It starts as a joke. Or maybe boredom. Or maybe both, with a hint of caffeine and poor impulse control. It’s two in the morning, your laptop screen glowing while you sip a too-warm Red Bull — because irony makes you feel powerful. You’re scrolling through TikTok, through dramatic Max Verstappen edits set to sad piano music, all with captions like “He’s not just a driver. He’s destiny.” Something in your brain snaps. You open CapCut.

Your video starts with the words “The Max Verstappen Fan Club (Unofficial)” and the voiceover of someone who takes documentaries too seriously. “This is Max Verstappen,” you narrate solemnly. “A man powered solely by caffeine, stubbornness, and the fear of losing P1.” Then you cut to a clip of him blank-faced in a press conference, add tragic violin music, and subtitle it: ‘he’s seen too much.’ Perfect. You laugh, post it, and forget about it.

The next morning, your phone explodes. Sixty thousand likes. Two hundred thousand. Comment after comment: “PLEASE MAKE MORE.” “He’s gonna see this and block you.” “Why is this so accurate???” You make another one. And another. “He doesn’t just drive,” you say in one. “He communicates exclusively in aggressive overtakes and slightly disappointed head shakes.” Another one goes: “Max Verstappen is the human embodiment of ‘are you done?’ energy.”

They go viral. Millions of views. Your DMs are chaos. People are tagging you in everything he does, begging for more commentary. You think you’ve peaked. You think he’ll never actually see any of it.

Then, one random Thursday morning, you wake up to a message you never expected to see.

@maxverstappen1 has duetted your video.

You freeze. You blink. You double-check. It’s real. You open the app, pulse racing.

It’s that video — the one where you called him the human form of “are you done.” And there he is, on the right side of the screen. Hoodie, messy hair, slight smirk. He watches your edit with a straight face for a full ten seconds before finally raising an eyebrow. Then he says, completely deadpan: “Pretty sure I asked that question yesterday.”

You scream into your pillow. The duet hits ten million views in five hours. The internet combusts. People are unhinged. “MAX FOUND HER.” “THE WAY HE’S FLIRTING??” “SHE WON LIFE.” You log off, convinced it’ll all fade. It doesn’t.

Two days later, your DMs light up. A message request from @maxverstappen1. Just a screenshot of your video and the text: “You forgot ‘doesn’t like interviews.’” You stare at it for a long moment before replying: “You forgot ‘can’t take a joke.’” He responds within seconds: “I took one. You just posted it.”

You almost drop your phone.

It becomes a thing. He likes random comments on your videos. You keep posting, pretending you’re unbothered but dying inside. One of your captions reads ‘he probably won’t see this one’ — he comments, “I did.” You tell your friends. They scream. The internet ships it before either of you even speak again.

Until he messages you: “You in Monaco?” You reply, “No, I don’t live on a yacht.” He texts back, “Unfortunate. We have good coffee here.” You roll your eyes so hard you can feel it, but somehow your heart does a weird little flip.

You finally meet him months later, during race weekend. You get a paddock pass through a friend, half-terrified, half-thrilled. You don’t expect him to notice you — until he does. “You,” he says, stopping mid-step, his accent soft but distinct. You blink. “Me?” “The unofficial fan club,” he says, and the corner of his mouth tilts upward. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up.” “Didn’t think you’d actually text first,” you shoot back before you can stop yourself. He laughs, quiet and surprised. “Touché.”

It’s strange, seeing him up close — not a meme, not an edit, not a punchline. Just a person. He’s calmer, warmer, less robotic than the cameras ever show. You talk for ten minutes before he gets pulled away by PR, but he manages to toss a “See you later?” over his shoulder, and for some reason, it doesn’t sound casual.

You do see him later. At dinner. Then in texts. Then in late-night calls that turn into inside jokes. He’s funny. Dry. Smarter than you expect, and just self-aware enough to tease you about your “documentaries.” One night, he says, “So, how does it feel to have ruined my reputation?” You reply, “Pretty good, actually.” He laughs. “Good. Because now it’s your job to fix it.”

Weeks pass like that — a slow, unexpected orbit. He posts a TikTok out of nowhere one night. Just him sitting in the car post-race, messy hair, tired smile. Caption: “The unofficial fan club president hasn’t posted in a while. Should I be concerned?” You’re tagged. You nearly drop your phone again.

You text him: “I hate you.” He replies: “You started it.” “Yeah but I didn’t finish it,” you say. “Yet,” he sends back. Then, after a pause: “Dinner in Monaco?”

You go. It’s simple — no cameras, no noise, just you, him, and the sound of the sea. He’s relaxed, teasing, less of the world champion and more of the guy who smirked into a TikTok camera at 2 AM. You tell him you never meant for it to get this far. He grins. “Neither did I. Guess you won.” “Won what?” you ask. “Me,” he says, and you laugh because he’s joking—except, maybe, not entirely.

By the end of the night, he walks you to your car. You’re both quiet, smiling, the kind of silence that feels like something starting. “So,” he says, hands in his pockets. “Still unofficial?” “Maybe,” you say, pretending to think. “Depends.” “On?” “If you’ll duet the next one.” He grins, eyes bright. “Try me.”

The next morning, your TikTok goes up. “Breaking news,” you announce dramatically. “The Max Verstappen Fan Club (Unofficial) has been compromised. Effective immediately, this is now a partnership.”

The last frame cuts to him sitting beside you, hood up, clearly trying not to laugh. “Finally,” he says. “She admits it.”

The video hits ten million views before lunch. And this time, you don’t scream into a pillow. You just smile, sip your coffee, and text him: “So when’s the next meeting, partner?” He replies instantly. “Tonight.”

Lewis Hamilton

Lando Norris

Oscar Piastri

Fi turns abruptly at the sound of your voice, a foreign one of which he'd be mistaken that you're only passing through, but then it's what you said. You stroll further into the checkup station with your eyes glued to the datapad in your hand. There's no one else around, and not even the other four stations are occupied with other clones, or even other medical officers.

“So,” you begin, eyes shifting between your device and Fi’s tensed form as he's still absorbing the situation. RC-eight-zero-one-five.”

“You're new,” Fi blurts out. You nod, kindly, but probably only to humor him. That's one thing; you seem kind although strictly professional—judging by how worn your scrubs are. Another thing is; you are captivating as heck. “Um. Where's Leodo?”

“He's on leave,” you inform him casually, while wearing a small, polite smile that just seems unsettlingly professional for Fi. A discernible crack in your honey-sweet features. “His wife has just given birth, so you're gonna have me instead for the next few sessions.”

“Okay…” he hesitates, “So why is he taking a day off?”

Your straightforward upbringing fractures upon his question. A frown manifests between your eyebrows. Then he realizes you're studying him. Probably wondering why he doesn't know jack about common domestic knowledge at all. Well, tough; because he's not taught about any of that, nor he wanted to know.

“To help around,” you answer bluntly. With an audible exhale through your nostrils, you place down your datapad on the desk. With a soft cadence as if you're talking to a child, you continue, “Y’know, mothers with newborns can't be left alone. Giving birth is exhausting, it's literally life or death. Mom needs a lot of help because obviously she won't be able to clean around the house and cook while in recovery and caring for her baby, let alone work, right?”

At first Fi doesn't realize the state of his slack jaw. The second he does, he shuts it quickly and licks his dried lips. His cheeks burn with embarrassment immediately, and he throws his eyes away from you. “I… guess.” And logically it does make sense. As made-sense as needing as much help as a wounded one could get. “That's new to me, to be honest.”

His hand goes up to scratch behind his neck, and he's too damn embarrassed to lay helplessly under your scrutiny that he's a bit late to catch what you said under your breath. Probably something like I understand and something-manuals-something. But he could be wrong. It's starting to feel hot under his collar.

“Just need you to confirm,” your voice breaks through his trance again. Fi barely manages to restrain his shocked jolt in the seat. “You're RC-eight-zero-one-five, right? Omega Squad?”

He nods a tad too enthusiastically. “Yep, one and only.”

“Okay, then.” You smile, and Fi positively feels his insides to simmer and flutter and sprout out roses and butterflies. “Let's start.”

“And just like that I lost my bravado,” Fi groans into his hands. “My charm, my magick, my women-magnet thing—everything. I look like a di’kutla utreekov.”

“Seriously?” Darman still attempts to absorb the story in disbelief after-the-fact. “Over some new doc in the medbay?”

Fi pokes his protein around the tray. The mess hall is bustling around them. “She explained about the whole resilience of women with their newborns and basically a piece of trivia about human birth, Dar. About randomly ejected offsprings.” He huffs. “She’s cute as kark.”

“I can't believe this,” Atin rolls his eyes, although there's a hint of teasing in his voice. “Fi. Out of all people.”

Niner scoffs, huffing down his protein cubes. “You sound so surprised.”

“Because I thought Darman would be the type to get swept over by some chick, so down bad, like this poor bastard next to me,” Atin sharply tilts his head at Fi’s direction.

Darman stifles his chuckle by shoving another spoonful of carb into his gob. “Helpless, eh?”

Fi kicks him in the shin. “Shut up.”

“Nevertheless,” Niner sighs, “You can't shoot your shot on her.”

“Why not?” Fi protests.

Atin nudges him. “Because she's a GAR officer, you di'kut. Medical officer. You don't wanna mess with her kind, trust me.”

“Please. As if you had the experience.”

“No, but they're responsible for your health,” says Darman this time, ever with the logic and quick thought. “So break their heart once, you've planted the thought.”

“Whatever. You idjits are exaggerating,” Fi scowls.

Atin seems invested in this. And with the gory scar across his face, it's a weird sight. “Say you're gonna load your blaster and shoot your shot at this doc—”

“Don't phrase it like that,” Niner rubs his temple.

“—what are you gonna do?” Atin goes on, clearly not hearing Niner’s buir-like intervention.

Fi stares at him, long and untrusting. “You really believe I'm gonna lay out my plan on the table.”

“Which,” Darman points a finger at him, “You probably don't have yet.”

Fi looks at Niner helplessly. The sergeant is bloody sipping on his water and looking at anywhere else, apparently deaf to this conversation. Fine. He'd take that as a green light.

“No,” Fi admits. “But you know me. I ain't giving up for something that's just started.”

“You're one for small talks, aren't you?” you muse. Fi finds himself in the medbay again, this time for routine booster shots. Another post-op mandatory.

“What can I say, it's my charm,” Fi jokes, unflinching to the cold swipe of alcohol swab over his bicep. “Do you make small talk with your patients?”

“Sometimes,” you answer curtly, your brilliant eyes lingering a second longer at him, as if signaling like right now.

“Isn't it amazing that you can know someone better by making small talk?” Fi goes on, “In a short time, too. Start small and insignificant, maybe the weather. Then you could talk about limmie last night. Then probably this real good ronto wrap down the block. Then something, some place new you've never tried before and then the agreement to go check it out together.”

For a while, he starts to sound like a bloody civilian. It's just that he realizes too late that he started to sound too forward either. Cringing inside, facepalming through his skull, Fi’s entire body freezes in anticipation for your reaction. Best thing that could happen is he'd be graced with a smile. Worst thing? Nothing. Turned down. You wouldn't even humor him.

And the latter is exactly what happens.

“Relax your muscles,” you tell him, the straightforward professionalism in your tone dampening his spirits. But at least you smile. A little, just to comfort him. But still. “Wouldn't recommend having the needle in while you're tense.”

Still chewing in the silence, Fi obliges. He wills his shoulders to relax, although the cool latex of your glove on his bicep is making him feel anything else but relaxed.

“I'm about to combust,” Fi mourns, his voice muffled from the way he's burying his face into the crook of his elbow.

Across the table inside the dingy caf shop, Sev remains unamused. “Personal or girl problem?”

“Girl,” Fi mumbles. He then rises and locks gaze with Sev, who's remained indifferent as he sips his steaming cup of straight black. “Medbay doc.”

“You're an idiot,” Sev rumbles. “Medbay doc? You're a damn medic yourself. Self-love ain't enough?”

“Thanks, Oh-Seven. Just the affirmation I need.”

Sev coughs into his fist. “Any approach yet?”

“Yeah,” Fi says confidently. “Small talk.”

“And?”

Fi stirs his ice-blended caf. “And nothing,” he says, “Yet. Or an eventual big steaming pile of squat.”

“Problem is you sound like you actually believe that feelings would develop overnight.”

“Mine did.”

“Not hers,” Sev snorts. “She hasn't got a kriffing clue who you are.”

Fi is offended. “You bet she does.”

“Then why don't I believe you?”

“You're so full of osik, Sev.”

“I'm just a fresh set of eyes to your situation and my set of eyes said you started it wrong.”

Fi goes silent as he gets reminded of that awkward exchange where he slipped up. Prime, worst moment of his entire love life yet.

“You ever got your way into a girl?” Sev asks seriously then.

“Plenty,” Fi huffs again. “This doc, she's… putting up a thicker wall.”

“Steel,” Sev remarks. “Not plaster like the usuals you talked with. Smart and tough one, the doc.”

Come to think of it, you seem like a career lady yourself. Somehow he's got to find a way to melt your durasteel wall. Say something smart. Be on par with you. That should work.

“And you seriously,” Sev grunts, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Seriously called me in here just to listen to you pouring your heart out.”

Fi hums, his shoulders visibly shrinking behind his own glass of iced-blended caf. “Got no one else to tell.” Atin would beat his shebs laughing, that's why.

Sev lets out an unamused, rumbly chuckle. Chuckle. “Prime. Quit whining, you di’kut. Over some girl too, at that. You're starting to sound like Scorch and it's disgusting.”

“I think I'm…” he says before he could stop himself, “I'm having hot flashes.”

“Hot—” Your expression turns into a mixture of shock and confusion. “Hot flashes?”

Fi gulps. He definitely said something wrong. What a competent medic who studied everything medical. “Yeah?”

“That's…” Your eyebrows knit deeply. Fi hasn't seen a cuter sight. “That's not entirely uncommon.”

“What do you mean?”

You walk up to your desk and plop down onto your chair. Fi waits in anticipation. “Hot flash is more common to women over 40 because the body reacts that way when their estrogen levels are low.” Your eyes glint, but merely in the interest of this topic. Fi is varping sweating under his bodysuit. “But you, you could be stressed. Or something else entirely.”

Fi blinks. “Oh, so it's…” This is disastrous. Kriff, where did he even hear about that stuff? “It’s a… hormonal thing. Which I’m not… supposed to have.”

“Like I said, it could happen to you too if you're under stress.” Your lips bloom into a kind, patient smile. But Fi somehow knows that you're holding something back. It's all about the eyes. “But clones like you with altered genes, you’re perfectly able to withhold against stressors much better than us natborns.” Your voice lowers with sympathy, as is your glance. “Honestly, I can't imagine what's out there like for you. Must be brutal, no?”

“Day's job,” Fi finds himself answering, just like any other day being a part of a clone commando squad. This one he could handle with ease, as if there's a switch inside him and the batteries are empty sympathy he's heard so little in his life.

But with you, there's a difference.

“Alright, then,” you clear your throat. You put your datapad away before returning your focus on him. “Anything else I could help you with?”

Fi doesn't want this moment to end. There's something, he swears. He could feel it.

He laughs awkwardly. “My stomach lining is thinning, I think.” Back to small talk—his way of life. “Me and the boys hit up this Corellian buckwheat noodle parlor and we crank the spice up to max every damn time, heh.” Except this one is a narration that he's making as he goes. His expression turns grim as he says, “I camped up in the ‘fresher the whole night.”

You sigh, a non-humorous laugh escapes your lips. “Well, if you don't want your stomach to shrivel up and implode from the amount of gas along with the wear and tear you put it through, from now on you should stay away from spice for a time being, Eighty-Fifteen.” You pick up your datapad again to write a prescription. “So, can you promise me that?”

You're hopeful, as genuinely hopeful as a doctor would be. Fi wonders if you'd been a pediatrician before you got into the GAR. You've been gentle with your handling and your spoken words, making sure that you're understood completely. Even if it's only mandatory check-ups that normally wouldn't require open answers—just yes and no and one single card for a brief complaint about the state of himself, physically and mentally.

But for you, details are important. You let your patients rant. Even Fi sometimes sticks around and catches some troopers under your assignment praising your work. It's something. You're something. It'd been infatuation at first, but now it's blossoming silly. And he fully intends to muddle through this.

Fi grins. “Promise.” And, for good measure, “I'll try.”

He's done that multiple times and graced with your smile and longer appointments, as well. So far, he hasn't been made, and able to say ‘on progress, ner vod’ with pride and the biggest grin on his face whenever he's asked.

This morning, Fi has decided that dressing as if he's going on a date would do his confidence and self-esteem some more good. Well, not exactly dressing. He's never known any other safety of a home than his own katarn armor, now newly-painted matte black that reflects no light, perfect for stealth conditions. Some wrongs in Qiilura could be done right with this kit now, and so won't be repeated.

His bucket donned, Fi looks like a six-foot enemy's nightmare. His rifle is chambered, and the way his feet carry him? Man on a mission. They carry him further through the military base, troopers passing by with looks of awe on their faces. Yet another usual sight. It's not everyday you'd see an officially issued black-painted commando armor these days. And Omega Squad is the only one with it.

The south wing medbay where he frequents and where you are stationed is never empty. Of course this impromptu visit, where he fake-complained about his fake spice intake the night before, is to see you again. And there Fi finds you, sitting on your desk sipping on a travel cup which he assumes is caf. Your eyes are glued to the holobook you're reading, and he can see some humanoid anatomy floating about as your scroll, possibly Bothan.

Fi particularly adores when you're focused on your job, just like any medic should be. He likes to consider himself like you when he's out there on the field; focused, undeterred, fully locked in to keep his squadmates alive, memorizing each and every one of his medkit’s limited supply in numbers. More pressure than you regularly have as a GP, sure, but it's the similarity that he's found between you both.

“Morning, doc,” Fi greets cheerfully as the door to your practice room opens with a gentle hiss. You look up from your reading, and your eyes twinkle at the sight of him in all his commando glory, your lips stretching as if you're genuinely happy to see him at all.

“Morning, Eighty-Fifteen,” you reply, putting away your travel cup and standing up straight. Your white coat wrinkles slightly from wear, making Fi wonder the last time you threw it into the wash at all. “Is visiting the medbay a new hobby of yours? This is the fourth time you're visiting outside schedule.”

“Fi. It's Fi,” he corrects, his chest swarming with butterflies and doubt at the same time. Names are private, and he willingly trusts you with it. “You can call me Fi. Less mouthful, ya know?”

“Fi.” You nod, all smiles and welcoming, holding the new information close to your chest like a valuable treasure. “What can I do for you, Fi? Won't be another time where your acid reflux symptoms popping up again, will it?”

Fi shifts, and then he lets an awkward laugh. “Actually, it is. Fresher camp again last night, ha.”

You release a long sigh. “Fi, you promised.”

“I couldn't resist,” he says lightly, plopping onto the chair at your desk. The way his name rolls off your tongue, the single syllable, is making him all warm and fuzzy inside—the exact contradiction of how he should be feeling at the moment. “Sorry.”

“Are you really?” You squint at him.

“Reeaally,” Fi drawls, but when you remain unamused, he stows it off quickly. “Really sorry.”

You hold your gaze at him, studying him with an intensity that equals violent thunderstorms. Fi shifts again in discomfort under your scrutiny, a bead of sweat trickling down his neck and disappears upon making contact against his blacks. The way you look at him is almost threatening, and for a second there's disappointment in your eyes, too.

Kriff. I've been made.

“Fi.” Your sigh comes deep from inside your soul. “Spill it.”

His throat bobs from swallowing thickly. “Uh. Spill what?”

“Why you've been lying to me all this time about your illness.” Your exhaustion is peering through, as if you could throw a much harsher choice of words to complain about his behavior right now, but you're holding back out of courtesy. “You don't actually have acid reflux, do you?”

He’s pretty sure he's visibly shrinking in his chair right now. “How do you know?”

“Because the longer I looked, the more often you visited, I realized you look fine and healthy yourself. Acid reflux patients, especially recurring, wouldn't be looking like you at the moment, Fi.”

“They… wouldn't?”

“No, they wouldn't.”

With your crossed arms, you wait for more of his explanation. Fi holds your gaze without fear this time, his determination building inside him. He wonders what you could've looked like under another kind of light that isn't the sterile-looking overhead ones of the medbay, outside another kind of outfit other than the white coat and collared uniform underneath. After all, in the end the truth has to come out either way.

“Okay.” Fi exhales, glancing away from you for a second. Sincere brown eyes, meeting yours—the ones that are begging for a plausible explanation. “I'm really sorry, doc. Really, seriously, genuinely sorry from the bottom of my heart.”

“What was that all about, Fi?” you argue tiredly, your voice not at all raised. Fi silently relishes the way you've spoken his name several times now, and Prime how he loves it. “I’d hate to say that you were wasting my time, but that's what you did.”

“I'm sorry.” He steels himself. Then he stands; tall, even for your height. The bulky armor on him does him service to make a show of power. And in an instance, he grabs control of the conversation, confidence seeping into him, yet holding the walls back from pressing into your shoulders with weight. “Honestly? I just want a chance, that's all.”

You frown deeply. “A chance?”

“If you'd like,” Fi says softly, his tone dropping to hushes in case of thin walls. “I want to take you for caf and this killer ronto wrap place just outside of compound where everybody goes at break time.”

Several kinds of expressions fly across your face, but before you could even settle for one, Fi goes on.

“Ever since I saw you the first time, if you're wondering,” he chuckles awkwardly. “So I tried, you know. Make myself comfortable. Make you comfortable, in fact—with me. But I didn't get the impression that you might be… at least indulging me or enjoying me being me at all, so I had to improvise.”

“We're at my office, Fi,” you counter, and Fi hates how it immediately makes sense. “If we were anywhere else, I'm sure you'd get a different reaction.”

Fi feels himself grinning with hope. “Okay, then pretend we're someplace else.” Oh he’s feeling fiery inside, alright. His heart is pounding in his ears with anticipation. “How would you react?”

And in that moment, you throw your gaze to your feet, finding yourself unable to answer. Your walls crumbling down with that single motion, you gather yourself with one deep inhale before meeting Fi’s giddy, hopeful, warm amber eyes again. “Yeah, maybe.”

Fi barks a free laugh, the weight in his chest disappearing in a blink. “I'm free today, by the way. I mean, no sudden deployment, I'm sure of that. So what do you say, after you get off from work?”

You chuckle and shake your head. “You're such a go-getter, you know that?”

“Oh doc, you know me,” Fi shrugs lightly, his radiant smile charming and sending butterflies to your stomach. “Never gonna give up my own cause.”

“From how much you've talked about yourself in your ‘small talk’?” You quote the air, grinning. “Fair to say that I know you well enough at this point, Fi.”

Thanks for reading! Taglist is moved to event masterlist.

A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided ⬆️)

You think you love rainy days.

You love how your home dims when the sky gets dark with storm clouds, and you love being able to sit in front of the window to watch the rain fall from the sky.

But, more importantly, you love that Fi stays home with you on rainy days.

Sometimes, the pair of you will put on a movie and you’ll cuddle together. Other times he’ll busy himself in the kitchen, trying new recipes. And, if it seems like it’s going to storm, you’ll put on music to distract him and dance with him around the house.

It’s not his fault he’s afraid of storms, after all. And anything you can do to make them easier on him, you will.

But, it’s not storming today.

Sure, it’s pouring rain, but there’s no thunder, lightning, or hail. Just water.

All the same, Fi is still home and you couldn’t be happier about it.

You shift so you’re able to fold your legs on the cushion that covered the window seat, and you focus your attention on Fi. He knows you’re there, but he’s not really paying attention to you.

Which is fine, you don’t need his attention every moment of every day.

He’s sitting on the floor in front of the couch, a disassembled side table spread out in front of him, and the instructions sitting in his hands. It’s the first of four side tables that need to be assembled.

To be fair, Spikea was having a sale and you got one of those side tables for free. And you and Fi really needed them. Though, you didn’t expect him to put them together. You were going to do it yourself, once you got some time to yourself.

But, you suppose he wanted to put them together for you.

You shift again, resting your chin on the palm of your hand as you watch him work. He reads aloud to himself when he’s focused hard on something. Not loud enough that you can hear him, but you can see his lips moving as he reads off the instructions.

And once again, you’re struck by both how much you love him, and how cute he is.

You absently tap out a rhythm on your knee, and then you unfold your legs and cross the room to Fi. He glances up at you just before you drape yourself across his back, your arms tight around him as you bury your face in his neck.

His hand comes up to press against the side of your face, “What’s this?”

“You’re just too cute, I had to come and hug you.”

You hear him laugh, and then you squeak in surprise when he effortlessly flips you over his shoulder and settles you on his lap, “There, now you can hug me better.”

“I was trying to hug you in a way that wasn’t distracting.” You counter, even as you slide your arms around his neck and pull yourself up so you’re able to hug him properly.

“Well, your hugs are always distracting, so that was never going to work.” Fi’s arms slide tightly around you, and you squeak again as he tightens his arms around you. “You’re just too cute, cyare.” He says with a grin as he presses a loud kiss to your cheek.

“Nuh-uh. You’re the cute one.” You reply, “I’m nothing compared to you.”

His grin widens and he lightly bumps his nose against yours, “Ooh, what’s it like to be so wrong all of the time?”

You pout at him, “I’m not wrong, you’re just biased.”

“Oh, absolutely. But I’m also right.” He kisses you quickly, “That’s just how it is.”

“Mm. Fine. I shall let you win today, but only because you’re cozy.”

“How magnanimous of you.” Fi kisses you again, “Do you want to watch a movie?”

“You need to put these together, and I need to be in your way. So not right now.” You say with a small grin.

“Oh, so you wanna be a brat then.”

“Yep~” You chirp, making sure you pop the p annoyingly.

“Nice. That means I get to punish you,”

“Nope~”

“Well, I’m gonna do it anyway. Starting with a million kisses.” Fi replies with a small grin. And then he presses a loud kiss to your cheek, “One,” he leans in again to press another kiss to your cheek, and you dissolve into laughter.

Yeah. You love rainy days at home with Fi.

@heidnspeak

@justiceandwar98

@etod

@kiss-anon

@lonewolflupe

@silly-starfish

@msmeredithrose

@cdblake1565

@badbatch-bitch

@continous-mistakes

@falconfeather23435

@tiredbi-peach

@kimiheartblade

@clones-cyare

@cc--2224

@0revna0

@mira-loves-star-wars

@trixie2023

@rebell-ious

@padawancat97

@sweater-sloot

@bb8-99

@maniacalbooper

@wax-birds

@adriennelenoir

@omegaprime18

@bad4amficideas

@dukeoftheblackstar

@yoitsjay

@liz-stat

@arctech-fox

@lokigirlszendaya

@sailorflora

@jetiimasterbekah

@six-1mpossiblethings

max verstappen

named his puppy ornament ‘MAX’

“hey y/n, so how’s spain nd everything? just thought that i would text you a merry xmas gif later today:) too bad they do not have that option here. btw it’s lovely to know that i’m the first one to hang an ornament on your tree, did you text me first, if so i must say that i’m really honoured:) anyway merry christmas and happy new year, looking forward to see you in jan!!”

lando norris

named his santa claus-on-a-ski ‘doubtinglife’

“my twin flame✨🍀💥💐 ya must have miss me so much huh??? happy merry christmas to you and to little eilie too!!! i’ll back in monaco this thur, do you wanna catch up w me?”

“ps: ooops lo siento i forgot you are still in spain. pick a day and pay me a visit then, you owe me a fancy dinner!!!”

george russell

named his wrapped present with red ribbons ornament ‘gr’

“this is honestly kinda cute, really giving me your vibe mate. so uhm… for today only i will say nice things. merry chrismas y/n, i wish u all the best. let’s have a fearless life and maybe got urself a bf or a gf who will madly love you next year. nighty🌛”

charles leclerc

named his polar bear ‘🎄’

“hi y/n merry christmas, wanna take a guess on who am i? btw love this idea of yours, the tree is sooo beautiful and i love the doodles ornaments too, well i might make myself a tree later:) i’ll send you the link first! and i heard that you are in spain? stay safe while visiting barcelona, the guys their are a bit wild in my opinion😂 anw hoping to see u asap🫶🏻”

carlos sainz

named his kitten face ornament ‘hotsummernight’

“ciao ciao, merry xmas to you ms. silly disney princess. don’t need to write a whole paragraph here, do i? i have prepared a present for you, pls come over at 7pm for dinner! but hey i still need u to text me later, u know, for a confirmation:) have a g’day then, see you!!”

oscar piastri

named his orange ornaments ‘theawardshow’

"nice try from you to steal my attention. so how have you been? hope things don’t mess up with u. merry christmas and happy new year, i’m grateful to have you as my friend this year, you’re like a gift. and not the kind i’d return for store credit:) that’s it, enjoy urself and have fun.”