s two hours later, and they’re all still here. You walk into the training facility like usual, hoodie up, bag slung over your shoulder, calm and collected. Behind you? Six men trailing in a chaotic single file like toddlers on a leash.
Gabriel’s rapidly texting on his phone. Franco’s wearing sunglasses indoors. Jack’s humming. Isack is trying to arm wrestle Kimi mid walk. Ollie keeps speed walking ahead of you, then backpedaling like a mall cop on edge.
“You guys don’t actually have to stay,” you say for the fifth time, mildly exasperated.
“Yes, we do,” Ollie insists. “What if your ex tries to talk to you again?”
“I blocked him.”
“What if he makes a burner account?”
“I blocked five burner accounts.”
Kimi snorts. “I told you she’s too smart for him.”
Isack stretches like he’s preparing for a UFC match. “Still. You’re emotionally delicate right now.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I’m emotionally fine.”
“She’s in denial,” Jack whispers. “Classic phase two.”
You groan, swiping your pass at the entrance and holding the door open for your band of feral ducklings.
—
You’re halfway through your warm-up laps when it happens. You jog around the corner of the facility and pass by a small group of guys—some local trainers and junior athletes. You nod politely at them, earbuds in, barely noticing.
But they notice you. One of them—tall, maybe twenty-five—stares for a second too long. Not creepy. Just curious. And apparently, that’s enough to start World War III. Because from across the room, you hear a voice yell.
“HEY. EYES UP, BRO. THAT’S MY MOM.”
You stop in your tracks. Spin around. Ollie is storming toward the guy with a hand on his chest like he’s about to deliver the sermon of the year.
The poor guy looks so confused. “I—what?”
“She’s a national treasure,” Ollie says, dead serious. “You don’t ogle national treasures.”
You jog back over, cheeks already burning from embarrassment. “Ollie. He just wanted an autograph.”
“No he didn’t.”
“Yes. He’s holding a pen.”
The guy timidly raises his hand. “I just wanted to say hi. I’m a fan.”
Ollie glares. You sigh and pat the fan on the shoulder. “It’s okay. I appreciate it.”
Behind you, Isack leans toward Franco. “Should we start screening everyone she interacts with?”
“Already doing it,” Franco says, typing something into his phone. “I have a form.”
—
By mid-afternoon, they’ve followed you to recovery. Then to the simulator. Then back to your place, where they claim they’re “just checking your locks.” Kimi installs a door camera. Jack offers to sleep on your couch. Gabriel keeps offering to cook for you.
Every time you so much as look at your phone, someone leans over your shoulder.
Ollie squints, head on my shoulder. “Who’s that?”
You sigh and chuckle. “My nutritionist.”
Franco looks up at you. “Okay. What’s his intention?”
”My nutrition.”
Eventually, you collapse onto the couch, arms folded, finally fed up.
“Guys,” you say flatly, “I’m not a baby deer in a storm. I am fine. No one needs to be screened. I don’t need a 24-hour security team. And I definitely don’t need—”
Ding. Your phone lights up. A message from Max.
You alive or are they still holding you hostage?
You smile at the screen—just a little. Just enough for Isack to notice.
He leans forward. “Who was that.”
“Just… a friend.”
Six heads whip around.
“WHO.”
You roll your eyes and stand. “I’m going to shower. Please, for the love of god, do not follow me.”
They groan like they’re being abandoned on a battlefield. And as you shut the bathroom door behind you, you hear Jack whisper.
“We need to escalate. Operation Boyfriend starts now.”
—
f1gossipgirls
785,090 likes.
f1gossipgirls : Mercedes driver YN LN made her first paddock appearance since her rumored breakup — and if anyone’s heartbroken, it’s definitely not her. Looking radiant and unbothered, she was welcomed with a big hug from teammate Kimi Antonelli and closely tailed by Isack Hadjar, who appeared glued to her side all day.
The real kicker? Her full squad of rookie ducklings followed her everywhere — from the garage to the grid walk to the drivers parade, forming what can only be described as a personal security detail (or cult? unclear). But we love this new and radiant Grid Mum!
—
view 185,090 other comments.
username000 : kimi hugging her like a baby koala was not on my 2025 bingo card but i’ll take it
username00 : ollie: “she doesn’t need us” also ollie: breathing down the neck of anyone who looks at her for more than 0.2 seconds 😭
username0 : franco, gabriel, jack, ollie, kimi, and isack acting like sons to a woman only a few years older than them… peak formula 1 content
username1 : Grid Mum is such an accurate title like they would all FOLLOW HER INTO BATTLE 😭
username5 : i’ve never been more proud of a woman i’ve never met in my LIFE. she won. she’s glowing. she has six rookies as her army. iconic behavior only.
—
The date with Carlos was scheduled with precision.
Ollie booked the restaurant himself, despite forgetting to ask whether you were allergic to seafood. Isack made a shared Google Doc of outfit suggestions. Franco literally coached Carlos on what not to say during the car ride there. Gabriel told you to “just act natural,” which was rich coming from someone who panics ordering coffee.
Carlos, for his part, handled it like a champ.
“You know they sent me a PDF,” he tells you, raising an eyebrow as the waiter pours wine.
You blink. “A PDF?”
He nods, fighting a smile. “Title was ‘So You Think You Can Date YN.’”
You nearly choke on your water. “I swear to God.”
He grins. “Very detailed. They had a whole section on things not to mention. Like your ex. Or 2019 qualifying in Monaco.”
“Fair,” you say, smirking.
To his credit, Carlos is very good at this. Charming, confident, a little teasing, but never pushy. He asks about your training, your favorite circuits, the meaning behind the small tattoo on your wrist. He compliments your eyes like he means it.
And for a second, you let yourself lean into it. Until you spot them. Behind Carlos, tucked into a booth near the corner?
The Ducklings.
Poorly disguised in sunglasses, hoodies, and baseball caps—like a weird boyband on the run.
Jack has a menu held upside down. Gabriel is clearly filming on his phone. Ollie is wearing a fake moustache. Franco waves when you make eye contact. Kimi sits with his arms crossed like a bodyguard. And Isack’s just… staring at Carlos. Like he wants to wrestle him across the table.
You bite back a laugh. Carlos follows your gaze, glancing over his shoulder. He turns back, grinning.
“Should we tell them I saw them an hour ago?”
“No,” you say, sipping your wine. “Let them have their fun.”
He raises his glass. “To the worst spies in F1 history.”
—
You don’t know how they convinced Pierre to do this. Maybe it was Franco’s charm. Maybe it was the rookie group chat descending into madness after “Carlos Date Day.” Or maybe Pierre’s just here for the chaos, as always.
Either way, here you are. Dress. Dinner. Dim lighting. And Pierre, in an offensively good shirt, holding out a chair like he was born for this.
“I must say,” he smirks, “the moment they approached me with the idea, I said finally. Someone’s letting me take the prettiest driver on the grid out.”
You snort. “Do you use that line often?”
He grins, absolutely unapologetic. “Only when it’s true.”
You sit, trying not to smile too much. The restaurant is all low lighting and flickering candles—Pierre’s choice, obviously. He orders a bottle of wine in French, and the waiter actually blushes. You already regret letting Franco be in charge of the location.
“So,” you say, narrowing your eyes playfully, “what did the Ducklings promise you?”
“Ah,” he leans back dramatically, “they said if I sweep you off your feet, I get Kimi’s sim time for the month.”
You blink. “That’s… weirdly generous.”
“I know.” He raises his glass. “They’re getting desperate.”
You clink. “They are insane.”
“Insanely devoted to you,” he corrects.
You pause. Let that sit. Because he’s not wrong. And that’s when you spot them. The Ducklings. At it again.
Ollie and Isack behind the wine rack. Kimi pretending to be a server with an apron and a scowl. Jack crouching behind a decorative plant that is way too small. Gabriel and Franco sitting two tables over with fake menus covering their faces, whispering like spies.
You sigh into your wine. “They are so bad at hiding.”
Pierre glances over, raises an eyebrow, and smirks. “Should we give them something to talk about?”
You lean forward, amused. “Like what?”
He doesn’t answer. Just raises a brow and slowly reaches across the table to take your hand, smooth and steady. In the background, someone gasps audibly. Definitely Isack. Pierre doesn’t flinch.
“They need to believe I’m a threat,” he says lowly, thumb brushing your knuckles. “Otherwise, what’s the fun?”
You shake your head, trying not to laugh. “You’re dangerous.”
“I’m French,” he says with a wink. “Same thing.”
—
over with the rookies…
“HE’S HOLDING HER HAND. HE’S HOLDING HER HAND.” Ollie panics into his little earpiece.
Isack sighs. “Deploying emotional damage protocol. Permission to interfere?”
Kimi sets the glass of water down at the table he is pretending to serve. “Negative. We observe. We do not assassinate.”
Gabriel smiles from behind the menu. “She just looks so pretty. I wouldn’t be able to let go either.”
Franco starts panicking and fanning himself with said menu. “Guys. She’s smiling.”
Jack puts his head down. “It’s Carlos all over again. This is a spiral.”
Ollie face palms. “I told you we should’ve gone with Alex first. He would’ve been soft. Safe. Pierre has an agenda.”
—
Pierre’s still holding your hand when you laugh—genuine and loud and a little tipsy. The date has been fun, even if it feels like an elaborate school play. He’s charming, flirty, just the right amount of dangerous. But still…
Not the one who sent you a photo of your coffee order this morning. Not the one who smirks every time the rookies panic. Not the one who hasn’t stopped texting you versions of “good luck surviving them” all day.
You finish dessert—chocolate tart and rookie glares—and stand with Pierre as the waiter brings the bill. He leans close, lips brushing your cheek.
“Merci, chérie,” he murmurs, warm and quiet. “This was fun.”
And it was. But the second you step outside and the rookies swarm you, dramatic as ever—
Ollie checks you over quickly, holding your arms. “ARE YOU OKAY? DID HE POISON YOU WITH COMPLIMENTS?”
Isack rushes over, out of breath. “DO YOU HAVE EMOTIONAL WHIPLASH??”
Gabriel reaches up and brushes your hair. “Did he touch your hair???”
You just laugh, shrugging them off as you walk to the car. Because even though Pierre was perfect on paper— He wasn’t Max. And maybe the rookies haven’t figured it out yet.
—
You were promised a casual night.
“Low pressure,” Gabriel said.
“Light-hearted,” Jack promised.
“Just Alex,” Franco winked. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Famous last words. Because ten minutes into sitting across from Alex Albon at a cozy Thai restaurant — one he picked himself — you clock all six rookies sitting in a booth across the room in matching black hoodies like they’re in a rogue choir.
Alex leans in, smiling wide as he watches you clock them. “So. We’re ignoring the Secret Service detail?”
“Apparently,” you deadpan. “Their idea of ‘stealth’ is coordinated outfits and Jack holding a menu upside down.”
Alex chuckles, offering you a piece of spring roll with his chopsticks. “I’ll admit, I kind of love the chaos. Makes me feel like I’m in a sitcom.”
You grin, accepting it. “Is this their idea of soft-launching us?”
“Please,” Alex says, mock offended. “If I was soft-launching you, it’d be on a boat, golden hour lighting, maybe a quirky caption.”
You laugh out loud. Truth be told, this is the most normal of the “dates” so far. Alex is sweet, calm, and effortlessly funny. He talks to you like you’ve known each other for years. No pressure, no forced charm. Just vibing over pad see ew and Thai iced teas. Still, something’s… off. Not with him, exactly. Just… something.
—
duckling commentary…
Ollie whispers lowly. “Why is she laughing that hard? What did he say? I need a transcript.”
Isack squints. “She looks relaxed. TOO relaxed.”
Kimi shrugs. “He’s got soft energy. I’m not threatened.”
Franco sighs. “But what if she likes soft energy.”
Gabriel with a mouth full. “I like Alex. He’s soft. Like tofu.”
Jack moves the menu from his face. “I will literally flip this table if he touches her hand.”
—
back to you and mr. albon…
“You know,” Alex says, mid-bite, “I told them this was ridiculous. I said, ‘She’s not looking for someone. She’s got that look in her eye like she already found someone and hasn’t told them yet.’”
You go still.
He looks up at you. “Sorry—was that too much?”
You stare at him for a second.
And then: “No. That was… very on point.”
Alex smiles, a little softer now. “It’s not me, is it?”
You shake your head slowly. “No.”
He sits back, letting out a small breath. “Didn’t think so. Just wanted to be sure before I told Isack to stop plotting date number four.”
You laugh. Like full body laugh.
“God, they’re so intense.”
“They’re obsessed with you,” Alex says easily. “I get it. You’re kind of their mum. But also their queen. Their general. Their—”
“Duck wrangler.”
“Exactly.”
You sip your drink. “You’re handling this well.”
“I like being a decoy,” Alex shrugs. “Gives me a front row seat to the Max Verstappen Situation.”
You choke. “The what?”
He smirks. “Oh, come on. You don’t think we all saw him volunteer for the draft room? He showed up like he’d already won.”
You press your lips together. “It’s… complicated.”
“Is it?” Alex grins. “Because I think the only people who haven’t figured it out are the rookies. And honestly? I’m not telling them. Watching this slow unraveling is the best thing to happen to the paddock since Pierre got stuck in that bathroom in Baku.”
—
You and Alex step out of the restaurant into the night air, the six rookies immediately materializing from inside.
Isack approaches quickly. “Rate the date. Out of 10. Be honest.”
Ollie checks you over, again. “Did he hold you?”
Kimi crosses his arms. “I brought pepper spray in case things got weird.”
Gabriel sighs dramatically. “Alex, are you in love with her?”
Jack stares at you. “Was it mid?? Be real.”
Franco stares down Alex. “You better not hurt her or I’ll flatten you on the sidewalk.”
Alex just throws his hands up. “Guys. I’m literally the safe option. You picked me for vibe control.”
—
The place is quiet. Max picked a rooftop bar just outside the city — warm lights, open air, panoramic views, and most importantly—no cameras. Well. Except the ones hidden behind a concrete planter across the deck. You glance toward it and spot the very obvious outline of Ollie’s curly hair. You don’t even say anything. Max sees it too. He smirks.
“They really don’t know how to blend in, huh?”
“Nope.”
“I think he is wearing the fake mustache again.”
“I give them points for commitment.”
You clink your glasses together — you with a ginger beer, Max with something dark and still half-ignored — and settle into the kind of silence that feels earned, not awkward. The breeze lifts your hair slightly. His eyes follow the movement, just for a second.
“You’ve been humoring them,” he says after a while.
You glance at him. “You’ve been letting them spiral.”
He grins. “I don’t intervene in things I already won.”
Your heart does a thing. You sip your drink to cover it.
—
meanwhile at the rookie watchtower…
Jack smiles, looking satisfied. “Okay, we’re officially in the final boss round.”
Isack eyes the both of you. “Do we think he’s actually playing the game or just… winning by default?”
Gabriel shrugs. “He’s not even trying to flirt and it’s working. I hate it here.”
Ollie squints at Max. “He’s got that smug ‘I already kissed her’ look—”
Franco shrieks. “Wait. Has he???”
Kimi eyes all of the boys. “Do we interfere if tongues happen.”
All of them erupt. “YES.”
—
back with you and maxie…
Back at the table, Max leans forward slightly, eyes on you like he’s choosing every word carefully.
“I’m glad you let them do this.”
“Yeah?”
“Gave me a front-row seat to your smile. And their chaos. Win-win.”
You raise an eyebrow. “So what’s your plan? You know they’re watching.”
He shrugs. “Not here to impress them.”
“Oh?”
Max sets his drink down.
“I’m here to kiss you in front of them and end this game.”
You go still. Heart? Racing.
“You’re serious.”
He stands. Offers his hand. You take it. And then he pulls you in gently, tilting your chin up just enough, and kisses you like it’s not even a question anymore. Like it never was. Warm. Certain. Slow. Soft. And behind you—
“OH MY GOD.”
“THAT’S ILLEGAL.”
“THAT’S AGAINST THE RULES.”
You don’t even break the kiss until Max pulls back with a laugh, turning just slightly toward the human pile of rookies currently losing their minds behind a planter.
His arm stays looped around your waist.
“That’s against the rules!” Ollie yells again, hands flailing.
Isack looks like he is going to faint. “I NEED TO SIT DOWN.”
Gabriel clutching his chest. “I think I just blacked out.”
Kimi smirked. “I knew it. I KNEW IT.”
Ollie crumbles quickly. “They made us schedule a date with Alex when she was already WITH HIM—”
You turn toward Max, cheeks warm, heart light, still half-shocked and entirely melted.
“That was… dramatic.”
“Worth it.”
“You really planned to one-up the rookies?”
He grins. “No. I planned to end the game before they tried to match you with Lando.”
You laugh and kiss him again — brief, bright, completely yours. Alongside the two of you, six ducklings begin planning a joint wedding speech.
—
maxverstappen1
liked by gabrielbortoleto_, olliebearman, kimi.antonelli and 5,505,023 others.
maxverstappen1 : grid mom and dad making it official. love you, schat❤️
tagged : yourusername
—
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gabrielbortoleto_ : i feel like i found out santa isn’t real but also found out my parents are canceling the divorce on the same day.
liked by yourusername and maxverstappen1
↳ yourusername : idek what that means but okay my little ducky.
↳ gabrielbortoleto_ : im betrayed but overjoyed
liked by yourusername and maxverstappen1
francolapinto : mama y papa
liked by yourusername and maxverstappen1
olliebearman : we scheduled dates. we made color-coded spreadsheets. we googled how to flirt respectfully. AND YOU WERE ALREADY KISSING.
liked by yourusername and maxverstappen1
↳ isackhadjar : i was ready to flatten pierre with my car for this woman. AND THIS IS HOW YOU TREAT ME???
liked by yourusername and maxverstappen1
↳ jackdoohan : we booked a RESTAURANT. i WORE A COLLARED SHIRT. i told a waiter “it’s her big day.” for WHAT.
liked by yourusername and maxverstappen1
↳ gabrielbortoleto_ : i was her emotional support water bottle holder. do you know how much responsibility that is???
liked by yourusername and maxverstappen1
↳ kimi.antonelli : i knew. i always knew. but i let the others spiral because it was funny.
liked by yourusername and maxverstappen1
↳ olliebearman : don’t even talk. i wrote her a DATING PROFILE. with bullet points.
liked by yourusername and maxverstappen1
↳ isackhadjar : they KISSED ON THE DATE I WAS HIDING BEHIND A PLANT FOR. i need financial compensation.
liked by yourusername and maxverstappen1
↳ olliebearman : HEY. i wore that itchy ass mustache four dates in a ROW.
liked by yourusername and maxverstappen1
↳ yourusername : i would trust you all with my life. just not my love life ❤️
—
bonus scene!
The checkered flag waves. You don’t even hear the roar of the crowd at first — not over the static-crackling voice of your race engineer, screaming so loud he’s probably broken something in the garage.
“P1! YN, that’s P1 — you did it! YOU BLOODY DID IT!”
You’re not breathing. Your hands are shaking around the wheel, your visor fogged slightly with heat and adrenaline. You let out a noise — somewhere between a yell and a laugh and a sob — and punch the air so hard you might’ve dislocated something. And then another voice cuts in. Kimi. Completely unprofessional. Totally euphoric. “GRID MOM WINS. THE GRID MOM WON!!!”
You let out a laugh, heart racing, vision blurring. Your car rolls over the finish line and onto the cooldown lap, your fingers white-knuckled around the wheel.
By the time you’re climbing out of the car, the world is already screaming. Fans at the fence chant your name. The Mercedes crew is piling over the pit wall like lunatics.
You tear your helmet off and throw your arms in the air. You’ve barely taken a full breath when you’re tackled from the side — Kimi, jumping on you like a golden retriever with too much kinetic energy.
“I’M SO PROUD OF YOU,” he yells, muffled by your shoulder.
“You got your first podium!” you laugh, hugging him just as tightly.
“And YOU WON. So, respectfully — I will get in line, this is your moment.”
He lets you go with one last enthusiastic pat on the back, and that’s when you see him.
Max. Standing a few paces away, helmet off, hair messy, eyes only on you.
The way he looks at you? Like you painted the sky.
He doesn’t rush you. Just walks forward with that calm, smug patience he always has — but when you meet him halfway, wrapping your arms around his neck and laughing into his shoulder, he lifts you slightly off the ground without hesitation.
“You’re unbelievable,” he says softly into your hair.
You pull back just enough to see his face. “Still think you let me win?”
He grins. “Only because you’re hot.”
The champagne sprays. The flashbulbs explode. The crowd is still roaring when Max steps off his podium block, strides across to you — and kisses you. It's not subtle. It's not quiet. It's a hard launch in high definition. He pulls back only slightly, curls his arm around your waist. Your eyes go wide, but you're already smiling. Laughing, even. You press your forehead to his and exhale one word through your grin.
“Dramatic.”
“Correct.”
But before either of you can bask in it for too long— CHAOS.
Suddenly, there’s yelling. Sprinting. A commotion behind the barriers. And then— A ROOKIE STAMPEDE.
Ollie is first. He launches himself up the side of the podium steps like it’s the final stage of Ninja Warrior. Franco and Gabriel follow, scaling like climbers on caffeine.
Jack does a running leap. Isack vaults the barrier with no regard for ankle safety. And Kimi, of course, simply walks up — nods at the FIA official like this is normal, and joins the crowd. They pile onto the podium. No one stops them. Security gives up. Fans are shrieking.
Franco hugs your waist and yells, “MY MOM WON!!”
Jack flings an arm around Max and shouts, “DAD HARD LAUNCHED! HISTORY HAS BEEN MADE!”
Ollie collapses onto the floor of the podium and moans, “I feel so emotionally unsafe right now, but I’m also so proud.”
Gabriel is taking selfies mid-hug.Isack is clinging to your arm like it’s the last flotation device on the Titanic.
Kimi sighed happily. “It was time. The people needed to know.”
And in the middle of it all, Max just throws an arm around your shoulders and says with a completely straight face. “These are our children now.”
—
Later that night, Max throws his phone on the hotel bed and flops down beside you, still smiling.
“I think we broke the Internet,” you murmur.
“I think we adopted six grown men.”
You laugh. “Worth it.”
He turns his head, grinning. “They love you, you know.”
“I know.”
You pause. “They love us.”
He kisses you again — soft this time, slow — and the world outside fades. For now, it’s just the two of you. And the six rookies already planning family brunch in the group chat.
summary: charles adores the sweet treats you bake just for him. he does not, however, like sharing them, which becomes a problem when the rest of the grid starts to get jealous of his baked snacks.
contains: a bit of a grid fic!, everyone wants reader's baked treats, fluff, established relationship, crack, JEALOUS!CHARLES
word count: 2.3k
a/n: hiiii besties!!! this one is just cute and for funsies <3 also i don't know how to bake or to make healthy recipes at all so just give me a chance here and ignore all inconsistencies okay. hope you guys enjoy, likes and reblogs are appreciated!
masterlist!
"Oh, thanks, but I don't eat sweets."
"They're low on sugar and high on fiber. Are you sure?"
George does a double take at those words, eyes widening as he takes a second look at the jar you're offering him. You smile peacefully, and he glances at Charles standing behind you, arms crossed, a smug expression on his face.
"How did you make low sugar cookies? Cookies are basically all sugar," he asks, the confusion clear in his voice, taking a step closer to stare into the jar. "And those don't look like oatmeal."
"They aren't oatmeal," you agree. "They're vanilla."
George blinks.
"How?"
You grin.
"Secret recipe." And then you extend your arm in his direction to offer him a cookie again, and George glances at your boyfriend behind you suspiciously before taking one.
You take a few steps back to stand beside Charles as the two of you watch George chew the cookie, and Charles smiles when George's eyes widen in surprise.
"This is really good," surprise coats his every word, "like, really good."
"I know, right?" Your boyfriend nods, eyes sparkling with pride. "I could eat maybe a thousand of those per day."
"You'd shit yourself because of all the fiber, love."
"Still."
George is about to ask for another one when Charles's name is called by an engineer further inside, and then the two of you wave goodbye and start walking away, discussing your baked goods while he stands there, the taste of those cookies still lingering on his tongue.
He glares at the back of Charles's head for taking you back to his garage before he could grab another cookie. Or two. Or ten.
Maybe he needs to hang around the Ferrari garage more often.
Lando is sitting in the cool-down room next to Charles when he sees him snacking on a little square that looks to be covered in chocolate, filled with nuts, and, quite honestly, delicious.
He throws one of his gloves at the Monegasque to grab his attention, face full of interest.
"What are you eating?"
Charles swallows with a content sigh before answering.
"These energy bars my girlfriend baked for me. I don't know how she makes them, but they have a bunch of protein and my nutritionist approved. I think they're vegan too. Do you want one?"
"What the hell, why not?"
Charles gives him one of the squares from a small jar his team brought over after the race, and Lando looks at it with curiosity before taking a bite.
He chews for maybe one second, and then stills.
"What the fuck?"
Charles chuckles, a big smile on his face as he shoves a whole bar into his mouth.
"I know, right?"
Lando takes another bite, chewing slowly, savoring it.
"And you said your nutritionist approved?"
"Yeah, he said it's an amazing post-race snack."
"What the fuck."
"I know! It's pretty good, huh?"
Lando swallows, then turns to look at Charles with greedy eyes.
"Can I have another one?"
Charles hums in amusement, and then stands up, taking the jar with him.
"No, I don't think so. They're for me."
Lando stares at him with surprise, at a loss for words as Charles walks to the other side of the cool-down room, not even sparing him a glance.
"What the fuck?" He says for what feels like the hundredth time, already reminiscing the taste of those damn energy bars.
"Y/N."
You jump in surprise, eyes widening as you find Carlos staring at you as if you're some sort of prey, his body half hidden by a pillar close to the Ferrari garage.
"What the fuck, Carlos? You scared me," you complain, walking closer to him. "What are you doing here?"
"I sneaked out. The Williams guys will be searching for me soon."
You giggle at his serious tone, shaking your head in disbelief.
"Okay. Do you need me to get Charles?"
"No. I came here for you." You furrow your eyebrows in confusion, but it only seems to make him more determined. "Lando told me you've been making delicious snacks for Charles and, as his former teammate and your friend, I'd like a snack too."
You laugh loudly at that, hand coming up to cover your mouth as your eyes sparkle with amusement.
"Carlos, I make those for Charles."
"I know Lando has tasted them," he argues, face still so serious you can't help but giggle again, "George too. He said he's still dreaming about those cookies. I would like a cookie."
"I didn't bring cookies today." Carlos immediately deflates, expression painted with disappointment. "But I made him chips."
He perks up, eyes widening with interest.
"Chips?"
"I'm testing a new recipe," you nod, pulling him further into the Ferrari garage and bringing him towards your backpack, where a bunch of small ziplock bags full of crunchy homemade chips awaits, "I'm giving you one bag. But you can't tell Charles. He'll get jealous."
Carlos nods enthusiastically, taking the bag from your hands as if it's a newborn baby.
"You can trust me. Charles won't know."
"Good," and you start pushing him out of Ferrari's workplace as if you're sending him on a mission. "Go away before he sees you."
"Thank you!" He says excitedly before he starts running towards the Williams garage, leaving you giggling and rolling your eyes.
"Miss?"
Both you and Charles look up to find Oscar Piastri looking right down at you while you sit under the sun in the paddock, standing with his hands behind his back and looking awkward as hell. You can see Lando standing a couple of feet back, trying his hardest to not look involved, and yet looking almost as involved as if he was standing right beside his teammate.
"Hi, Oscar," you lean towards him, and Charles furrow his eyebrows. "Can we help you?"
"There's been talk around the paddock that you—well, that you brought muffins. Healthy muffins. And that we can eat them without getting yelled at by our doctors later."
It's Charles's turn to lean in, eyes narrowing.
"And who's the one spreading that sort of talk?"
From the corner of your vision, you can almost watch Lando shrink, taking a few more steps away from the three of you.
"Uhm." Oscar turns his head to look at his teammate, who immediately starts whistling in the worst effort to look innocent in the world. "I don't know?"
"I can give you a muffin," you shrug, already moving towards your duffel bag when Charles stops you, his eyes wide.
"Those are my muffins."
You stare at him as if he's gone insane.
"My love, it's one muffin."
"Two muffins," Lando's voice carries through the wind until it reaches the two of you, and then he starts whistling again, which makes it difficult for you not to smile, infinitely amused.
"You see that?" Charles points towards Lando, shaking his head in denial. "They're getting too confident. They're spreading gossip about your food. Soon enough, all of them will be asking for it. No muffins."
"We can just share one if you can't give us two," Oscar tries, and then flinches at the way your boyfriend turns to glare at him. "Maybe we can share half a muffin?"
"There's no need for that." You slap Charles's hand away from your bag and grab two muffins out of a big Tupperware inside it, extending your arm so you can offer them to the Australian. "There you go."
Oscar thanks you, voice full of excitement as he takes the two muffins from you and speed walks towards Lando, who throws you a happy thumbs up before taking Oscar by his upper arm and pulling him away.
Charles glares at you.
"Those were my muffins."
You giggle and then press a quick kiss to his lips.
"I can bake you muffins every day for the rest of our lives, dear. You can do without those two."
The rookies arrive to the Ferrari garage all at once, and Charles is groaning in annoyance before they even open their mouths to speak.
"No," he spits out angrily, "go away."
It's Gabi who speaks for the rookies, doing his best puppy dog eyes as Franco, Isack, Ollie, and Kimi stand behind him.
"Someone said you've got brownies today. We love brownies. Please?"
"No. No way. Get out of here."
"George said she doesn't mind giving some to the other drivers," Kimi pipes up from behind Gabi, also giving Charles his best sad face.
"I mind!" The Monegasque complains, gesturing wildly. "My cookies, my energy bars, my chips, my muffins, my brownies, my girlfriend. You guys keep eating everything — don't look at me like that, Franco, I know Pierre stole some of my mini bluberry pies the other day and brought one to you!"
"You started it," Isack argues, unfazed by Charles's death glare. "You offered your snacks to George and Lando. It's not fair to not let anyone else have them."
"I was willing to share one or two so people could know Y/N is the best baker in the world. I'm not willing to share with every driver on the grid until there's nothing left for me!"
"You sound like a child," are the first words out of your mouth as you finally reach the commotion, smiling softly at the rookies. "Hi, boys. I'm sorry, but I think we're all out of brownies — I gave the engineers some."
Charles's head snaps towards you. "You did what?!"
"Sorry, guys," you smile apologetically, and Gabi grumbles something that sounds like a it's okay, thank you anyway before he leaves the Ferrari garage, followed closely by the other rookies.
The second they're out of hearing range, Charles turns to glare at you accusingly, betrayal dripping from his voice.
"You gave all my brownies away to the engineers?"
You laugh loudly at his annoyance, moving closer so you can kiss his lips softly enough that the crease on his forehead disappears.
"No, I didn't give any of them away," you give him a conspiratory smile that makes him fall in love with you all over again, "I lied."
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
"You lied?"
"I did," you shove at his shoulder teasingly, and he takes your wrist to pull you closer to him, nudging his nose against yours, "thought you didn't want to share."
"Damn right," he nods with unprecedented seriousness before kissing you again, smiling at the way you giggle against his lips. "My snacks, my brownies, my girlfriend."
Charles is cornered by Max, Kimi, and Lando during a random media day, after most duties are done with and the drivers are (supposedly) just hanging around for the evening before they can go back to their hotels. They push him into a nearby empty room, and that's when the Monegasque finds himself surrounded by quite a few of his grid mates — the ones who have already tasted your baking, yes, but also the rookies, who stare at him with narrow eyes, Max, who's failed to sneak into the Ferrari garage, and others who have heard the tales of your sweets and snacks.
"All of you against me? That's not right," is his immediate complaint, hands coming up in annoyance.
"You brought this upon yourself." Liam crosses his arms from one of the corners of the room, Pierre standing by his side. "You need to learn how to share."
"Share?!" And Charles's jaw falls open dramatically, his face painted with disbelief. "My beautiful, loving girlfriend learned how to bake nutritionist approved snacks just for me because she loves me, and you want me to share? You want me to share her love?"
"We can pay," Max offers, not even reacting to Charles's angry expression. "She sets a price, and we can all pay for her to bake extra snacks and sweets for us as well."
The others start to pipe up in agreement, nods and hums of approval going around the room as Charles shakes his head forcefully.
"No, no, no, no, no! My girlfriend's love is not for sale!"
"Why are you the only one who gets a sweet treat?" Carlos's voice rises up in the middle of the small crowd, and Charles shoots him a deadly glare while the rest of the drivers agree.
Soon enough, the room explodes into yelling, the drivers complaining loudly as Charles fights for the right to be the only one with access to your baking, heavily regretting ever trying to show you off to the rest of the grid, gesturing wildly towards Alex as he explains those treats are made specially for him, not for them, only for him, and they're not gonna bribe you into making treats for them, the stupid, jealous idiots.
Those treats are his, and Charles is not going to share.
"What do you think of lemon bars for the next race weekend?"
"Oh, lemon bars are such a good idea!"
You note the suggestion down on your notebook enthusiastically, barely noticing the faint screaming coming from a few rooms away.
"I could do the energy bars for media day. Charles loves them."
"Or you could do the vegan cinnamon rolls again. Those were fire."
You hum in acknowledgement, writing the options down as Lewis devours the strawberry shortcake you baked for the day.
"So, lemon bars for the race weekend, cinnamon rolls for media day? Any other requests?"
Lewis shrugs, cleaning some of the cream that got on his face with a napkin.
"I think those two are fine." He takes another bite of the shortcake, humming at the taste. "You know, you're really nice for letting me pick the snack menu every weekend."
"Don't worry about it." You don't look up as you finish writing on your notebook. "Just don't tell Charles, he'd die if he knew."
Lewis chuckles. "Yeah, I know. My lips are sealed."
You smile peacefully, completely unaware of the chaos unfolding elsewhere.
"Great. Lemon bars and cinnamon rolls it is."
check out my masterlist!
thank you so much for reading!!! likes and reblogs are appreciated, hope you guys enjoyed it <3
summary: charles adores the sweet treats you bake just for him. he does not, however, like sharing them, which becomes a problem when the rest of the grid starts to get jealous of his baked snacks.
contains: a bit of a grid fic!, everyone wants reader's baked treats, fluff, established relationship, crack, JEALOUS!CHARLES
word count: 2.3k
a/n: hiiii besties!!! this one is just cute and for funsies <3 also i don't know how to bake or to make healthy recipes at all so just give me a chance here and ignore all inconsistencies okay. hope you guys enjoy, likes and reblogs are appreciated!
masterlist!
"Oh, thanks, but I don't eat sweets."
"They're low on sugar and high on fiber. Are you sure?"
George does a double take at those words, eyes widening as he takes a second look at the jar you're offering him. You smile peacefully, and he glances at Charles standing behind you, arms crossed, a smug expression on his face.
"How did you make low sugar cookies? Cookies are basically all sugar," he asks, the confusion clear in his voice, taking a step closer to stare into the jar. "And those don't look like oatmeal."
"They aren't oatmeal," you agree. "They're vanilla."
George blinks.
"How?"
You grin.
"Secret recipe." And then you extend your arm in his direction to offer him a cookie again, and George glances at your boyfriend behind you suspiciously before taking one.
You take a few steps back to stand beside Charles as the two of you watch George chew the cookie, and Charles smiles when George's eyes widen in surprise.
"This is really good," surprise coats his every word, "like, really good."
"I know, right?" Your boyfriend nods, eyes sparkling with pride. "I could eat maybe a thousand of those per day."
"You'd shit yourself because of all the fiber, love."
"Still."
George is about to ask for another one when Charles's name is called by an engineer further inside, and then the two of you wave goodbye and start walking away, discussing your baked goods while he stands there, the taste of those cookies still lingering on his tongue.
He glares at the back of Charles's head for taking you back to his garage before he could grab another cookie. Or two. Or ten.
Maybe he needs to hang around the Ferrari garage more often.
Lando is sitting in the cool-down room next to Charles when he sees him snacking on a little square that looks to be covered in chocolate, filled with nuts, and, quite honestly, delicious.
He throws one of his gloves at the Monegasque to grab his attention, face full of interest.
"What are you eating?"
Charles swallows with a content sigh before answering.
"These energy bars my girlfriend baked for me. I don't know how she makes them, but they have a bunch of protein and my nutritionist approved. I think they're vegan too. Do you want one?"
"What the hell, why not?"
Charles gives him one of the squares from a small jar his team brought over after the race, and Lando looks at it with curiosity before taking a bite.
He chews for maybe one second, and then stills.
"What the fuck?"
Charles chuckles, a big smile on his face as he shoves a whole bar into his mouth.
"I know, right?"
Lando takes another bite, chewing slowly, savoring it.
"And you said your nutritionist approved?"
"Yeah, he said it's an amazing post-race snack."
"What the fuck."
"I know! It's pretty good, huh?"
Lando swallows, then turns to look at Charles with greedy eyes.
"Can I have another one?"
Charles hums in amusement, and then stands up, taking the jar with him.
"No, I don't think so. They're for me."
Lando stares at him with surprise, at a loss for words as Charles walks to the other side of the cool-down room, not even sparing him a glance.
"What the fuck?" He says for what feels like the hundredth time, already reminiscing the taste of those damn energy bars.
"Y/N."
You jump in surprise, eyes widening as you find Carlos staring at you as if you're some sort of prey, his body half hidden by a pillar close to the Ferrari garage.
"What the fuck, Carlos? You scared me," you complain, walking closer to him. "What are you doing here?"
"I sneaked out. The Williams guys will be searching for me soon."
You giggle at his serious tone, shaking your head in disbelief.
"Okay. Do you need me to get Charles?"
"No. I came here for you." You furrow your eyebrows in confusion, but it only seems to make him more determined. "Lando told me you've been making delicious snacks for Charles and, as his former teammate and your friend, I'd like a snack too."
You laugh loudly at that, hand coming up to cover your mouth as your eyes sparkle with amusement.
"Carlos, I make those for Charles."
"I know Lando has tasted them," he argues, face still so serious you can't help but giggle again, "George too. He said he's still dreaming about those cookies. I would like a cookie."
"I didn't bring cookies today." Carlos immediately deflates, expression painted with disappointment. "But I made him chips."
He perks up, eyes widening with interest.
"Chips?"
"I'm testing a new recipe," you nod, pulling him further into the Ferrari garage and bringing him towards your backpack, where a bunch of small ziplock bags full of crunchy homemade chips awaits, "I'm giving you one bag. But you can't tell Charles. He'll get jealous."
Carlos nods enthusiastically, taking the bag from your hands as if it's a newborn baby.
"You can trust me. Charles won't know."
"Good," and you start pushing him out of Ferrari's workplace as if you're sending him on a mission. "Go away before he sees you."
"Thank you!" He says excitedly before he starts running towards the Williams garage, leaving you giggling and rolling your eyes.
"Miss?"
Both you and Charles look up to find Oscar Piastri looking right down at you while you sit under the sun in the paddock, standing with his hands behind his back and looking awkward as hell. You can see Lando standing a couple of feet back, trying his hardest to not look involved, and yet looking almost as involved as if he was standing right beside his teammate.
"Hi, Oscar," you lean towards him, and Charles furrow his eyebrows. "Can we help you?"
"There's been talk around the paddock that you—well, that you brought muffins. Healthy muffins. And that we can eat them without getting yelled at by our doctors later."
It's Charles's turn to lean in, eyes narrowing.
"And who's the one spreading that sort of talk?"
From the corner of your vision, you can almost watch Lando shrink, taking a few more steps away from the three of you.
"Uhm." Oscar turns his head to look at his teammate, who immediately starts whistling in the worst effort to look innocent in the world. "I don't know?"
"I can give you a muffin," you shrug, already moving towards your duffel bag when Charles stops you, his eyes wide.
"Those are my muffins."
You stare at him as if he's gone insane.
"My love, it's one muffin."
"Two muffins," Lando's voice carries through the wind until it reaches the two of you, and then he starts whistling again, which makes it difficult for you not to smile, infinitely amused.
"You see that?" Charles points towards Lando, shaking his head in denial. "They're getting too confident. They're spreading gossip about your food. Soon enough, all of them will be asking for it. No muffins."
"We can just share one if you can't give us two," Oscar tries, and then flinches at the way your boyfriend turns to glare at him. "Maybe we can share half a muffin?"
"There's no need for that." You slap Charles's hand away from your bag and grab two muffins out of a big Tupperware inside it, extending your arm so you can offer them to the Australian. "There you go."
Oscar thanks you, voice full of excitement as he takes the two muffins from you and speed walks towards Lando, who throws you a happy thumbs up before taking Oscar by his upper arm and pulling him away.
Charles glares at you.
"Those were my muffins."
You giggle and then press a quick kiss to his lips.
"I can bake you muffins every day for the rest of our lives, dear. You can do without those two."
The rookies arrive to the Ferrari garage all at once, and Charles is groaning in annoyance before they even open their mouths to speak.
"No," he spits out angrily, "go away."
It's Gabi who speaks for the rookies, doing his best puppy dog eyes as Franco, Isack, Ollie, and Kimi stand behind him.
"Someone said you've got brownies today. We love brownies. Please?"
"No. No way. Get out of here."
"George said she doesn't mind giving some to the other drivers," Kimi pipes up from behind Gabi, also giving Charles his best sad face.
"I mind!" The Monegasque complains, gesturing wildly. "My cookies, my energy bars, my chips, my muffins, my brownies, my girlfriend. You guys keep eating everything — don't look at me like that, Franco, I know Pierre stole some of my mini bluberry pies the other day and brought one to you!"
"You started it," Isack argues, unfazed by Charles's death glare. "You offered your snacks to George and Lando. It's not fair to not let anyone else have them."
"I was willing to share one or two so people could know Y/N is the best baker in the world. I'm not willing to share with every driver on the grid until there's nothing left for me!"
"You sound like a child," are the first words out of your mouth as you finally reach the commotion, smiling softly at the rookies. "Hi, boys. I'm sorry, but I think we're all out of brownies — I gave the engineers some."
Charles's head snaps towards you. "You did what?!"
"Sorry, guys," you smile apologetically, and Gabi grumbles something that sounds like a it's okay, thank you anyway before he leaves the Ferrari garage, followed closely by the other rookies.
The second they're out of hearing range, Charles turns to glare at you accusingly, betrayal dripping from his voice.
"You gave all my brownies away to the engineers?"
You laugh loudly at his annoyance, moving closer so you can kiss his lips softly enough that the crease on his forehead disappears.
"No, I didn't give any of them away," you give him a conspiratory smile that makes him fall in love with you all over again, "I lied."
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
"You lied?"
"I did," you shove at his shoulder teasingly, and he takes your wrist to pull you closer to him, nudging his nose against yours, "thought you didn't want to share."
"Damn right," he nods with unprecedented seriousness before kissing you again, smiling at the way you giggle against his lips. "My snacks, my brownies, my girlfriend."
Charles is cornered by Max, Kimi, and Lando during a random media day, after most duties are done with and the drivers are (supposedly) just hanging around for the evening before they can go back to their hotels. They push him into a nearby empty room, and that's when the Monegasque finds himself surrounded by quite a few of his grid mates — the ones who have already tasted your baking, yes, but also the rookies, who stare at him with narrow eyes, Max, who's failed to sneak into the Ferrari garage, and others who have heard the tales of your sweets and snacks.
"All of you against me? That's not right," is his immediate complaint, hands coming up in annoyance.
"You brought this upon yourself." Liam crosses his arms from one of the corners of the room, Pierre standing by his side. "You need to learn how to share."
"Share?!" And Charles's jaw falls open dramatically, his face painted with disbelief. "My beautiful, loving girlfriend learned how to bake nutritionist approved snacks just for me because she loves me, and you want me to share? You want me to share her love?"
"We can pay," Max offers, not even reacting to Charles's angry expression. "She sets a price, and we can all pay for her to bake extra snacks and sweets for us as well."
The others start to pipe up in agreement, nods and hums of approval going around the room as Charles shakes his head forcefully.
"No, no, no, no, no! My girlfriend's love is not for sale!"
"Why are you the only one who gets a sweet treat?" Carlos's voice rises up in the middle of the small crowd, and Charles shoots him a deadly glare while the rest of the drivers agree.
Soon enough, the room explodes into yelling, the drivers complaining loudly as Charles fights for the right to be the only one with access to your baking, heavily regretting ever trying to show you off to the rest of the grid, gesturing wildly towards Alex as he explains those treats are made specially for him, not for them, only for him, and they're not gonna bribe you into making treats for them, the stupid, jealous idiots.
Those treats are his, and Charles is not going to share.
"What do you think of lemon bars for the next race weekend?"
"Oh, lemon bars are such a good idea!"
You note the suggestion down on your notebook enthusiastically, barely noticing the faint screaming coming from a few rooms away.
"I could do the energy bars for media day. Charles loves them."
"Or you could do the vegan cinnamon rolls again. Those were fire."
You hum in acknowledgement, writing the options down as Lewis devours the strawberry shortcake you baked for the day.
"So, lemon bars for the race weekend, cinnamon rolls for media day? Any other requests?"
Lewis shrugs, cleaning some of the cream that got on his face with a napkin.
"I think those two are fine." He takes another bite of the shortcake, humming at the taste. "You know, you're really nice for letting me pick the snack menu every weekend."
"Don't worry about it." You don't look up as you finish writing on your notebook. "Just don't tell Charles, he'd die if he knew."
Lewis chuckles. "Yeah, I know. My lips are sealed."
You smile peacefully, completely unaware of the chaos unfolding elsewhere.
"Great. Lemon bars and cinnamon rolls it is."
check out my masterlist!
thank you so much for reading!!! likes and reblogs are appreciated, hope you guys enjoyed it <3
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maxverstappen1 Me when my girlfriend says her feet hurt from standing
yn my favorite seat
⤷ kimi.antonelli ayo 🤨
⤷ yn ride to survive or whatever that shows called
⤷ kimi.antonelli AYO 😦
yn iktr
charles_leclerc You’re making us look bad
⤷ maxverstappen1 If you wanted to, you would
⤷ kikagomes 🤏🏽🤏🏽🤏🏽
landoonewin max verstappen is the most nonchalant person ever until it comes to his girlfriend
⤷ olliebearman no literally he finds ANY reason to talk about her no matter want the topic of conversation is
carlossainz55 Absolutely whipped 😂
redbullracing #1 boyfriend always 🥇
lando he’s not lying guys i watched him do wall sits in the airport last weekend
⤷ danielricciardo i watched him get down on all fours once so she could reach something
⤷ maxverstappen1 Okay that’s enough
alex_albon Did you really have to post this for all of our girlfriends to see?
⤷ maxverstappen1 Do better
isackhadjar oh he don’t play about her fr
madmaxfury boyfriend max is my favorite
danielricciardo and me too right?
⤷ maxverstappen1 No
⤷ danielricciardo oh!
hoeforsainzzz max verstappen is the standard
🝮
yn
liked by haileybieber and 1,818,316 others
yn basking
maxverstappen1 You are perfection
alexandrasaintmleux Magnificent 🪽
kimi.antonelli mother 🫰🏽
⤷ yn does this mean i’m a milf??? 😏
⤷ francolapinto definitely
⤷ maxverstappen1 Easy
⤷ francolapinto sorry sir
lilyzneimer beauty 😍
mercedesamgf1 Looking good baby boss 🖤
♥︎ by author
lando bro who flicked you up this picture is fye
⤷ yn maximilian
⤷ iamrebeccad how did you train him so well carlos sucks at taking pictures
⤷ yn LOTSSSS of practice i’m not even yanking your chain george helped me make a powerpoint presentation for it
⤷ maxverstappen1 I’ve come a long way, I know alllll the angles now 😏🤫
⤷ lando LALALALALALALALA WE DONT WANT TI HEAR ABOUT YOUR CRAZY MONKEY SEX
⤷ maxverstappen1 girl, whatever
⤷ olliebearman okay period i love when you remember your gen z 😛😈
kikagomes you look so soft wowowow
estiebestie this picture is actually perfect omg
madmaxfury and i bet he just took this picture for the heck of it 🥹
🝮
yn
liked by madeleinecwhite and 1,382,905 others
yn should me and max get married in vegas??
totowolff No.
⤷ kimi.antonelli when did bro get instagram?
⤷ schecoperez Toto has instagram?
⤷ yn alright who snitched because ik my dad wouldn’t download instagram for fun
⤷ georgerussell63 Yeah guys fess up!!!! 😤
⤷ yn you little snitch i know it was you george
⤷ georgerussell63 I was trying to get that contract I’m sorry
⤷ yn shut up
maxverstappen1 Yes please can we have everyone dress up as Elvis impersonators please
⤷ yn yes!
⤷ totowolff You are not getting married in Las Vegas honey
⤷ yn you never let me do anything
isackhadjar can i be your maid of honor?
⤷ olliebearman i wanna be the flower girl then
⤷ kimi.antonelli then i wanna be the ring bearer
⤷ olliebearmen wait i wanna be the ring bearer
⤷ kimi.antonelli no i already called it
⤷ olliebearmen bro youre fake
⤷ kimi.antonelli yeah yeah 🥱😒
⤷ lando can i be the photographer then?? 😈😈
⤷ danielricciardo no it’s gonna be me
⤷ lando why would it be you i’m obviously the best choice
⤷ danielricciardo me when i lie
🝮
yn
liked by charles_leclerc and 2,842,907 others
yn VIVA LAS VEGAS
lando DID YOU GUYS GET MARRIED
lando WHY WASNT I THE WITNESS
lando I’M TELLING TOTO
georgerussell63 This was definitely her doing
⤷ alex_albon her: we should go get married
⤷ georgerussell63 max: i don’t think your dad would like that sweetheart
⤷ alex_albon her: ugh just say you hate me and you think i’m ugly
⤷ georgerussell63 max: no let’s get married babygirl please
⤷ alex_albon her: no i don’t want to anymore
⤷ georgerussell63 max: please babygirl please please please can we get married i’m sorry please marry me i want to marry you so bad
⤷ maxverstappen1 Okay first of all, I don’t call her babygirl
⤷ yukitsunoda0511 I literally listened to you call her babygirl like 5 times in one conversation
⤷ maxverstappen1 alright who asked you?
⤷ yn hey don’t be mean to yuki max apologize to him
⤷ maxverstappen1 I’m sorry for being mean Yuki
⤷ gabrielbortoleto_ wait you actually let her boss you around like that?
⤷ maxverstappen1 My girl tells me to shut up and I do 🤷♂️
⤷ gabrielbortoleto_ yk what me too
kimi.antonelli wait did you guys actually get married or are you yanking my chain?????
charles_leclerc I would actually believe it if you guys eloped
alex_albon did he get you pregnant??? is that what this is about? i won’t tell
jensonbutton Yeah let’s get the cameras in the Mercedes garage right now
mercedesamgf1 Toto isn’t gonna like this one…
landossluttywaist that would be so iconic of you two to get married in vegas
olliebearmen you guys should still have a big wedding so i can be the flower girl
⤷ estebanocon Why do you want to be the flower girl so bad?
⤷ olliebearmen cause i want everyone to be like “awh he’s so cute” and “wow he’s so gracious”
⤷ kimi.antonelli right, right…
oscarpiastri I’m gonna be honest…this actually was on my 2025 bingo card
🝮
yn
liked by oscarpiastri and 1,481,330 others
yn onto abu dhabi 🫰🏽 not nervous at all 😄
maxverstappen1 My biggest supporter ❤️
⤷ yn did you just call me fat?
⤷ maxverstappen1 No baby you’re so skinny and tiny I love you
⤷ yn awh thanks honey 💗 take me out for sushi now plz
⤷ maxverstappen1 I’ll get the car ready ❤️
⤷ olliebearmen wait you guys are gonna giving toxic relationship but in a lana del rey way
⤷ alex_albon No he’s just a submissive good boy
⤷ maxverstappen1 And what about it? I don’t mind being called a good boy by my girl
⤷ charles_leclerc It’s all about the mindset 🧏♂️
lando why is he always sleeping
⤷ maxverstappen1 Like your one to talk
⤷ lando you right
redbullracing All tracks lead to Abu Dhabi
isackhadjar wait did you guys get married in vegas?? 👁️👁️
⤷ fernandoalo_oficial Ya’ll acting like I’m gonna let that happen 😂 Toto would die if he didn’t get to spend a million on his daughters wedding, I found them and returned them to Toto where they then got a stern talking to
⤷ kimi.antonelli me and george were there and we somehow got dragged into and got growled at too, almost got us grounded 😒
⤷ isackhadjar “grounded” is crazy 😭
hoeforsainzzz why is he sleeping like he just worked a 30 hour shift
danielricciardo get married
⤷ danielricciardo woah who said that???
⤷ lando put a ring on it already
⤷ lando wow who was that??
🝮
maxverstappen1 and yn
liked by carlossainz55 and 7,448,406 others
maxverstappen1 Here’s to forever ♥️
danielriccardo BRO ME AND LANDO PREDICTED THAT GET US ON THE ELLEN SHOW
⤷ lando BRING IT BACK
charles_leclerc Congratulations you guys this is amazing!! So happy for you two ❤️❤️
georgerussell63 Damn that’s a rock 😨
kikagomes omg stop it i’m so happy for guys!!!! i can’t believe this congratulations 🩷🩷
The bitter taste of Vodka burning on your throat couldn’t mask the erratic rhythm of the drums pounding in your ears. On a good note, the song was so loud it was impossible for you to focus on anything - you can also blame that for the alcohol running in your bloodstream.
It was Monaco. Glorious, glamorous, the country of clubs and billionaires, where, even if you were poor, you were still filthy rich.
You were sure you would be enjoying yourself, had it not been the unfortunate circumstances on your pathetic private life. It was supposed to be a couple’s trip, fancy, much like a honeymoon. You wanted to surprise your boyfriend - well, ex-boyfriend - with tickets to the Monaco race for his birthday, but before you could even wrap a cute baby blue ribbon around the Paddock Passes, you received a text - or rather a picture - from a random girl on your instagram DM’s. The image was clear, your boyfriend was locking lips with some blonde on a random Thursday night. You didn’t know the girl who sent it, maybe she was your guardian angel, maybe someone who knew you from college. It didn’t matter. What truly mattered was the pain breaking your bones, followed by the anger twisting your upper stomach.
He tried to reach out and explain himself, but there was nothing that could free him from the charges once the proof was so unquestionable.
After that, every time you looked at those stupid Paddock Passes you thought about burning them, alongside a few of his t-shirts. But your rational brain was always something you were proud of. Why burn them if you can just enjoy the perks?
Were you a big Formula 1 fan? No shot. It all started off as a way of pleasing your ex on Sundays, and then it quite became an unspoken tradition. You didn’t know all the drivers names, only the ones that won most of the time, and you still couldn’t figure out if Lewis Hamilton was a Mercedes or a Ferrari driver. And, wait, where was Daniel Ricciardo? The thing is, it was never about the sport, to you, it was only about the quality-time in the relationship.
However, with all your apathetic knowledge of races and Grand Prixs, you knew one important thing, Max Verstappen. Your ex’s favorite driver. God, you even had t-shirts with his number on it. You rooted for him, because your boyfriend did. So, now that there was no boyfriend, you wanted Max Verstappen to actually crash his car on Turn 1. Sure, maybe it was a little bit mean to project your anger on a guy who is just doing his job, but the rage inside of you was so sharp that everything your boyfriend once loved, became what you now hate. So what if Max Verstappen is one of those things? He doesn’t know you.
The arrival to Monaco was chaotic. There was no way of getting to it by plane, so you had to spent an unholy amount of euros on an Uber ride. At least you got a chance to ride on a fancy white Jaguar that only existed on a parallel reality to yours.
You packed your best clothes, fancy satin dresses, short flowy skirts, the ones you’ve been saving most of your life for that special occasion that never really arrived. Now it was the time. Young, single, enjoying the salty air of Monte Carlo. You wanted to make sure no one knew you’ve been through a break up and you thought you were doing a good job, but, God, every corner of that country screamed your ex’s name.
Maybe a night out in a club before Qualifying would do you good. From the outside perspective, you looked stunning. Goddess-like. Everyone could tell you were not from Monaco, because there was something about you that stood out from that dystopian place, something which some might like to call a personality. No designer brands sticking out, no fake anything, no trying too hard, just a simple but effective beauty.
“Would you like another shot?”
The bartender’s loud voice overlapped the electronic beat. You looked down at the empty glass shot between your fingers. The image brought back the unbearable taste of Vodka, which made you involuntarily twist your lips.
“Uh… Sure.”
You nodded, but the hesitation was dripping from your lips.
“Maybe you should make her something she actually enjoys drinking.”
You heard the masculine voice coming from your right side. The sentence was filled with confidence, mixed with a sense of humor that was dry. You didn’t dare to look at the man, you were not looking for one, in fact, you much preferred if they were far away from you.
“And how do you know what I like to drink?”
Your answer just slipped your tongue, it was supposed to stay in your thoughts. But that was the Vodka effect. Maybe the stranger was right, you should stop.
“Feisty.” You rolled your eyes. “But no one actually likes the taste of that shit.”
“Well, I’m not drinking for the taste of anything.”
You looked to your right, over your shoulder, with annoyance tattooed on your face. And then you saw him. Black t-shirt, fitted jeans, black cap backwards. Piercing blue eyes. Looking like a frat boy from a sorority or someone from high school you’d have a crush on from afar.
“You could still get drunk on Gin and Tonics and they taste pretty nice. Trust me.” He gave you a polite smile, lips closed. “I’m Max.”
You had to use your sober side to control any facial expression in that moment. Must the universe play such twisted games with you? Does God actually believe you’re one of his strongest soldiers?
It was unwitting the way you relaxed your posture once you managed to understand what was going on. Blame it on the celebrity halo effect. It was like he pushed all your negativity out of the club, even the songs sounded decent now.
He did not look this hot on tv.
“I’m YN.”
He nodded and you noticed his grin. Wild. Trouble.
“So… Gin and Tonics?” He shook the glass cup on his right hand, the ice cubes making a light sound.
“I think I will actually just stop with the drinking.”
Because you wanted to remember every single aspect of that interaction so you could journal it and send it on a letter to your ex-boyfriend. See? I’m talking with Max Verstappen and you’re just dreaming about getting a glimpse of him.
“You are not from around here.”
He wasn’t asking, it was a statement. You didn’t know if you should take it the wrong way, if you looked so pathetically poor or outcasted, but his tone didn’t seem to imply this. Max was curious. He didn’t ask to offend, he asked with admiration.
“Damn, do I look that poor?”
You joked, getting a silent laugh from him.
“No, not at all! I meant it in the best way.” Max looked at the crowd of people dancing around, instantly making you pay attention to it too. The girls were well dressed, out of this world, like the Met Gala happened everyday here. You noticed, but never really paid that much attention. But, honestly, it’s not like you were self-conscious about it. Who care? In a few days you would leave and they would never see you again. “Everyone here is wearing some designer of some sorts, or glitter, or insanely high heels and expensive watches. You’re wearing flat sandals and you hair is beach wavy.”
You blushed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with the fact that he analyzed you with caution.
“Don’t get me wrong, I would wear Louboutin’s if I had them.” Truth is, there was a part of you that think you would have fun in this lifestyle. There’s nothing wrong with dressing fancy and wearing designer, as long as you’re doing it for the fun and not to show off. “But, following your logic, you’re wearing a plain black tee and backwards cap.”
He raised his now empty glass. Max was never one to flaunt wealth in his fashion. He wasn’t, actually, a fashion guy. He was the type of guy who enjoyed spending his money on other people, or at least on things to do, things to get him out of boredom.
“Am I supposed to be wearing something else?”
“Maybe some RedBull merch?”
That got a loud laugh out of him. That was it for Max. He was officially invested in this. You knew who he was, yet you were still treating him like he was just some random guy flirting with you in a club. Of course, a guy you were minimally interested in. There was no starry admiration in your eyes, just plain acknowledge of his presence.
“A-ha. So you do know who I am.”
“I think everyone in Monaco this weekend knows who you are.”
You didn’t know your words caused his chest to tighten a bit. But, of course, it wasn’t your fault. You weren’t aware of his issues with his public presence and persona. No one was, actually. Max never really said out loud how he hated being famous, although he thought his private manners spoke it loudly for him.
You noticed, however, his shoulders tensed up a bit and the air between you was slightly heavier.
“Are you here for the race, then?”
“It’s a funny, long, too much information type of story…”
You opened the breach. Were you planning on telling about your disaster of a dating life to Max Verstappen? Never in a million years, but he looked like the guy who needed to hear some common human issues. Max craved normality, you could read that. So you were going to give it to him.
“Hm, now you will have to tell me.” Max looked around, aware of the discomfort coming from the loud, stupid electronic track that he actually would like if the sound of your voice wasn’t ten times more interesting. “Follow me.”
Max had no problem walking through the crowd, people would just simply open the space he needed to pass, like he was the prince of Monaco himself, some authority figure that could go anywhere and get anything. That part of his fame he liked it, there was no denying.
You held his hand firmly, like you’d be dropped at the ocean if you let go. His skin was rough and firm, with a few calluses. Hands that could break you if you allowed. The pressure he was applying on your palm was like a reassurance.
You followed Max to what looked like a private room, with a few booths, away from all the noise. The light was dim and yellow, moody, a typical place for flirting. Not necessarily romantic, though. The energy emanating was too sensual to allow space for any fairytale date.
Around you, you could see a few recognizable faces. Celebrities, models with old men, drivers. Lewis Hamilton particularly caught your eye, sitting in a booth, listening to a blonde girl talking. Unlike everybody else who seemed mesmerized by Max’s presence, Lewis didn’t care, in fact, he didn’t even acknowledged your existence, like he was above you, or Max. Truth is, he probably was.
Max guided you to a place in the corner, far away from the others, isolated. It felt like a calculated move. The dutch waited like a gentleman for you to sit down first, taking his seat right in front of you. The black table separating you with a single candle lit by a lonely flame wasn’t enough distance, it felt unduly intimate.
“So… What is the too much information, funny, story?”
He took a sip of his drink, that by now consisted in mere melted ice cubes with whatever was left of a lemon.
“I bought the tickets a few months ago, as a gift, for my boyfriend.” You saw Max’s lips curling in a smirk once you said the infamous word. “Now ex-boyfriend.” The emphasis on the first half of the word was deliberate.
“Tough breakup?”
“I found out he cheated on me through pictures that were sent on my Instagram Directs.”
Max tilted his head, he was convinced that something similar probably happened to him once.
“Well, first of all, I’m sorry, he’s a douche.” You brushed it off, a shoulder movement that made explicit that you were, somehow, almost over it. “Second, you said it was funny.”
“Well, here’s the funny part. I never liked Formula 1. No offense.”
“Non taken.”
“But Dylan was, like, obsessed with it. He knew everything, about everything. He had merch, lego cars, watched countless races in person, and the ones he couldn’t attend, he watched on Tv. Never missed a single one.”
Max laughed. Your description of his behavior wasn’t news to him, it sounded like just the average Formula 1 fan, but maybe that was the view from the public who had no idea how much passionate sports fan can be.
“So you bought him Monaco tickets. That’s sweet.”
“When we broke up I contemplated selling the tickets and getting my money back. But why would I do that when I could live the experience he always dreamt of?”
Your comment sparked something in Max’s chest. You were feisty, he could see you had a fire in you. He recognized, somewhere in your eyes and demeanor, that you had the rage and determination he only truly saw in himself.
“So you flew out here?”
“Hoping I could see his favorite driver crash and send a video to him.”
“And who’s that?”
“You.”
Max tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. The fact that you just admitted you were hoping he would crash didn’t even bother him, because the confidence and malice in how you said it, turned him on. It’s like you were a challenge, unlike any other person he ever met. He wasn’t offended by anything you said, he was, on the other hand, completely captivated.
“I’m sorry to break it to you, sweets, I’m not going to crash just so you could get revenge on your pathetic ex-boyfriend.”
You giggled, feeling a rush of goosebumps with the nickname that escaped his lips so naturally, like it was something easy for him to say.
“No, I know. I guess talking to you is enough revenge already.”
You said the word talking, but both of you knew that wasn’t simply it. The air was denser and filled with dirty thoughts both of you had crossing your mind.
“Yeah, except he’ll never know you are here talking to me.”
You shrugged.
“It’s okay. Sometimes revenge is not about a public act, but an act of self gratification.”
Maybe it was the Vodka hitting, maybe it was how beautiful Max’s eyes looked when they were reflecting eroticism, or maybe it was just the confidence that you packed and brought it out like a hidden gun, but your words were explicit enough for him to understand the double meaning.
“So, since plan A is not going to work, your plan B is fucking your boyfriend’s favorite driver and what? Send him a sextape?”
Max was joking, clearly, but every time he thought back about it, he realized he wasn’t opposed to the idea at all.
You raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to agree to a plan HE was the one who created. You never said anything about a sex tape, or sex, at all. Turns out Max Verstappen had the devil in his mind, especially when confronted with a beautiful girl.
“Look, I can’t give you a crash, or a sextape…” He let the phrase prolong, like he had something to add. “But I can give you something else.”
You narrowed your eyes, tempted.
“And what is that?”
“Come to the RedBull garage this weekend, with me. I’ll make sure he sees you.”
You were out of breath for a moment, nearly choking on air. Your mind racing with ideas and ‘what-ifs’. Being on the spotlight was never your thing. Normal job, normal clothes, normal apartment, you would even call yourself basic. Simple. And there was nothing wrong with that. You liked the shadows, you liked doing your own thing without strangers lurking and noticing. It gave you a sense of freedom. If you were not in the spotlight, no one could judge and you could do what your heart truly desired.
Being in the RedBull garage with Max would change everything, your whole way of living. Because once you are seen in public with a guy like him, people never forget. It would give you a new identity, people would gossip, comment on your appearance, on your manners. It was too much.
Max could see the hesitation emanating from you, which sort of made him like you even more. Any girl would jump onto that opportunity, but you seemed actually worried about the consequences.
“I don’t know, Max. He’s not the only one who’s going to see me. People will talk.”
“So?”
“People will gossip. About me.”
“Who cares about what other people think?” You didn’t answer. Of course Max Verstappen didn’t care about other people, he didn’t have to, he would still be successful and talented regardless of what people would say, and he would still be adored. Because unlike you, he had an army of a fanbase to support him. “Look, YN, you’re not going to show up as my girlfriend or anything, people bring guests to the Paddock all the time. It’s really nothing if you think about it, and it will give you exactly what you need.”
Max promised to himself he wasn’t going to push if you said no. But he legitimately wanted you there, not only for the revenge or the ploy around your love life, but so that he could spend a little bit more time with you.
“I suppose we can try tomorrow and if it goes well, I’ll be there on Sunday too.”
Max smiled, ear to ear, a rare Max Verstappen smile journalist would be fighting over a picture. But it was natural and real, like the ones he had when he held his trophies.
“I have a condition though.”
“Oh, a second ago you were begging for me to agree to this, and now you have conditions?”
“I was not begging.” He kinda was though. “And I am the one doing you a favor, so, yes, I have a condition.”
You smirked.
“Ok, let’s hear it.”
“A date on Sunday night, after the race.”
Max had a dirty smirk hidden on the corner of his lips, which made your stomach twist with a familiar sensation you couldn’t quite name it.
“To celebrate your win?” You teased.
“To celebrate both our wins.”
Licking your lips, you couldn’t help but look at him like you were no better than any man. A date with a cute guy who was actually interesting and had a spark of evilness that matched you? Yeah, no one could refuse that.
“You better not crash then.”
Max laughed, relaxing his posture.
“I’m too good for crashing.”
You gave him your left hand, waiting for a shake, like sealing a deal between two powerful businesses.
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
yourusername added to their story
"won't you guess where i am?"
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Saturday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
As soon as qualifying was done, you heard the whispers, from celebrities on the Paddock, from members of the RedBull team, even drivers and their girlfriends. Everyone was polite, cordially polite, but no one dared to ask your name, that day you were simply “the girl that came with Max.” Little did you know people were dying to unravel the mystery surrounding your persona. Who are you? How do you know Max? Are you and Max dating? It made you nervous.
You felt isolated. It was another reality, the people were so rich you were certain they didn’t know what working 9 to 5 felt like, or how it feels to get recognized for your ideas. At least, you had to admit that watching the whole thing in person was way more fun than on TV. Something, perhaps, you could start enjoying.
You were standing alone next to a window in RedBull’s hospitality, holding a glass of champagne that felt rude to decline. The room suddenly lit up, you heard loud claps all around, whistles buzzing. Between the fancy dresses and expensive t-shirts, you saw Max, walking with confidence, like he was royalty.
Max politely smiled and shook hands with everybody congratulating him. Pole sitter. In Monaco. A big thing, from what you learned. However, the excited strangers and members of the team were not able to stop Max from walking straight to you, like he had a duty, like getting pole position was a purpose.
“Hello there, pretty.”
He smiled and you noticed how his features softened. Max was sweaty, hair messy, racing suit falling over his hips. You cursed. God damn it that man was breathtaking. Everything got even worse when he hugged your shoulders, placing a gentle, shy kiss on your cheeks. The room fell silent as everyone paid close attention to Max Verstappen being tender.
“Congratulations!”
“Did you enjoy it?”
You smiled, big, setting off an involuntary reaction on Max, that mimicked your smile as well.
“Way better than from home.”
“Any news?”
Max asked shamelessly, excited for the answer, excited to know if your boyfriend was cursing his own life for letting you go.
“Not yet. Maybe he didn’t see it.”
“Or maybe he is at the hospital, dead by a heart attack.”
You both laughed. Who knew Max Verstappen had a sense of humor? Even better, he had a dark sense of humor. One that sounded like the things you think, but keep it in your mind, afraid others will judge. Not Max. He will never refrain from speaking his truth, maybe that’s how he got to the top, the best of the best.
Before you could say anything, Max got surrounded by people of his team. He gave you a look, a sorry one.
“It’s fine, I’ll go to the hotel, need some rest.”
“See you tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir.”
Another kiss on your cheek and he was gone. This time, when he walked out of the door, you felt overwhelmed by the looks fallen on you. They weren’t judging, just dying with curiosity. Nobody knew what the two of you had, but it was damn clear that the energy of attraction was so powerful it filled the space and left no place for anything else.
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Sunday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
Race day was chaotic, that was note number one. Note number two was, you were sure there was no way that many boats fit on Monte Carlos’ coast.
Unlike yesterday, you saw Max before he got into his car. You texted him when you arrived and he made his way to you, introducing you to a few people, so you wouldn’t feel isolated. It was uncomfortable having to explain that you weren’t dating, just getting to know each other. What you learned was that Max never really brought any girl over ever since his breakup with his long time ex, or even before her. He was a guy that kept his personal life so private even his family members had no clue if he was still single or not. Which is why people were so curious about you, because Max was treating you like, at the very least, a long time friend.
Your presence during Qualifying alarmed the media. The cameras weren’t shying away from filming you during certain parts of the race, especially when Max won after dominating 78 laps. But nothing prepared the journalists and the fans to when he said it out loud on the radio, proudly, letting everyone know.
If Dylan was already freaking out by one TV appearance, by this time he was for sure throwing a tantrum like a toddler who refused to eat vegetables. He wasn’t the only one. You wanted to crawl into a dark hole and hide from humanity. Or maybe scream and punch Max on his god crafted face. Everyone was speechless from that moment and Max kept going with his duties like he didn’t just create chaos amongst the Formula 1 community.
Thankfully, an angelic, miraculous girl that worked for RedBull managed to take you to Max’s driver’s room, where you could be alone. God, in that moment, if you could kiss her, you would.
You threw your phone in the depths of your purse, where you couldn’t reach to see any messages or take any calls, and especially not open Instagram. Your legs were shaking, like anxiety creeping through every pore on your skin. There was nothing you could do now, the damage was done.
Max opened the door in a brutal movement, like he was rescuing you from a dungeon. The mix of feelings when you saw him was too complicated to point. You were angry, nervous, grateful, amused, all of the above, plus a few more. Max, on the other hand, seemed like he just had another day at the office.
“Hey, told you I’d win, no crashes.”
“Are you fucking insane?”
Max was taken back by the tone of your voice and he replayed in his memories every single second of the day, trying to figure out what he did to get you so worked up.
“What?”
“That fucking radio message!”
And then he laughed. He laughed like he was brushing it off. Like it was nothing, an incident.
“Not a sextape, but it’s the best I could do.” His smile quickly vanished once he saw the seriousness in your semblant. “Are you mad? I thought this is what you wanted.”
You were out of breaths to take. Sure, this was what you wanted, in a way, but maybe it went too far, too public. It was too much. And in that moment you were overwhelmed.
“I… It’s-” You shook your head, sitting back down on the small white couch behind you. Max stood still, watching, studying your movements. “I wasn’t expecting it.”
That was part of it. You weren’t expecting any of this. It took you by surprise and reminded you that you had no control over anything. But to make matters worse, this happened in a situation where you particularly needed to control.
“Would you have preferred if I asked you before?”
“Yes, I very much would, Max.”
He kneeled before you, reaching your height.
“I’m sorry, liefje. You are right, I should’ve asked.”
You softened, not only because he seemed genuine apologetic, but the pet name and sweetness in his voice melted every bad feeling you had, just like magic, he erased every reason you had to be angry in the first place.
Max Verstappen just had that it factor that no matter what he said, people would simply surrender to his ways.
You stood up from the couch, making him turn to you, waiting anxiously for your reaction. The minimal possibility that you would just say no to the date or never see him again was driving him insane.
“So, what time are you picking me up?”
The shape of his lips curved into the most beautiful smile you have ever seen.
“At eight. No need to wear a fancy dress, anything is fine.”
“Thank God I packed my finest sweatpants then.”
Max giggled, playfully.
“Well, actually, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”
Of course he wouldn’t mind. You could go to the date dressed in pajamas and he would still think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.
“See you later, champ.”
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
Later seemed to never come. Your hotel room was a mess when Max texted that he was waiting for you downstairs, much like a reflection from your insides. You were going out, on an official date, with Max Verstappen. How would you simply return to your job on Tuesday and tell your co-workers what happened?
Max was waiting outside his car, dressed casually, not like he was going on a first date, but as in you were in a established relationship and he could dress comfortably, like he always did. Somehow, that made him even more attractive. There were people around, watching, filming. You were worried, Max was annoyed, he wanted to punch anyone who dared to disturb that moment.
Once you were in the car, it was a relief, all the noise was shut, remaining only the sound of your shaky breathing.
“I promise you I will take you far away from this shit.”
He drove no longer than 10 minutes until he reached the coast. You followed him, like a lost child, watching him in his element, talking to the coast guards and some people that were there to help. And, then, it hit you, the big, white yacht, bigger than your childhood house. The type of thing you could work your entire life and still couldn’t afford.
Max got in first, extending his hand, like a gentleman, helping you. You looked around, mesmerized, like you’ve entered heaven. That place was beautiful, unlike anything you’ve seen before. The look on your face was probably pathetic, but Max found it adorable.
“Is this yours?”
You wanted to curse yourself, what a stupid question, of course it was.
“Yes, welcome.”
Max gave you a quick tour around, showing the place with the lack of interest that only a person who’s been there a thousand times could have. Like it was getting old. The Yatch was so peaceful you didn’t even notice it started to move and you were now somewhere in the ocean.
The tour ended with a table set out in the open, under the dark starry sky. White cloth, a burning candle, in the company of a lonely red rose. Max pulled your chair, sitting in front of you. You noticed he was nervous and you noticed he tried hard. Little did he know you didn’t need an expensive yacht to be impressed, he could do it only by being himself.
“This is really nice, Max.”
Your compliment eased his nerves.
“I hope this isn’t too much.”
“Well, it certainly isn’t too little.” You joked, but he seemed still a little tense. “But I think it’s romantic.”
And it was, indeed. Text book romantic. Straight out of a romcom.
“Are you hungry?”
You weren’t. The nerves were eating you alive, you couldn’t think about food, your body showed no signs of hunger at all.
“Starving.”
He grined, ear to ear. “Awesome.” And got up from the table, walking towards the inside.
You took the moment without his presence to breathe, get yourself together, recompose. You would leave tomorrow and never see him again, which was a shame, but at the same time helped you to get comfortable.
Max was back barely a minute later, holding two white plates. You were expecting some fancy seafood dish, maybe a lobster or shrimp, but instead, he held in his hands the delicacy of a homemade burger, garnished with french fries. You smiled. Maybe you were hungry after all.
Max placed the plates on the table, looking proud.
“I made them.”
“Woah! I’m impressed.” You giggled, quickly taking one of the fries, from his plate. “He can drive and cook? What can’t you do?”
“Anyone can cook a burger, it’s not that hard.”
“Don’t put yourself down. You’d be surprised to see how people’s culinary skills are precarious.”
You took a big bite of the burger. Sure, it wasn’t anything elaborated, just a patty with a slice of cheddar cheese and tomatoes, but the simplicity turned it into something special. Plus, the fact that Max took his limited time to make them himself.
He watched you carefully, aching for your opinion, like you tasting his food was somehow validating him as a person, as a man, as a lover.
“So… How is it?”
“Perfect.”
You weren’t talking about the burger at all. You were talking about him, about the weekend, about everything he did for you. It was perfect. Just what you needed. Like God saved Max Verstappen just for you, like all of this was just for you. Suddenly, you felt seen, important, cared about.
The rest of the night flowed like silk. The conversation was stimulating, electrifying. Max learned about your life, your family, your job and you learned about everything that did not involve his career or driving. That night, Max was just a regular guy, with a normal girl, having homemade burgers on a 33 million dollars Yatch.
As the night extended, you both realized how you didn’t want it to end, how you wanted to be there forever. You were laying down on a towel, the chill breeze flowing, standing side by side, stargazing, telling each other childhood stories.
“I really want to keep seeing you.”
Max’s words came out as a fragile whisper, like he was telling a secret, like he never experienced being vulnerable before.
You turned your face, staring right into his blue eyes, that were a little bit darker with the lack of sunlight.
“How are we going to do that?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make it work.”
And he kissed you. You felt his hand first, barely touching you, almost like he was insecure - as if Max was afraid that instant could break.
The kiss wasn’t rushed. It came with the calmness of someone who knows that time, sometimes, bends before what is real. You sighed slightly, between the kiss, letting the air escape your longs amongst your partial open lips.
The sky fell a bit closer, like all the stars were watching, silently, bearing witnesses to that moment. He moved slowly, shy, like discovering his own name, until he wasn’t. Max leaned in even more, you felt the deepness, not in an urgent kind of way, but in a way in which you were dancing the same song.
And over there, underneath the starry Monaco sky, with his taste invading you, everything stopped moving. Nothing before, nothing after. Just this. The whole world fitted in that kiss, as a promise that would perpetuate for a long time.
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
What followed the weekend was not what you expected. You thought that once you boarded that plane back to your hometown, Max Verstappen would fade into a distant memory, a fairytale, something to tell your kids in the future and make them doubt reality. But that wasn't what happened.
When Max wasn’t flying you to nearby races, he was visiting you in his free time. Showing up at your job, unannounced, holding some white lilies or some plush toy that he bought. You visited his home, got introduced to his family, had dinner with his dad. The infamous Jos Verstappen people talked about, like he was an urban legend. Turns out, he wasn’t as scary as people made it sound, or maybe you were just too good at dealing with that kind of man. At the same spectrum, Max also met your family, your dad nearly crashing out once he saw the Max Verstappen sitting on the dining table, like a normal guy.
Turns out that, even with the constant traveling, media, fans following you down the streets, loving Max was so easy. Much easier than you thought. You even told that to him once. Max didn’t believe you, because he has been told the contrary many times before. In fact, he quite believed that he was an unloving person, although he would never admit that to anyone. However, he felt you were genuine in your acts of tenderness. Every time you brushed his hair or kissed his temples, something in him lit up with warmness, like he was experiencing a real life miracle.
Max never officially asked you to be his girlfriend, he didn’t need to, it just happened. When he wasn’t racing or you weren’t working, you were together, glued like birds of a feather. You were familiar with the drivers now, and their girlfriends. Unlike Monaco, every race you attended now you had someone to talk to, you would even dare to call some of the girls your friends. Everyone seemed to enjoy your company, the team, the drivers, Max’s friends. It’s like you were a breathe of fresh air amongst the chaos of the racing world.
Horner wouldn’t lie, he was a bit worried seeing his driver fall in love with someone, because he had never seen Max race while being distracted, while having another priority. However, Christian quickly noticed there was nothing for him to stress about. Quite the opposite, actually. Max - if it was even possible - improved, ruining McLaren’s dominance. He couldn’t quite explain what the chemicals of love were doing to his Dutch Lion, but he prayed you never left.
On Max’s perspective, yes, he wanted to put on a show, to be his best, to impress you. Not in a pressured way, but in a “I want to make you proud” way. And you were proud regardless of his position. You celebrated Max the same exact way, it didn’t matter if he was P1 or P11. In fact, during Singapore, after a disappointing race, finishing at P8, you waited for Max at the hotel room with champagne and balloons. At first he was frustrated, angry, disappointed at himself and definitely confused at your reaction, but that was mainly because he never had someone who supported him so much, to the point which anything was enough. You taught him that he was enough, and you were proud of him as a person, as a driver, he didn’t need to be the best of the best all the time.
That sort of mentality you brought worked like reverse psychology. It took the weight out of his shoulders. And racing without any worries, made him better.
Needless to say your ex, Dylan, was losing his mind with that whole situation. Which, to Max, was only an incentive. He took the cheating personally, like it happened to him. And even though you never talked to that guy again, he wanted to make sure Dylan regretted what he did to the rest of his life. You told him to forget it, reassured that you were over it, that after Monaco Dylan was dead to you, like a nightmare that you forgot the second you woke up. But Max wasn’t the type to let it go.
So, Abu Dhabi 2025, last race on the calendar, he would give his all. The championship was tied between him and Lando. For the entire season, he raced to win, but that exact race he had entirely different motives.
You weren’t nervous unlike the other girlfriends, you put blind faith in Max. That’s why when the race started, you watched with a steady heartbeat. And Max? Reminded everyone why he was the best of the sport.
When he stepped out of the car, the whole team made a priority that you would be the first to see him, per his request. Helmet on, he rushed to you, like you were the trophy, like you were the championship prize. You kissed the helmet, feeling the coldness hitting your lips. His breath fogged the visor for a second as he leaned closer, hands still trembling with the leftover adrenaline of the race. The roar of celebration around you faded into a muffled hum — the crowd, the champagne, the cameras — all of it dimmed behind the shield of this moment.
Max lifted the visor slowly, revealing eyes that had searched for you since the checkered flag. Eyes that only softened when they found yours.
“Fuck, liefje,” he said, voice rough, edged with emotion. “I can’t believe we did it.”
You smiled, blinking against the tears threatening to fall. “You did it, Max,” you whispered, your fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, “you’re the best.”
He laughed — a breathy, shaking laugh — and pulled you into him, the hard shell of his suit pressing against your body like armor. “Thank you so much for being here,” he murmured into your hair. “For always being here. Love you.”
You closed your eyes, letting the truth of his words wrap around you like warmth. But then he leaned back just enough to meet your gaze again — this time with that glint in his eyes. The one you’d seen when he was most dangerous. Most determined.
“And maybe,” he added, with the ghost of a smirk, “just maybe... I wanted him to see this too.”
Your breath caught.
“I wanted him to watch,” he continued, quieter now. “To watch me win everything he lost the moment he let you go.”
The crowd started chanting Max’s name, and behind you, the team called for photos, for celebrations, but neither of you moved. You stayed there in the quiet bubble of his embrace, the world spinning a little slower just for the two of you.
Finally, Max pulled back, cradling your face in his gloved hands. “It’s you and I, now,” he said, not as a question, but as a promise. “Wherever I go next, we go together.”
And you nodded, heart thudding like an engine ready to race. Because this wasn’t just the end of a season. It was the beginning of forever.
The cheers swelled again as Max took your hand, raising it high like another victory. And when he looked back at you one last time before stepping onto the podium, he didn’t see the crowd, the cameras, or the flashing lights.
He saw you.
Always you.
His greatest win.
liked by redbullracing, f1, yourbff and 6,288,494 others
vogue Evertyhing we know about the romance between Yn Yln and Max Verstappen. From how they met to how she became RedBull's princess and fan's favorite WAG. Link in bio.
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user imagine being such an iconic couple vogue wrote a fucking article about you
user they won best paddock couple 😍😍
user she is so pretty!! 😩😩😩
user can yn teach me her tricks? 🙏
yourbff my baby is a star 🤩
danielricciardo finally some real journalism!
> user you're in a max/yn biggest fan competition but your oponent is daniel ricciardo
> danielricciardo you're immediately losing
yourusername what is my life??
> user girl if you don't want it, can i have it??
user how's dylan??
❤️ liked by maxverstappen1
user bro saw his girl got cheated on and made it everyone's problem
user if they don't get married istg
yourmom my loves 😍
zendaya petition for this to be a movie immediately.
user if petty was high fashion, this man just walked Paris.
florencepugh I need her skincare routine and his PR team.
gigihadid love that for her. love that less for her ex 💅
user he said drive to survive and thrive to flex, and I support it fully.
user this is the energy you have when your love life AND tire strategy are in sync.
user it’s giving “revenge dress” but in the form of an entire Grand Prix.
f1gossip she got cheated on and responded with a WDC boyfriend. this is not a win, this is a legacy.
user he’s not just her man — he’s the man your ex warned you about.
user if Romeo drove a car and Juliet wore a paddock pass.
liked by yourusername, RedBullRacing and 9,293,555 others
maxverstappen1 This one's for your girlfriends.
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user this is actually insane
user mad!max is back 🥵🥵
user may this love find me! 🙏🙏🙏
redbullracing the dutch lion is still here! 💪🦁
user 5 times world champion, hot girlfriend, rich, talented. will he ever lose?
user i'm so invested in whatever this drama with this dylan guy is
> user i hope he is suffering wherever he is
> user starting a fuck you dylan campaign
user max is in his protective!boyfriend skin
yourusername the best of the best! 💗
> user she is such a queen 😍
lando congratulations mate!! 🍾
charles_leclerc chat we tried, we can't stop him
> maxverstappen1 maybe when I retire 😎
lando blocked by at least 6 exes after this post probably
user championship + main character energy = unstoppable. respect 🫡
georgerussell63 ok but do you offer classes in pettiness? asking for a friend
user imagine being the ex watching this with dry cereal and regret 😭🥄
user no because he didn’t win a championship he won her and THAT’S revenge 🔥
user idc what anyone says, this is peak motorsport content and I love it
