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pucksandpower · 1 year ago

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Too Sweet

Toto Wolff x Reader

Max Verstappen x ex!Reader

Summary: Max used to think that you’re too sweet for him … now he has to learn to live with the fact that Toto has quite a sweet tooth (inspired by the song that I’ve had on repeat)

I take my whiskеy neat

The doors to the upscale restaurant swing open and Max strides through, his fingers lightly grazing the small of your back as he guides you inside. The dimly lit interior is bustling with the chatter of well-heeled patrons enjoying their evening repasts. A sharply dressed hostess greets you with a polite smile.

“Good evening, sir. Welcome to The Sazerac Room. Do you have a reservation?”

“Verstappen,” Max replies curtly.

The hostess consults her tablet, then nods. “Right this way please.”

She leads the two of you through the elegant dining room, weaving between tables topped with crisp white linens and elaborate floral centerpieces. Max keeps his hand at your back, his thumb idly stroking in a soothing pattern as you take in the opulent surroundings with wide eyes.

“This place is incredible,” you murmur, craning your neck to admire the ornate chandeliers glittering overhead. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

He simply grunts in acknowledgment as the hostess stops before an intimate table tucked discreetly in the corner. After pulling out your chair for you with a flourish, she sets two leather-bound menus on the table.

“Your server will be right with you,” she informs them before departing with a polite nod.

You waste no time in opening your menu, hungrily perusing the offerings. “Oh Max, look at all these amazing cocktails! The La Vie en Rose sounds divine — rose liqueur, raspberries, lemon ...” You glance up at him hopefully. “We should get a couple of those to start.”

Max barely glances at his own menu before shaking his head. “I’ll just have a whiskey neat.”

Your face falls slightly at his brusque response. “Are you sure? These all look so good! We should live a little and try something fun for once.”

He fixes you with a stern look from across the table. “You know I don’t like frilly drinks. Now stop pestering me about it.”

Chastened by his harsh tone, you lapse into a wounded silence and continue reading the menu with diminished enthusiasm. A few moments later, a dapper middle-aged gentleman in a crisp suit appears at your table.

“Good evening, and welcome to The Sazerac Room. My name is William and I’ll be your server this evening.” With a polite smile, he produces a notepad from his breast pocket. “May I start you off with something to drink?”

You glance back at Max, giving him one last chance to change his mind. When he simply gazes back at you impassively, you sigh. “I’ll have the La Vie en Rose cocktail, please.”

William jots down your order before turning to Max expectantly.

“Whiskey neat,” Max says flatly. “Redbreast 27 Year, if you have it.”

“An excellent choice, sir.” William makes a note. “And may I bring you both some bread from our bakery while you decide on your meals?”

“That would be wonderful, thank you,” you reply gratefully.

William departs to place the drink orders, leaving you and Max alone once more. An awkward silence stretches between you, filled only by the tinkle of silverware and murmurs of conversation from surrounding tables.

Finally, you try again. “Max, are you sure I can’t tempt you with one little sip? This La Vie en Rose cocktail sounds absolutely divine. You might lov-”

“For fuck’s sake!” Max suddenly explodes, slamming his menu down on the table hard enough to rattle the cutlery. “How many times do I have to tell you I don’t want any of your ridiculous fruity bullshit? I’m a fucking race car driver, not some ridiculous Instagram model trying to look pretty with my drink.”

His nostrils flare as he leans across the table, eyes flashing with irritation that you would dare continue to push the issue. “I’ve had a long fucking day and I am going to drink whatever the fuck I want. So order your stupid fucking girly cocktail if you must, but don’t act so goddamn disappointed and keep shoving it in my face when I say no.”

You shrink back in your chair, eyes widening with hurt at his enraged outburst. The crestfallen look on your face is enough to douse Max’s fury like a bucket of ice water. He slumps back, remorse already stirring as he witnesses the light dimming in your eyes, lips trembling ever so slightly as you blink back sudden tears.

“I … I was just excited to try something new together,” you whisper shakily. “But never mind. You’re right, I’m sorry.”

The arrival of William with a basket of assorted breads and your glittering pink cocktail garnished with raspberries provides a merciful distraction from the tension.

You immediately reach for the drink, wrapping your hands around the delicate stemmed glass and taking a large gulp — both to avoid making eye contact with Max and to sample your coveted libation.

A look of bliss softens your features as the tart, sugary concoction bursts across your taste buds. “Mmm, this is incredible!”

For a beat, Max can’t help but drink in your look of pure enjoyment — the way your eyes flutter closed in delight, pink lips quirking into a contented smile as you savor each sip. It simultaneously tugs at his heartstrings and fills him with an irrational stab of resentment.

Here you are, sweet and radiant, able to find joy in the simplest of things … while he is just a miserable bastard who can’t let himself enjoy anything without getting irrationally angry.

You deserve so much better than him.

The thought is sobering and he feels shame burn hot in his gut. Unconsciously, his shoulders slump as he watches you take another euphoric sip of your cocktail.

“I knew it, this is amazing,” you sigh happily, seemingly recovered from his earlier tantrum as you bask in the deliciousness of your drink. “Max, you have to try just one little-”

“No.” The refusal is automatic, the word slicing through your offer before he can think better of it.

Your face shutters once more, the bright light in your eyes dimming as your smile fades into resignation. With a soft exhale, you set your glass down and reach for the bread basket instead.

“Suit yourself, then.”

As you silently butter a roll, Max finds himself at a rare loss, anger dissipating into regret as the knot in his stomach tightens painfully. Tonight was supposed to be a celebration after his impressive win on the track, a chance for the two of you to enjoy each other’s company and make more happy memories together.

Instead, he’s gone and ruined the mood … again … just like he always does.

***

“Another round?” Checo’s voice cuts through the sound of laughter and chatter around the table.

Max glances up distractedly from pushing the remaining bits of food around his plate. He, Checo, and a few other members of the Red Bull team are celebrating a successful Monaco Grand Prix. Despite making the podium, Max’s mind hasn’t really been on the festivities.

“I’m all set, thanks,” he mutters, raising his glass of whiskey with a tight smile before taking a sip. His gaze drifts across the opulent dining room of Cipriani Monte Carlo, idly scanning the crowd of wealthy patrons enjoying their evening meals.

That’s when his eyes catch on a shockingly familiar figure.

You.

Sitting at an intimate corner table, bathed in the soft glow of a candle’s flickering flame. For a moment, Max’s breath catches in his throat as a thousand bittersweet memories assault him all at once.

The hurt look on your face that night at The Sazerac Room … the resignation in your eyes as you accepted, yet again, that he would never be able to appreciate the sweet, simple pleasures that brought you such joy ...

The cold, empty silence that descended over your apartment when he finally left for good, stuffing his belongings into a duffel bag as you watched with trembling lips from across the room ...

Max blinks, and the moment passes — but his gaze remains riveted to your table. Because there, sitting across from you with adoration written across his insufferable face … is Toto Wolff.

Max feels his lips curl into an unconscious sneer as the Mercedes team principal murmurs something to you with a gentle smile, reaching across to delicately brush a lock of hair behind your ear. You catch Toto’s hand as it falls, pressing a tender kiss into his palm that makes the older man’s expression soften even further.

Your waiter arrives then, providing a momentary distraction as he lays out a couple of fresh cocktails on crisp white linen — a bright purple concoction garnished with a sugared rim and a plump cherry for you and an amber-hued old fashioned for Toto.

Your eyes light up as you take in the colorful beverage, immediately wrapping your hands around the delicate stemmed glass and bringing it to your lips to sample. A look of pure delight crosses your features as the no doubt sugary drink bursts across your taste buds.

“Mmm ...” you hum in pleasure, causing Toto to chuckle affectionately as he watches you enjoy the first reveling sips.

Setting your glass down, you gesture enthusiastically toward it as you address Toto. “This is incredible! You have to try it.”

Without hesitation, the Mercedes team boss dutifully leans across the table to take a long pull from your straw. Max watches with a mixture of disgust and morbid fascination as Toto’s expression morphs into one of surprised enjoyment.

“Wow, that is quite good, isn’t it?” Toto remarks with an indulgent grin, licking a telltale dab of purple syrup from the corner of his mouth.

“I told you!” You crow in delight, eyes sparkling with unrestrained glee.

The pure joy radiating from you in that moment is enough to make Max’s heart clench in his chest. He has seen that look before, so many times — whenever he deigned to let go of his surly demeanor for even a moment and actually indulge whatever fleeting whim or simple pleasure you desired to share with him.

But it was always so short-lived with him, stamped out by his own stubborn refusal to truly embrace anything resembling happiness or frivolity. You deserved so much more than his constant scowling and gruff rebuffs.

As if reading his thoughts, Toto then leans across the table to tenderly capture your lips in a soft, lingering kiss. The gentle intimacy of it makes Max’s gut churn as a feeling too complicated to fully unpack blossoms in his chest.

When you finally part, both of you are smiling at each other with such open, unguarded adoration that it’s almost obscene to witness. Toto reaches out to cradle your face in his palm as your lips find his once more in another chaste, loving caress.

This time, when you pull away, you let your head loll back with a look of pure bliss. Something deep within Max cracks and splinters at the sight. In a haze, he finds himself drifting back through the churning currents of memory ...

… that last, fateful shouting match in your living room, both of you red-faced and furious as the dam holding back all the anger and resentment and accusations that had been building for months finally burst ...

… you weeping silently as you clutched a meager trash bag containing what little remained of his belongings, not even able to look at him for fear of collapsing completely ...

… “I’m too sweet for you, Max. You’ve made that perfectly clear.”

The acid words burn in his mind even now, feeling as fresh and raw as that night they were spat out like venom between you. His chest constricts as his gaze falls guiltily back to the present day scene in front of him.

Toto and you, basking in the warm, rosy glow of new love — careless and unrestrained in your public affection. Delighting in each other’s company and simple pleasures … just as you always desired for Max to do, yet he could never fully surrender to.

The display is like a twisted mirror, taunting him with the vibrant reflection of what he threw away. What he was too foolish, too emotionally stunted and uncaring to fully appreciate at the time.

Stumbling from his chair in a daze, Max barely registers the questioning looks and concerned murmurs from his team as he staggers from the dining room. He hardly makes it to the privacy of the restroom before bending at the waist, hefting the contents of his stomach into the thankfully pristine porcelain basin.

The whiskey burns on the way back up.

Max grips the edges of the counter, face contorted in anguish as a realization washes over him in searing waves.

You were the real prize all along … and now, he’s lost you for good.

My coffee black

The drone of announcements over the PA system and the dull roar of hundreds of people bustling to and fro mingles into an ever-present white noise hum. Max trudges ahead, the brim of his ball cap tugged low as he weaves through the teeming crowds filing through the airports’ terminals.

It’s just after 5 am, the start of another grueling race week. This time the travel will take you from the Middle Eastern leg of the circuit to the other side of the world in Australia. Twenty-plus hours of planes, layovers, and jet lag beckon — a prospect that grows less and less appealing with each passing season.

A warm weight presses against his side as you shuffle along beside him, head lolling adorably as you struggle to keep your eyes open. One slender hand is looped through the crook of his elbow, gripping the strap of your carry-on bag with the other. You let out a jaw-cracking yawn, leaning into Max’s solid bulk.

“I need coffee,” you mumble groggily. “I’m barely conscious.”

He shoots you a sidelong glance, mouth quirking ever-so-slightly at your dramatics. As grating as your tendency for excessive cheerfulness can be at times, he does admire your ability to shake off the fatigue and stress that plagues him more and more these days.

“There’s one of those chains up ahead,” he grunts, nodding toward the familiar logo peeking through from around the corner.

You light up immediately, straightening and quickening your shuffling steps in anticipation of the caffeinated boost soon to come. By the time you reach the counter, there’s a bright spark back in your eyes that makes the exhaustion plaguing Max’s own limbs feel slightly more bearable.

The barista, a pimple-faced youth who can’t be any older than 18, greets you with a too-wide smile. “Welcome to Daily Grind! What can I get started for you?”

You lean in eagerly, surveying the massive display of chalkboard signs advertising the latest sugar bombs and “coffee” concoctions designed to appease the basic palates of everyday people who wouldn’t know a good cup of joe if it slapped them across the face. Max scowls, already anticipating some ridiculously saccharine order.

“I’ll have a large cinnamon honey oat milk latte, please,” you chirp, as expected.

The barista marks down your request with a perky nod. “Excellent! And for you, sir?”

“Black coffee,” Max replies flatly. “Medium.”

Your brow furrows as you shoot him a quizzical look. “Just black coffee? Not even a splash of cream or anything?”

He shakes his head tersely, one hand already rummaging in his pocket for his wallet as the barista rattles off the total. “We’re in a rush as it is, and that sugary nonsense you ordered takes forever to make with all the fussy bullshit they do to it.”

You wince at his blunt assessment, shoulders slumping a bit in a way that makes a pang of guilt flicker through Max’s chest. He doesn’t mean to be so harsh … but sometimes it’s like the more considerate side of his nature has been ground away by years of constant training and calculating every single variable down to the most minute detail.

The poor kid working the register seems to shrink under the intensity of Max’s gruff demeanor. With shaky hands, he quickly processes the payment before stammering out your total. As you shuffle off to the side to wait for your orders, Max can’t help but keep picking.

“Honestly, I don’t know why you insist on ordering those stupid drinks that are 90% milk and trash,” he mutters, shooting you a disapproving look. “Barely any actual coffee at all.”

You frown, immediately hunching into yourself a bit as you cradle a handful of napkins against your chest. “It’s not like that coffee flavor isn’t there at all,” you argue meekly. “And I have to get some kind of caffeine boost to stay awake during all these flights and race weekends. I just … I don’t really like the taste of black coffee.”

Max scoffs loudly at that, shaking his head in open derision. “Sure, because drinking just regular black coffee like an adult would be too difficult. Instead you have to get your ‘caffeine boost’ from some tooth-rottingly sweet concoction that looks like something a child would order.”

The barista shifts uncomfortably behind the counter, clearly flustered by Max’s abrasive tone. Not that he cares — he’s been dealing with people gawking at him in public for years now. What does rub him the wrong way is the wounded look spreading across your delicate features, eyes dropping to stare dejectedly at the floor.

He opens his mouth to continue chiding you, but at that moment the barista appears with your drinks. The sweet, cinnamony aroma of your order hits Max’s nostrils like a slap in the face, making his nose wrinkle on instinct. You accept your oversized paper cup gratefully, hands automatically curling around the comforting warmth.

With visible enthusiasm, you bring the drink to your lips, unable to resist taking a sip despite the scalding temperature. Max tracks the minute changes in your expression — the slight widening of your eyes, the upward quirk of your lips into a smile of unalloyed contentment. Your lashes flutter closed on a quiet hum of blissful appreciation.

“Mmm … heaven,” you practically moan, hunching over your cup as though to better inhale the revitalizing notes of sugar and spice.

It makes Max want to retch, watching you so unashamedly indulging in such vapid, artificial flavors. How can you find such simple-minded pleasure in that, when you could be savoring the bold, robust notes of a proper cup of black coffee? One meant to awaken the senses and caress the taste buds with its smoky aroma and rich, nuanced flavor notes.

“You can’t honestly get any enjoyment from basically drinking hot milk and flavored syrups,” he mutters, sneering at the offensive beverage in your grasp.

In response, you simply shift closer to him until you’re pressed alongside his body. Your free hand snakes around his bicep, squeezing gently as you tilt your head back to gaze up at him imploringly. Exhaustion and hurt war openly with the angelic softness of your delicate features.

“Max … can’t you just let me enjoy this?” You plead in a low murmur. “It’s early, and we’ve got a long flight ahead.”

His jaw clenches stubbornly, unwilling to back down so easily. Caffeine and sleep deprivation have eroded his already thin sense of decorum.

“I’m just saying, drinking a syrupy dessert drink loaded with sugar and god knows what else isn’t doing you any favors. You might as well just stick to black coffee like a normal adult if you want to be awake and energized.”

The wounded look in your eyes deepens into something more somber and resigned. Slowly, you pull away from Max’s side until a noticeable distance stretches between your bodies. Something inside him shrivels at the loss of contact. Your slender fingers work feverishly at the cup’s lid until it pops off with a dull thunk.

Max stares blankly as you march over to the nearest trash can and upend the contents of your cup into the receptacle. You don’t even seem to hesitate — simply turn on your heel and hurl the now-empty cup in after the wasted drink. It clatters hollowly against the canister, mocking and empty.

When you turn back to face Max, the sight makes the now-lukewarm coffee sitting neglected in his own cup feels like a lead weight in his gut. Your arms are wrapped protectively around yourself, hunched against some unseen foe. Head bowed, you refuse to meet his gaze as you slowly make your way back over to where he stands rooted to the spot in stunned silence.

It’s only as you draw up beside him that Max notices the twin tear tracks striping your cheeks. Your chin remains stubbornly trembling, but you make no move to wipe at the tears now falling freely. Max’s chest constricts almost painfully at the sight of your misery, the guilt gnawing at him as the reality sets in.

He is the reason for it. His harsh, uncompromising tongue has wounded you in one of the cruelest ways once again. Too strict, too unyielding, too incapable of allowing even the smallest indulgences that bring you simple joy without sneering dismissal.

For several agonizing moments, the two of you stand in silence amid the milling crowds of travelers streaming past. Max can’t bring himself to meet your gaze, knowing he’ll only find the depths of his own callous thoughtlessness reflected back at him in your swimming eyes.

Finally, you release a shuddering sigh that sounds far too weighted for someone of your sweetness and light. When you speak, your voice is little more than a tremulous murmur laced with dejection.

“Let’s just go to the gate, Max.”

You brush past him without another word, leaving him to trail numbly in your wake as shame burns a hole through his gut. He watches as your form disappears into the throngs, shoulders already beginning to hunch inward as that spark of happiness in you gutters and fades.

Lingering behind, Max’s gaze falls to the empty cup lying crumpled and discarded in the trash. A reminder of yet another instance where his unchecked tongue and inability to empathize has spoiled an innocent attempt at simple pleasure.

His coffee suddenly tastes like ash on his tongue.

As he moves to dump the neglected drink into the nearby basin, Max wonders with a sinking feeling just how many more times he’ll be able to snuff out your light before it dwindles to nothing.

***

The late morning sun bears down with oppressive force, causing a mirage-like haze to shimmer over the sweltering asphalt of the paddock. Despite being early summer, the Spanish air is already thick and heavy enough to bathe Max’s skin in a sheen of perspiration as he trudges toward the Red Bull Energy Station.

Ahead, he spots a cluster of people milling aimlessly near the entrance to the Mercedes motorhome. At the center appears to be you, head tilted back in unrestrained laughter at something George Russell is regaling you with. The British driver is equally animated, pale features scrunched up in exaggerated motions as he relays what is no doubt an amusing tale.

Max feels his steps gradually slow of their own accord as he takes you in from a distance. You seem utterly at ease and in your element — cheeky grin splitting your face, one hand toying idly with the ends of your hair as your eyes crinkle with unbridled mirth.

A pure vision of effortless contentment.

His gut clenches unexpectedly, unbidden memories of how he methodically chipped away at that very lightness in you until it was all but extinguished washing over him in a nauseating wave. How quickly he took such simple joys for granted ...

So transfixed is he by the sight of your open, honest amusement that Max barely notices the figure slipping up behind you. Not until Toto Wolff raises a conspiratorial finger to his lips, eyes twinkling impishly as he pantomimes for silence at a sputtering George.

You remain oblivious even as the Mercedes team principal slides flush against your back, looping one arm around your waist to tug you snug against his chest. With his free hand, Toto cups it teasingly over your eyes — to which you release a tinkling peal of laughter.

“Guess who?” The playful lilt of the older man’s Austrian lilt is unmistakable, dripping with honeyed warmth.

“Hmm … I wonder,” you murmur coyly, making a show of tapping your chin in feigned confusion. “Is it a dashing gentleman caller here to sweep me off my feet?”

Toto chuckles deeply in your ear, the sound positively dripping with unguarded affection. “Only if you’ll have me, liebling.”

Craning your head back with a cheeky grin, your arms instinctively wind around his neck as you stretch up on your tiptoes to greet him properly. Toto meets your lips in a lingering, languid kiss that has George hastily clearing his throat and looking resolutely anywhere but at the affectionate display before him.

When you finally part, all radiant smiles and flushed cheeks, it’s like the rest of the world has completely fallen away. Toto gazes down at you with such pure adoration that Max feels his throat constrict as though a belt is suddenly cinched tight around it.

“I have a surprise for you, schnucki,” Toto murmurs huskily, lips brushing your temple as he speaks.

You light up like a kid on Christmas morning, practically vibrating with excitement at his words. “Oh? Do tell!”

With a wink and roguish smile, Toto brandishes his other hand from behind his back — in it, clutched protectively, is a large cup topped with whipped cream and what looks like edible flower petals sprinkled over the top. The light purple hue of the iced contents catches in the bright sun, refracting a prism of soft, delicate colors.

“I had the barista in our hospitality whip this up for you,” Toto explains fondly. “After I mentioned how much you enjoy trying unique coffee flavors. It’s a lavender vanilla iced latte.”

Your mouth drops open in a perfect ‘o’ of delight as you instinctively make grabby motions toward the tantalizing beverage. Max recognizes that earnest enthusiasm all too well. It’s the same look you used to get whenever presented with any unique taste or experience to appreciate.

A look he always met with disdain and scorn.

Toto doesn’t hesitate for a second before depositing the cup into your greedy hands. You immediately cradle it reverently, as though it’s the most precious thing you’ve ever held. Ducking your head, you take a long pull through the striped paper straw.

The expression that blossoms across your features as that first taste bursts over your tongue is one of pure, unadulterated bliss. Your eyes flutter closed on a muffled moan of sinful enjoyment, lips pursing as though savoring each individual note of flavor. Max hasn’t seen you look that unguardedly delighted by anything in … well, he can’t actually recall the last time.

“Oh Toto, this is heavenly!” You gush, swiping your tongue across your lower lip to catch a stray drop of condensation. “The lavender is subtle, but gives it such a uniquely fresh and floral twist. And the vanilla adds this creamy sweetness that keeps it from being overwhelming.”

You open your eyes to beam radiantly up at the older man, who returns your luminous smile with equal warmth. “It’s perfect, thank you! You have to try it.”

Without prompting, you eagerly offer the cup up to Toto. He accepts it with an indulgent chuckle, locking eyes with you as he takes a contemplative sip — no doubt eager to share in whatever fleeting moment of bliss the simple drink has brought you.

Unlike Max, who would have turned up his nose and likely received it with derision, Toto seems to savor the complex blend of flavors. Humming thoughtfully, he swipes his tongue across his upper lip as though committing each separate note to memory.

“You’re quite right, liebling,” he agrees readily, “this is delightful. So refreshing for this heat. I may have to acquire a taste for these iced coffees myself.”

You positively glow at his assessment, lighting up from within like a joyful little sun. Max is helpless before the storm of emotions suddenly ripping through him at the sight.

“Oh! That reminds me,” you chirp giddily, bouncing on the balls of your feet, “I was talking to the barista about maybe incorporating some other floral syrups for iced coffees too. Like rose or hibiscus! And maybe we could get her to try making those fun layered drinks with the espresso on the bottom-”

Toto’s deep belly laugh cuts off your stream of eager rambling. Without warning, he snakes an arm around your waist and tugs you flush against him once more. You let out a startled giggle as he buries his nose in the crook of your neck, lips brushing the feverish pulse point just beneath your jaw.

“You adorable thing,” he rumbles warmly, words slightly muffled against your skin as he presses a languid line of kisses along the sharp line of your jaw. “So enthusiastic about the simplest pleasures in life ...”

Pulling back, Toto lifts one hand to tenderly cradle the side of your face. You automatically nuzzle into his palm with a look of such smitten devotion that it makes Max’s heart stutter behind his ribcage. When Toto leans in to seal his lips over yours once more, the kiss is deep and thoroughly unhurried — as though the two of you have all the time in the world to savor this intimate little moment.

Max’s hands clench into white-knuckled fists, blunt nails biting crescent moons into his clammy palms. He should turn away, leave you to your blissful display with someone who so clearly appreciates you. Yet he remains rooted in place, unable to tear his eyes from the scene unfolding before him.

It’s like witnessing an alternate universe version of your shared lives play out in vivid, scorching detail.

In this reality, Toto is the one tenderly stroking the pad of his thumb over the elegant arch of your cheekbone as the two of you part, drinking in the sight of your passion-addled features hungrily. He is the one basking in the radiance of your bright and unrestrained joy. Celebrating each of your simple thrills, from the most frivolous of flavored coffees to the sensual graze of skin on skin.

And where does that leave Max? An outsider peering in at paradise with his face smeared against the glass, watching the warmth and affection he could never fully embrace slowly slip through his calloused fingers.

And my bed at three

The mattress shifts, the subtle movement rousing Max from his slumber. He cracks one eye open to find the space next to him empty, the sheets disheveled where you had lain.

A glance at the digital clock on the nightstand tells him it’s not yet 5 am. Where are you going at this hour?

He hears faint rustling from the living area of the hotel suite, followed by the soft click of the door. Groaning, he kicks off the covers and pads out of the bedroom, the plush carpet warm beneath his bare feet.

You’re sitting on the couch, slipping into a pair of flats. “What are you doing up so early?” He asks, his voice still husky from sleep.

You look up, startled. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” A soft smile plays on your lips. “I was going to watch the sunrise.”

Max rakes a hand through his tousled hair. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Because it’s beautiful.” Your eyes sparkle with an excitement he can’t comprehend this early in the morning. “The colors, the way the light slowly creeps over the horizon — it’s just magical.”

He snorts. “It happens every day. Nothing magical about it.”

Your face falls ever so slightly, and it tugs at something in his chest. But the feeling is fleeting, replaced by annoyance at having his sleep disturbed for something so trivial. “So you didn’t want to join me, then?” You ask, almost timidly.

“And wake up before the ass-crack of dawn? No thanks.” He flops onto the couch beside you with a huff. “I was up until 3 am sim racing. Not all of us find staring at the sky such riveting entertainment.”

You say nothing, simply nodding as you avert your gaze. The light in your eyes has dimmed, and he feels a pang of guilt. But he shakes it off — it’s far too early for this kind of whimsical nonsense.

“Suit yourself,” he mutters. “I’m going back to bed.”

He doesn’t see the way your shoulders droop as he turns and trudges back towards the bedroom. Doesn’t see the tears that prick at the corners of your eyes before you blink them away and readjust the set of your jaw with determination.

Max burrows under the covers, fully intent on drifting back into oblivion. But sleep evades him, his mind buzzing with a peculiar restlessness. He punches his pillow into a more suitable shape, flips it over to the cool side, but still he lies awake, listening to the silence that fills the suite.

After what feels like an eternity, curiosity gets the better of him. He kicks off the covers once more and pads over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city street below. Sure enough, there you are, a tiny figure perched on a bench across the way, your face tipped up towards the slowly lightening sky.

Max leans his forehead against the cool glass, watching as the inky blackness of night gives way to soft shades of periwinkle and lilac. Slowly, the colors deepen into blazing pinks and vibrant oranges that streak across the heavens. The sky ignites in a brilliant blaze of crimson and gold, the clouds set afire by the rising sun.

And there you sit, bathed in the dawn’s ethereal glow, utterly transfixed. In this light, your features seem softer, more at peace than he’s seen you in a long while. A smile plays on your lips, genuine and unguarded, as you take in the spectacle unfolding before you.

Max finds himself holding his breath, as if the slightest movement might shatter the magic of this moment. He’s never seen you look more beautiful, more alive than in these fleeting minutes as day breaks over the city.

A rare pang of tenderness blooms in his chest, quickly overshadowed by a creeping sense of unease. He isn’t certain how much time has passed before the brilliant hues fade into the pale blue of morning, but eventually you rise from the bench, taking one last, lingering look at the sky before turning and disappearing from view.

Max exhales slowly, his breath fogging up the glass. He isn’t proud of how he dismissed your simple joy, that spark of wonderment at the little things that he so often takes for granted.

An emptiness settles in the pit of his stomach, the guilt heavier than before. How many other moments has he trampled on in his relentless pursuit of success?

He thinks of your radiant smile, how it lit up the pre-dawn gloom more vibrantly than the sunrise itself. With a sigh, Max turns away from the window, already dreading the apology he knows he owes you.

Because in that single, breathtaking moment, he realizes just how lucky he is to have someone like you in his life. Someone who can find magic in the mundane, beauty in the simple things he’s become blind to along the way.

Someone, Max fears, who may be too sweet for him.

***

Max gives up on sleep around 4:30 am, as he has for the past several weeks. Insomnia has become his constant, unwanted companion, leaving him tossing and turning until the first hints of dawn creep through the curtains. On nights like this, slumber remains persistently out of reach no matter how exhausted he feels.

He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling as the brightening sky slowly illuminates the room. It wasn’t always this way — he used to be able to sleep like the dead after a race weekend, knocked out by the physical and mental exertion. But lately, his mind refuses to shut off, thoughts swirling endlessly until his head pounds.

With a groan, Max kicks off the tangled sheets and drags himself out of bed. Maybe going for a run will quiet the racket in his brain, at least for a little while. He dresses quickly, lacing up his trainers and grabbing his earbuds before heading out into the semi-darkness.

The pre-dawn streets are blissfully empty as he starts off at an easy jog. He despises becoming one of those obnoxious morning people, but exhaustion has a way of stripping away one’s self-respect. If pounding the pavement before the rest of the world awakes is what it takes to catch a few hours of sleep, so be it.

His route takes him along the harbor, the gentle lapping of the waves against the seawall providing a soothing soundtrack. The first rays of sunlight glint off the glassy surface, and he finds himself averting his gaze, oddly resentful of the impending sunrise.

It wasn’t so long ago that he scoffed at your eagerness to greet each new day. But ever since you’ve been gone from his life, those brilliant, fleeting moments of beauty have begun to mock him at every turn.

He picks up his pace, as if he can outrun the rising sun and the flood of memories it brings. But there’s no escaping the vivid flashes of you, smiling radiantly as the world awakes in a blaze of fiery hues. Or the hollow ache that twinges somewhere beneath his rib cage whenever he’s reminded of just how little he appreciated you.

So lost is he in his circling thoughts that he nearly runs right into you, appearing abruptly on the path ahead. His trainers skid against the pavement as he grinds to a halt, his heart stammering in his chest.

“Max?” You blink up at him, clearly startled by his sudden presence.

He opens his mouth, an automatic apology rising to his lips — until his eyes zero in on the camera clutched in your hands. Of course. Still chasing sunrises after all these years.

A wry grin tugs at the corner of your mouth as you take in his rumpled running attire. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Max says nothing, his gaze flickering briefly towards the brightening horizon before fixing on you once more. You look … well, radiant as ever, lit by the soft morning glow. A small pang of something — longing, maybe — twists in his gut.

“Out enjoying another sunrise, I see,” he says at last, nodding towards the camera.

You glance down at it fondly. “Well, you know how it is. I have to capture them while I can.” A teasing lilt edges into your voice. “Not all of us are night owls.”

He huffs out a humorless laugh. “I’ll never understand what’s so fascinating about watching the same thing happen day after day.”

“But that’s just it — each one is different. Unique and fleeting and … breathtaking.” Your eyes spark with that gentle wonderment he remembers so well, the sight sending a tremor through his chest. “Like getting a front row seat to the greatest show on Earth, but it’s one you’ll never see again.”

You trail off with a small shake of your head, seemingly at a loss to put the feeling into words. Max doesn’t need the explanation — he’s seen that look of childlike awe on your face more times than he can count.

An awkward silence stretches between you, laden with the weight of history and unspoken apologies. You shift your stance, mouth opening as if to say something more.

But Max cuts you off before you can get the words out, unable to bear whatever sentiments might cross those sweet lips of yours. “Toto not joining you this time?” He asks gruffly.

Your expression softens into a fond smile, and it’s like a physical blow to Max’s sternum. He knows that look, has been on the receiving end of it more times than he cares to remember. The way your entire being seems to brighten when you so much as think about someone you love.

“Ah, you know Toto — he’s more of a sunset person,” you say with a light laugh. “I’ve never been able to drag his grumpy butt out of bed for a sunrise.”

Even as his insides curdle with jealousy, Max can’t help the quirk of his lips at the mental image. He could all too easily picture Toto swatting irritably at you, burrowing deeper under the covers to escape the blasted sun.

“But we make it work,” you continue, that loving glow refusing to dim from your eyes. “I take photos of the sunrise to share with him later. And he does the same with the sunsets for me. That way, we both get to experience it in a way.”

The gentle sound of your voice washes over Max like a salve, momentarily easing the tangled knot of regret and longing that’s taken up permanent residence inside him. He watches, transfixed, as the early morning light bathes you in ethereal radiance.

In that moment, he sees it so clearly — the depth of give and take in your relationship with Toto. The effort, large and small, that you both put into nurturing one another’s happiness.

Even when your desires don’t perfectly align. Even when compromise is required.

It’s such a simple gesture, capturing those magical moments to share with your loved one. But it’s one Max was never willing to make when you were with him.

A lump forms in his throat as realization washes over him with unforgiving clarity. You weren’t too sweet for him, as he had so arrogantly assumed time and again. No — the truth, much harder to swallow, is that he was simply too sour for you.

Too selfish, too wrapped up in his own ambitions to make even the smallest concession. Too blind to recognize the magic in the simple things that brought you unbridled joy. Too bitter and jaded to embrace and nurture the beautiful nature that made you … well, you.

And now, after all his careless cruelties and wasted chances, he can only stand idly by and watch as someone else basks in the sweetness of your affection. As someone else goes out of their way, day after day, to put that blinding smile on your face and those stars in your eyes.

Something in Max’s chest cracks and crumbles at the injustice of it all. At the agonizing truth that he let the best thing in his life slip through his fingers, all because he couldn’t be bothered to change his sullen ways.

Because you were never too sweet for him … he was too sour for you.

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rentrightforall · 2 years ago

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Elevate Your Occasion: Transforming Events with Elegant Table Linen Rentals in the USA

Introduction

Creating a visually appealing and cohesive atmosphere is essential when it comes to hosting an event, whether it's a wedding, corporate gathering, or celebratory party. One often overlooked yet crucial element in achieving this is table linens. The right choice of table linens can significantly impact the overall ambiance of your event space. This article delves into table linen rentals in the USA, offering insights, recommendations, and personal experiences to help you make informed decisions and create unforgettable occasions.

The Importance of Table Linens

Table linens, including tablecloths, napkins, and runners, play a multifaceted role in event design. They protect tables from spills and stains and serve as a canvas for expressing your event's theme or color scheme. Well-chosen table linens can transform a plain space into an elegant and inviting setting, instantly elevating the aesthetic appeal of your event.

Exploring Table Linen Rental Options

Variety and Versatility

One of the primary advantages of renting table linens is the diverse range of options available. Reputable rental providers like "Rent Right For All" offer an extensive catalog, allowing you to choose linens that perfectly align with your event's style and theme. The possibilities are virtually limitless, from classic whites to vibrant hues and from sophisticated satin to rustic burlap.

Customization to Suit Your Event

Table linens are not one-size-fits-all; they should be tailored to match your event's unique vibe. Whether aiming for a black-tie gala or a casual outdoor gathering, rental services provide linens in various sizes and shapes to accommodate different table dimensions. This level of customization ensures a polished look that resonates with your event's purpose.

Expert Advice for a Cohesive Look

Renting table linens from established providers often comes with the added advantage of expert advice. These professionals possess a keen eye for design and can help you select linens that harmonize with your chosen décor elements. Their insights can prove invaluable in achieving a cohesive and visually pleasing aesthetic.

Elevating Your Event: Personal Experience

As an event planner with years of experience, I have witnessed the transformative power of well-chosen table linens. I opted for sleek and modern linens in the company's brand colors for a recent corporate event. The linens reinforced the company's identity and created an upscale atmosphere that impressed both clients and employees. This firsthand experience underscores the impact of table linens on the overall event ambiance.

Making Informed Choices

Quality Matters

When selecting table linen rentals, quality should be a top priority. High-quality linens not only look better but also feel more luxurious. Reputable rental companies often provide linens made from premium fabrics that resist wrinkles and maintain their vibrancy throughout the event.

Budget-Friendly Elegance

Contrary to popular belief, renting table linens can be a cost-effective choice. Purchasing linens outright might seem like a money-saving option, but considering the expenses of cleaning, storage, and maintenance, renting becomes the more practical choice for most event planners.

Conclusion

In the realm of event planning, details matter. Table linens might seem like a small detail, but their impact is anything but minor. From setting the tone of your event to providing a comfortable dining experience, table linens are essential components of successful event design. With reliable rental services like "Rent Right For All," you can effortlessly access a wide array of high-quality linens that align with your event's vision.

Elevate your next event with carefully chosen table linens, and witness firsthand how these textiles can transform an ordinary gathering into an extraordinary experience. Remember, it's not just a tablecloth – it's an integral part of your event's story.

#event planning #table linen rentals #USA events #elegant decor #event design #table linens #event ambiance

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crazziforazzi · 1 month ago

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Fighting for the love (of the game) - Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Draft night

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Trope: Second chance

A/N: Hi guys, I literally got into basketball a month ago and it took me approximately 5 seconds until I found my gays. Disclaimer, I am still learning to understand the game. I hope you enjoy it!

Word Count: 7.7k words

Masterlist

Azzi POV – Draft Night, Brooklyn, NY

Azzi Fudd sat beneath the white-hot lights with her back straight and her legs crossed, the slit of her white dress slicing clean across her thigh. Sharp, elegant, a little sexy — the kind of dress you wear when you want to be remembered. When you want to say I belong here before anyone else can ask if you do.

Her fingers, polished in soft nude and curled tightly around the edge of her chair, stayed hidden beneath the table’s starched linen. She felt weightless. Not in a euphoric way, but in the way a balloon might feel just before the string slips from a hand. Untethered. Like the floor beneath her might dissolve if she dared to look down.

Beside her, Coach Geno sat with his arms folded and a slight smirk tugging at his mouth — the same one he always wore when he was pretending not to be proud. Azzi could feel his steadiness radiating like heat. He didn’t need to say anything but Azzi felt it. He had been the one who believed in her long before anyone else did, besides her family and her. Back when she had been mostly promise and pressure. Back when she had doubted whether the glittering version of herself, the one people wrote about and projected her onto, could ever be real. Geno had known better.

Her mom sat on her other side, smiling with the kind of pride that barely disguised the nerves beneath it. One hand rested gently on her dad's, their fingers laced, grounding each other. Her dad kept fidgeting with the knot of his tie like it had a mind of its own, like maybe if he adjusted it enough, it would undo the lump in his throat. He looked proud too, proud and overwhelmed in that way dads get when they realize their daughters are no longer little girls, and the world is watching them become something else entirely.

Azzi’s gaze drifted past them, down to the last chair at the end of the table.

Empty.

She had left it that way on purpose.

Her agent hadn’t loved the idea. You can’t just leave a chair empty on the WNBA draft, Azzi. Pick someone. But she hadn’t. She couldn’t.

Because that seat wasn’t for just anyone. It was for the one person who should have been here. The only person she had ever imagined beside her when this moment finally came. The one who had brought her to this very ballroom, exactly one year ago, when Azzi had sat on that chair, her palms stinging from clapping too hard, her heart thudding as the cameras flashed and her name was called.

She could still feel the soft press of a kiss against her neck in that hotel suite. It was not for the cameras, not for show. Just a moment between them. Familiar. Safe. Them.

She hadn’t even been the one in the spotlight then. But it had felt like a shared beginning anyway. Like they were both on the edge of something, the start of parallel dreams, yes, but dreams braided together in the quietest, surest ways.

She remembered how it had all looked. The suite had been warm with lamplight and the soft rustle of fabric as her stylist darted between garment racks, holding up dress after dress that Azzi barely registered. She had been in a black satin robe, her arms crossed, her nerves sharp, when a low voice had called to her from the bed.

"Azz," she’d said, stretching it out with a smile after finishing her Cane’s, "you could wear the gift bag they gave us and you’d still be the hottest one here."

Azzi had tried to glare at her, but the laugh betrayed her. She always betrayed herself around her.

They’d picked the dress together. A shiny black one with a plunging neckline and a back that dipped scandalously low. She remembered stepping out from behind the divider and seeing the expression shift on her face — that slow-blinking awe, the open-mouthed pause, like she was witnessing something sacred. Azzi had felt heat rise to her cheeks. But she hadn’t looked away.

And then there was the way she looked that night. Jet-black custom Coach pantsuit, tailored like it had been stitched onto her skin, every rhinestone catching the light. Her blonde hair had fallen in soft waves, glossy and perfect. She had looked like a storm in motion. Like the kind of person the world wanted to follow.

But when she looked at Azzi, really looked at her, she softened. Always.

Somehow, in all the chaos of the night, they’d found five minutes alone. No cameras, no stylists, no interruptions. Just the mirror, and the quiet. Azzi remembered the feeling of warm fingers wrapping around hers, the gentle tug that pulled her closer.

"Jesus," she’d whispered, her voice barely more than breath. "You are trying to kill me tonight looking like that."

Azzi had rolled her eyes, laughing, but her body had leaned in instinctively. Needing. Wanting. When their lips met, it had been soft. Not rushed, not performative. Just a long, slow inhale of everything they didn’t say out loud. A kiss like a promise. Like a map.

"This is the closest to my prom night outfit I could give you."

There had been plans. Not just whispered ones. Real ones. Apartments they’d toured in cities they hadn’t yet moved to. Lists on their phones titled "someday." Grocery store habits. Dog names. A playlist titled our kitchen mornings. She used to tuck her head into Azzi’s shoulder at night and say, "We’re going to do this. All of it. We are gonna be the ones who make it."

Azzi had believed her. Azzi had let herself believe in it. In them. A quiet, fearless kind of belief. Until that night 9 months ago.

The host’s voice sliced through her memories, too bright, too smooth. Scripted. A video reel flickered onto the giant screen behind them.

"And of course, last year, the Dallas Wings selected Paige Bueckers…"

The name cracked through Azzi like glass under pressure. She turned instinctively, eyes flicking toward the screen already knowing which clip was coming.

There she was. One year ago. Confident and beautiful. Her mouth parted in a polite smile, her shoulders trembling slightly under the weight of the moment. They had rehearsed what she needed to do; hug her mom first, then her dad, and then she is allowed to give one to Azzi.

But when they called her name, she didn’t follow the script.

She turned straight to Azzi. Wrapped her up like she couldn’t help it. Like there wasn’t another choice in the world.

There had been cameras. Reporters. Other players and coaches.

But all Azzi had felt was the anchor of her arms. The press of her breath against Azzi’s cheek. In that moment, under all the lights and noise, it had felt like the start of something unshakable. A choice. Not for the cameras. For them.

Azzi had whispered it into her hair, voice breaking: I love you.

And the reply had come as soft as breath, as certain as thunder.

I love you too.

It had felt like a forever kind of night. But forever is fragile when the world keeps pulling you in opposite directions.

Now, Azzi sat in the same room. Same lights. Same stakes. But alone.

But there was no hand to reach for. No crooked smile across the table. No five minutes of softness carved from chaos. Just an empty chair. Silent, unyielding, echoing with all that was supposed to be.

She swallowed hard. Straightened her shoulders. Coach Geno leaned in slightly, gave her a look. Warm, knowing, proud.

The crowd quieted as the host adjusted her mic after the video ended, voice rising just enough to cut through the low hum of anticipation. "And now," the host said with practiced drama, "after months of speculation and scouting reports, it’s finally time."

Azzi smiled gently, the corners of her mouth lifting in a quiet, thoughtful way. This moment wasn’t hers yet. At least, not in the way she had once imagined.

She had accepted that, and more importantly, she had found peace in it.

Everyone in the room, and really, everyone watching, expected Lauren Betts to go first. That was no secret. The analysts had said it. The former pros had agreed. The fans had assumed it. And Azzi herself had believed it. Lauren had earned it. She had led fearlessly, played with dominance and control, and carried herself with the quiet power of someone who didn’t need to prove anything. Throughout the season, Lauren had risen to every challenge and delivered every time until UConn stopped her as a team in the semi-finals. Azzi had admired her, not with envy, but with genuine respect.

There was no bitterness in her heart.

Azzi knew what it meant to be the one people doubted. She had lived with that for years — not in the form of loud criticism, but in the subtler, more painful way doubt creeps in when people stop asking about your future and start talking about your past. Injuries had stolen more than just playing time from her; they had taken away the certainty she used to feel when people said she was destined for greatness.

There had been days, long, quiet days in empty gyms, where she had wondered if she would ever feel whole again. Days when the ache in her knees matched the ache in her heart. When people spoke her name with caution, as if they didn’t want to jinx her.

But this year had been different.

This year, she had felt free. Not just physically, though playing without pain had been a revelation, but emotionally, too. She had run without fear. Laughed during practice. Shot with joy, not desperation. The game had returned to her like an old friend, and she had welcomed it back with open arms. For the first time in a long while, she wasn’t chasing anyone else’s expectations. She was simply playing because she loved it.

That, she had decided, was enough.

So she sat now with an open heart, quietly anticipating the moment when Lauren’s name would be called. Maybe she, Azzi, would go second. Or third. Maybe she would be headed to the Sky, or to the young team in the Bay, the Valkyries, who were already being described as bold, bright, and full of possibility. She could imagine herself there, not as the headline act, but as something even more important: a cornerstone. A player to build around.

The host continued speaking, her voice confident and steady, drawing out the announcement with a practiced kind of suspense. The air in the room shimmered with tension.

Then, something changed.

Azzi noticed it before anyone else. The cameras began to move. One operator shifted to her left. Another crouched in front of her. A third one came in from the side, adjusting focus, zooming in. It was a subtle flurry, but unmistakable.

She felt a jolt of adrenaline. Her heart quickened.

She looked around, searching for something to anchor her. Her eyes landed on Geno.

He was watching her with that same knowing look he had always given her when she was about to do something extraordinary. His smile was soft, steady, filled with the kind of love and pride that needed no explanation.

Her breath caught in her throat.

"Coach…" she whispered, not quite a question, but not yet a belief.

He didn’t say anything. He just nodded, slow and certain.

And then the world seemed to still. The noise of the crowd, the flashing lights, the nervous chatter, it all fell away. She could hear nothing but the sound of her own heart.

"With the first pick in the 2026 WNBA Draft," the host finally said, her voice ringing like a bell, "the Los Angeles Sparks select… Azzi Fudd."

Everything stopped. Azzi didn’t move.

The room erupted, cheers, gasps, applause, but she sat frozen, her body locked in place as her mind tried to catch up with what she had just heard.

Her name. First.

She looked toward her parents. Her mother’s hands were clasped over her mouth, eyes wide and already filled with tears. Her father repeated, “Oh my God,” over and over, his voice full of disbelief and awe.

Still, Azzi remained still.

Because in that moment, she wasn’t just hearing her name. She was hearing all the years of work. All the hours spent rebuilding. All the nights spent wondering if this dream had quietly slipped away while she wasn’t looking.

She had let go of the need to be number one. She had finally, fully accepted that her worth wasn’t tied to any ranking or headline. She had come into this year with a lightness, with joy, and with nothing to prove.

And somehow, that had brought her here. To the top. Not as a gamble. Not as a question mark.

As the answer.

Geno was on his feet now, clapping with quiet pride. There were tears in his eyes too. Beside him, Tim wiped at his own face, beaming with joy. Kate was already crying openly, one hand pressed to her chest as if she could hold the emotion in.

Azzi felt something rise inside her — not shock, not pride, but something deeper. Something gentler.

Gratitude.

She was grateful for every moment that had led her here. Grateful for the people who had believed in her when she didn’t believe in herself. Grateful for the girl who never stopped showing up, even when her body begged her to give up.

Her body moved before her mind could catch up. Slowly, she rose to her feet. Her dress floated around her legs, and her heels clicked softly against the floor as she turned to hug her mother. They held each other tightly. Her father kissed her forehead and whispered something she would only remember later.

When she turned to Geno, he embraced her fully, holding her like a second father.

"You earned this," he said, his voice thick. "Every damn bit of it, Azzi."

Azzi nodded against his shoulder, eyes closed, letting the truth of that statement settle into her bones.

When she stepped away, she glanced to the chair beside her. It was still empty.

But Azzi didn’t linger there.

She turned toward the stage, toward the light, toward everything that waited for her on the other side of this moment.

Azzi Fudd. Number one overall pick in the 2026 WNBA draft.

The noise never really stopped.

Not during the photos, not during the on-stage interview, not even while she was trying to catch her breath behind the curtain with someone from the Sparks' PR team asking if she wanted water or soda or a second to sit. It was all a blur. Reporters leaning in with questions, UConn teammates pulling her into tight hugs, everyone smiling so wide it almost felt choreographed. She was dizzy with it. Dizzy in the best possible way.

The rest of the draft was still unfolding in real time. The screens overhead kept announcing new picks, cameras swivelling, more applause erupting every few minutes from different corners of the room. But to Azzi, it all sounded underwater. Like her name had been called and now the volume of everything else had been dialled down, as if the night was making room for her moment.

Azzi could barely catch her breath before someone grabbed her wrist again and yelled, "UP! One more time!" and suddenly she was airborne, her feet kicking helplessly above a sea of navy-blue blazers and glittery eyeshadow and open-mouthed joy.

"Okay, okay, stop—" she laughed, flailing as they tossed her higher, her curls nearly smacking Jana in the face. "You are gonna drop me!"

But they didn’t care. Nobody did. This was her night. Ice was yelling something about a champagne spray. KK was already trying to start a TikTok live. Azzi’s cheeks hurt from smiling, her voice gone from screaming, and her dress was dangerously close to flying up the more they tossed her. She managed to wriggle her way down on the third throw, breathless and flushed and laughing so hard her abs hurt.

And then she heard it.

A laugh.

Not one of her teammates screaming her name. It came from deeper back. Farther behind the cameras and the velvet ropes and the backstage staff holding clipboards and headsets. It was sharp, bright, and familiar enough to freeze her in place mid-grin.

She scanned the crowd. Not with panic, with purpose. She knew that sound. That rhythm. It wasn't the kind of laugh you forgot, not when it used to belong to the person who knew every version of you, who had cracked open your ribs and seen what was inside.

The crowd was a blur, camera flashes, tall shadows, a security guard in the middle of moving someone along, but between two shoulders, just for half a second, she caught a flicker of blonde hair.

Tied back in a messy low bun. Head angled like she was looking away. A sliver of cheek, maybe.

Azzi blinked. The crowd shifted. Gone.

No way. Paige wasn’t here. She would’ve known. Right?

But for a moment, the noise disappeared. Azzi stood perfectly still in the center of it all, one foot in the past, one foot in everything she’d worked her whole life for.

A part of her wanted to chase it. Just to be sure. But she didn’t move. She couldn’t. Because her name was still being said over and over again by reporters, by her coaches, by kids in the crowd.

She breathed. And let the possibility stay just that, a maybe.

Maybe she was imagining things. Maybe Paige was never there at all.

Still, as she was ushered from one interview to the next, as she took photos holding up the Sparks jersey, as her teammates pulled her in for a group selfie, Azzi couldn’t shake the feeling. Like someone had slipped into the back of the room for just a minute. Like someone had come to see her, silently. She kept glancing back toward that same stretch of crowd for the rest of the night.

But she never saw her again.

The night stretched long after the last pick was called. The team swept her away to a lounge downtown, something the Sparks organisation had organized. Velvet couches, open bar, soft lighting, a private celebration tucked above the city.

There was music, and champagne, and shouting. Someone had a karaoke mic, and Jana wouldn’t stop singing "Eye of the Tiger" in an exaggerated Southern accent. Ice stood on a chair and delivered a fake speech. Azzi ended up dancing barefoot with her arms around KK and chicken fingers in her other hand.

It was everything. And still, the moment haunted her. That laugh. That flash of blonde hair. That impossible maybe.

She didn’t tell anyone about it.

The morning came slow.

Azzi woke in a hotel bed tangled in white sheets, wearing only boxers and a tank, one false eyelash still clinging to her cheek. The Sparks jersey from the draft crumpled on the chair beside the bed like proof she hadn’t dreamed any of it.

Her phone was face-down on the nightstand, its buzz long silenced. Her head throbbed lightly, not from drinking, but from feeling too much too fast.

She didn’t reach for it right away.

She just lay there, eyes on the ceiling, listening to the hum of the AC and the distant clink of room service trays being wheeled past in the hall. Her body ached in a good way. Eventually, she rolled over, arm heavy, and grabbed her phone.

Notifications swarmed the screen. Mentions. Group chats. Draft clips. DMs from old teammates, trainers, that one camp coach she hadn’t heard from in four years.

And then—

Her thumb froze.

PAIGE 0.22 a.m.

Congrats, Azz. I’m so damn proud of you. Go make them remember your name. They have no idea what’s coming.

Azzi stared. The room spun a little, but this time it wasn’t from champagne or adrenaline.

She read it again. And again.

She didn’t know if Paige had been there last night. If that laugh had been real, or if it had just been a phantom stitched into her memory. She didn’t know if that flicker of blonde hair was coincidence or wishful thinking.

But she knew this: Paige had seen her.

And somehow, that made her chest ache and swell all at once. She read it twice. Then once more. Then she closed her eyes and let herself feel it. All of it.

Paige POV - Draft Night, Brooklyn, NY

She had promised herself she wouldn’t come.

She told her agent, her friends, even her own reflection in the mirror that she was going to stay home. That she didn’t want to make it about her. That the last thing Azzi needed on her night was a ghost hovering in the rafters, reminding everyone, reminding her, of what used to be.

But the truth was, Paige had made that decision too many times before. To stay away. To pretend that silence was kindness. And when the lights went up, and the music swelled, and the draft began to breathe with the electricity of dreams about to come true, Paige knew she couldn’t sit on her hotel room’s couch a few blocks away and pretend she didn’t care.

She needed to be in the room. Even if no one else knew she was there.

So she came. Quietly. Wrapped in a tailored black suit that swallowed her broad shoulders. Her hair was pulled back in tight, low bun. She arrived long after the press had moved on, after the carpet had been cleared, when the cameras were already all inside.

Her seat was arranged discreetly, a favour from someone at the league, who didn’t ask why. Tucked into a dim corner near the back, out of frame. A pillar blocked the view, but if she leaned a bit to the left, she could see Azzi's table. And anyway, the monitors were visible. The sound carried. She was here.

And that, she kept telling herself, was enough.

She tried not to stare too hard at the screen when it cut to Azzi’s table. Tried not to flinch when she saw her, radiant in a breathtaking white dress, curls soft around her face, eyes bright with nerves and wonder. Her parents were beside her. Geno too, steady and warm.

But there was a fifth seat at the table. Empty.

That was supposed to be hers.

Her throat tightened, thick with guilt.

She was supposed to be the plus-one this time. The support system. The calm touch under the table, the whisper in her ear: You are ready. You have always been ready. She was supposed to be the one zipping Azzi into that dress, brushing her curls to the side, kissing her shoulder in the mirror and saying, They have no idea what’s coming.

Instead, she watched from the dark.

God, she missed Azzi.

Paige had convinced herself she was doing the right thing when she let it end, or more accurately, when she let it fall apart without fighting. She had let the pressure and the pain and the headlines swallow her, convinced herself that love was a luxury she couldn’t afford, not while everything else in her life was slipping out of her hands already.

She had been wrong. So wrong.

She should have said it back then: I will give up anything but you.

But she didn’t.

And now she watched the best night of Azzi’s life play out from the shadows. A ghost with a perfect view of everything she had lost.

The room shifted.

Paige realised it before the crowd did, the way producers moved toward Azzi’s table like magnets. That silent ripple of realization. That sharp, expectant energy.

On-screen, Azzi turned toward Geno, brows furrowed like she was asking a question. Geno smiled and nodded once.

Then the host stepped to the mic.

"With the first pick in the 2026 WNBA Draft… the Los Angeles Sparks select Azzi Fudd."

For a heartbeat, the room held its breath. The silence was total, not the absence of sound, but the stunned, collective stillness of disbelief catching fire. A second of suspended time.

And then Paige was on her feet.

Clapping.

Before anyone else. Before the cameras cut to the right angle. Before the broadcasters found their words. Her hands moved on instinct, fast, hard, unrelenting, the kind of applause that wasn’t for the crowd, wasn’t for the cameras, wasn’t for show. It was for her. Because Azzi Fudd just went first overall. And Paige fucking believed she would.

She was crying and didn’t even realize it until the tears slipped past her jaw, hot and constant, soaking into the collar of her suit. Her shoulders shook, barely, but she stayed standing. Stayed clapping. Stayed locked in, eyes trained on the screen as the people around her finally caught up — gasps, cheers, whistles all crashing into the air like fireworks. But Paige was already gone, already in the swell of it, swept under by something deeper.

She was so damn proud. Proud in a way that felt like breaking.

Azzi stood slowly at the table, one trembling hand to her chest, her curls catching the lights like something divine. Her face crumpled, joy, disbelief, tears she wasn’t trying to hid, and Paige could feel it like it was happening to her, like her own chest had split open to make room for it all. That radiant, stunned smile. The way Geno’s hand landed on her back like an anchor. Her parents enveloping her in that long, aching hug.

And the empty seat. Right beside them.

Paige’s hands finally stilled, but her tears didn’t. They just kept coming, quiet and relentless, carving lines down her cheeks while her heart screamed behind her ribs.

She should have been there. God, she should have been there. To squeeze her hand. To whisper, "I knew it. I never doubted it for a second." To pull her into her arms and kiss her forehead and tell her, "You deserve all of this. You always did."

But she wasn’t. And she had no one to blame but herself.

Still, even from the shadows, Paige clung to the sight of her, the way Azzi’s eyes shone through the blur of emotion, the way she waved softly at the crowd, still stunned, still her. The love in Paige’s chest ached like a bruise, tender and deep, and all-consuming.

She didn’t even bother to wipe her tears. Let them fall. Let them testify. Because if this wasn’t love, she didn’t know what was.

Azzi Fudd just went number one overall.

And Paige Bueckers had never been more devastated, or more proud, in her entire life.

She knew she should have left.

The cameras had moved on. The spotlight was dimming, the draft winding down. The night was officially over, at least the part she cared about. But her legs wouldn’t move. Her body wouldn’t listen. She stood rooted in place like a ghost trapped between rooms, unable to cross over.

Because how could she walk away when Azzi was right there?

For months, Paige had only seen her through other people’s eyes — sideline cameras, fan TikToks, grainy highlight reels she watched alone with the sound low, always in secret. Never liking. Never sharing. Never giving herself away. She had made it a habit, keeping her distance like a wound she refused to poke. But tonight?

Tonight, she couldn’t look away.

Azzi’s smile was radiant. Open and unguarded in a way Paige hadn’t seen since before everything broke between them. And it made something sharp twist deep in her gut. Not jealousy. Not quite. Just a longing so big it felt like grief.

Paige stayed. She stayed even when she told herself not to. Even when the voice in her head whispered you don’t belong here anymore. She stayed anyway, selfishly, hungry for one more glimpse, one more memory to take with her back to the quiet apartment and the echo of what-ifs she never dared name.

She laughed under her breath when she saw chaos erupt around the bar — Sarah, KK, Jana, Ice, Kayleigh — all of them crashing into Azzi like a hurricane of sequins and shrieks. Azzi disappeared in the crush of limbs and champagne-slicked hugs, her voice muffled but unmistakable: "Put me down, you’re going to drop me!"

God, her chest ached.

She should’ve been up there. She should’ve been the one smoothing Azzi’s dress, cracking some terrible joke to make her laugh right before the pick was announced. She should’ve been the grounding hand at the small of her back when the nerves hit. The first person Azzi looked at. The one she whispered, “I did it” to.

But she wasn’t. And that wasn’t on fate. That wasn’t bad luck or cruel timing. That was her. That was all on her.

She took a slow breath, blinking hard. Her eyes were stinging, but she barely registered it. Just one more minute, she told herself. Just one more second of looking at Azzi in the flesh. One more secret memory to carry back to the quiet.

And then—

A hand landed gently on her shoulder.

She tensed instantly, breath stalling in her chest. The noise of the crowd faded to a dull, distant hum. She turned her head slowly, heart in her throat.

Geno Auriemma. Coach.

Still impossibly composed, arms crossed, half in shadow. Wire-rimmed glasses. That same unreadable look that had once terrified her as a freshman, but now, at twenty-four, just made her feel seen. Exposed, even. Like he could see through the armour she’d pieced together for this one night.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just… looked at her. Like he was watching something play out inside her head and waiting for her to stop pretending it wasn’t.

Paige opened her mouth, but her voice caught.

"You’re not as invisible as you think," Geno said, his voice low, even. Not unkind.

She swallowed hard. "Coach."

He gave a tiny nod. Then his gaze flicked down, briefly, and Paige followed it, realizing for the first time that tears were falling freely down her cheeks.

She swiped at them quickly, clumsy and embarrassed, but he didn’t acknowledge it. He didn’t have to.

"You didn’t think I’d notice you?" he asked softly, not accusatory. Just… patient.

She gave a sheepish smile, looking down. "Tried not to be a distraction."

He didn’t smile, exactly. But his face softened. "You are not. Not to her. Not to me. Maybe just… to yourself."

That one hit. She looked down at her shoes. It felt like someone had slid a blade between her ribs.

He let the silence sit for a beat. Then, without ceremony, opened his arms. She stepped into them instantly.

And it wasn’t the kind of hug that made you cry harder. It was the kind that made you remember — the kind that reminded you that love didn’t always leave, that belief didn’t disappear when you walked off the court for the last time. That someone still saw you as whole.

He held her for a long moment. Then pulled back and studied her face.

"You still know how to fight."

Paige furrowed her brows. "What?"

"For whatever the hell matters. Playing again for the love of the game. Making peace. Telling the truth. Whatever you are scared of." He nodded toward Azzi. "That? That doesn’t have to be a memory."

Her throat tightened. "It’s not that simple."

"I know," Geno said. "Simple is for stat sheets. This? This is life. It’s messy. It hurts. But it’s not over."

He paused, glanced toward the crowd. Then added, quieter, "You let the wrong voices in. You shut yourself out. You let fear win. You let other people’s voices drown out your own. But the people who know you, the ones who love you, we never stopped listening. Azzi never stopped."

Paige inhaled sharply, like the words had knocked the air out of her.

He leaned closer, his voice gentler now. "She still looks for you in every room."

A pause. Then...

He gave her shoulder one last squeeze and started to step away. But then he paused, glancing back.

"If you are still in love with her," he added, "maybe stop trying so hard to pretend you are not. You fight like hell on the court. Do it for her too."

And just like that, he stepped back into the sea of people, leaving her standing there, heart wide open, skin buzzing, eyes locked on the girl who never stopped believing in her.

And this time, Paige didn’t look away. She let herself feel it. All of it. The pride. The ache. The love that had never gone anywhere.

She kept thinking about what Coach said.

The words didn’t hit her all at once, they didn’t echo like some clean, cinematic lesson. No, they dug in slow, like seeds planted in soil she hadn’t realized was still fertile.

You still know how to fight.

She kept hearing it, over and over, like he’d whispered it into the lining of her jacket, and now it wouldn’t stop clinging to her.

What did he really mean? Of course she knew how to fight. That’s all she had done since her own draft night.

Paige drove with her eyes fixed on the road, one hand loosely on the wheel, the other tapping against her thigh like her body couldn’t sit still. Her chest was tight. Not painful, not yet, just knotted, like her insides were still waiting for the whistle to blow.

She thought back to her rookie season.

Her rookie season felt like it had aged her a decade. Everyone had called it a solid start. The analysts, the talking heads on those sports shows she hated watching but still doom-scrolled through. They all said she was doing well. "Holding her own." "Showing promise." "The future of the franchise". But none of them knew her own standards. None of them knew what it felt like to be Paige Bueckers and feel behind. To feel ordinary.

Then the concussion hit. Then the flu that wouldn’t go away. She missed games. Too many. Her rhythm thrown off completely. And just when she was clawing her way back, Chris, their so-called head coach, started benching her more.

"To protect her," he’d said. "To manage her minutes."

But Paige knew what it really was. He didn’t trust her anymore.

The media had followed suit, like they always do. The same people who hyped her up as a generational pick now started questioning if she was a bust. They talked about her like she was a failed investment. Like she was some stat gone wrong.

So Paige did what she always did. She shut her mouth and showed up.

She buried herself in the training facility. If she wasn’t running drills with the team, she was shooting alone. Or with her personal trainer. Or watching film until her eyes burned. Every night she left long after the janitorial staff, and in the rare moments someone did catch her, usually a rookie assistant coach, she’d flash a tight smile and lie: "Just finishing up."

The gym became her whole world. She gave up the rest of it without even realizing. She stopped going out unless it was team-mandated. Let calls go unanswered. Texts turned to grey bubbles she meant to answer and never did.

And the worst part?

It actually worked.

By August, Chris couldn’t justify benching her. The team played better with her. She was dropping 20+ a night. She picked up three triple-doubles in under a month. She adapted. Stopped waiting for plays that didn’t exist. Took the game into her own hands. Selfish basketball, sure. But in a system with no structure, someone had to lead. She hated it, resented what it turned her into, but it was the only way to survive in Dallas.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

They didn’t make the playoffs. Her stats didn’t matter. Her effort didn’t matter. Not really. The franchise moved on like it always did. Rebuild year. Again.

And now here she was, parked under the flickering neon sign of some mid-range hotel, wondering what Geno had seen in her tonight that she couldn’t see in herself.

You still know how to fight.

For what?

She shut off the engine but didn’t move. Let her forehead fall against the steering wheel.

She was fighting. Every damn day. For minutes. For space. For recognition.

What else was there to fight for? Or… was he talking about something else? Her chest tightened.

Fighting for herself.

Not just for her place in the league, or her stats, or her name on a jersey. But for her. The girl who used to laugh while playing. The one who used to dream about more than just surviving the season. The one who didn’t see love as a distraction, but as fuel.

She hadn’t thought about that version of herself in a long time. The version who smiled after games. Who joked in the locker room. Who threw behind-the-back passes not for show, but for joy.

Maybe Geno meant that. Fighting to come back to life.

She closed her eyes, tired in a way that minutes and stat sheets couldn’t explain. Was there still something to fight for beyond basketball?

She missed being seen. Missed the girl whose smile could light her up from the inside out. Missed Azzi. Not just in the vague way you miss an ex. But in the way you miss home.

Paige let the thought land. Let it sit in her chest without trying to bury it.

If Geno was right, if there was still a fight in her, then maybe it was time to figure out where it should really go.

It was 11.11 p.m. when she made the call. The call that, in hindsight, changed everything.

She sat on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, remote dangling from her hand. The TV flickered through draft highlights. Azzi’s face had lit up like someone flipped a switch inside her chest. All joy, no apology. Paige had known that look once. Knew what it felt like to be lifted by a moment, surrounded by belief, kissed by legacy. UConn made you for that kind of stage. Or at least, it used to.

She muted the TV. Sat still.

And for the first time in a long time, let herself really think.

Not rehearse. Not compartmentalize. Not survive.

Think.

About what this last year in Dallas had really been.

She’d come in determined to make it work, to prove she could turn a broken system into something that functioned. That she could be the cornerstone, even when the foundation was already cracked. There had been flashes of brilliance, a 28-point game in Phoenix, a near triple-double against the Liberty, a couple of clutch blocks that turned heads.

But the flashes never turned into fire.

The coaching staff kept rotating lineups. There was no system, just chaos disguised as “development.” She wasn’t trusted with the ball late in games, wasn’t allowed to be the vocal leader they claimed they needed. And after Chris still did not get fired after 15 straight losses, the team stopped pretending they cared.

By then, she’d been playing through swelling in her right ankle for five games. No one checked in. No one noticed when she started icing it.

That silence had been the loudest thing of all.

She’d told herself it was a test. That she could outwork the noise. That if she kept grinding, kept putting her body on the line, something would shift. She’d earn the role she knew she could fill.

But it never came. Dallas never became hers.

And now? Now they were dangling promises again. Possible a new coach next year. A "fresh start." A culture reset.

They said they wanted to build around her. That she was part of the future.

But Paige had heard enough locker room speeches this year to know the difference between vision and lip service. They didn’t want her. They wanted the idea of her, the name, the brand, the press clippings. Not the player she was becoming. Not the woman who had clawed her way back from every injury, every setback, every whispered doubt.

She glanced at her Ipad remembering the file her agents sent months ago. She hadn’t opened it since July.

SPARKS OFFER — FINAL, expires 8/1

She’d told him not to bring it up again but she remembered the proposal.

L.A. had come calling when their guard rotation cracked midseason, made a trade offer for Paige that would’ve shifted both rosters. And she’d said no. She was loyal. Stubborn. Too proud to leave before finishing what she started.

But watching Azzi tonight, glowing, surrounded by love, stepping into her next with full ownership, something inside Paige shifted.

What exactly am I still holding onto?

The loyalty? It hadn’t been returned. The pride? It was fraying. The jersey? It felt heavier every game.

And then came the quiet voice she’d buried all season:

You deserve more than surviving.

She stood and crossed the room. Picked up her iPad. Pulled up the document with the Sparks logo on the corner.

Her hands didn’t tremble.

She already knew what it said. Salary. Minutes. A coach who actually called her by name in interviews. A real backcourt partnership with veterans and young platers she respected. A franchise looking for leadership, not just talent.

They wanted her. For real.

And, maybe more than anything , it was L.A. Where Azzi would be playing. Practicing. Living. Not that Paige would ever admit to anyone that this was what tipped her over. But maybe... maybe it mattered.

Maybe she was allowed to want proximity to something, someone, that reminded her what happiness looked like. What belief sounded like. What it felt like to be seen not for what you used to be, but for what you still could become.

But that offer was gone now. Dead paperwork. A door she had closed before it was even open.

And tonight, she wanted it back.

She exhaled slowly and hit the call button. It rang twice before he picked up. "Paige?" Her agent’s voice was hoarse with sleep. She didn’t care.

"I need you to call L.A.," she said. Straight, no hesitation.

A pause. "L.A.?"

"The Sparks."

"...Paige, that ship sailed months ago. They moved on. You told me not to push it."

"I need you to push it now," she said flatly.

"I don’t even know if they’d take the call."

"Then make it worth taking."

She stood and crossed to the window, the skyline blurred behind the heavy hotel glass. Her reflection stared back at her. A little older, a little quieter, and suddenly very clear.

"You told me back in July they saw me as a fit," she said. "That they liked my game, my court vision, the way I lead under pressure. You said the coach wanted another point guard who could take ownership of the floor."

Another beat. He exhaled slowly. "Look, I’m just being real with you. They drafted Azzi Fudd tonight. She is the future of that backcourt. I don’t know if there’s room now."

Paige’s jaw tightened, not at the name, but at the implication. And then, with startling clarity, she said:

"Then that’s exactly why they should take me."

He was quiet.

"No one has what Azzi and I have," she continued, voice low and steady. "Not in this league. Not coming out of college. You put us on the same floor and it’s instant. It’s instinct. We read each other without speaking. We cover each other’s blind spots. You don’t need to build chemistry from scratch when it already exists."

Pressing her palm against the cool glass, New York City sprawled beneath her.

"We would be unbeatable from day one," she said. "They want to build around Azzi? Fine. Then give her what she deserves, someone who knows her game better than anyone. Someone who will make her shine."

Her agent was quiet again, but this time it was the kind of silence she could feel leaning forward.

"You sure about this?"

She turned from the window, nodding before realizing he couldn’t see it. "I’m done waiting for things to work in Dallas. I want to be somewhere that sees me. That wants me. I’ll prove I’m worth whatever it takes."

He sighed, sharper this time. "I’ll make the call. But no promises, Paige. We’re starting from scratch now. And they’ve got leverage."

"Then get creative," she said. "Incentives, media push, whatever it takes. If they want a future dynasty, we are it. Together."

There was a pause. "Okay," he said finally. "I will get back to you by noon."

She hung up and let the silence settle again. The screen dimmed to black in her hand, her reflection faint and unfamiliar. She looked older than she felt, like a version of herself that had learned how to swallow every doubt and turn it into steel.

She opened her texts. Found Azzi’s name. No drafts. No overthinking.

PAIGE 0.22 a.m.

Congrats, Azz. I’m so damn proud of you. Go make them remember your name. They have no idea what’s coming.

She read it once. Twice. No emojis. No over explaining. Just truth, stripped down and clear.

Then, before she could second-guess it, before the ghosts in her head could snatch the phone from her hands again, she hit send.

The message flew off in silence, blue check marks appearing almost instantly. She stared at them, heart in her throat. But she didn’t wait for a reply. She didn’t need one. Not tonight.

Because tonight wasn’t about answers or second chances or knowing what would happen next.

It was about doing the damn thing anyway.

It was about showing up. For herself. For the game. For the girl she never stopped loving.

And for the first time in months, when she finally lay down and pulled the covers over her chest, Paige didn’t feel like she was running away. She felt like she had finally taken the first step back.

#paige x azzi #paige bueckers #pazzi #pazzi fics #azzi fudd #uconn wbb

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damon25 · 7 months ago

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alfy196 · 9 months ago

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alannairis · 7 months ago

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Enhance Your Dining Experience with Fairmont Color Table Linen Napkins

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bxnfire · 2 months ago

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love island ft. suguru geto

masterlist

loveisland!suguru who wouldn't truly be all up on you, but would conveniently be near you on games, and even if he wasn't always loud about it, everyone would just know he was into you

loveisland!suguru who is one to get you thinking, fireside heart to hearts wouldn't be something rare with him. he'd make you voice things you'd never said to anyone, and if anyone in the villa, or in your life, makes you feel seen, it's him

loveisland!suguru who is determined. first coupling? you. would he like to switch it up? no, but thank you for asking. boys village with new girls? they all know about you by the end of it all. if someone were to walk away from what you two have going, it'd have to be you

loveisland!suguru who progressively gets bolder. on the first dates he was just fun, flirty, casual. later on though? hands always on you. he would somehow find the way to give you little papers with compliments or poems on them, just to let you know you're always on his mind

loveisland!suguru who isn't outwardly jealous. no, he doesn't fight the others when they try to get your attention, and if he happens to see you enjoying yourself he won't mention it, but you best believe he's undermining them with his wit, making them seem stupid. they might get riled up, but please don't blame suguru, a gentleman just likes to keep what's his, no?

loveisland!suguru who loves cooking/baking dates, and dinner dates. as for the first, he likes messing around with you, but at the same time demonstrate that he could take care of you if you so desired. besides, if some chocolate syrup gets on your chest, well, who's he to let you walk around dirty? sure, maybe he didn't have to suck it right off you, but a gentleman is a gentleman, no? as for dinner dates, he'd like to learn your favorite foods in a nice, elegant place. of course he likes long table linens for the aesthetics! not because he gets to finger you under them without anyone noticing, curling his digits to that sweet spot that makes your eyes tear up, and testing how much it takes to break your composure, of course not! never that

loveisland!suguru who loves hideaway nights. he truly shows the extent he's willing to go to please you, and he does it rock fucking hard. dessert? no thanks, why stuff himself with cakes when he can get his dose of sugar between your thighs? movies? sure, so long as you're both covered by a blanket, and his dick covered by your soft, plush walls. shower? of course! he'll even let you choose if you'd like to get pounded into from the back where you can feel his breath on your lower neck and his swollen tip hit your g-spot, or if you'd rather he hold you up and thrust into you so hard you can't even make cohesive sentences, and it sure doesn't help when he chooses to suck on your nipples as he has his way with you. sleep? well, some people like to count sheep, but you soon learn that suguru prefers to count how many times you cum before you can't no more, or so you think, upping his count every night he gets the chance

loveisland!suguru who may have been skeptical about this all, but genuinely, the second he saw your smile, he knew he'd do anything to make it happen again, and again, and again, until you were as crazy about him as he had always been about you

#jjk smut #jjk #jjk x reader #smut #drabble #love island #geto suguru #suguru x reader #geto x reader #geto smut #suguru geto #getou suguru x reader #geto suguru x reader #bxnfire

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cressidagrey · 1 month ago

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You are in Love

Summary: Emilie Abadie still didn’t care about Formula 1. But she may care about a specific McLaren Driver.

Warnings and Notes:

I promised and here it is. Second Spin off featuring Emilie and Lando.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Emilie hadn’t planned on arriving early. But the flight had landed ahead of schedule, her suitcase had actually appeared on the carousel like a miracle, and the driver had taken a shortcut that shaved twenty minutes off the usual paddock run.

For once in Emilie Abadie’s chaotic little life, the universe was in fact cooperating.

Her phone buzzed with a message from Belle - just a location tag. No words. No fuss.

Classic Belle: elegant emotional manipulation dressed up as casual precision.

Emilie adjusted her sunglasses on her head and smoothed a hand over her linen jumpsuit as she walked.

Singapore’s heat hit like a wall, heavy and immediate, but her nerves were louder. It had only been eight days… (Emilie knew that, she counted them) but something about Lando in this particular city made her feel…things.

Lando liked night races. He liked dumplings and market stalls and neon lights reflecting off the marina. He always said the chaos of Singapore matched the chaos in his head, which she found oddly poetic for someone who once got stuck inside a beanbag chair and called it “the most humbling moment of my adult life.”

As she reached the edge of the McLaren hospitality, Emilie hesitated… just for a second.

She could see the terrace through the slats of the fencing. People scattered at tables, laughter in the air, that unique pre-race buzz humming through everything. And there - not far - was him.

Lando.

Animated. Talking too fast. Probably retelling his quali lap with hand gestures and self-deprecating flair. His curls were damp with sweat and he’d shoved his cap on backwards, like always. He was smiling.

But not with his eyes.

She knew that smile. It was the one he wore when he was trying really hard to pretend. The one that didn’t crinkle the corners or soften his face. Just teeth and noise and practiced charm.

It made her chest ache.

Her gaze flicked across the terrace, and found Belle sitting in the corner beside Max, looking deeply smug. She didn’t wave. Didn’t call out. Just gave the world’s tiniest nod. A signal.

Go.

Emilie moved.

She didn’t think. She just walked. Past the tables, past the sunlit terrace, cutting through engineers and junior drivers like they were static. It was instinct. Like orbiting back to gravity.

She caught the moment Lando noticed. Saw the flicker of confusion, the sudden stillness, like he was watching something impossible.

He turned. And froze.

His eyes went wide. His whole body locked like a system crash.

“Holy—” he started, but she didn’t let him finish.

Her arms were around his neck before he could even breathe out the next syllable. He smelled like sweat and sunscreen and the detergent from his race suit. He was so warm and so very real, and Emilie felt the week of missed calls and longing texts collapse in on itself.

Lando’s arms wrapped around her like muscle memory. One hand curled at the back of her head. His chin tucked instinctively against her temple.

“Hey, idiot,” she whispered, half-laughing, half-choked. “You didn’t think I was missing night race dumplings, did you?”

Lando made a sound halfway between a choked laugh and a whimper, and Emilie felt the last thread of her exhaustion unravel in his arms.

God, she’d missed him. His warmth, his scent, his chaotic aura and stupid jokes. The way he somehow made her feel like everything, everything, was a little more bearable, even when the world was loud.

She pulled back just enough to look at him.

He looked overwhelmed. Damp curls clinging to his forehead. Wide eyes. That open, helpless expression she’d seen sometimes on his face when he watched her. Like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

Around them, the terrace kept buzzing. She heard Oscar’s voice, low and amused. A quiet laugh from somewhere to the left. Probably Belle, watching with all the satisfaction of a woman who knows she’s done something good and thinks she’s subtle about it.

“I thought you were in Denmark until Sunday,” he said, voice hoarse.

“I was. Then Belle weaponized her unborn child and guilt-tripped me into flying to Singapore”

Lando blinked. “That tracks.”

And then his arms were around her again, and Emilie let herself melt into it. Around them, the world kept turning…Oscar made a dry comment that made someone laugh, a camera clicked somewhere in the distance, Belle gave her a little wave from across the terrace, smug as hell—but none of it mattered.

Emilie didn’t care.

She closed her eyes and held on tighter, like if she let go now, she might not get another chance.

And maybe later she’d tease him about sulking. About dramatic sighs and sad-boy playlists and whatever nonsense he pulled while she was gone.

But not right now.

Right now, it was enough to be back. In his arms. In this stupid, sweaty, beautiful corner of the world where everything always felt like too much…and exactly right.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Lando Norris

Lando: hey just wanted to say thank you

Belle: for what?

Lando: for telling Emilie to come for making that happen i know you did. don’t pretend you didn’t

Belle: 😇

Lando: you’re terrifying and also the best

Belle:I prefer “emotionally strategic genius,” but I’ll accept “the best”

Lando: seriously though i haven’t felt like myself in a while not properly but when she showed up… everything clicked again

Belle:Good That’s what she does, doesn’t she?

Lando:Yeah she’s like coming up for air

***

The air-conditioning hummed low in the background, but the humidity still clung to Lando’s skin like a second layer. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, barefoot, damp curls falling into his eyes, fidgeting with the corner of a room service napkin like it had wronged him.

Emilie stood near the window, her linen jumpsuit swapped out for one of his oversized t-shirts and a pair of cotton shorts she’d dug out from her overnight bag. Her hair was damp from the shower. Her face was bare. She looked at home.

And he was terrified.

Not because she was here…but because he knew, somehow, this was the moment. The line they hadn’t crossed. Not really. Not with words.

He didn’t look up when he spoke. “I missed you.”

It came out quieter than he meant it to. But true.

Emilie turned from the window. Her expression softened. “I missed you too.”

He let out a breath, short and sharp. “I thought I was fine, you know? Like…I’m a grown man. You went to work. Not Mars.”

Emilie crossed the room and sat beside him. “And yet?”

“And yet I was pathetic,” he muttered, glancing sideways. “Oscar caught me listening to your voice messages.”

She blinked. “You listened—”

“I was down bad, Emilie. Like, tragic. I think I even made a sad playlist.”

She gave a quiet, delighted laugh. “Oh, baby.”

Lando smiled, but it faded quickly. His fingers stilled on the napkin. “You’re the first thing that’s felt... steady. In a while.”

Her smile faltered. He wasn’t joking anymore.

“I know I’m all over the place,” he continued. “On track. Off track. I make dumb jokes and act like everything’s fine even when it isn’t. But when I’m with you… I don’t have to do that. You don’t need me to be anything except… me. And I don’t think I realised how rare that was until you weren’t here.”

Silence stretched between them, warm and heavy and full of everything he hadn’t said before.

Emilie didn’t interrupt. She just reached out and took his hand, threading their fingers together.

“I don’t want to be casual about this anymore,” he said, eyes still fixed on their joined hands. “Whatever we’ve been doing… halfway, undefined, letting everyone think we’re just friends… I don’t want that. I want it to be real. Official. Known. I want you.”

Emilie was very quiet.

Lando finally looked up. “If that’s not what you want, that’s okay. Just… don’t lie to spare me.”

She looked at him for a long moment. Then exhaled. “You’re an idiot.”

He blinked. “That feels mean in context.”

“You’re an idiot,” she repeated, softer this time, “because you think you’ve been the only one scared.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

“I didn’t want to say anything first,” she admitted. “Because I thought… if I say it, and you don’t feel the same way, if I ruin the best thing I’ve had in years because I wanted more… then what? But the truth is, I’ve felt like this for a while.”

Lando’s throat worked around a swallow. “How long?”

“Long enough that not saying it has started to feel dishonest.”

He laughed…quiet, awestruck. “So say it.”

She smiled, something a little shaky in it. But true. “I’m in love with you.”

Lando stilled.

Then he surged forward, hand curling around the back of her neck, mouth pressing into hers like he’d been holding it in for months.

When they finally broke apart, his forehead rested against hers, breath uneven. “You’re mine,” he whispered. “Properly. Now.”

Emilie smiled into his skin. “I always was.”

And just like that, everything slotted into place.

***

It was the kind of heat that didn’t just settle on your skin—it sank in. Thick, sweet, almost alive. Singapore didn’t do quiet. Not even at night. Not even after the fireworks died and the engines went still. There was always something humming—underfoot, in the air, inside her chest.

Emilie stood just past the barriers near Parc Fermé, surrounded by chaos, but strangely untouched by it. She had come down with the mechanics, badge clipped to her collarbone, her fingers curled tight around its edge like it was the only thing grounding her.

She hadn’t even thought about what she was doing. She’d just… moved. Like instinct. Like orbit.

And then she saw him.

Lando.

Helmet off.

Still trembling, still breathless. He’d driven like a man possessed—like someone burning for something, someone. And when the checkered flag dropped, Emilie swore she felt it in her teeth.

That kind of win doesn’t whisper. It shouts.

But what really unraveled her wasn’t the win.

It was the way he looked at her when he found her in the crowd.

It wasn’t just relief. It wasn’t just joy. It was recognition. Like his entire body had been straining toward something and now - finally - he could stop.

There was no hesitation.

One stride. Then two.

And then he was there, in front of her, hands coming up to cup her face like he couldn’t believe she was real. Like the only thing holding him together was the fact that she was here.

And then he kissed her.

Not a PR kiss. Not a cautious “maybe if we angle this right it won’t go viral” kiss.

No - this was reckless and real and right there in front of every camera lens in a ten-mile radius. His mouth against hers, desperate and tender and breathless. She tasted champagne and adrenaline and something wild, something golden. His hands trembled as they curled around her waist. Her nails curled into his shoulders.

The crowd exploded. Applause. Cheers. Someone whistled like they were at a wedding. Someone else yelled “GET IN THERE, NORRIS!” like it was the finale of a romcom they’d all been waiting for.

But Emilie didn’t hear it. Not really.

All she heard was the sound he made when he pulled back just slightly, forehead pressed to hers, nose brushing hers. That broken little laugh. That sound of disbelief and joy and love all tangled together.

“I won,” he whispered.

“I know,” she whispered back.

And then he picked her up like she weighed nothing and spun her. Just once. Just because he could. Because the world was spinning anyway.

She could hear Oscar saying something behind them (probably deadpan and hilarious) and someone on the McLaren crew absolutely howling. But none of it stuck.

Because all she could think was: this is it.

Not just the win. Not just the kiss. But the moment. The shift.

There was no going back after this.

No hiding. No halfway.

This was his world, and he’d pulled her into it like she belonged there.

And for once, Emilie didn’t flinch under the weight of being seen.

She leaned into it.

Into him.

And as he kissed her again—softer this time, slower—she knew something else too:

This wasn’t the end of anything.

It was the beginning.

***

Text Messages: Max Fewtrell & Lando Norris

Lando: Mate.

Max: oh look who won a race and became the main character big night for you, rom-com boy

Lando: shut up

Max: no actually I won’t you kissed her in Parc Fermé with your HAIR doing that curly mop drama do you want a movie deal or should i start pitching it for you?

Lando: i blacked out okay

Max: you kissed her like she was oxygen and you’d been drowning sky sports is already calling it “the kiss that broke the internet” crofty said he felt emotions

Lando: he WHAT

Max: don’t worry i’m making a montage music options so far include: – “Can’t Help Falling in Love” (classic) – “Unwritten” (chaotic) – or just a slow-mo replay with crowd screams behind it

Lando: i will block you

Max: you kissed her and spun her around are you trying to get nominated for a Teen Choice Award?? do we need to get you a surfboard trophy?

Lando: it wasn’t planned i just… saw her and it was like. yeah. her. the win was hers too

Max: 🥹 okay fine that’s actually adorable still gonna roast you though

Lando: i’d be offended if you didn’t

Max: also oscar said you made a noise like a sick baby deer when she hugged you

Lando: i’m ending this conversation now

Max: love you too, parc fermé prince 💋

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Belle Verstappen

Emilie: so we’re official

Belle: you’re kidding

Belle: i thought you already were?? you’ve been attached at the soul for like two months

Emilie: we hadn’t said it you know? not out loud but now it’s real. like… capital-R real

Belle: i’m so happy for you and also going to start charging you rent for how often you live in denial

Emilie: you’re not wrong but he said it, belle he said he wants this us. publicly. completely.

Belle: you deserve it, Em all of it

Emilie: i didn’t think it’d ever feel like this like being wanted could feel safe

Belle: that’s what love’s supposed to be not fireworks not tension just… a soft place to land

you’re allowed to be happy and soft and loved

Emilie: i didn’t think i’d ever get all three

Belle: you got them in a boy with curls and questionable fashion sense

Emilie: god help me

Belle: yes. you can trust him. he loves you with his whole dumb, golden retriever heart

Emilie: okay thank you (for seeing it before i did)

Belle: always. now go be disgustingly in love

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onlybeeewrites · 3 months ago

Text

Angel Eyes

Request: Hello I would like to request a Coriolanus Snow x fem! Reader! I see that you also do starwars and it had me thinking. How would Coriolanus do if either your his tribute or a mentor or his wife? and a little kid came up to the reader and asked her if she was an Angel?

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x Fem!Reader

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: classism, mentions of malnutrition/malnourishment, Coryo’s manipulation, slight diversion from canon for fic sake

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The Capitol Zoo was unusually quiet that morning, as if the city itself was holding its breath in anticipation of the Games. The sky above was pale and washed-out, making the enclosures seem more like cages.

You walked slowly beside Coriolanus, your fingers brushing together before he finally gave in and laced his with yours. It was one of the few soft things about him—this quiet affection when no one was watching.

Well, when he thought no one was watching, at least.

His eyes were locked on the girl in the District 12 enclosure, her bright dress muted by the grim bars and stale air. Lucy Gray stood with her chin tilted high, a performer through and through, even in captivity.

You both watched her for a few moments—Coryo calculating, curious, captivated. You, quieter, unsure how to feel about the girl who smiled like she knew secrets.

“She’s different,” you murmured, your eyes trialing her up and down.

“She’s dangerous,” he replied. But there was something like admiration in his voice. Though you weren’t threatened by it.

After all, she was the one behind the bars; you weren’t.

You nodded once, then gently tugged his hand. “Come on. I want to see mine.”

Your tribute was a girl of only twelve, a slip of a thing with tangled hair and limbs too thin for her frame. She was tucked in a corner of the enclosure, knees pulled to her chest like she was trying to disappear.

You reached into the elegant satchel slung over your shoulder, the one your mother insisted matched your family’s station.

“A Tolston never leaves the house looking anything less than exceptional.” Was what your mother had always said to you.

The Tolstons were old money. Old, influential, and perpetually seated at the Capitol’s highest tables, with your father’s name on every infrastructure committee and your mother curating the Capitol’s most exclusive fashion exhibits.

You weren’t supposed to cry about the Games. You weren’t supposed to feel things for tributes. But it was different now that you were in charge of taking care of one, to try and help your tribute to win.

So here you were, with wrapped honeyed bread, pear slices and soft cheese tucked between embroidered linen napkins. A large fancy ‘T’ stitched into it.

“Hi,” you said gently. “This is for you.”

She blinked up at you, wide-eyed, hesitant. Then slowly, carefully, she stood and crept over, taking the bundle like it might vanish if she moved too quickly. Her fingers brushed yours, feather-light, and you smiled.

She stared at the food, then at you. And then she said, in a small, wonder-filled voice

The little girl stood on the other side of the bars, hay in her hair while she stood in the dirt. The food you had passed was clutched tight in her small hands like she was afraid someone would take it back.

“Are you an angel?” she asked, voice breathy, eyes too big for her thin face.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

She nodded seriously, stepping a little closer. “An angel. My mama used to talk about them all the time. She said they were the most beautiful creatures in the world. That they come when you’re really scared. When you’re about to give up.”

Your heart twisted. “Oh, sweetheart…” you crouched lower so you were more at her level. “No. I’m not an angel. I’m just…” You hesitated, glancing at the food in her hands. “I’m someone who thinks you shouldn’t be hungry. Just someone who is looking after you,”

She frowned thoughtfully, tilting her head like a curious bird. “You look like one. Your voice is soft. Like my mama’s was.”

Behind you, the soft buzz of a camera lens adjusted, zooming in. You could feel the eyes of the Capitol watching—Lucky Flickerman’s commentary somewhere off to the side, smooth as ever.

“Your name is Lina, right?” you asked gently.

“Lina,” she said with a nod, “Lina Grove,”

“Lina Grove,” you repeated, giving her a small smile. “That’s a beautiful name. Mine’s—”

“I know,” she interrupted, suddenly shy. “They said your name on the screen when we got here. You’re the pretty girl that walks with the white-haired boy.”

You choked on a surprised laugh. “The white-haired boy?”

Coriolanus, who’d remained behind you but close, let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a scoff. His fingers tightened around yours—possessive, protective. “Charming,” he muttered under his breath.

Lina giggled.

“You’re funny,” she said to you. “And you smell nice. Not like the rest of this place.”

You leaned in conspiratorially. “That’s because I carry soap in my bag. Want me to sneak you some tomorrow?”

Her eyes lit up like you’d promised her a crown or the most sparkly jewels on earth.

“Really?” she whispered. “Even just to smell it?”

“Promise.”

She hugged the food to her chest like it was a lifeline. “Do angels make promises?”

You hesitated, just for a second. “Only the good ones, I suppose,”

Lucky’s voice rang out from somewhere behind the camera. “And there you have it, folks—our mentors are shining this year! Capitol hearts everywhere are absolutely melting.”

You stood slowly, wiping your hands on your skirt. Lina backed up a step but kept her eyes on you, like she wasn’t ready to let you go just yet.

“Will you come back tomorrow?” she asked hopefully.

You gave her a nod. “Every day until the Games.”

She bit her lip. “Even after?”

Something in your chest fractured. And unfamiliar ache.

“I’ll try,” you whispered. “I’ll do everything I can, I promise,”

Coriolanus stepped closer, slipping his arm around your waist, his voice low beside your ear. “You’re going to make it very hard for them to forget her.”

You didn’t answer. Just watched as Lina sat back down with her food next to her district partner; an older boy maybe around 16. And, for the first time, looked like a child again.

And for a split moment you felt guilt.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The gravel path shimmered faintly beneath your shoes as you and Coriolanus walked away from the enclosure. The buzz of cameras had finally died down, Lucky Flickerman’s voice trailing off into some other scripted sentiment.

The air felt heavier now, quieter. As if your lungs were remembering how to breathe again the further you got away from it all.

You glanced back once—just once—toward where Lina now slept in one part of the zoo’s enclosure.

“She’s so little,” you said, more to yourself than him. “Twelve. She still has baby teeth, Coryo.”

His hand tightened on yours. Just a bit. Just enough. Though you didn’t see it, there was a small shift in the boy you loved so much.

“She’s a tribute,” he said, like it was supposed to explain everything. So simple. How could it be that simple?

“I know,” you murmured. “It’s just—” You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. “She called me an angel.”

“She’s scared. They all are.” His voice was soft but sure, like velvet hiding steel. “And you gave her exactly what she needed in that moment. Comfort. That’s not a bad thing, my love,”

You nodded slowly, but something still stirred beneath your ribs. Not outrage—nothing so dramatic. Just a quiet ache. A tug of something soft and uncertain.

He stopped walking, gently pulling you to a halt beside him. You looked up at him, and the Capitol haze made his blond hair shine almost silver. Stunning. He was absolutely stunning.

“I know it’s hard,” he said, brushing your hair from your face with careful fingers. “But we don’t get to be soft right now. Not when everything we want is within reach.”

You blinked up at him, uncertain.

He leaned closer, voice dropping like it was a secret meant only for you.

“We’re doing this for a reason. You and me. The mentor who make it out of this with winning tributes—our lives change. We move forward. Higher. We don’t get stuck in the mud like the rest of them. The Games are there for a reason. To keep the districts in line. But now they’re also the one place we get to prove ourselves.”

You swallowed, your chest tightening. Your eyes never leaving his, not once.

He slid his hand to your cheek. “You want a future, don’t you? Not just for her. For us.”

Your throat bobbed. “I do. Of course, I do, Coryo,”

He smiled then—slow, warm, like sunlight cutting through clouds.

“Then we play the game, my angel,” he said softly. “And we win it.”

Something about the way he said we made your pulse flutter. As if your names were already written into the Capitol’s future. As if this moment, however sharp around the edges, was only the beginning.

Like everything was already promised, and all you needed to do was just grab it.

You exhaled slowly, letting the guilt drift back into the shadows. He was right. He always had a way of being right. And you were grateful he was there to bring you back to common sense.

“I hate when you talk like that,” you whispered, lips curving into a reluctant smile.

“Why?” he teased.

“Because you always make me believe it.”

His grin widened, all charm and quiet power. He kissed the back of your hand, elegant and practiced. “Good.”

The two of you then continued down the path—two golden children of the Capitol, walking the road toward something both of you could only hope for; while Coryo was determined to grab.

A life he deserved, with plenty of money, power, and the Angel of the Captial at his side.

427 notes · View notes

itneverendshere · 1 month ago

Text

little miss perfect - r.c (+18) - 1st dinner of the season

pairing: siren!reader x rafe. warnings: suggestive.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The first big family dinner of the summer is always a show.

The Camerons go all out—long table set under the back veranda, strung lights overhead, vintage linen napkins, cut-glass everything.

Coastal rich people pretending they’re casual. Everyone’s sun-kissed and already half-drunk. Your dad’s telling stories like he’s on stage, and you’re sitting right where you always do, next to Rafe, playing your role to perfection.

“You’ve really grown into yourself,” one of the older uncles says. “Smart, polished, you make the rest of us look lazy.”

You thank him sweetly and duck your head. “That’s too kind.”

“Oh, please,” Rose adds, swirling her wine. “Remember when she made that speech at the club fundraiser? At, what, sixteen?”

Rafe’s jaw flexes.

“She’s got a future,” his dad adds, pointing a steak knife like it’s a gavel. “Bright one.”

All eyes are on you again, warm and admiring.

You smile, perfect posture—the picture of elegance in a backless summer dress. Every compliment rolls off your shoulders like you didn’t know they were coming. You’ve always known.

Rafe's chewing his food like it’s a war crime.

He hasn’t looked at you all night. He doesn’t have to, your hand’s been on his thigh for the last ten minutes. Soft, idle pressure through linen slacks. Nothing overt, resting there, you know exactly what you’re doing.

Rafe lifts his wine glass, trying to breathe through it.

His fingers drum against the stem.

“You’ve done so well for yourself,” Aunt Julia praises, reaching over to squeeze your wrist like you’re her prodigy. “Not everyone turns out like this. God knows I couldn’t get my girls to write a proper thank-you note, let alone hold a conversation with investors.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’re doing great.” You say with that annoying up beat tone. “But thank you. I’ve had good examples.”

“Exactly!” she beams. “And it shows. You’re poised, you’re thoughtful, you’re—Intentional. You were raised for greatness.”

Rafe almost chokes on his drink.

You? Intentional? An intentional bitch, yes.

You once faked a broken wrist to get out of a swimming match at the Country Club and cried real tears at your grandfather’s will-reading because he didn’t leave you the antique piano you never wanted in the first place. Intentional is the one word they got right.

You’re nodding, all gracious and lit from within; the golden hour’s hitting you directly in the soul.

“I think Rafe turned out pretty great too,” you say, a casual thing to toss out mid-salad course.

What.

You tilt your head toward him.

“I mean, he doesn’t get enough credit. He’s got a sharp mind. And he’s loyal. That’s rare.”

Rafe’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth.

What the fuck are you doing?

It sounds like a compliment—a real one, and no one at this table, not even his father, has ever praised him like that.

Not without some backhand tucked inside.

She’s playing you, his brain screams. She’s playing you, and no one else sees it. She’s literally got her hand on your thigh under the table, and she’s talking about how loyal you are, like she didn’t spend an entire summer gaslighting you into thinking you broke into your neighbor’s boat shed.

He looks around. Everyone’s nodding.

“Oh, that’s true,” Ward says. “My boy is rough around the edges, but he’s solid. And he’s gotten more mature. Right?”

No. No, wrong. He’s not mature, he's vibrating at a frequency only he and maybe a few trauma therapists can hear because your palm is still there, pressing into his thigh like a warning.

This compliment isn't for him. It’s for the table, for the aunts and uncles and cousins and shareholders in golf polos who only look at Rafe when there’s something to criticize.

You’re praising him to keep them busy while you touch him.

Because that’s what it is now.

Your fingers are trailing up—moving higher under the tablecloth with all the grace of a girl tying a bow. And no one sees. No one ever sees, when you smile like that, when you talk like that, they forget to look too closely.

He’s going to lose it. You’re insane, actually insane. God help him, he’s hard as stone and no one knows it but you.

Your father’s mid-sentence, talking about growth strategies and market pivots, and all Rafe can think is what a fucking phony you are.

You're faking genuine interest in the business talk—engaged, inquisitive, nodding thoughtfully. Then, you lean in and whisper under the hum of conversation, “You’re being so quiet.”

He stares straight ahead. “Fuck off.”

You smile sweetly, eyes still on your plate.

“That’s not very polite. Especially when everyone’s being so nice to me.”

Your hand inches even higher.

You’re sick.

You’re ill and you’re smiling, and they love you. All he can do is sit there like a goddamn idiot while you make his father proud of him.

His cousin’s mid-story, and Ward is watching, and you’re sitting there. Looking like sin in silk, praise rolling off you in waves, with your hand on his inner thigh like it’s nothing.

“You okay, Rafe?” Whezzie asks across the table, brow raised.

He jerks and clears his throat. “Fine.”

You slide your thumb in a circle, a secret for him.

“Are you sure?” You tease. “You look tense.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“Maybe you should have another drink,” you add sweetly, “Might loosen you up."

You’re speaking like a saint; your fingers are anything but.

Rafe is going to lose it.

Either here, at the table, or later, in some hallway where no one’s watching. Where he can finally snap, shove you up against something cold, and rough you up until you’re not smiling anymore.

Until the siren burns.

Rafe drops his fork.

Clink.

He hears muffled chuckles around the table; someone teases him—he doesn’t register who. He doesn’t care as he ducks under the table to “grab it,” but what he’s doing is getting even.

His hand slips under the tablecloth, and finally, he touches you.

You go still; it’s subtle. No one would notice. But Rafe feels it—the faint lock in your thighs, the smallest hitch in your breath.

He smiles, slow and dark.

Ohhh. There it is.

Your skin is soft and warm. He runs his knuckles along the inside of your thigh, and you fidget in your seat. Not so calm now, huh? He keeps going, fingers trailing upward. Your dress is thin, and he can feel the lace under. You breathe in quietly, but Rafe catches it.

A single, startled inhale. Finally, a crack in the perfect porcelain mask. He could laugh.

You’re still nodding along to whatever your dad is saying, pretending to listen to talk about Q2 numbers and market pivots, but your jaw is tight now, your toned shoulders pulled back, trying so fucking hard not to flinch.

He could keep going. He wants to keep going, needs to see what it takes to break you. But instead, he slides his hand away, back to his lap. Comes up with the fork like nothing happened.

You glance at him—fast, reflexive, eyes a little too wide.

He leans back in his chair, takes a sip of wine, and lets his knee bump into yours to feel the jolt of tension still in your legs.

“You look flushed,” he murmurs, voice dry. “Everything okay?”

“I’m perfect.”

Rafe bites down a smirk and thinks, round two goes to me.

Dinner ends. Finally.

He’s halfway out of his chair, already planning to ghost the rest of the night—take Topper’s boat out and disappear with a blunt and no service—but then he hears your voice.

“Oh! I can take a few plates to the kitchen,” You chirp, already gathering silverware with that radiant look that makes people believe you’re helpful, good.

Of course, the table melts around you, even though his family has a whole bunch of maids hanging around.

“Aww, you don’t have to—”

“So polite.”

“Such a darling.”

You giggle, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear like a fucking actress.

“Only if Rafe helps,” you add, eyes catching his across the table, saccharine. “I mean—if he doesn’t mind.”

Every head turns.

His stomach drops. You psycho.

Ward gives him a pointed look. “Go on, son. It won’t kill you.”

Rafe wants to die, flip the fucking table and make everyone realize you’re not nice, you’re not sweet, you’re a fucking predator in pearls.

He grits his teeth. “Fine.”

You smile, beatific. Fucking smug.

Now he’s in the kitchen, stacking dishes he doesn’t care about, listening to laughter fade as everyone drifts outside for cigars and gin and garden bullshit. It’s just you two now.

You float in behind him, silent as anything wicked ever is.

“You looked so pretty when you panicked."

There it is.

Rafe turns around, “Shut the fuck up.”

You lean a hip against the counter, glass in hand. “Don’t be mad. You got your little revenge. Very dramatic, masculine.”

His hands flex around a stack of plates.

“I should’ve left when I had the chance.”

“But then who would’ve carried the heavy things?” You mock, your voice lilting. “What would I have done all alone in this big, scary kitchen?”

You step closer, reacing out and smoothing a wrinkle in his shirt.

“Rafey,” you hum softly. “Do I make you nervous?”

He doesn’t answer.

You lean up, your mouth brushing the edge of his jaw.

“Or do I make you… excited?”

His fist tightens on a fork, knowing he could snap you in half.

You laugh, reading him like a book. “God, you’re so easy.”

He slams a plate down—hard.

“You think I’m a fucking toy don't you?” he growls, backing you up against the counter.

He stares at you, breathing hard, face close. Your lip gloss glints in the low kitchen light, and your eyes say, go on, do it—break first.

And he might.

“Yes.”

You leave him with a kiss on the cheek.

Not literally, not quite, but it might as well be, the way you smile at him like he’s your favorite little helper.

“I’ll go grab drinks,” You're already stepping out of the kitchen. “You’ve got this, right?”

He doesn’t get a chance to answer before you’re halfway across the patio, glass in hand, swarmed again. The cousins, the aunts, the neighbors—they all light up like moths drawn to a very dangerous flame. You glance back once, your eyes catching his.

“Rafe offered to do the dishes for me. Isn’t he sweet?”

Laughter. A few claps on your back.

He almost throws a plate.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s still elbow-deep in suds, scrubbing caviar residue off fine china he didn’t eat off of. His shirt’s soaked, jaw clenched so hard his molars ache. You left lipstick on a wine glass and he had to wash it.

That’s where he is now.

You kissed crystal, and he’s scraping it clean.

You should be locked in a tower, he thinks, gagged. You should be exiled from civilization, and he should be free from this psychotic, unrelenting orbit you’ve dragged him into.

But no. You're out there laughing, lying, probably touching someone’s arm when you speak—performing that Disney-princess act for your next fan club.

By the time he’s done, his spine aches and his hands smell like lemons and rage. He bolts for the door. Topper’s, weed, a moment of silence away from the acid that is you.

He doesn’t make it off the porch.

“Rafe!”

His dad’s voice. Fuck.

He turns. “Yeah?”

Ward’s holding his whiskey, looking at him like he’s seven.

“You going out?”

Rafe nods. “Topper’s.”

“Bring her with you.”

Rafe blinks. “What?”

Ward gestures toward the garden, where you’re perched on a chair like Aphrodite on sabbatical, dress glowing under the fairy lights.

“Don’t make her sit around all night while we talk shop. Be a gentleman.”

“She’s twenty,” Rafe grits. “She can stay here. Or call a friend. Or Uber. Why is that my problem?”

“Rafe.”

That voice. Dad voice.

Fuck. You look over, right on cue, summoned by his pain. You give him that, are you gonna be mean in front of Daddy? taunting smile.

He could scream or snap and knock over a lantern and burn this whole place to the fucking ground.

Instead, he mutters, “Fine,” it tastes like blood.

You hop up, beaming. “I’ll grab my bag.”

Five minutes later, Rafe’s standing by the front door like some glorified Uber driver, watching you step into your heels and give him that fuck-you gleam and wearing a new dress.

You don’t ask if he wants you to come; you know he doesn’t.

He watches you float toward him, knowing exactly what you’re doing, getting in his truck like you own it, not waiting for him to unlock it, pulling the door open, tossing your little purse on the dash, and settling in with a sigh.

He can tell you’ve been chauffeured all your life.

“Topper won’t mind, right?” You ask, buckling your seatbelt.

Rafe doesn’t answer, gripping the wheel like it had wronged him personally.

You cross you legs, the hem of the dress slipping higher.

He almost rear-ends the hydrangea bushes.

“You didn’t say thank you.”

He doesn’t answer.

You hum. “For saying you volunteered. How sweet of you.”

Rafe stares at the road ahead, the wheel creaking under his hands.

You stretch in the passenger seat, sighing like you’ve had a long day; he’s the one who exhausted you.

“You left a spot on the wine glasses, though. Not very thorough.” You muse, soft and awful. “What’s the plan?”

He glances at you, brief and burning. “Why are you like this?”

“Like what?”

“A bitch.”

You frown. “But I was so good at dinner.”

He doesn’t respond, but it’s crawling under his skin like fire ants.

You keep going.

“I even said nice things about you.” You turn slightly, eyes on him. “You didn’t like that?”

“I didn’t ask for it.”

“You’re welcome.”

He’s going to crash the truck. You’re in his space, his car, and his head, wrecking his night like you always do. All venom stitched into your smile. And now, after everything, you dare to act like he’s the problem.

He parks harder than necessary when he finally gets to Topper’s, slamming the gearshift and shoving the door open. You slide out slowly, taking your time.

“Are you going to tell Topper how good I was at dinner?” you ask, stepping in beside him. “He always thinks I spend too much time with you. Think I might give him a chance this summer.”

Rafe stops dead in his tracks. You don’t look at him, still walking toward the back gate like it’s nothing.

His mouth goes dry.

Topper.

His friend. His dumbass, sex-starved, loud-mouthed friend who’s been drooling over you since you were sixteen and wore that white bikini to the Midsummer cookout. Rafe remembers the exact moment, all the boys practically choked on a Bud Light.

You’d known. Of course, you had; you’d done that little hip sway thing you think is subtle. You’d known, and you’d used it.

The same way you’re using this now.

“Say that again,” Rafe challenges you.

You finally glance back. Innocent. “Topper? What about him?”

“You’re not serious.”

You shrug, biting the inside of your cheek like you're thinking about it.

“He’s cute. He’s nice to me.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I mean,” you continue, ignoring the heat in his voice, “he’s always been kind. Not like you.” You toss him a saccharine look. “He compliments me.”

Rafe’s blood is lava.

Topper doesn’t like you. He likes your legs, your mouth, the way you laugh when you’re three drinks in. But he doesn’tknow you, not like Rafe does. Not the ugly parts and sure as hell not the ones Rafe sees when you’re alone, when you’re unfiltered and smirking at him like he’s prey.

“You’re not gonna fuck Topper,” Rafe mutters.

You mock confusion. “Who said anything about—”

“I know you.”

You tilt your head. “Do you?”

He steps closer.

“Yeah,” he says, “I do. And you don’t want Topper. You want someone stupid enough to fall for your games.”

“Oh,” you breathe, eyes glinting. “So…you, then?”

You’ve pressed it like you always do—grinning like the siren he knows you are. You’re not walking into this party to flirt with Topper, you’re doing it because Rafe hates it. Because you want his eyes on you all night. Because you know the idea of his friends looking at you like you’re up for grabs will eat him alive.

And it is.

His jaw flexes. “He couldn’t handle you for a second.”

“And you could?”

He grabs your jaw, not hard—only to make you look up at him, enough for him to smell that damn stupid gloss you’re always wearing.

“I already am,” he growls.

“Kinky.”

You hum it more than you say it, and Rafe sees red. It’s not what you said; it’s the way you say it.

You peel his hand off your face, not affected.

“Thanks for the talk, Rafey,” you purr, turning on your heel.

He watches you turn and walk toward the door, hair bouncing, skin glowing in the porch light, the hem of your change of dress just shy of illegal.

You disappear inside the house before he can say anything else—thank God. Or maybe not. Rafe doesn’t know what to do anymore. You’ve got him twisted up—again. Same song, different night.

He turns and follows you inside.

Game on, he's got all summer, after all.

#itneverendshere works✨#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron au #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe fic #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe x reader #rafe x kook!reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe imagine #rafe outer banks #outer banks rafe #rafe cameron imagine #rafe obx #outerbanks rafe #rafe

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f1-mcmuffin · 12 days ago

Note

Hii can i request a y/n and the wags moments in the paddock or in public in general

We need more interactions between themmm aghhhh

MORE WAGS

(Requested) Lando Norris x Reader (5th Member of BLACKPINK AU)

a/n: this is just me yapping fr lol, 15k words AHHH help me, soak it up while you can lol jkjk but please do answer the question at the end

| Lando Norris Masterlist| Main Masterlist | Spotlight & Slipstream Masterlist |

Kelly Piquet

She had slipped out of the apartment while Lando was still asleep, dragging her hair into a bun and shoving her sunglasses on. Just a weekend in Monaco, where the sky was a clean blue and the air smelled like sea salt and money.

The café was tucked just behind a florist, with seating that leaned into the sidewalk and croissants that felt stolen from a French dream. She ordered an ice latte and sat outside, letting the sun coat her shoulders and the quiet soak in.

She was halfway through a page in her book when she heard, “Is this seat taken?” She looked up.

Kelly Piquet.

In a white linen shirt, sleek sunglasses, her hair gathered in a clip that looked effortless but probably wasn’t. She blinked once, surprised, then smiled.

“Nope. All yours.”

Kelly sat down with a sigh that said thank God in three languages. “I saw you from the corner and thought—either I interrupt or I miss a chance at the only quiet table in Monaco.”

She chuckled. “You made the right choice.”

Their drinks arrived — Kelly’s drink of choice was some kind of tea she didn’t recognize — and for a moment they both just sipped, letting the comfort of women not needing to fill the silence stretch between them.

“You here solo?” Kelly asked eventually.

She nodded. “Lando’s still sleeping. I figured I’d get out before anyone made me do something useful.”

Kelly laughed. “That sounds familiar.”

They talked a little after that — nothing heavy. Just soft topics. Travel. Skincare. How nice it was to be in a city without being on. There was an ease to Kelly that she had always admired from afar. She moved like someone who knew exactly how much she was giving — and how much she was keeping.

Eventually, she set her cup down and leaned in.“Can I ask you something?”

Kelly nodded, curious.

She hesitated for a second, then grinned. “Okay, it’s not that serious. Where do you get your sunglasses? I swear you always have the perfect pair.”

Kelly laughed. “I’ll send you the link. But I’m warning you, it’s addictive. I bought three pairs last month and told Max they were all for press.”

“He didn’t question it?”

“He doesn’t care.”

She laughed, sinking back into her chair. The morning had settled around them like a blanket — the breeze warm, the café hum steady, the kind of quiet you don’t get in their world often.

Eventually, Kelly reached into her bag and pulled out a tube of lip balm, dabbing it on before tucking it back. “You want to walk a bit?”

“Yeah,” She said, standing.

They wandered through the narrow streets of Monaco together — two very well-dressed “civilians,” sunglasses on, voices low. They stopped at a tiny boutique and tried on hats they had no intention of buying. Kelly made her laugh so hard at one point that she had to pretend to sneeze just to cover it.

And when someone finally did recognize them — a young girl who nervously asked for a photo — they both crouched down, arms around her shoulders, and smiled like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because for a moment, it was.

When they split up near the marina, Kelly hugged her goodbye.

“Next time,” she said, “we’ll do dinner.”

“Yes!, next time,” she agreed, meaning it.

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

The Grand Palais had been transformed into a surrealist dream — all velvet draping, towering sculptures, and lights that looked like they were dripping from the ceiling. The designer’s new collection had already been teased in whispers for months: avant-garde silhouettes, bold metallics, unapologetic elegance. The A-list was out in full force — models, editors, artists, influencers. The air buzzed with expectation and perfume.

She arrived just before the house lights dimmed.

She was dressed in deep navy — a high-structured two-piece with silver thread woven through the seams. It fit her like armor, but the kind forged in a studio by someone who knew how to weaponize femininity. Her hair was slicked back in a low bun, makeup subtle but sculpted.

As her heels clicked along the marble floor toward the front row, she spotted a familiar silhouette — Kelly Piquet, already seated, legs crossed, head tilted as she scrolled through her phone.

She ushered to the seat beside her.

Without looking up, Kelly murmured, “That outfit has no business being that good.”

She smirked as she sat. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as gospel.”

Kelly finally glanced over, lowering her sunglasses slightly. “Is it navy or black?”

“Navy,” she said. “I almost wore red, but I figured every other girl here would.”

Kelly nodded in approval. “Good call. You look like a James Bond villain.”

She laughed quietly, smoothing the line of her trousers. “Exactly the energy I was going for.”

They both glanced toward the runway, but the fashion show hadn’t started yet. Around them, camera flashes went off like firecrackers, low murmurs threading through the rows.

“Did you fly in this morning?”Kelly asked, adjusting her cuff.

“Last night,” she replied. “Lando has media in China, so I figured I’d sneak in a show or two.”

Kelly nodded knowingly. “Clever. Better champagne here, anyway.”

The lights dimmed. A hush spread like a ripple through the crowd, and then the first model appeared — a long coat trailing like a storm behind her. The music pulsed, atmospheric and strange, and the show began.

They watched in silence at first, both leaning slightly forward.

“I’ve missed this,” she said under her breath.

Kelly glanced sideways. “Real fashion. Not the circus.”

“Exactly.” she said.

Another model came down the runway in sculptural gold, the fabric folding like origami. Kelly let out a quiet breath. “That draping’s insane. It’s architectural.”

She nodded. “And still wearable, somehow.”

A few more looks passed. One with exaggerated sleeves that made her tilt her head. Another in sheer metallic mesh that made Kelly’s brows lift slightly.

“This designer doesn’t care if you’re comfortable,” she murmured.

Kelly grinned. “No. But you’ll look untouchable.”

she laughed. “You know, I always say I hate clothes that wear you. Like that? ” as another model passed in a floor-length silver cape. “That’s pretty?” she asked, her voice low.

“You’re allowed to contradict yourself when the tailoring is that good,” Kelly said, sipping her champagne.

A few seats down, someone tried to discreetly snap a photo of them. Neither of them reacted. The next model floated by in a translucent cape layered over metallic slacks. It shimmered like heat in the air.“She looks like something out of a dream,” she said.

Kelly hummed in agreement. “Or a nightmare, depending on your PR budget.”They both shared a laugh. After a moment, Kelly leaned slightly closer. “Have you noticed how fashion’s come back around to storytelling again?”

She nodded. “Finally. I was getting tired of empty minimalism. This season feels like people actually have something to say.”

“It’s theatrical, but not hollow,” Kelly said. “Like there’s intent behind every hemline.”

“I’d wear half of this on tour if my stylist didn’t have a stick up his ass,” she admitted.

Kelly turned. “You should. Tour looks are getting lazy. It's just clothes covered with sequins and glitter.”

“For real. I might steal that silver coat.”

“Better text that stylist now before someone from Vogue snatches it for the cover.” They shared a glance, both trying not to smile too much.

As the final model appeared — in a gown that looked like molten glass — the lights shifted to scarlet. The crowd buzzed. Phones went up. The music swelled.

“She’s killing it,” Kelly said, nodding slightly toward the model.

“Reminds me of Jennie,” she replied without thinking.

Kelly smirked. “I still don’t understand how you two know everyone.”

“We don’t know everyone,” she said.

“You’re literally front row with me at a Paris show and comparing models to Jennie like she’s your cousin.”

She laughed. “Jennie and I are basically sisters. We’ve been through a lot together.”

“I can tell,” Kelly said. “You speak about her like family.”

“She is family,” she said simply. “Not by blood — but in every way that counts.”

Kelly nodded, then paused. “You know… if you ever want or need a get away, we have a place in Portugal. Very low-key. Ocean, books, silence.”

She blinked. “You’re serious?”

“I’m not in the habit of inviting people I don’t like to the middle of nowhere,” Kelly replied, deadpan.

She chuckled. “Thanks. I might take you up on that.”

“I hope you do.”

The show ended in a wave of applause as the designer came out briefly to bow before disappearing again. She and Kelly stood, clapping politely.

“You staying for the afterparty?” Kelly asked as the crowd began to shift.

“Maybe. Depends on how many cameras are lurking by the exit.”

Kelly gave her a look. “Y/n, we just sat front row together.”

“Ugh. Let’s at least pretend we’re above it.”

They walked out together, their heels echoing across marble. The lights of Paris blinked outside the tall windows, the sound of applause still faint behind them.

“I know a place with no photographers and excellent bread,” Kelly said as they stepped toward the car.

“That’s the best sentence I’ve heard all week,” She replied.

They slipped into the back seat, both still holding onto the mood of the runway — all shimmer and steel and unexpected softness.

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

Kika Gomes

The studio was a clean mix of white-washed walls, soft natural light, and controlled chaos. Racks of clothing lined one side — all sleek tailoring, bold accessories, and silk in shades that could only be described as expensive. Stylists darted between garment bags and makeup trays while the photographer adjusted light stands with quiet authority.

She sat cross-legged on a makeup chair, scrolling through her phone while a stylist touched up the corners of her eyes.

“Your skin’s doing half my job,” the makeup artist muttered, patting on some highlighter. “Ridiculous.”

“Tell me about it,” she replied dryly, not looking up.

Across the room, Kika stood barefoot on a small platform, trying not to laugh as someone pinned the hem of her blazer dress. “If this gets any shorter I’m going to need safety shorts,” she said to no one in particular.

She glanced up from her phone. “You’re gonna have to start charging Pierre for thigh access.”

Kika grinned. “Too late. That man owes me a whole new wardrobe.”

The stylist working on her snorted. “Okay, that’s my cue to let you two talk without supervision.”

Kika stepped off the platform and padded over now in her socks, slipping into the seat beside her. “You’ve been here since seven?” she asked, tugging her ponytail loose.

“Yeah,” she nodded, setting her phone down. “They wanted natural light for the first looks. You’d think we were shooting for National Geographic the way they were chasing the sun.”

Kika kicked at her shin lightly. “You love it. Admit it.”

“I love the clothes,” she said. “The 7 a.m. call time? Not so much.”

They both looked over as a model walked past in towering platform silver heels and a trench coat made entirely of what looked like laminated newspaper. Kika raised a brow. “What do you even call that?”

She tilted her head. “Art school trauma?”

Kika cackled. “Let me guess, it’s going to retail for €3,500 and be labeled avant-garde city shell or something.”

“That or morning panic jacket.”

Kika laughed, then snorted, which made her start laughing too, until they were both holding onto each other for support. Their laughter died down when a photographer’s assistant called her over to change into her next look. She stood up, stretching her arms overhead and groaning.

“You sound like a grandma,” Kika said, sipping from her water bottle.

“I feel like a grandma. All I want is a hot bath and a nap after this.”

“Let’s do a sleepover,” Kika said. “You, me, face masks, something trashy on Netflix. I’ll bring the good snacks.”

“Oo, only if we get sushi too,” she said, walking backward toward the wardrobe rack.

“Done.”

The rest of the shoot moved in a blur — metallic dresses, clean-lined pantsuits, bold reds and forest greens. Her and Kika ended up shooting two looks together, side by side, moving with the ease of people who had done this kind of thing before — and didn’t take it too seriously.

At one point, they both burst out laughing when she nearly tripped over a tangled piece of chiffon.

“How elegant,” Kika giggled.

“I’m a model of grace,” she replied, trying to regain her balance.

The photographer laughed, shaking his head. “If you’re done sabotaging the set, let’s try that pose again.”

By the end of the day, they were sitting on the floor in sweatpants, barefoot, faces scrubbed clean, sharing a bowl of salted edamame someone had delivered.

Kika reached into the bowl, chewing thoughtfully. “You know, I forgot how exhausting shoots are. I’ve been doing more brand meetings lately. This felt like a workout.”

She leaned back against the wall. “You looked good, though.”

Kika smiled. “You too. You’ve got that whole thing down.”

“Thanks,” she said, popping another edamame pod.

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, listening to the last bits of gear being packed up. Crew voices echoed faintly from the next room.

“Kind of a weird job, huh?” Kika said suddenly.

“Wearing very expensive clothes for people who may or may not buy them?” she replied. “Completely.”

“I meant the whole thing,” Kika said, waving a hand around. “The traveling. Social media. The way your name gets attached to someone else’s and suddenly everyone has a thesis about who you are.”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah. It’s weird. Imagine you’re just standing next to someone, and the next thing you know, you’re dating.””

“At least we can laugh about it,” Kika said with a smile, and they both chuckled.

“True” she agreed

“But I like that we get to do it together,” Kika added.

“That’s half the reason I still show up,” she said with a smile. “If I didn’t have you to make fun of runway descriptions with, I’d have stopped coming months ago.”

Kika raised her bottle in a mock toast. “To mutual survival.”

She clinked hers against it. “And sushi.”

They stayed there until a PA gently reminded them the studio was closing.

Outside, the sky had gone soft and gold. As they waited for their rides, she turned to Kika and said, “Brunch tomorrow?”

“Always,” Kika replied.

Their cars pulled up, and with one last lazy hug, they parted ways — the kind of goodbye that didn’t need words. They’d be laughing again by morning.

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

The clink of cutlery and low jazz floated through the dim-lit bistro as she swirled her wine glass, watching the amber liquid catch in the candlelight. She looked up just as Kika dropped into the chair across from her, cheeks a little pink from the cold, scarf still looped around her neck.

“Sorry, sorry,” Kika said breathlessly. “I got distracted by some heels I saw in a store window down the street.”

She grinned. “Only you would be late because of heels.”

“I was looking for something for you, thank you very much,” Kika replied, shrugging off her coat. “It was either that or a chocolate croissant. And I know how you feel about crumbs.”

They both leaned in over the table, glancing at the small handwritten board propped near the candle. “Do you know what you want?” Kika asked.

“I haven’t eaten all day,” she said. “I want everything.”

“I say we get the steak tartare to share. And the duck confit. And—”

“Oh my god, yes.”

The waiter arrived and they ordered without overthinking, trading in their menus for wine refills and the comfort of finally sitting still. Outside, Paris hummed on. Inside, they had their own cocoon.

Kika glanced across the table after a moment. “You look good, by the way. Like, annoyingly good.”

She smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I curled my hair and wore earrings. It’s the bare minimum.”

“Still counts as effort,”Kika countered. They both laughed, leaning back as the bread basket arrived. She tore into the crusty end of a baguette and passed the butter over.

“I needed this,” she said softly.

“I figured,” Kika said. “You’ve been everywhere lately. Your album rollout alone looked exhausting.”

“Don’t get me wrong—I loved it,” she said, tearing another piece of bread. “But by the end, I didn’t know if I was talking to myself or a press release.”

Kika nodded knowingly. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? You chase the thing for so long and then when you’re in it, it’s like… okay, what now?”

“Exactly,” she murmured, then grinned. “You’re getting wise, even in your twenties.”

“Blame Pierre. He’s been in his ‘journal everything’ era. Now I have thoughts and emotions and—” she made a dramatic face “—feelings.”

She burst out laughing. “Disgusting,” she said. “We need to put a stop to that immediately.”

“Agreed,” Kika said. “Hence, red wine and duck fat.”

Their food arrived a few minutes later—beautifully plated, fragrant, indulgent. They dug in without ceremony, the kind of comfortable silence that only came with genuine friendship settling over them. Between bites, they caught up. On everything and nothing.

Kika told her about a disastrous fitting she had for a campaign that ended with her getting stuck in a corset in front of three stylists and a very amused Pierre.

She leaned forward. “I was supposed to film a dance challenge. Had the outfit, the lighting, the setup all perfect.”

“And?”

“Lando came into the kitchen trying to make pancakes from a TikTok recipe. Managed to set off the fire alarm twice, and somehow got batter on the ceiling.”

Kika covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.

“I spent the rest of the day cleaning instead of filming,” she sighed. “The pancakes were not worth it.”

They traded gossip like candy. Who was on whose bad side in the paddock. Which stylist had the best snacks backstage. Why a certain actor should never be allowed to wear velvet again.

They smiled at each other, the kind of unspoken appreciation that didn’t need to be dressed up.

The bill came and Kika snatched it before she could reach.

“No,” she protested.

“Yes,” Kika insisted. “This was my idea.”

“You’re not going to win this.”

“I already did,” Kika said smugly. “You’re out of reach.”

She groaned, pulling out her phone to Venmo her anyway. “You know I’m faster than you.”

“But I’m more charming.”

“Touché.”

They stepped out into the Paris night, where the city glittered like a spilled jewelry box. The air was crisp and the streets were quieter now, holding their breath before the weekend fully arrived.

“Walk a bit?” Kika asked, tucking her arm through hers.

she nodded. “Yeah.”

And so they walked. Down narrow alleys and across quiet bridges. Past bakeries preparing for the morning and bars still glowing from inside.

They didn’t talk much now. Didn’t need to and when they finally hugged goodbye at a corner where their Ubers would split them in opposite directions, it was with the ease of knowing they’d do it again soon. No pressure. No spotlight. Just another quiet night

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

Carmen Montero Mundt

The bell above the door chimed softly as Carmen stepped into the little corner bookstore café. She shook off her umbrella, the last few snowflakes clinging stubbornly to its black canopy, and peered around until she saw a familiar figure curled into the back booth by the window.

She had one leg tucked under herself, her oversized scarf trailing off her lap and onto the cushioned seat. She was wearing big black-framed glasses and a long navy coat that nearly swallowed her whole. Her hair was pulled back in a lazy bun, wisps falling around her cheeks as she concentrated on the book in her lap. Without looking up, she raised her hand and wiggled her fingers in a lazy wave—Carmen had been spotted.

“Hey,” Carmen said, smiling as she dropped her bag beside her and unwrapped her scarf. “You look like you belong in a Nancy Meyers movie.”

She finally looked up, face lighting up. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Want to play the role of my cozier, chicer supporting character?”

Carmen snorted as she sat across from her. “Only if I get my own subplot.”

“You always do.”

They settled into easy silence as Carmen ordered a chai latte from the barista. The café smelled like old paper, cinnamon, and ground coffee. Every so often, someone would wander through the book stacks or flip a page. Outside, snow continued to fall, dusting the pavement and softening the grey London skyline into something nearly magical.

“So,” Carmen said once the drinks arrived, “are you hiding or relaxing?”

She quirked a brow. “A little bit of both?”

Carmen shrugged. “Fair.”

There was a small pause before she added, more softly, “Hiding from noise, mostly. The internet’s been… very loud this week.”

Carmen gave her a knowing look. “Lando again?”

She nodded, wrapping her fingers around the warm mug. “It’s never-ending. Someone always finds an old picture or drags up a comment from years ago. Then suddenly I’m the villain for ‘changing him’ or not changing him enough.”

Carmen leaned forward. “People project. All the time. You know that. Half the time they’re not even mad at you—they’re mad at the version of themselves that wants to be you.”

She let out a short laugh, lips curling into a smirk. “Oh I know, but thanks. That sounded like something a therapist on Instagram would say.”

Carmen smirked, holding up her hands. “I’ll take it. I’ve been reading a lot of self-help lately.”

There was another lull, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Outside, a child threw a snowball and missed entirely, the soft thump of it landing on a bench echoing faintly through the café windows. She watched it happen and smiled, her expression wistful.

“You ever think about what you’d be doing if none of this existed?” she asked suddenly.

Carmen tilted her head. “F1 or fame?”

“Both.”

Carmen thought for a moment. “Honestly? Probably something just as high-strung. I like control too much. Maybe managing a museum. Or—god—owning a tiny, outrageously expensive flower shop.”

She laughed, eyes crinkling. “That actually suits you.”

“I’d wear cashmere sweaters every day and pretend I don’t know the names of my regulars even though I totally do.”

“And I’d be the girl with a nine-to-five, who brings the same lunch every day and takes the long way home just to drive a little longer.”

“Exactly. I’d never ask why you always look so tired—but I’d definitely wonder about you more than I should.” They both laughed at that, genuinely—something warm that cracked through the heavier thoughts lingering in their heads.

Carmen took a sip of her latte, then said more softly, “I think about it too. What life would be like if George wasn’t in F1. If we didn’t have to measure every public moment.”

She hummed. “Do you ever get tired of… protecting him?”

The question hung in the air.

“Yeah,” Carmen said eventually. “Not because I don’t want to. I love him. I’d do it forever. But it gets exhausting having to think five moves ahead of everyone all the time.”

She nodded. “Same. Back when I was still with Blackpink, I had to hold my tongue all the time. Sometimes I wanted to say something dumb or impulsive from what people would say about me or my members. But I’d stop myself—because I knew it could get twisted, turned into a headline, or worse, reflect badly on the others. And now with Lando... it’s the same fear, but deeper. I’m so scared of messing things up for him. Or being the reason someone else sees him differently.”

Carmen looked at her, her expression softening. “That makes sense. You’re not doing anything wrong—you’re just visible. People love to pick things apart when they can’t look away. But Lando’s not the world. He sees the whole picture. The fact that you’re trying to protect him? That says more than anything a headline ever could.”

She glanced down at her mug, running her fingertip around the rim. “Hmm, it’s weird, isn’t it? Loving someone that the world thinks they know.”

“Yeah,” Carmen said. “It’s like sharing something sacred with a crowd that thinks it’s theirs. But you’re the only one who really gets it.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. Not in a dramatic way, but in the quiet, bone-deep way that women who get it look at each other. She leaned back in her seat and let herself breathe a little more deeply.

“You know,” Carmen said, breaking the moment, “we should do this more often.”

“Yes, please,” she replied instantly. “We can rotate bookstores. Next time I'll pick one with a fireplace.”

“And I’ll bring wine in a tote bag like a degenerate.”

“We’re gonna get banned from half the cafés in London.” she laughed.

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

The golden evening light fell softly across the stone patio of the private villa tucked away in the hills outside Monza. The air was heavy with late-summer warmth, a faint citrus tang on the breeze, and the last lazy buzz of bees from the lavender hedges lining the terrace. Inside, someone had set down a bottle of chilled white wine and a bowl of olives.

She padded barefoot across the stone floor, her loose linen shirt fluttering slightly as she opened the doors with her elbow, carrying a plate of fresh figs and prosciutto.

"That looks obnoxiously aesthetic," Carmen said, lounging on the cushioned outdoor bench with her legs stretched out, a glass already in hand. She was wearing one of George’s oversized button-ups.

“It’s an Italian weekend,” she shrugged. “I’m leaning into a new temporary lifestyle.”

Carmen grinned, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head. “You say that like you didn’t just make fun of me for buying a cheese board shaped like Italy.”

“That’s different.”They both burst into laughter.

It was one of those rare Saturdays where both qualifying and media duties were done by mid-afternoon, and instead of dinner in some stiff VIP hospitality tent, her and Carmen had talked aka bribed Lando and George into renting this small, vine-covered villa just for the four of them. After a bit of light bribery and some surprisingly coordinated planning, the girls had carved out the evening for themselves.

She flopped down next to Carmen and propped her feet on the edge of the coffee table. “Do you think they’ll come back with pizza or just get distracted by an argument about tire strategy in the car park?” she asked, popping a fig into her mouth.

Carmen raised her eyebrows. “Bold of you to assume they left the car park.”They both cackled again, and she reached over to top off Carmen’s glass.

A lull settled between them, comfortable and quiet. Cicadas whirred faintly in the background. Somewhere down the hill, the sound of a Vespa faded into the distance. She watched Carmen lean back against the cushions, her face tilted toward the sun, eyes closed.

“You know what I love about you?” she said after a beat.

Carmen cracked one eye open suspiciously. “Oh no. This sounds like a trap.”

“It’s not. It’s wholesome,” she said, kicking her gently in the shin. “You’re so... elegant. Like, in the best way. You just exist, effortlessly cool, minimal drama.”

Carmen let out a soft laugh. “Are you trying to flirt with me?”

“Maybe.”

“You sound like my instagram comments,” Carmen teased, then added more softly, “But I appreciate it. Especially coming from you.” Carmen nudged her shoulder. “But seriously. You make things fun. Like, I wouldn’t have agreed to a weekend in a villa just to chill if it wasn’t with you. You trick me into relaxing.”

“I am very manipulative,” she said proudly. “It’s part of my mysterious charm.”

They clinked glasses. The sun dipped a little lower, casting long golden shadows over the tiled floor. She leaned back and stretched, feeling her shoulders relax for the first time all day.

A faint crunch of tires on gravel made both girls look up. Carmen shielded her eyes. “Place your bets. Are they holding food or arguing?”

The car pulled into view — a rented Fiat, comically small for both drivers. The windows were down. George was behind the wheel, his hands animated, clearly mid-rant. Lando, in the passenger seat, was wearing sunglasses and holding a pizza box like it was a newborn child.

She let out a groan. “Argument and food. Looks like we both lose.”

The girls didn’t move as the guys hopped out and walked toward them — Lando carefully balancing two pizza boxes, a crumpled paper bag, and what looked like a bottle of Fanta sticking out of his back pocket.

“Guess who got extra stracciatella,” Lando said proudly, crouching down to slide the boxes onto the table.

George followed, adjusting his cap. “Guess who had to negotiate for it because someone forgot to place the order in Italian.”

Lando waved a hand dismissively. “I said ‘pizza molto fasto,’ and the guy understood me.”

She leaned into Lando as he sank down beside her and stole a piece of crust. “Good job, delivery boy.”

The four of them sat outside under the soft string lights strung between the olive trees, eating pizza directly from the boxes, sipping cold wine and soda, letting the night hum on without urgency. No one brought up the race. No one talked about sectors or setups or who qualified where. It wasn’t even deliberate — it just didn’t matter right now.

At one point, Carmen got up to grab blankets from inside, and she followed her. The house was warm and quiet, the floor cool beneath their feet. In the hallway, Carmen paused and looked at her with a sleepy smile.

They grinned at each other.

And for a moment — soft and warm and ordinary — everything felt like it was exactly where it should be.

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

Alexandra Saint Mleux

The sun hung high over the Mediterranean, casting a soft golden light on the streets of Monaco. The luxury of the place was undeniable, with gleaming yachts in the harbor and high-end boutiques lining the streets. It was a rare afternoon off, a break from the constant whirlwind of the F1 world, and she was more than ready to take advantage of it. The opportunity to spend a day with Alexandra, one of her newest and closest friends now, was something she cherished. It was a chance to escape the spotlight and simply enjoy the luxury of Monaco and the pleasure of a good shopping spree.

She stood at the entrance of one of Monaco’s most exclusive shopping streets, wearing a simple, elegant cropped tee that framed her waist and a pair of baggy, light-washed jeans slung low on her hips. Her hair was casually tied back, sunglasses shielding her from the golden afternoon sun. Even though she knew the streets were buzzing with life, today she was determined to enjoy herself without any of the usual distractions.

Alexandra arrived a few moments later, stepping out of a sleek black car. She was effortlessly chic in a fitted black dress and heels, with her own pair of sunglasses perched atop her head. She flashed a bright smile as she approached, and she couldn’t help but return the gesture. Alexandra was always such a calming presence, grounded and genuine—qualities that made their friendship feel both easy and real.

“Hey! You look amazing,” she greeted, pulling Alexandra into a quick hug.

“So do you” Alexandra replied with a soft smile. “I’m so glad we could do this. A proper girls' day out”

She nodded, grinning. “Exactly what I need.”

The two of them walked down the cobblestone streets together, their heels clicking in sync, the gentle breeze blowing through the warm Mediterranean air. Monaco was a city that screamed luxury, but today, it felt different—like they could slip away from the pressures of their respective worlds and simply enjoy each other's company.

Their first stop was a boutique known for its haute couture collections, the kind of place where you didn’t just walk in; you were escorted inside like royalty. The glass doors swung open as they entered, and the soft scent of perfume and fresh flowers greeted them. The shop was quiet, almost serene, with soft music playing in the background. The sales assistants were already eyeing the pair, but there was no rush—today was about enjoying the experience, not about being rushed or expected to buy something extravagant.

She wandered through the racks, her fingers brushing over the luxurious fabrics, while Alexandra followed at a more leisurely pace. The two women chatted casually as they moved from one section to another.

“I love this color,” Alexandra said, holding up a deep emerald green dress. “It would look great on you.”

She looked over at the dress and then back at her friend. “I think it might be too bold for me, but I love it on you. You have the perfect height for it.”

Alexandra smiled at the compliment. “You think? Maybe I should try it on, just to see. But honestly, I think I’ll just stick with some accessories today.”

They moved to the accessories section, where shelves were lined with bags, shoes, and sparkling jewelry. She picked up a delicate gold bracelet, turning it over in her hand as she admired its simplicity. “I love how understated this is,” she remarked.

Alexandra nodded in agreement. “It’s beautiful, and it looks like something you could wear every day. I feel like some of the pieces in these shops are so flashy, they lose their elegance.”

She smiled, her eyes sparkling as she thought about how much she appreciated the simple things. “Exactly. There’s something timeless about it.”

They continued browsing, slipping in and out of rooms filled with couture. The afternoon passed easily, filled with lighthearted conversation and the joy of friendship.

After an hour, they moved to the next store, an upscale jewelry boutique known for its rare diamonds. The soft glow of the diamonds under the dim lighting made them both stop and admire the pieces. Alexandra ran her fingers over a set of diamond earrings, pausing as she saw a stunning necklace at the far end of the counter.

“Oh, Y/n, look at that,” she said, her voice full of wonder. The necklace was an intricate design of diamonds and sapphires, each stone catching the light just right. “It’s perfect.”

She approached, leaning in to get a closer look. “It is. But you’re the one who would rock it, not me. I’m more about simplicity.”

Alexandra laughed softly, her hand resting on her hip. “I know what you mean. I’m just indulging in the fantasy for a minute.”

They spent a few more moments looking at the dazzling jewelry before moving on to a new store across the street. This time, they found themselves in a more relaxed setting, a contemporary boutique with a collection of minimalist yet sophisticated clothing. The atmosphere was cool and airy, a stark contrast to the opulence of the previous shops.

She immediately gravitated toward a section with soft, flowing dresses. Alexandra followed her, and together they looked through the collection, exchanging thoughts on what would suit each other.

“I think this one would look amazing on you,” she said, holding up a soft lavender dress with a simple yet flattering cut. “You have the perfect skin tone for it.”

Alexandra raised an eyebrow and shook her head. “I don’t know. I think you might be right, but I’m not sure I’d wear it much. I like the idea of it more than the reality.”

She laughed, picking up the dress and draping it across her arm. “Well, you can’t blame me for trying. I think it would look incredible.”

The conversation shifted to lighter topics as they made their way to the fitting rooms, both of them trying on a few outfits. They gave each other feedback, laughing as they each modeled a few dresses.

“I think this is my new favorite,” Alexandra said, stepping out in a chic forest green dress that fit her perfectly.

She grinned. “Thats stunning.”

After trying on a few more pieces and making some purchases, they both decided to take a break at one of the cafés nearby, sitting outside in the soft sun. The relaxed atmosphere was a perfect end to the afternoon. As they sipped on iced lattes, they continued to chat, discussing everything from upcoming concerts to the latest F1 gossip.

“You know, I’m so glad we did this,” she said, leaning back in her chair.

Alexandra agreed, her smile softening. “Yeah, it’s nice. It’s just about us today”

She chuckled. “Exactly. It’s like we’re in our own little world.”

The two of them laughed, enjoying the easy companionship they shared. There was no pressure, no expectations. Just two women, taking in the beauty of Monaco, and cherishing a rare, peaceful day together.

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

The sun was high in the sky, casting its warmth over the sparkling Mediterranean water as Charles's sleek yacht glided smoothly through the waves.

The yacht was anchored in a secluded cove, far enough from the noise of the marina to offer a rare sense of peace. The gentle sway of the boat against the water added a soothing rhythm to the air, and the sounds of the ocean were the only backdrop to the day.

She and Alexandra were set up on the deck, their easels facing the open water, the bright blue sky stretching endlessly above them.

The scene around them was serene: the sun-kissed waters, the distant hills of the coast, and the gentle breeze that tousled their hair. The yacht was quiet—only the soft sounds of brushes against canvas and the occasional hum of the yacht’s engine disturbed the stillness.

She was focused, her paintbrush in hand as she added strokes to her canvas. She was working on a landscape, trying to capture the vivid blue of the ocean, the deep greens of the hills in the distance, and the way the sunlight danced on the water.

Painting was a way to unwind for her, a quiet escape from the constant motion of her life in the spotlight. Today, it was more than just a hobby—it was a chance to share a peaceful moment with Alexandra, who had always made time to connect despite the chaos around them.

Alexandra, on the other hand, was completely in her element. As an art history enthusiast, she had spent years studying various periods of art, and her passion for painting was rooted in her love for historical works.

She was working on a piece that reflected some of the techniques she admired—soft, flowing brushstrokes, vibrant colors, and an abstract interpretation of the sea in front of them. The calmness of the ocean seemed to inspire her as she layered colors onto the canvas. Her brushstrokes were bold and free, a stark contrast to Alexandra’s careful, controlled movements.

She glanced over at Alex, admiring the way Alexandra applied the paint, effortlessly blending the colors. “I love how you’ve captured that,” she said, genuinely intrigued. “It’s like your painting tells a story without even trying.”

Alexandra paused for a moment, glancing over at her work before responding. “Thanks, that’s kind of what I’m going for. I’ve always loved the way art can speak without words. But honestly, I think it’s because I’ve spent so much time studying art history. It’s become second nature to pull from what I’ve learned.”

She raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Art history, huh? I didn’t know you were so into it.”

Alexandra smiled, clearly excited to talk about it. “Yeah, I’ve always been fascinated by the way art evolves, how it reflects the times, the culture, the emotion behind it. I studied it for years, and I even work with a few galleries. It’s what fuels my passion for painting—trying to combine the techniques I’ve studied with my own style.”

She nodded thoughtfully, taking in the new information. “That’s amazing. I love how art can be such a reflection of the world around us. You’re not only capturing the scene, but the feeling behind it, the history that came before.”

Alexandra’s eyes lit up. “Exactly. It’s why I find art so powerful—it’s a language in itself, and the beauty of it is that you can interpret it however you want. I try to bring that feeling into my paintings. Sometimes I pull inspiration from the Renaissance, other times it’s more modern. It all just depends on the mood and what catches my eye.”

She smiled as she looked at the brushstrokes on Alexandra’s canvas, clearly more than just technique—it was art that spoke to a deep passion. “That’s really cool. I feel like I need to dive deeper into art history now. I can see how that would influence your work.”

Alexandra laughed softly, shaking her head. “It’s definitely a rabbit hole. But it’s the kind of rabbit hole that’s worth getting lost in.”

She dipped her brush into a pot of blue paint, adding another layer to the ocean on her canvas. “I think I’m happy just sticking with the basics for now. I’ll leave the deep dive to you, the art expert.”

Alexandra grinned, clearly enjoying the casual exchange. “Fair enough. But I’ll be here if you want to talk about Botticelli, Picasso, or any of the greats. I can talk about it all day.”

She chuckled. “Maybe one day, when I’m in the mood for a good history lesson. For now, I’ll just stick with trying to make this ocean look real.”

They both fell into a comfortable silence, the sounds of their brushes against canvas blending with the soft murmur of the yacht’s engine. The two women shared a quiet connection, the painting taking on a deeper meaning as they continued to work. Each stroke of the brush seemed to bring them closer—not just to the artwork, but to a shared understanding of the beauty they both found in creativity.

Alexandra glanced over at her bestfriends painting, Alex’s eyes softening with appreciation. “You’ve really brought that scene to life. It’s like you’re standing on the shore, feeling the breeze.”

The two of them stood side by side for a moment, looking at the work they had created in tandem—two different interpretations of the same scene, but both equally beautiful in their own way.

“Want to grab some lunch?” she asked, glancing at the time. “I think we’ve earned a break after all this painting.”

Alexandra laughed softly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “Definitely. I’m starving. And hey, I’ll leave the wine pairing to you—this painting stuff has worked up my appetite.”

She grinned, stepping away from her easel. “Deal. Let’s get something good—after all, this day deserves a perfect lunch.”

As they made their way below deck, the lighthearted banter between them continued. They were two friends sharing not just the act of painting but the shared joy of a peaceful afternoon on the water. The creative flow, the art, and the quiet connection they’d formed over their shared experience would stay with them long after the paint had dried.

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

Rebecca Donaldson

The warm rays of the sun beamed down on the soft golden sands of the beach, the gentle sound of the waves crashing against the shore filling the air. The beach was quiet, not completely empty, but the kind of peaceful place that felt like a sanctuary. It was one of those rare days where the world seemed to slow down, and the only things that mattered were the sound of the ocean and the feeling of the sand between your toes.

She and Rebecca had spent the last few hours lounging under the sun, far away from the noise of the F1 world, the music industry, and the pressure of always being in the public eye. Both women were in simple, comfortable bikinis and oversized hats, a pair of sunglasses perched on their faces to shield them from the shining star in the sky. They had a small umbrella set up for shade, but the day was still warm and pleasant, a perfect day for a break.

She was lying on her stomach with a towel spread beneath her, turning her head slightly to glance over at Rebecca. She smiled, seeing that her friend had found a comfortable spot next to her, her towel spread out perfectly as she flipped through a book. The calm, easy atmosphere between them felt like the kind of peace they both needed—a break from the chaos, a chance to just be.

Rebecca caught her gaze and smiled, tilting her sunglasses up with a lazy flick. “Tell me again why we don’t do this every weekend?”

She let out a soft laugh, pushing herself up onto her elbows to look at her. “Because real life is rude and gets in the way?”

Rebecca stretched her arms above her head, letting out a content sigh as she looked up at the endless blue sky before replying. “We should just stay here forever. Let the world figure itself out without us.”

She snorted. “Honestly, if the world needs me to function, we’re already doomed. I’ll be here, perfecting my new tan and avoiding my responsibilities.”

The two of them shared a brief moment of quiet contentment before Rebecca sat up and took a sip from her water bottle. “So, how’s everything been going for you? With work, the group, your new ablum…and everything?”

She smiled softly, her gaze drifting to the horizon. “It’s been... a lot. I’m constantly on the move, with rehearsals, shows, and everything else. But I can’t complain. It’s what I love doing. I think the hardest part, honestly, is keeping everything in balance. Sometimes it feels like I’m just going from one thing to the next.”

Rebecca nodded, fully understanding what she meant. “Yeah, I get that. It’s tough, especially with the racing schedule. I’ve been trying to find some balance myself. Honestly, these moments—just hanging out and doing nothing—are so rare. I never realized how much I missed it until today.”

She turned her head toward her friend and smiled. “I’m glad we’re able to do this. I think we both needed a break. The world doesn’t stop for us, you know?”

“I know,” Rebecca agreed, leaning back and looking out over the ocean. The peaceful silence between them lingered for a moment, both women taking in the soothing sounds of nature around them. Eventually, Rebecca broke the silence again.

“Have you thought about what comes next for you? You know, when the group’s next tour comes or when things settle down?” Rebecca asked, her voice light but curious.

She paused, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she looked out at the water. “I don’t know. I’ve been so focused on what’s right in front of me that I haven’t had much time to think about the future. But I guess that’s the thing, isn’t it? You can’t just plan everything. Sometimes you just have to let things fall into place.”

Rebecca smiled knowingly. “True. Sometimes, we try to control everything, but life has a funny way of surprising us.”

She laughed softly. “You’re right. I think it’s about finding the right balance. Between work and moments like this—just letting go for a little while and enjoying the simple things.”

“Exactly,” Rebecca said. “Sometimes, it’s the simple things that remind us who we really are, away from everything else.”

She sat up then, stretching her legs out and turning toward her friend. “I couldn’t agree more. I think that’s why I love the beach. There’s something about the vastness of the ocean that makes everything else feel small. Like all the noise just... fades away.”

Rebecca nodded in agreement. “It’s peaceful, isn’t it? The world feels so big, but in a way that’s comforting. You realize there’s a whole universe out there, and everything that happens to us is just a small part of it.”

The two of them sat there for a few minutes, watching the waves roll in and out, their conversation fading as they simply enjoyed the quiet of the moment. The world was still moving, but for just a little while, it felt like time had slowed down for them.

After a while, Rebecca stood up and stretched, glancing down at her. “Wanna go for a walk? I feel like we could use a little stroll along the water.”

She grinned, pulling herself up from the towel. “Absolutely. I need to cool off a bit, and I can never resist a walk by the sea.”

They both grabbed their beach bags, leaving their towels behind as they made their way toward the shoreline. The water was cool against their feet as they walked, the waves lapping gently against the sand. They walked in comfortable silence at first, enjoying the simple act of being together in such a serene setting.

“Do you ever think about the little things?” Rebecca asked, her voice thoughtful as she looked down at the water.

She turned to look at her, puzzled for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“Like... the small things in life that you forget to notice because you’re always caught up in the bigger picture. I’ve been trying to appreciate those little moments more. Like this walk, or just being able to sit down and talk without any interruptions.”

She smiled softly. “I know exactly what you mean. I think I’ve started realizing that the little things are actually the big things. The moments when you’re not rushing or stressing. It’s the quiet mornings or the spontaneous trips like this one. It’s all about those unplanned, simple moments.”

Rebecca smiled, her eyes softening as she looked at her friend. “I’m glad we could share this one.”

As they continued walking along the water’s edge, the conversation drifted from one topic to the next. They talked about their favorite places to travel, the kind of books they liked to read, and the small quirks that made them who they were. It was easy, effortless conversation—just two friends talking about life, their hopes, and the things they loved.

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

The yacht was alive with energy, the kind of energy that only a late afternoon in Monaco could bring. Neon lights flickered across the deck, casting vibrant hues of purple, pink, and blue onto the water as the bass of the music vibrated through the hull. It was a floating nightclub, the kind of party that felt like it belonged in a dream. The sun was setting over the Mediterranean, the sky painted with streaks of orange and pink, but the yacht's lights were already shining brightly, promising a night of unforgettable fun.

She and Rebecca stood near the edge of the deck, their feet tapping to the music as they looked out over the water. The entire atmosphere felt like a whirlwind of excitement, with guests laughing, chatting, and dancing all around them. It was one of those nights where nothing seemed out of place, and everything was just... perfect.

She was in a sparkling silver dress that stopped mid-thigh and caught the light in all the right places, leaned over the railing,with a drink in hand, watching the yachts drift past as the wind played with her hair. She felt the rhythm of the party seep into her veins, and for a moment, she let herself truly embrace the energy of it all.

Rebecca, beside her, looked equally as stunning in a black, form-fitting dress that showed off her silhouette. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, and she was already holding a glass of champagne, her smile infectious. Rebecca turned to her. "I can’t believe how crazy this is. I didn’t think it would be so crowded. I swear, Monaco knows how to throw a party," Rebecca said, raising her glass to toast the night.

She grinned, holding her own drink up. "They’ve mastered the art of having fun here. Who needs a club when you’ve got a super yacht like this?"

Rebecca laughed, her eyes lighting up. "Exactly. I think this is my new favorite way to party."

A new song came on, a catchy upbeat tune that had the entire deck vibrating with the bass. Rebecca raised an eyebrow, a mischievous grin crossing her face. "You up for a little dance?"

Her eyes sparkled with excitement. "Absolutely. I can’t let you have all the fun on your own."

The two women made their way over to the dance floor, the flashing lights above creating a kaleidoscope of colors as they moved in sync with the crowd. The DJ spun a mix of electronic beats, and the crowd responded, a mix of guests dancing freely, laughing, and enjoying the electric atmosphere. She and Rebecca found a spot near the center, where the energy was at its peak.

She was immediately pulled into the rhythm of the music, her body instinctively moving to the beat. Dancing was second nature to her—it was what she did for a living. Years of training had given her a level of control and precision on the dance floor that made it look effortless. As soon as she stepped onto the dance floor, she was in her element.

Rebecca, clearly enjoying the infectious energy around her, raised an eyebrow and laughed. “Alright, I know you can dance, but can you still make this look fun, or is your alter ego gonna come out?”

She grinned mischievously, a playful glint in her eyes. “Watch and learn,” she teased, before letting the music take over.She moved with a fluidity that was mesmerizing, her movements sharp yet graceful, effortlessly syncing with the beat of the song with pure confidence.

Rebecca, who was initially just watching, couldn’t help but laugh and join in, her body following the beat in a more carefree, loose style. As the tempo of the song picked up, her movements grew more intense, and Rebecca followed her lead, their steps flowing together as they danced side by side. Their energy was completely contagious, making the entire group around them feel like they were in sync.

“Okay, you’re definitely showing me up here. How do you make it look this easy?” Rebecca called over the music.

She grinned, her body still moving in time with the music. “It’s all about feeling it,” she said, her voice carrying easily over the beat. “You can’t overthink it. Just let the music take over and have fun.”

Rebecca, with her unrefined but enthusiastic moves, gave her a playful glance. “I think I’ll stick to ‘having fun’ for now,” she said with a laugh

She shot her a grin, never missing a beat. “You’ve got some moves too, Rebecca. Don’t sell yourself short!”

As the music shifted to something slower, they slowly backed away from the dance floor, their laughter mingling with the softer beats. It was one of those perfect moments—no expectations, just dancing and enjoying the night with a friend.

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

Lily Muni He

The early morning mist hung softly over the lush green of the golf course, the rising sun beginning to burn off the haze. The air was crisp, the grass dewy beneath their feet as the world around them slowly came to life. The sound of birds chirping in the distance blended with the soft hum of nature, creating the perfect backdrop for a day of quiet reflection and friendly competition.

She stood at the first tee, gripping her club with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. She was dressed in a simple but stylish outfit, a light polo shirt, comfortable shorts, and a pair of sleek golf shoes. Beside her, Lily Muni He, stood with a relaxed, confident smile on her face. She was dressed in a similar fashion, her posture poised and effortless, completely at home on the course.

Lily had invited her to join her for a round of golf. She had never really played before, and although she was always up for trying new things, she couldn’t help but feel a bit out of her element. She had seen how graceful and composed Lily was when it came to golf—after all, Lily had made a name for herself on professional circuits. But Lily had reassured her that today was just about having fun, no competition, no expectations.

“Ready?” Lily asked, her voice light and teasing, her eyes twinkling as she saw her adjusting her grip on the club.

She chuckled softly, giving the club one last practice swing. “I think so, but honestly, I have no idea what I’m doing. You’re going to have to teach me along the way.”

Lily laughed, her expression warm and encouraging. “Don’t worry. We’re just here to enjoy the day. I’ll walk you through it—no stress.”

She took a deep breath and nodded, standing a little straighter. She watched as Lily effortlessly lined up her shot, the swing smooth and fluid. The ball soared across the green, landing perfectly in the fairway. It was the kind of shot that made it look easy, as if Lily had done this a thousand times before—which, of course, she had.

“That was incredible,” she said, watching the ball roll to a stop. “I don’t think I’ll ever look that graceful.”

Lily grinned, giving a playful shrug. “It just takes practice. And probably a lot of patience. Don’t worry, we’ll get you there.”

She picked up her own club, giving the ball a tentative tap. It rolled a short distance, landing just a few feet from the tee. She winced slightly but couldn’t help but laugh at herself. “Well, I’ve got a long way to go.”

“Not at all,” Lily said, walking over to her. “You’ve got the basics down already. It’s all about timing, and that’s the fun part. Once you get the hang of it, it’ll feel natural.”

The two of them walked down the fairway together, the sound of their footsteps blending with the quiet of the early morning. They continued talking as they went, sharing stories about their lives outside of the spotlight. Lily asked about her music, her time with BLACKPINK, and what it was like being part of such a massive group.

“I think it must be so crazy,” Lily said as they reached their balls, “just the way your life is always in motion. Constant tours, rehearsals, events. Do you ever get to just... stop?”

She smiled wistfully, a slight tension in her shoulders easing as she talked with someone who genuinely understood. “It’s a whirlwind, for sure. But I think that’s part of the reason I love days like this—days when it’s just about being present and in the moment. No schedules, no deadlines. It’s like a breath of fresh air.” She paused for a moment, a soft smile forming on her lips. “Lando gets it too. He’s always the first to suggest we take time off, just to enjoy the little things together. It’s nice to have someone who understands the need for a break.”

Lily nodded, adjusting her stance before hitting her next shot. “I get that. Alex is the same way. Even with everything going on in the racing world, we both understand the value of those moments together—whether it’s playing golf or just taking time to breathe.” She paused, a thoughtful look crossing her face. “Same with golf. It’s the one place I can be totally in control of the moment. But it’s also a way to unwind. A way to reset. I think that’s what keeps me grounded.”

Her eyes softened as she watched Lily’s form. “I can see that. There’s something so peaceful about golf. It’s not like other sports, where it’s all about speed or power. It’s a game of patience, precision. I think I’m going to enjoy this more than I thought.”

Lily smiled, clearly happy to hear that. “I’m glad. It’s always nice to share something I love with someone who’s open to it.”

They continued playing, the conversation drifting naturally between them. The course, with its sprawling greens and calming environment, was the perfect place for them to connect. They shared more about their lives, their goals, and their interests. It wasn’t about fame or attention; it was just two women enjoying each other’s company, and the simplicity of that made the day feel even more special.

By the time they reached the final hole, the afternoon had stretched out into a comfortable rhythm. Her confidence had grown with each swing, and although her shots weren’t perfect, she was having fun. Lily had been patient, offering tips and encouragement, but never pushing too hard. It wasn’t about winning or losing—it was about enjoying the experience.

As they walked to the 18th green, the sun now beginning to set, casting a warm, golden hue over the course, she looked over at Lily with a relaxed smile.

“You know, I can’t believe how much fun I’ve had today. I was nervous at first, but you made it feel so easy,” she said, swinging her club back and forth absentmindedly.

Lily smiled back, her expression soft. “That’s the point, isn’t it? It’s not about being perfect—it’s about enjoying the game. We’re just here for the moment, to be present, and it doesn’t matter what happens next.”

They stood side by side, looking over the final hole, the vast expanse of green stretching out before them. For a moment, everything felt still and serene, as if the world had paused just for them.

“Ready for the final swing?” Lily asked, her tone light but filled with anticipation.

She nodded, a grin spreading across her face. “Let’s do it.”

Lily stepped back, giving her space, watching as she lined up her shot. Her grip was firm, her stance more confident than when she had first started. She swung the club, the motion fluid, and the ball shot forward with a satisfying thwack.

It wasn’t a perfect shot, but it didn’t matter. It landed neatly on the green, a few feet from the hole. She stood there for a moment, staring at it in mild surprise.

“Well, I’ll call that a win,” she laughed, her shoulders relaxing as she glanced over at Lily.

Lily smiled, her eyes warm. “That’s what I’m talking about. You’ve got it. You just needed the right swing, and the right mindset.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You make it sound so easy. I think I need to play more often if I want to be that good.”

Lily raised an eyebrow, teasing, “Maybe I should make you my official golf student. I’ll train you up for next time.”

She shot her a playful grin. “Deal. But only if you promise to keep it fun and not turn it into a serious sport.”

They both laughed, the sound of their voices blending with the peaceful hum of the world around them. As they made their way to the final hole, ready to wrap up the game, there was a sense of satisfaction in the air. Not focusing on anything other than the simplicity of the game and the enjoyment of each other’s company.

After they finished their round, they took their time walking back to the clubhouse, chatting about everything from their favorite travel destinations to their future plans. The sun was dipping lower on the horizon, the day slipping into evening, but neither of them seemed to mind. There was something about the day that felt timeless.

“Well,” she said, as they sat down at the outdoor seating area, “I think I’m officially hooked. Golf isn’t so bad after all.”

Lily chuckled, taking a sip of her water. “I’m glad. I knew you’d like it once you gave it a shot.”

She leaned back in her chair, her eyes soft with contentment. “Thank you for today.”

Lily smiled, her tone warm and genuine. “Anytime. Today was perfect.”

The two women sat there for a while longer, watching the sun slowly sink beneath the horizon, feeling at peace in each other’s company. It had been a day of simple pleasures—golf, good conversation, and the kind of friendship that didn’t need anything else.

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

The afternoon in Monaco was lazy and warm, the kind of day where the sun hung comfortably in the sky, casting a golden hue over the bustling city. The air was thick with the scent of the sea, and the sounds of distant chatter and the soft hum of the city blended with the rhythmic lapping of waves against the harbor.

She and Lily had decided to take the day off from their usual routines, lipping away from the ever-present demands of their careers and the spotlight that often followed the pair.

The café was small and charming, tucked away on a quiet street just a few blocks from the marina. The soft hum of conversations blended with the clink of coffee cups and plates, creating an atmosphere that felt comforting and peaceful. The space was intimate, with plants spilling over the edges of the outdoor seating, their vibrant green leaves adding a touch of life to the already welcoming space.

She sat across from Lily at one of the outdoor tables, the light breeze gently tousling her hair. She wore one of Lando’s white button-ups, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, paired with denim shorts and sneakers. Her sunglasses rested on top of her head, giving her that effortlessly chic vibe that came with living in Monaco. Lily, in a relaxed black dress and a pair of sleek sandles, looked just as at ease, her posture casual, her smile wide and easy.

“I think I’ve found my new favorite spot,” she said, taking a sip of her iced coffee. The drink was refreshing and smooth, the perfect companion to the warm afternoon. She leaned back in her chair, her eyes softening as she took in the sights of the café, the life of Monaco surrounding them.

Lily grinned. “I knew you’d love it. It’s one of my favorite spots to grab coffee when I just want to chill.”

She smiled, taking a sip from her cup. “It really is perfect. I mean, it’s not too crowded, but there’s just enough going on to keep it interesting.”

Lily nodded, her gaze drifting to the street outside. “Yeah, I love people-watching here. It’s the best part of this place—seeing all kinds of people just doing their thing.”

She laughed softly, leaning back in her chair. “I swear, I could spend hours doing that. Some people walk by with such confidence, and others look like they’re on a mission. It’s like a live show.”

Lily raised an eyebrow. “Oh, totally. You can definitely tell who’s in a rush and who’s just enjoying the moment. It's like an unscripted reality show, just without the cameras.” They both laughed together, the sound blending with the quiet hum of the café. After a moment, Lily casually asked, “What’s the most random thing you’ve seen today?”

She thought for a second, then grinned. “There was this guy walking his dog, and the dog was wearing sunglasses. Like, full-on aviators. I had to stop myself from laughing out loud.”

Lily burst out laughing. “No way! That’s awesome. I think we should get Leo a pair of sunglasses, see if he can pull it off.”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Definitely. He’s probably strut around like he’s the star of a runway show.”

Lily leaned back in her chair, shaking her head with a smile. “I can already picture it—the dog will be the new fashion icon in Monaco.”

They both fell into an easy silence for a moment, enjoying the simple joy of good company and a relaxing afternoon. The buzz of the café and the occasional clink of cups blended into the background as they watched the world go by, both feeling content in the shared peace of the moment.

Lily’s eyes twinkled as she leaned forward. “So, when you need to clear your head, what do you do? You’ve got such a busy life. I imagine it must be hard to find peace with everything going on.”

She thought for a moment, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her coffee cup. “I think it’s simple things that help me clear my head. I love being by the water. Me and Alexandra hung out on the beach last week. There’s something about the ocean that just helps me reset. Lando and I also take walks by the water sometimes when we’re bored. It’s just so calming.”

Lily smiled knowingly. “That’s cute. Books are my little escape. I’ve been trying to read more lately, but I find that sometimes I get so wrapped up in everything that I forget to just... breathe.” She paused for a moment, looking out at the street as if considering her words. “Alex and I read together, more like I read to him” she murmured, “but we don’t always get that kind of time. But when we do, it’s the best.”

The two of them sat in comfortable silence for a while, the gentle breeze of the afternoon brushing through their hair, the sounds of the city around them feeling like background noise. It was one of those rare moments where time seemed to stretch, and the weight of the world seemed lighter. Just two friends, enjoying the simplicity of the moment.

“So,” Lily said, breaking the silence with a playful smile, “I’ve gotta know—what’s been the best part about your Monaco life so far? I mean, I know it’s glamorous, but what’s something you really love about it?”

She thought for a moment, her eyes lighting up. “Honestly, the quiet mornings. When I get up early enough, and it’s calm outside, I can just step out, take a walk, grab a coffee, and walk around peacefully. Lando and I take advantage of it sometimes, just walking around early in the morning, with no one bothering us.”

Lily smiled, clearly enjoying the thought of the simple pleasures she had found in her new home. “That sounds perfect.”

She nodded, her expression softening as she thought about how much those small, serene moments meant to her. “Yeah, it is.”

The conversation drifted to different topics, like their relationships, how they both navigated the challenges of being with partners in the public eye. They laughed, exchanged stories of funny misunderstandings, and supported each other with insights from their own experiences.

As the afternoon turned into evening, the sun began to set, casting a warm, golden light over the café. The atmosphere shifted from the bright, bustling energy of the day to the quieter, more intimate feeling of dusk settling in. The two women continued, now with their cups empty. They shared everything they could in that peaceful moment, fully present and without the weight of expectations.

Lily picked up her purse, standing slowly as the evening air began to cool. “Let’s make a habit of it, shall we? Just... us.”

She stood as well, nodding. “Definitely. Next time, I’ll treat you to something.”

Lily laughed, her eyes sparkling. “Deal. I love you.”

Her eyes softed “i love you too”

They both shared a laugh, the sound of their voices mingling with the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. As they walked toward the exit of the café, the day slowly winding down, there was a feeling of contentment that lingered between them, like a promise that no matter what came next, moments like this would always be worth cherishing

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

Lily Zneimer

The pottery studio was tucked away on a quiet street in Monaco, hidden behind ivy-covered walls and rustic wooden doors. Inside, the atmosphere was cozy and warm, with natural light streaming through large windows, illuminating the pottery wheels, worktables, and shelves lined with completed ceramics. Soft instrumental music played in the background, creating a peaceful ambiance.

She and Lily had decided to spend the day together, eager to try something new and creative. Both had expressed an interest in pottery, though neither was particularly experienced. Still, the excitement of trying their hand at something artistic and tactile was enough to get them both smiling brightly as they tied on their aprons.

She adjusted her sleeves, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Have you ever tried pottery before?” she asked Lily, glancing curiously around the studio.

Lily shook her head, laughing softly as she pulled her blonde hair back into a loose ponytail. “Not really. I took an art class once, but pottery wasn’t included. Honestly, I just thought it looked relaxing.”

She nodded in agreement, running her fingers lightly over a lump of clay resting in front of her. “Same. It always seemed like one of those things you watch and think ‘Oh, that looks easy,’ but I have a feeling it’s going to be harder than it looks.”

Lily chuckled, eyes bright with amusement. “Definitely. At least it’ll be fun, even if we make a complete mess.”

They took their places at the pottery wheels, each carefully following the instructor’s brief demonstration. The wheel hummed gently beneath their hands as they began to shape their clay, spinning slowly at first, and then gaining momentum. She watched carefully, her expression a mixture of concentration and curiosity.

“I think the key is to stay relaxed,” she murmured, her voice filled with gentle encouragement.

Lily glanced over, smiling. “You say that like you’ve done this before.”

She laughed, shaking her head as her fingers carefully pressed into the clay, shaping it into a rough bowl. “Just pretending to sound confident. Fake it till you make it, right?”

Lily grinned, returning her focus to her own spinning clay. Her hands moved gently, trying to mimic the motions they’d been shown, slowly coaxing the clay upward. “Honestly, as long as it doesn’t collapse, I’ll consider it a success.”

The two of them fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional humming of the wheels and their quiet laughter when things didn’t quite go according to plan. Her clay wobbled slightly, causing her to make a soft sound of surprise, while Lily’s bowl began to take on an unintended shape.

“Uh-oh, I think mine is leaning,” Lily said, giggling softly as she tried to steady it. The clay began to sway precariously, threatening to topple.

She glanced over, laughing sympathetically. “It kind of looks artistic, though. Like it’s meant to lean.”

Lily chuckled, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of clay across her forehead. “I’ll just pretend it’s a modern design. Maybe it’ll become a trend.”

She smiled warmly. “Exactly. Who needs symmetry, anyway?”

The instructor passed by, offering them gentle tips on their technique and helping them adjust their posture and grip. They both listened carefully, eager to learn but also enjoying the playful atmosphere of trying something new together.

Once their initial pieces were complete, the instructor handed them some additional clay, suggesting they try creating mugs next. Her eyes lit up at the idea, quickly forming a new lump of clay into shape.

“I think a mug is more my speed,” she joked lightly.

Lily laughed softly, beginning to shape her clay as well. “True. If it’s slightly wonky, we can just say it has personality.”

She nodded, grinning broadly as she carefully molded the handle of her mug. “Exactly! Mine definitely has a lot of personality.”

As they worked, their conversation drifted to casual topics—favorite movies, books, funny travel stories, and hobbies. Lily shared humorous anecdotes about Oscar’s cooking attempts, and she recounted hilarious backstage stories from her performances with BLACKPINK. Their laughter echoed softly through the studio, the easy, carefree nature of their conversation blending seamlessly with the quiet hum of the pottery wheels.

“I’m definitely dragging Oscar here sometime,” Lily said with a grin. “I think it would be hilarious seeing him try pottery.”

She laughed, nodding enthusiastically. “Oh, I’ll bring Lando. He’ll either take it way too seriously or turn it into some sort of silly competition. There’s literally no middle ground with him.”

Lily chuckled, picturing it. “Honestly, if we brought them both here they’d probably turn it into a race to see who could make a mug the fastest.”

She shook her head fondly, her hands gently smoothing the edges of her mug. “Absolutely. But at least we’d get a good laugh out of it.”

The afternoon continued in this relaxed rhythm, with both women engrossed in their pottery creations. Occasionally, their mugs or bowls would collapse or warp unexpectedly, prompting fits of laughter and amused shrugs before they began again.

Eventually, with their finished pieces set aside to dry, they cleaned their hands at a nearby basin, rinsing off the clay residue while exchanging playful banter.

She glanced over at their creations, smiling warmly. “Honestly, not bad for our first try.”

Lily nodded, her eyes bright. “Not bad at all. They have character. I kind of love that about them.”

She laughed softly. “Me too. I think we can officially call ourselves amateur potters now.”

Lily grinned widely. “Absolutely. We should definitely do this again. It’s surprisingly therapeutic.”

She agreed, drying her hands as they stepped outside into the warm afternoon sunlight. “Next time, though, I might aim for a vase or something more ambitious.”

Lily chuckled playfully. “Oh, bold move. I’ll stick to mugs and bowls a bit longer, I think.”

She smiled, linking arms with Lily as they walked leisurely down the quiet street. “Either way, this was exactly what I hoped it would be. Just a relaxing afternoon making art with a friend.”

Lily squeezed her arm lightly, smiling warmly. “Couldn’t agree more. And who knows—maybe one day our slightly crooked mugs will become collector’s items.”

They both laughed, the sound floating gently into the warm Monaco air, their spirits high and carefree. The day had been simple, creative, and filled with laughter—a perfect memory they would cherish for a long time.

Bonus Scene w/ Lando:

She walked into the apartment, her energy light and relaxed after spending the afternoon at the pottery studio with Lily. She had a small box in her hands, carefully cradling it as she moved through the door. Lando was on the couch, his usual goofy grin plastered across his face as he looked up from his phone.

“Hey, I’m home!” she called out, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Lando looked up, his eyes brightening when he saw her. “Welcome back! How was it? Did you make a masterpiece?”

She grinned, walking over to the coffee table and setting the box down carefully. “I wouldn’t call it a masterpiece,” she said, her voice playful. “But it’s definitely... unique.”

Lando raised an eyebrow, leaning forward with a curious look on his face. “Unique, huh? I’m intrigued. Do I get to see it?”

She chuckled, opening the box to reveal her creation. Inside was a slightly lopsided mug, the handle a little crooked, but with a simple charm that made it endearing. The glaze on the surface was a soft, calming blue, with small streaks of white that almost looked like clouds.

Lando blinked at it for a moment, then burst out laughing, the sound warm and genuine. “That... is definitely something.” He paused, his smile softening.“I actually love it, though. It’s got character.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “It’s not perfect, but I had fun making it. I think it has personality, though. Definitely not something you’d find in a store.”

Lando picked it up gently, turning it over in his hands as he examined it with a mock-serious expression. “Yeah, you can definitely tell it was handmade. But you’re right, it’s got.. soul.”

She smiled warmly, watching him as he held the mug with such care. “Exactly. I might have messed up a few times, but it feels good to make something with my hands, you know? It’s different from anything I usually do.”

Lando set the mug back down, his smile turning playful. “Well, I think it’s perfect. Maybe you can make a whole set for us. You know, we could have custom pottery dinnerware—nothing like it on the market.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “Sure, our cupboard is gonna be filled with handcrafted mugs and bowls.”

“I’m in,” Lando said, his voice full of enthusiasm. “You’ve got the talent, maybe we can sell them. We’ll be rolling in pottery money.”

She laughed, rolling her eyes fondly at him. “I’m pretty sure there’s no such thing as ‘pottery money,’ but I like the way you think.”

Lando laughed, his arms wrapping around her. “And when you make it big, I’ll always remember the first mug you made. It’ll be worth millions one day.”

She laughed, leaning back against him, feeling the warmth of the moment. “Yeah, maybe. But for now, it’ll just be my mug—and a reminder of a pretty perfect day.”

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

The soft afternoon light streamed through the large windows of the apartment, casting a warm glow on the living room. The space was cozy and inviting, with the comforting scent of coffee and the quiet hum of a gentle playlist filling the air. It was the perfect setting for an afternoon of productive focus—and that’s exactly what her and Lily were aiming for.

Lily sat at the coffee table, her laptop open in front of her, a pile of engineering textbooks and notes scattered around her. She had been working on her homework for a few hours now, trying to understand a particularly tricky concept related to mechanical systems. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she scribbled a few equations in her notebook, pausing every so often to refer back to the textbook.

She was seated on the couch, a notebook and her laptop in front of her, working on lyrics for her upcoming album. Her pen moved smoothly across the paper as she jotted down phrases, her mind already lost in the creative process. There was a slight rhythm to her writing, the way her hand moved as she thought through each line, the music already playing in her head.

It was a quiet and comfortable scene—two friends, side by side, working on their respective projects. Though their work was different, the sense of focus and dedication in the room was palpable. Neither of them needed to say much; they were simply content in each other's presence, doing what they loved.

Lily stretched her arms above her head, letting out a small sigh. Lily looked over at her, who was completely absorbed in her songwriting. “How’s it going?” Lily asked, her voice soft but curious.

She didn’t look up right away, lost in the melody she was working on. But when she did, she smiled. “It’s coming along,” she said, her tone light but focused. “I’m working on the bridge for one of the songs. I’m trying to get the lyrics just right.”

Lily nodded, tapping a few keys on her laptop before looking up at her. “How do you do it? I mean, I know you’re in a group, but it’s impressive how you just sit down and write a song. I’ve never really understood that creative process.”

She chuckled, glancing over at her. “I think it’s like engineering in a way,” she said, her eyes brightening with the comparison. “You break it down into smaller parts. For me, it starts with a feeling or an idea, and then I build from there. It’s like constructing something, but with words and music instead of metal or wires.”

Lily smiled, leaning back on the couch, appreciating the thought. “That makes sense. I guess I approach my homework in a similar way. I break things down into steps, but it never feels as... fun as what you’re doing.” She glanced at the equations on her screen, her brow furrowing again. “This is the part of engineering that really makes me think I’m not cut out for it.”

She tilted her head, giving Lily a sympathetic smile. “I get it. Sometimes, I feel the same way with music. But the key is to remember that you don’t have to get it all at once. It’s okay to take it slow and give yourself time to figure it out.”

Lily gave her a small smile, feeling the warmth of the encouragement. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s just... I don’t know, sometimes it feels like I should already understand it all.”

She shook her head. “I think that’s the hardest part. We all think we should have it figured out, but nobody really does. It’s about trusting the process. You’ll get there.”

Lily nodded, the words sinking in. “I’ll try to remember that.”

She returned to her lyrics, her pen moving fluidly across the page, while Lily went back to her engineering problem, her eyes scanning the text. They sat in a comfortable silence for a while, the only sound was the occasional tapping of keys and the soft hum of her instrumental tracks.

After a few minutes, Lily let out a soft groan, leaning back in her chair, her hand rubbing her eyes. “Okay, I’m going to take a break. This part has me stuck.”

She glanced up from her notebook, noticing the frustration in Lily’s expression. “Need help?” she asked, her voice gentle but encouraging.

Lily hesitated for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t think I’ll be able to explain it well enough for you to help. It’s just... one of those moments where nothing’s clicking.”

She smiled knowingly, setting her pen down. “I understand, sometimes I feel the same way with songwriting. It’s like everything’s on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t quite find the right words.”

Lily smiled back, grateful for the understanding. “Ha, literally.”

She leaned back on the couch, thinking for a moment. “Well, if you’re taking a break, I’ll take one too. Want to brainstorm ideas for the song? Sometimes, talking it out helps.”

Lily raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Brainstorm ideas? You mean, like... writing a song together?”

She grinned, her eyes twinkling. “Why not? Maybe you’ll have a breakthrough just from changing things up a bit. Plus, I’ve always thought it would be fun to write a song with someone who isn’t in the music industry. Fresh perspective, you know?”

Lily laughed, clearly surprised but entertained by the idea. “Okay, this is definitely a first for me. But sure, I’m up for it. How do we start?”

She moved her laptop closer to them and played the instrumental. “This is the beat I have for the song. We can add some lyrics. Don’t worry about it being perfect. Just say whatever comes to your mind.”

Lily, feeling slightly unsure, smiled and shrugged. “Alright, let’s see what happens.”

As she pushed play, letting the melody play out, Lily tapped her fingers against the table, lost in thought for a moment. Then, slowly, she started humming along with the tune, her voice blending into the music. It wasn’t polished, but it was real. They laughed as they tossed around silly lines, half-formed ideas that made no sense at first but slowly started to take shape.

Her fingers moved to pause the music for a moment as she looked over at Lily. “Okay, what if we went for something catchy? Like... "Look at the floor or ceiling,’ or “I know what you are, trying so hard,’ you know, like something that, like possessive in a way.”

Lily grinned, clearly getting into the flow. “I like that. How about after “Look at the floor or ceiling”...uh..you could do ‘or anyone else you’re feeling’?”

She laughed, enjoying the playful nature of their collaboration. “I love that!” she wrote words down in her notebooks. She murmured the song trying to find rhymes “After ‘or anyone else you’re feeling’ then we can do ‘Take home whoever walks in, just keep your eyes off him” she continued.

Lily thought for a second “yes that fit so well” she agreed. Then began humming the fresh lyrics, filling in the gaps as they worked together. The song came together piece by piece, their ideas melding into something neither of them had expected but both found surprisingly fun and rewarding.

After an hour of singing, laughing, and jotting down lines, the song started to take shape. They didn’t finish it, but the foundation was there—an upbeat, assertive anthem about living in the moment, dancing through life, and creating memories.

Lily looked up at her, her expression light and happy. “I can’t believe we actually wrote something together. This was fun.”

She grinned, setting her guitar down. “See? Told you it would help. And who knows—maybe we’ll finish it later. I’ll credit you for the help.”

Lily laughed. “Really!? Who knew I’d be a songwriter?”

She chuckled, her eyes warm. “You helped a lot lilypad, we have 3/4 of the song finished and glad you were able to have fun. We've came up with some fun lyrics and a good time out of it.”

Lily nodded, the weight of her homework temporarily forgotten as Lily smiled at her. “Exactly. Maybe I’ll take this energy and try tackling that engineering problem again.”

She winked. “Good luck with that. I’ll be here if you need another songwriting session.”

Lily gave a playful roll of her eyes. “Deal. Next time, we’ll tackle both the song and the homework.”

As the afternoon wore on, the room remained filled with the soft hum of conversation and the occasional laughter. The stress of schoolwork and the pressures of life seemed so far away. In that moment, it was about friendship, creativity, and simply enjoying the flow of a spontaneous, fun-filled afternoon.

*ੈ✩‧ ₊ ˚༺☆༻ ˚ ₊ ‧✩*ੈ

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Helloo again. Quick question for my lovely readers children, for a later story in this AU

What songs would/should be on your/her album? And what should the album be named?

Here’s the songs i got (most are based off the lyrics of the song):

Miss Possessive - Tate McRae (with special MV appearance and a definitely)

Whiplash - Aespa

Sports Car - Tate McRae (with special MV appearance)

ABCD - Nayeon

2 Hands - Tate McRae (with special MV appearance)

Love Hangover - Jennie (with special MV appearance)

Fill the Void - Lily Rose Depp w/ The Weekend

Mantra - Jennie (with special MV appearance)

ExtraL - Jennie w/ Doechii

Number one girl - Rosé

And maybe armageddon - Aespa, Igloo - Kiss of Life, 1-800-hot-n-fun - lesserafim

It’s not official yet so i wanted to hear y’all thoughts and recommendations on what songs should be on this fake album lol.

AGAIN THANK YOU FOR THE SUPPORT, THE FOLLOWS (WE AT 270!!) , THE LIKES, AND COMMENTS. THEY ARE GREATLY APPRECIATED. I READ THEM ALL AND THEY KEEP ME MOTIVATED. MUCHHH LOVEEE 💕💕

(UPDATED) Taglist: @verogonewild @freyathehuntress @yawn-zi @mochimommy2002 @bearyfast @h-rtsnana @chaoswithus

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