#not just different from what we are doing right now. but different from what we have been doing for the past centuries

[firewasabeast]

I wanted to write a little something with Chimney, Hen, and Tommy. Also decided to make it a fix-it fic. Enjoy!

Chimney clapped his hands together. “Look at us,” he said, smiling over to Tommy, then back at Hen. “The original gang, back together.”

“The original gang?” Hen questioned, her voice staticky through the mic.

“Yeah! Me, you, Tommy, all on a mission to save the world… or LA, at least.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow and shrugged, otherwise staying quiet.

“Wouldn’t ‘original’ indicate I was there from the beginning?" Hen asked. "I’m not part of your original gang, Chim.”

“Yeah, and technically neither of you are part of mine,” Tommy added.

“Okay, party poopers,” Chimney huffed. “I’m talking about my original gang that I started hanging out with first.”

“Hm,” Tommy hummed. “Wouldn’t that have been Eli?”

Chimney glared. “You know what, I’m not talking to either of you the rest of the time we’re up here.”

Hen rolled her eyes, but reached up to give him a pat on the shoulder. “We’re just messing with you, Chim. We get it.”

“Yeah,” Tommy agreed. “The 118 was a very different type of gang until you guys came around anyway.”

Chimney perked back up at that. “See! Like I said, the gang is back together.”

“Trying to prevent terrorists from blowing up half the city,” Hen reminded him.

“And trying not to make ourselves targets in the process,” Tommy added.

“Once again, party poo-”

“So,” Hen interrupted, “Tommy. How’s life been lately?”

“Fine,” Tommy replied, immediately suspicious.

Chimney pulled a fresh piece of gum from his pocket and popped it into his mouth. “We heard about your little tryst with our lover boy Buckley."

Tommy sighed. “Oh good. I was hoping my private life would be a topic of discussion for you all.”

“Hey, I can’t help it if I’m married to the guy’s sister.”

“Yeah,” Hen said, “and I can’t help it if I sit in an ambulance with a guy who can’t keep a secret to save his life.”

“Ignoring that.” Chimney looked over at Tommy. “What’s going on there?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay." Chimney cleared his throat. “I’ll ask again, and we’ll try the truth this time,” he said, just like he was talking to Jee. “What’s going on there?”

Oh, how Tommy wished they weren’t still ten minutes out from their location. He could use a nice bomb threat as a distraction right now. “Nothing,” he repeated. “There’s nothing going on. I- I thought… it doesn’t matter. There’s nothing.”

“And you’re good with that?” Hen asked.

“I have to be,” Tommy replied honestly. “Evan… Buck made it clear that he didn’t have feelings for me. It was just a one night thing.”

Chimney and Hen shared a look.

“Wait a minute,” Chimney said. “Buck told you he didn’t have feelings for you? Firefighter Evan Buckley of the 118?”

“Yes, Howie. Can we drop it now, please?”

“Absolutely not. We’ve suffered through months of this man moping over you being gone, and you’re going to tell me that he said he didn’t have feelings for you?”

If only helicopters came with parachutes.

“I don’t know anything about that,” Tommy said, his grip a bit tighter on the pitch stick.

“You don’t-” Chimney let out an exasperated sigh. “Have you tried buying flour lately? Sugar? Sticks of butter?”

“Howie, what the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m pretty sure Buck created a shortage with how much he’s been baking.”

“He’s not wrong,” Hen cut in. “Probably spent half a damn paycheck on eggs alone.”

“I still don’t know what either of you are talking about. Can I fly this bird without distractions, please?”

Chimney waved him off. “You’re doing just fine with the distractions. What we’re talking about is the fact that Buck is, for some reason, lying like an insane person!”

“Yeah, you’ve been the topic of most of his conversations since the breakup,” Hen said. “There was a brief window where he was upset about Eddie leaving, but then it was back to you.”

“Every time he thought about calling or texting you, he’d whip up some new recipe,” Chimney explained. “Most of them weren’t any good. I get triggered by the smell of bananas now.”

“The cinnamon swirl muffins were delicious though,” Hen reminded him.

“Oh, yeah, those were a hit.” He shook his head. “But that’s not the point. The point is, Buck is an idiot, and if he’s telling you he has no feelings for you, then he’s lying.”

“Or you misunderstood,” Hen added.

“Guys, this is…” Tommy sighed. “This is a lot of information to take in right now. Why don’t we focus-”

“It’s not like we were much help though,” Hen continued. “We did all kind of keep telling him not to call.”

“But that’s because we thought Tommy dumped him.”

“Tommy did dump him.”

“Tommy is right here,” Tommy reminded them.

Chimney crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you not have feelings for him?”

“What?!” Tommy exclaimed. “I never said that.”

“Well?”

“Ugh! O- Of course I have feelings for him. I wouldn’t have gone home with him that night if I didn’t still have feelings for him. I wanted to get back together.”

“He said no?” Hen asked.

“So you guys got the whole rundown on us hooking up, but the rest of the stuff gets left out?”

“I don’t get it, Hen,” Chimney said, turning to face her. “They both care about each other, both want to be together, but they’re both too stubborn and stupid to talk it out.”

“Hey!”

“It’s like a bad movie,” Hen muttered.

Somehow, they were still three minutes out from their location, and Tommy felt like he was going to go insane. “Listen,” he said. “Evan is… I’ve never had someone like him in my life. He’s funny, and smart, and hot, and he cares about people, and he’s just a genuinely good person. That- That’s why it wouldn’t work. He’s too good for me. He deserves better.”

Chimney stared at him, mouth hanging open with a confused expression on his face.

“Oh my God,” Hen said, shaking her head. “Chimney’s right. You’re both stupid.”

“Guys,” Bobby’s voice suddenly echoed over the line. “Did you all forget you’re on an open channel right now?”

A beat of silence, the group glanced at one another, then Tommy responded. “So, everyone could…?”

“Could hear this riveting conversation? Yes.”

Chimney sucked in a breath. “And everyone includes?”

“Well, the entire LAFD, LAPD, then you’ve got the FBI, NSA, and DHS.”

Another, unrecognized voice came over the radio. “The U.S. Coast Guard is here as well.”

“Oh yeah, and the Coast Guard.”

“And me.”

Buck’s voice caught Tommy off guard, and the chopper dropped a few feet before Tommy quickly regained control. He ignored the yelps from Howie and Hen.

“E- Evan, I-”

“They’re right, Tommy,” Buck began, getting right to the point. “Listen, I- I was angry that morning, and I said some things that I didn’t mean, but I- I wasn’t talking about you. You left before I could explain and I’m not… I don’t even know if I could have explained it right then, but, it’s not true that I don’t have feelings for you. I feel everything for you. You… Tommy, i- it scares me just how much you mean to me.”

Tommy didn’t know what to say, so he stayed quiet until both Hen and Chim reached over and smacked him on the arm.

“E- Evan," he stuttered, "I- I really wish we weren’t having this conversation with hundreds of government officials listening in. Do you think my fake mouth static could get me out of this?”

Buck laughed. “I told you, Tommy, it’s not that great.”

Tommy grinned. “When I’m done here, and our shifts are over, I’d… Evan, I’d really like to talk to you in person.”

“What are you doing Saturday?” Buck asked in response. “You free?”

Tommy took in a shaky breath. “I’m free.”

“Then be safe, Tommy, and come back to me.”

Tommy nodded, blinking away tears. “Copy that.”

[dior-luxury]

You Call Them A Different Name To Get Their Reaction

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . drama - she/her .

- [𝐜𝐡.] azul . chen'ya . cater . rollo . floyd

- [𝐩:𝐬] nothing really just guys being jelly

Note: This is a very random line-up Lol, I'm also working on requests right now! but enjoy guys!

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul prided himself on maintaining composure, on being calm and collected in any situation. But the moment your lips uttered another name—someone else’s name—his entire world seemed to freeze.

He had been in the middle of discussing business with you at the lounge when it happened. You were laughing about something when, instead of calling him Azul, another name slipped out.

The conversation came to a standstill. Azul’s fingers tightened slightly around the glass in his hand, but his expression remained carefully neutral. Too neutral.

"...I beg your pardon?" His voice was smooth, but there was a dangerous edge to it, like a blade concealed beneath silk.

You immediately realized your mistake and scrambled to correct yourself. "I—I didn’t mean to—"

Azul’s eyes darkened, and he let out a soft chuckle, adjusting his glasses as if regaining his composure. "Ah, I see. A slip of the tongue, is it?" His tone was polite, but you could tell he was troubled by it.

He leaned forward, resting his chin on his intertwined fingers. "You wouldn’t happen to have someone else on your mind, would you?" His voice was light, teasing even, but the way he studied you—analyzing your every move—told you he was far from amused.

It would take reassurance, perhaps a bit of flattery, to mend his bruised pride. But one thing was certain—Azul would not forget this incident anytime soon.

Chen’ya

Chen’ya was used to teasing and playful banter, but he certainly hadn’t expected this.

You had been chatting absentmindedly when you called him by a completely different name. The moment the wrong name left your lips, the mischievous grin on his face widened.

"Oho~? What was that?" His ears perked up, and he leaned in, floating effortlessly beside you. "Did I just hear you call me someone else?"

You felt heat rush to your cheeks. "I didn’t mean to—!"

"But you did~," he sing-songed, lazily looping around you like a cat stalking its prey. "How scandalous! How cruel!" He dramatically clutched his chest as if he had been mortally wounded.

You groaned. "Chen’ya, please—"

"Ah-ah~! What if I just started calling you by another name, hm?" His grin widened even further, fangs peeking through. "Wouldn’t want that, would we?"

Despite his teasing, there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. He wasn’t angry, just… intrigued. Amused. Maybe even a little too entertained.

"You do know I’m the most charming one around, right?" he purred, poking your cheek. "No one else could compare, so I’ll forgive you—just this once~!"

Cater Diamond

Cater’s usual easygoing demeanor faltered the moment you called him the wrong name.

You were in the middle of scrolling through Magicam together when the slip happened. At first, you didn’t even realize what you’d done—until you noticed that Cater had completely frozen.

His smile was still there, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Heh… wait a sec." He turned to you, his head tilting slightly. "Did you just call me someone else’s name?"

Your stomach dropped. "Cater, I—"

"Yikes!" He let out an exaggerated laugh, but there was something unsettling about the way he kept smiling. "Like, what gives? I thought I was your fave~?"

You could tell he was trying to play it off, but beneath that carefree tone, there was something else—something deeper.

"Who were you thinking about, exactly?" His voice was light, but his fingers tapped restlessly against his phone.

If you reassured him, he’d eventually brush it off with a laugh, but later, you’d notice a flood of new selfies and posts with captions like "Cater Diamond, unforgettable as always~! #NoOneBetter #Right?"

You were definitely going to have to make it up to him.

Rollo Flamme

Rollo’s reaction was immediate.

The moment you called him the wrong name, his entire body tensed. His hands, which had been delicately adjusting the pages of a book, clenched into fists. His usually composed expression darkened as his lips pressed into a thin line.

"...I beg your pardon?" His voice was eerily quiet, and you could practically feel the shift in the air around him.

You gulped. "I didn’t mean to say that—"

"Who is it?" His gaze was sharp, piercing, demanding an answer.

The flames of the nearby lantern flickered violently, casting uneasy shadows across the room. Rollo exhaled slowly, as if reigning himself in. "I fail to see how such a mistake could occur," he said coldly. "Unless, of course… you were thinking of them in my presence."

The way he said it sent chills down your spine. He wasn’t throwing a tantrum or causing a scene—no, that wasn’t Rollo’s style. Instead, his displeasure seeped into the atmosphere, suffocating and inescapable.

"I do not tolerate being overlooked." His eyes met yours, unwavering. "Do not let it happen again."

You knew you had to be very careful with your next words.

Floyd Leech

Floyd’s reaction was nothing short of unpredictable.

One moment, he had been lounging beside you, playfully poking your side, and the next—his entire demeanor shifted the second another name left your lips.

His grin faded. His golden eyes gleamed dangerously as he tilted his head. "Huh?"

You felt your heart skip a beat.

"What did you just say?" His voice was deceptively light, but the way his fingers twitched against your arm sent a shiver down your spine.

"I—I didn’t mean to, it was an accident—"

"An accident~?" He let out a slow hum, his grip tightening ever so slightly. "Dunnooo~ I think my ears must be playing tricks on me. ‘Cause it sounded like you just called me the wrong name."

You quickly tried to backtrack, but Floyd was already squeezing you into a vice-like hug, burying his face into your shoulder.

"Maaaan, I dunno if I should be mad or just suuuuper sad~" he whined. "Should I bite ya? Or should I make ya say my name over and over till ya never forget it again?"

You yelped. "Floyd!"

At the sound of his name, he suddenly grinned, loosening his grip. "Hehe~ That’s better!"

[ilikerafayelwaytoomuch]

How the LADS men react to their gf showing physical affection, who is a bit scared to show affection

A/N: a post with all the lads boys this time...hopefully I did them justice

Tags/warnings: she/her pronouns used (should i try using gender neutral terms?), s/o has a little fear of vulnerability (can you see a pattern haha), s/o in raf's may be a bit too specific (she is described to have a passion for music), fluff <3

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Rafayel 

Music softly filled the living room of the artist's house. A classic played, one of Beethoven's symphonies. Rafayel always experimented painting with different music playing, seeing what emotions it could evoke. His girlfriend loved that about him, as she had a passion for music. She smiled softly as she stood in the hallway. Rafayel sat on a stool, his back to her, an easel and canvas in front of him, a brush slowly moving across it. Y/n didn't want to interrupt, really. But a recent breakdown has caused the couple to have a conversation and she promised she would try to be more vulnerable with him. Even though it scared her. She wanted to start small. Right now she really really wanted a hug from her boyfriend. That shouldn't be too much to ask. 

Nervously, she made her way into the room and approached Rafayel. She hesitated for a moment, but continued. “Cutie?” Rafayel questioned, hearing footsteps, but not turning to look or stop his painting. Y/n said nothing and waited for his brush to finish the stroke before nervously wrapping her arms around him, placing her head onto his back. She felt extremely embarrassed. There was no reason to. This was Rafayel. Her Rafayel. Her boyfriend. The man let out a soft gasp in surprise and tensed up. “Wha- you-” he spluttered. 

“Wan’ a hug,” she mumbled into his back. It took Rafayel a moment to process, not used to the sudden display of affection from his lover. When his brain began to work again, his heart soared. He placed his pallet and brush down before turning around and wrapping his arms around her, squeezing her almost too much with a happy giggle. “Mmm. What should I do? This painting has to be done by tomorrow, but my baby needs my cuddles,” he sighed. Y/n tried to back away, not wanting to harm his work. Her ears still burned with embarrassment and she was sure her face matched. Maybe this was all a bad idea. Rafayel wouldn't let her break away, pulling her closer. 

“Sorry, I'll-” she began, but was interrupted by Rafayel quickly dropping his arms to hold her thighs and lift her into his arms. 

“Ah well, what can you do,” he sang. Y/n glanced up at him to see a huge, dorky smile on his face. “Feels even better when you initiate a hug then me hugging you,” he admitted. The girl felt her face flush again and she hid her face in his neck. “Cute,” he pressed a kiss to her hair. “But seriously, I know that was hard for you. I admire your vulnerability. And of course I will happily cuddle you for the rest of the night! Should we head to bed early or watch that movie you wanted?” The girl was speechless and just shrugged, making him laugh. “Aww is my cutie still embarrassed? There's nothing to be embarrassed about.” She whined in response. She felt her weight shift as Rafayel sat down on his couch. Rafayel hummed. “Can I make you be a bit more vulnerable and give me a kiss?” He asked. Y/n sighed and took a brief moment to breathe before lifting her face to look at him. She quickly kissed his lips before returning to her hiding spot. Rafayel couldn't hold back his laugh, holding her tightly as he shook with laughter. 

Minutes later, she heard the TV turn on, the pre-movie credits playing. Rafayel moved his girlfriend somewhat begrudgingly, so that she was now sitting next to him, her legs across his lap. She looked at him confused. He nodded towards the TV. “Kind of hard for you to watch if you're just pressed against my chest, no?” He asked, moving his arm to wrap around her back, the other reaching for her hand and placing a kiss on it. “And don't worry, I'll definitely be getting my real kiss later. As many as I want,” he winked at her. Safe to say he did not complete his painting that night, which wasn't abnormal for the artist. He had more important things to do. 

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Sylus 

The Onychinus base was dark. A few lights leading y/n to the boss. Sylus was in his study, working on something. She wasn't sure what, but she didn't intend to stay long. It weighed heavily on her mind that she never initiated any physical contact with Sylus, her boyfriend. He hadn't said anything, but she had been in her head about it. If she were dating someone and they never initiated anything, she'd think they didn't really like her. She didn't want Sylus to think that. The problem was she's not good at initiating contact. It terrifies her. So even when she wanted to, she held back. But after thinking, she decided she would initiate physical contact, no matter how scary. Starting small of course. Today's plan of action? A hug before she went off to bed. It wasn't unusual for her to say goodnight to the man, but he was always the one to wave her over to hug or kiss her. Tonight she wasn't going to let him. 

The girl softly knocked on the door, opening it slowly and peeking in. Sylus’s brow raised, pleased by the sudden interruption. He looked down at his watch, unaware of his girlfriend swiftly making her way across the room. He opened his mouth to speak, but was shocked by how close she now was. Wordlessly, she climbed into his chair with him, sitting on his lap and wrapping her arms around him. “Just wanted to say goodnight,” she whispered. Y/n wanted to sound confident, but her voice betrayed her, shaking slightly. Sylus smiled, his large hands resting on her back. “This is quite the surprise,” Sylus began, not wanting to push her too far. Of course he had noticed his girlfriend's behavior. He could tell when she wanted a hug or kiss, but then did nothing about it. He didn't say anything, not wanting to push her and trusting she would when she was ready. It didn't bother him that she never kissed him. It bothered him that she wanted to kiss him, but didn't. Sylus was determined to do everything in his power to let you be comfortable to take what you wanted from him. “I always come say goodnight,” y/n tried to play off the action. He chuckled. 

“Yes, and I love that. But,” he hesitated, unsure how to put his feelings into words that wouldn't hurt her unintentionally. “You never do this. Not that I mind. I'm happy you're finally taking what you want from me.” 

“Can I take more?” She quietly asked. 

“You can take anything and everything from me,” he replied. 

“Come to bed? At least for a little bit. I know you have work to do, but-” she was cut off by Sylus standing, carrying her to his bedroom. He placed her down gently, tucking her into bed before getting in next to her and wrapping his arms around her again, her head tucked into his neck. He lifted her head and pressed a slow kiss to her lips, appreciating her actions. “Take whatever you want. Goodnight, love.” 

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Xavier 

Y/n paced back and forth in her apartment. She had woken up in the middle of the night, a nightmare interrupting her sleep. What had caused her to pace however, was a decision she had to make. Her dreams had been plagued with memories of what happened to her grandmother, her death anniversary coming up. When she woke up, she felt horribly lonely and the thought of her boyfriend a few apartments down almost made it worse. She was an adult, she could handle a little nightmare and just go back to bed. Or she could get in the elevator and go see Xavier. He wouldn't mind, right? But her boyfriend loved his sleep. Like a lot. She didn't want to interrupt that. Plus he had just gotten back from a mission, only texting to let her know he got back safe and was headed to bed. She decided she could be stealthy enough, putting on some slippers and heading out the door. 

The building was quiet, which made sense because it was the middle of the night. But it was cold and y/n regretted not grabbing a coat, only in her pj's. The elevator seemed to move slower and she wondered if she should just turn around and deal with this alone as she always had. But the last time she had a nightmare, Xavier happened to be over and she told him she would come to him if it happened again. She technically already broke that promise, having a similar dream soon after but dealing with it alone. This one however, felt more intense. She would not be getting any sleep after it. The bell dinged and she excited the elevator, walking over to his apartment. 

She didn't bother knocking, just using the spare key he gave her and opening the door suddenly. She was a bit surprised to see her boyfriend asleep on the couch- his arm draping off the side. This presented a new problem. He was clearly so tired after the mission, he passed out on the couch, still wearing his uniform. Y/n bit her lip in thought. Her original plan was to just get into bed next to him and sleep, but that wasn't possible with him on the couch. She'd have to wake him up. She'd have to tell him about her nightmare and that she wanted to stay with him. It was too much. As she turned to leave, she was stopped. “Is that you y/n?” Xavier had spoken through a yawn. “Are you okay?” Her hand froze on the doorknob of his door, not knowing if she should book it or not. But she wanted to get some rest. She wanted her boyfriend's comfort. 

“I had another nightmare,” y/n finally said, turning around to see her boyfriend now sitting up on the couch. He smiled sleepily at her. “Mm come to bed with me. Too cold to sleep alone anyway,” he stood, stretching. She nodded and walked over to him, unable to hold back and hugging him. He held her back, saying nothing even when he felt a few hot tears fall on his shoulder. “You're okay now. Thank you for coming to me,” he whispered to her. She nodded and backed away. Xavier gently wiped her face with his fingers. “Let me change and I'll meet you in bed?” She nodded and they headed to his room. 

Once in something more comfortable, Xavier got into his bed, spooning his girlfriend. He sighed happily, nuzzling into her neck. Y/n felt better. Warm. Being held by the one she loved most, she was able to find rest that night. 

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Zayne 

When the door to his apartment opened, Zayne was greeted by his girlfriend wrapping her arms around him. He was a bit surprised, not expecting her to be there. He hugged her back, not letting go. He always made sure to not let go first, knowing his girlfriend. She struggled to show her affection, so when she did he made sure to not break away early, soaking up all the affection he could from her. Usually, her hugs were brief, but today's wasn't. She held onto him, breathing in his scent. Zayne hesitated for a moment on whether to let go. But decided against it, thinking there must be a reason. “You smell good,” y/n murmured. 

“Is that so? I just got out of a five hour surgery,” he questioned. Maybe she believed she needed a reason to hug him longer than normal because he surely didn't smell good. 

“Oh,” she hesitated, her excuse nullified. 

“Is everything okay?” Zayne softly asked. 

“Yeah, I just,” she hesitated again. “Wanna hold you. I missed you.” 

“I missed you too,” he smiled. “Not that I want to let you go, but what is that smell?” 

“Oh, I cooked you some dinner. I figured you'd be hungry.” 

“You didn't have to do that.” 

“I know,” she replied, breaking away from the hug to look at him and smile. “I just wanted to. I figured we could eat and then watch a movie tonight?” 

“Sounds lovely. Let me go wash up,” he smiled at her before disappearing into his room. Y/n moved to his kitchen, playing the food she had prepared for them. Nothing fancy, but tasty nonetheless. Zayne had returned unnoticed, only making himself known when he wrapped his arms around her, leaning forward to place a kiss on her cheek. The two said nothing, only swaying in the kitchen to unheard music. “The foods gonna get cold,” y/n warned. Zayne sighed, but agreed, releasing her to sit down and eat. 

Zayne has refused to let y/n do the dishes after they had finished. Arguing that she had done so much to prepare it, it was only fair he cleaned up. She eventually listened, going to set up the movie in the living room. He joined her, sitting down next to her and grabbing a side blanket- her favorite. Even though she bought the blanket for him to “liven up his house”, she used it anytime she came over, snuggling into it. When the movie began, Zayne watched as his girlfriend excitedly cuddled up to him, pulling the blanket onto them both. They were quiet for a while, enjoying each other's company and the movie. The movie had slowed, the plot not being very intense. “You know you don't have to do all of this to cuddle with me,” Zayne whispered to her. She nodded, blushing slightly. 

“I know. I wanted to. It somehow makes it easier than outright asking for you to hold me. That still scares me,” she admitted. 

“Well first off, thank you for the dinner and everything. It was very nice. Second, you don't have to say anything or do anything grand. You can just pull me down here to the couch or bed and I'll happily hold you as long as you need. I know you show your love through actions, so I'm not saying to stop doing that. I'm just saying it's not necessary or a prerequisite to physical touch,” he explained. She nodded and looked at him with a smile. 

“I know, promise. It's nice to hear I don't have to get to the point of straight up asking you for what I want though. Maybe one day I'll be brave enough.” 

“And if not, that's okay. I like to think I know you pretty well and can understand your hints no matter how small.” 

“Oh really? Then what do I want right now?” She asked, eyes sparkling.

“A kiss,” he answered simply, leaning in to do just that. When he pulled back, he noticed her face erupted into a cute blush. “Was I wrong?” He asked. She shook her head, embarrassed that he truly had known. No one else had ever paid that much attention to her. “I love you Zayne,” y/n told him. 

“And I love you too.” 

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Caleb 

It was surprising to y/n that she struggled to be “touchy feely” with her current boyfriend. They were childhood friends after all. She was more comfortable with him than anyone, even after everything that happened. Caleb never said anything about it, probably knowing she had this struggle with everyone. He never pushed it either. To him, that's just his girlfriend. She's everything he's ever wanted and more. Sure, she struggles to be a bit vulnerable and come to him for a hug or cuddle or kiss, but that was okay. He was happy to initiate all of that. But for y/n, it was something that made her insecure. In relationships, you were supposed to hug and kiss and sure she and Caleb did, but she never kissed him. She had hugged him plenty of times, but holding his hand and kissing him was another story. She wanted to, of course, they were dating now. But it terrified her for some reason. The judgement from others maybe was part of it, another that for some reason if she initiated anything Caleb would be disgusted with her. She knew it was irrational, but that didn't make it any easier. 

Today was one of the rare days they both had off and Caleb was in town. They had spent most of the day indoors, playing games, ordering food and spending time with each other. But after a while, they got a little stir crazy and decided to head to a nearby park to go on a little walk and then maybe grab some dinner. The sun was out and it overall was a beautiful day. They walked down the path, chatting and messing around with each other. Y/n had run ahead, telling Caleb that he was still the slowest person ever. When he caught up, her heart thumped in her chest, more so due to nerves than the exercise. She tried to be as natural as possible as she grabbed his hand next to hers, holding it and swinging it slightly by her side. She said nothing. She couldn't even look at him, suddenly finding the trees around them to be the most interesting thing she's ever seen. But the flush of her cheeks told a different story. 

When Caleb felt his girlfriend's soft fingers hold his, he thought his heart would combust. He immediately turned to her, to find her blushing and looking away. He was shocked, knowing that this was something that was hard for her. He always said that it was okay she never held his hand out kissed him and he really thought that. But now he wasn't so sure he could go back. “Someones gotten braver,” he commented, making her pout. 

“It's just hand holding,” she muttered, moving their hands in front of them so they could see their hands intertwined. “Oh really? But you've never grabbed mine before,” he reasoned. She dropped their hands back to their sides. 

“Yeah well, a lot has changed,” she shrugged, trying to play it cool. Caleb laughed at her. “I returned almost a year ago and we started dating soon after. And only now you take my hand?” He teased. “Something big must have changed in the past two weeks.” 

“Yep,” she agreed, not breaking her act. “So much has changed that I can even do this.” She suddenly stopped walking and pressed a kiss to his lips. Caleb froze and she took the opportunity to let go of his hand and run away. When he returned to reality, he heard her laughing, his personal favorite song as she ran away from him. “Don't think you can get away with that!” He called after her, running to catch up, a huge grin on his face.

[julietsf1]

The Line We Never Crossed - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: Lando Norris has been treating you like an afterthought all season, which would be fine if you hadn’t nearly kissed him last year. your new job in the paddock means you can’t avoid him, and his petty cold shoulder act is starting to feel personal. (7.5k words)

content: mutual pining, second-chance romance, slow-burn, Oscar being an instigator, French

AN: coucou mes anges <3 another one for you! big thanks for the overwhelming enthusiasm on my last lando fic :) it means a lot!!

...........................................................................

The night hummed with life; laughter spilling from Charles’s yacht, the distant pop of champagne corks, music vibrating through the decks. Monte Carlo never slept after a race, and tonight was no exception. The lights, the sound, the weight of celebration pressed in from all sides.

You’d only meant to escape for a minute. Just a moment to breathe.

But Lando had followed.

Now, the two of you sat at the edge of the dock, heels discarded beside you, the water lapping gently beneath your feet. The night air was thick with salt and summer, warm against your skin.

You’re alone.

The realization settled uncomfortably in your stomach.

Not because you didn’t want to be—you did—but because you weren’t sure why he was here, or what this was.

It wasn’t unusual, not exactly. You’d been friends for a while, hovering in the same circles, both Monaco-based when you weren’t traveling, and yet—this felt different.

Like a moment suspended between something and nothing.

Lando stretched beside you, legs outstretched, arms braced behind him. Then, with a casual sort of amusement, he murmured, “So, I heard you liked my curly hair.”

You turned to him immediately, narrowing your eyes.

"What?"

His grin was insufferable. "That’s what they’re saying.”

"Who’s ‘they’?"

"The people. The masses."

You huffed, rolling your eyes. "Your sources are questionable."

"So you’re not denying it?"

You bit back a smile, nudging him with your knee. “Lando, I swear—”

His laugh was soft, curling at the edges. 

You turned away, looking out toward the water instead.

The sea stretched endlessly, a dark expanse under the moon, dotted with distant lights from other yachts, other parties. The breeze carried the faintest hint of salt and champagne, warm and sticky against your skin.

You felt his gaze before you saw it.

When you glanced back, he was already looking at you.

The shift was barely noticeable, except suddenly the air felt heavier.

His hand inched closer—just enough for his fingers to ghost the wooden dock beside yours.

Your pulse spiked.

He leaned in.

Not dramatically. Not like some grand, sweeping moment in a film. It was slower, more uncertain—like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to.

Like he was waiting for you to stop him.

And you didn’t.

Your breath hitched.

Your body tilted, drawn into him like some unseen force, a thread tugging in the space between.

His fingertips brushed yours.

And then—

You both froze.

The spell broke.

The weight of reality crashed in, sharp and immediate.

What the hell are we doing?

You pulled back first. Forced out a small, awkward laugh.

Lando blinked, startled, his own body shifting back a second later. He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his curls, looking away like if he didn’t acknowledge it, it wouldn’t be real.

Silence.

Thick and suffocating.

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of the distance—or lack thereof.

Before either of you could say something, a voice cut through the night.

"Lando!"

Someone from the boat.

You turned toward the sound, blinking back into reality, the moment collapsing between you like a house of cards.

Lando hesitated—just for a second—then pushed himself up, brushing his hands against his jeans.

"Guess I should go."

"Yeah." Your voice came out quieter than you intended.

He didn’t move right away.

For a brief, fleeting second, you thought he might say something.

Then he just nodded, something unreadable flickering across his face before he turned and walked back toward the yacht.

You watched him go.

Your hands curled into fists against the wood.

The moment was gone.

…

The first time you see Lando Norris again, it’s almost anti-climactic.

No dramatic moment. No sharp intake of breath. No heart-stopping, soul-shattering collision of past and present. Just a stupidly hot Thursday afternoon in the Melbourne paddock, your brand-new team lanyard digging into the back of your neck, and the sudden realization that he’s here.

Which—obviously, he is. It’s the first race of the season, and this is his job. Just like it’s yours now.

Still, the knowledge sits awkwardly in your chest, the same way your new role at LVMH has been sitting awkwardly on your shoulders all week.

The partnership between Formula 1 and LVMH had been a big deal—a high-profile luxury collaboration that had the marketing team scrambling. When you’d been handed the opportunity to coordinate the on-site activations, it had seemed perfect. A step up, a challenge, an exciting, high-speed world that you’d already known intimately through years of association.

It had taken all of two minutes to realize the one major flaw in that plan.

You were going to see him.

Not just in passing, but constantly. Every weekend. Every city. Every press day and paddock club event and race debrief.

You’d thought you’d be fine.

And then, of course, you actually got here.

The Australian heat clings to you, sweat beading at the base of your neck as you weave through the paddock, passing familiar faces and nodding to a few you don’t quite know yet. It’s barely midday, but the place is alive—reporters setting up, engineers darting between garages, photographers angling for early shots of the drivers.

And then you spot Charles and Oscar.

Charles is leaning against a barrier near the Ferrari hospitality entrance, dressed in his usual paddock-day attire—team-issued shirt, sunglasses, that effortlessly casual Monaco ease that somehow never looks sweaty, even in 30-degree weather.

He grins when he spots you.

Oscar, beside him, looks as serious as ever, though his eyes flick over to you with mild interest.

"Ah, look who it is," Charles says, a grin curling at the edge of his mouth.

"Miss me already?" you reply smoothly.

"Obviously," he says, pulling you in for a brief hug.

Charles adjusts his sunglasses, smirking. “So, have you seen your favorite papaya yet?”

Your stomach plummets.

"Papaya?" Oscar echoes, head tilting slightly. "Wait—she’s friends with Lando?"

"Friends is a strong word," you say immediately.

"Oh, they go way back," Charles adds, clearly enjoying himself.

Oscar perks up like a cat spotting something mildly entertaining. "This is brand-new, highly relevant information. Why was I not briefed?"

"Because there’s nothing to brief you on," you say flatly.

"See, the fact that you’re saying that makes me think there’s everything to brief me on," Oscar counters.

"Agreed," Charles nods, pleased.

"Alright," Oscar clasps his hands together, "give me the timeline. We talking childhood friends? F1-era friends? Lovers turned enemies? Enemies turned lovers?"

"Oh my god," you mutter.

"I’m just collecting data," Oscar says innocently.

"Don’t worry, mate, I have the data," Charles cuts in.

Your stomach drops.

"Charles," you warn.

But he’s already too deep.

"So," Charles leans in like he’s about to deliver groundbreaking gossip, "Monaco, last year. My yacht afterparty. Except these two were not at the party because they were too busy having a moment on the dock."

Oscar’s eyebrows shoot up. "Oh, now we’re talking."

"Alone," Charles continues, "feet in the water, looking all dramatic under the moonlight—"

"That’s not what happened," you cut in.

"I choose to believe it is," Oscar says.

"Anyway," Charles waves a hand, "it was tense. And then—get this—Lando leans in."

Oscar immediately slaps a hand over his mouth. "No. Way."

"Way," Charles nods.

"And then?"

"And then... nothing."

Oscar looks personally offended. "So, they didn’t kiss?"

"Nope."

"Did they talk about it after?"

"Not even once."

Oscar blinks.

Then he turns to you, dead serious.

"So what you’re telling me is that I’ve had to listen to Lando talk about absolute nonsense for an entire year, and this—which is actually interesting—never once came up?"

"Apparently," Charles smirks.

Oscar shakes his head, sighing. "Honestly, I feel betrayed."

"Well, he’s been avoiding me since I got here, so the story ends ," you added, shooting daggers at Charles.

"Oh, that’s just classic repressed feelings," Oscar says without hesitation.

"Thank you," Charles grins.

"It’s textbook," Oscar agrees.

"I hate you both."

"Deflection," Oscar says immediately.

"Textbook," Charles repeats.

Before you can actually walk away, the air shifts.

And then—Lando walks in.

Lando moves through the paddock the same way he always does—brimming with energy, unapologetically loud, just a little bit chaotic, like a human embodiment of a high-voltage current. It’s almost impressive, really, how someone can be so unrelentingly themselves at all times.

And yet, at this moment, it’s also deeply annoying.

Oscar and Charles, mid-conversation, immediately stop talking. Not in a natural, casual way, but in the very deliberate, slightly too-obvious way of people who are absolutely clocking the tension.

You resist the urge to fidget, to adjust your stance or smooth down your shirt or do literally anything other than exist in his vicinity. Instead, you steel yourself, ignoring the way your pulse ticks just a little too fast, and force yourself to look entirely unbothered.

Lando doesn’t see you at first.

His attention lands on Oscar, and with his usual grin, he strides forward.

"What’s up, mate?"

Before Oscar can respond, Lando reaches out and promptly ruffles his hair like an annoying older brother, sending it into a complete mess.

"Jesus—" Oscar immediately flails, swatting his hands away.

Lando just laughs, completely undeterred, before turning his attention to Charles.

"Mate," he greets, clapping a firm hand on Charles’s shoulder, nodding like they’re about to discuss something profoundly important.

And then, finally—his eyes land on you.

It happens fast, but you still catch the moment of hesitation. The flicker of recognition, the slight pause, the way his expression doesn’t quite shift but still seems to hold something uncertain.

Like he wasn’t expecting you.

Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the fact that you’re standing right there.

It lasts for less than a second, barely a blink.

And then—just as quickly—it’s gone.

His face smooths back into its usual easy confidence, and without so much as a hello, a nod, anything, he simply turns back to Oscar.

"Let’s go. Time for interviews."

And just like that, he’s gone.

Just like that, you don’t exist.

Oscar’s jaw actually drops. Charles lets out a low whistle, slowly pushing his sunglasses up his nose like he just witnessed something highly entertaining.

Your stomach twists, but you keep your expression neutral, steady.

"Well," Charles murmurs after a beat, exhaling dramatically, "that was dramatic."

Oscar leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s about to deliver classified information.

"He just sneakily glanced at her before leaving," 

You shoot him a sharp glare.

"Drop it."

Oscar grins, miming a zip across his lips, but the way his eyes glint with curiosity tells you this is far from over.

…

The Miami Grand Prix shouldn’t feel like a fever dream. And yet, as you step into the nightclub where McLaren’s victory party is already in full swing, that’s exactly what it is.

The music pulses through the air, the bass thrumming beneath your feet. Neon lights flicker, casting glows of electric blue and deep orange across the space, the colors mirroring the McLaren celebration. Champagne bottles pop in the distance, drinks spill, bodies move to the beat. It’s loud. It’s chaotic. It’s exactly the kind of place where reality warps, where things feel less real and more like a scene you’ll have to piece together tomorrow.

Lando won today. Not just a podium, but a full-fledged victory.

McLaren’s third 1-2 of the season. A statement race. A moment that will be replayed for years.

It’s everything he’s worked for. Everything he deserves.

So it should be easy—normal—to just be happy for him. To raise a glass, toast to his success, and not feel the sting of something unnamed creeping in around the edges.

"Tu es avec nous ou bien tu es partie dans tes pensées, là?" (Are you with us, or have you disappeared into your thoughts?)

A hand waves in front of your face, snapping you back to reality.

You blink, refocusing on Alexandra, who looks highly amused, her long dark hair shining under the blue-tinged club lights. Beside her, Charles is watching with thinly veiled smugness.

"Hein?" (Huh?)

"Elle plane complètement," (She’s totally zoning out) Charles quips, nudging Alexandra.

"Grave," (Seriously,) Alexandra agrees, smirking. She leans in slightly, voice dropping into a low, teasing lilt. "À quoi tu penses, ma belle? Ou… à qui?" (What are you thinking about, beautiful? Or… who?)

You immediately roll your eyes.

"Vous êtes insupportables," (You two are unbearable) you grumble, taking a sip of your drink.

"On t’adore aussi," (We love you too) Charles grins, entirely unbothered.

"D’ailleurs," (By the way) Alexandra says, tilting her head knowingly. "C’est quoi cette histoire avec Oscar?" (What’s this thing with Oscar?)

"Quoi? Rien," (What? Nothing) you say automatically.

"Ohhh, rien du tout?" (Ohhh, nothing at all?) she presses, eyebrows raised. "Parce que franchement, vous êtes inséparables ces derniers temps." (Because honestly, you two have been inseparable lately.)

"Bah ouais," (Well yeah) Charles hums thoughtfully, nursing his drink. Then, as if on cue, he grins knowingly. "Mais non, elle aime bien les Brits." (But no, she likes Brits.)

You whip around, giving him a look. "Excuse-moi?" (Excuse me?)

"C’est vrai," (It’s true) Charles insists, laughing as he leans back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. 

You cut him off immediately with a playful punch to his shoulder.

"Ferme-la," (Shut up) you mutter, though your lips twitch slightly.

"Aïe," (Ow) Charles grips his arm dramatically. "T’as vu comment elle me traite, Alexandra?" (Did you see how she treats me, Alexandra?)

"Je pense qu’elle se défend bien," (I think she’s just defending herself) Alexandra muses, smiling behind her drink.

Charles exhales, shaking his head. "Bref, parlons des choses sérieuses." (Anyway, let’s talk about serious matters)

You shoot him a warning look. "Si c’est encore un commentaire sur les Brits—" (If it’s another comment about the Brits—)

"J’allais dire qu’on devrait aller s’asseoir, mais bon," (I was going to say we should find a table, but okay) Charles smirks, standing up.

You glare, but follow.

Finding a spot isn’t easy—the entire club is a chaotic mess of celebrating McLaren personnel, F1 drivers, and the usual crowd that comes with a high-profile post-race party.

Eventually, the three of you manage to claim a booth toward the side, partially tucked away from the main dance floor.It’s the perfect vantage point—close enough to feel the energy, far enough to actually hold a conversation.

You barely have time to settle in before a familiar voice chimes in.

"Ah, you actually came."

You look up just in time to see Oscar sliding into the seat across from you, grinning.

"Did you think I wouldn’t?" you quip.

"Honestly? Wasn’t sure," Oscar admits, raising an eyebrow. "But I’m glad you’re here. McLaren’s big night. Wouldn’t be the same without you."

You snort. "Oh yeah, because I’m so crucial to the McLaren garage."

"Exactly," he nods, completely serious.

You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth behind it.

"Anyway, get up," Oscar says, standing again. "We’re getting drinks."

"I have a drink," you point out, lifting your glass.

"Yeah, but I don’t, and I’m using you as an excuse to escape whatever conversation Charles is about to start."

You glance back at Charles, who is currently mid-sentence with Alexandra, looking vaguely philosophical.

You stand. "Good call."

Oscar drags you through the crowd with practiced ease, weaving past clusters of people already deep into celebratory rounds. The bass thrums through the floor, conversations blend into the music, and somewhere across the room, someone pops open another bottle of champagne. The whole night feels like it exists in a strange, weightless bubble, detached from reality.

By the time you reach the bar, the air feels heavier, the neon glow casting everything in shades of electric blue and orange. Oscar leans against the counter, exhaling like he’s just completed a mission.

"Alright," he sighs, nodding toward the bartender. "Now we can finally talk without being interrogated."

You snort, crossing your arms. "Big words from someone who’s been doing plenty of interrogating himself tonight."

"I prefer the term ‘investigative journalism,’" Oscar corrects smoothly, his tone just dry enough to make you huff out a laugh.

You shake your head, amused despite yourself, despite the way something unsettled lingers in your chest.

"By the way," Oscar adds casually, glancing over at you with a knowing look. "You look stunning tonight."

You narrow your eyes. "Flattery? What do you want?"

"You to stop pretending," he replies, flagging down the bartender.

Your stomach tugs slightly, a quiet warning.

"Pretending about what?"

Oscar doesn’t even bother looking at you as he gestures vaguely toward the dance floor. "That you’re over it."

You hesitate, fingers tapping against the bar.

"It doesn’t matter anymore," you say after a beat.

"Right," Oscar says, completely unconvinced. "Which is exactly why you’re about to spend the next five minutes trying not to look at him."

"I’m not—"

And then, before you can finish the thought, your gaze flickers toward the dance floor.

Lando is there.

The neon glow casts sharp edges over his features, blue light catching in the waves of his hair. He’s grinning, saying something to the woman pressed close to his side. Tall, gorgeous, the kind of effortless beauty that doesn’t require second-guessing. She tilts her head, lips barely brushing his ear, laughing at whatever he’s whispered.

His hand rests on her waist, fingers light but familiar.

A dull pressure settles in your chest, creeping in before you can push it away.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. That it’s normal, expected. That after all this time, you shouldn’t be feeling anything at all.

And yet—

Just as the thought forms, Lando’s gaze lifts.

The second his eyes meet yours, it’s like something tightens, sharpens, pulling everything into focus.

Even across the room, you feel the weight of it.

Neither of you move.

The music swells, bodies shift, champagne glasses clink, but the moment stretches longer than it should.

Then—without hesitation, he spins her.

It’s smooth, calculated in a way that feels deliberate, too easy to be accidental. His back turns, breaking the connection between you like a slammed door.

Oscar watches the entire thing unfold.

After a beat, he exhales, turning back toward the bar, plastering on the most exaggeratedly casual expression you’ve ever seen.

"Another Mojito sounds good, doesn’t it?"

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head.

"Yeah," you murmur. "It really does."

When you turn to order, you miss the way Lando glances back over his shoulder.

But Oscar doesn’t.

...

The first morning of Monaco race week feels different.

The air is crisp, charged with the kind of anticipation that only exists in cities built for spectacle. There’s an undeniable energy, a hum that seems to vibrate through the winding streets, through the terrace cafés and superyachts lining the harbor. It’s a city that’s vibrant even on a normal day, but during Grand Prix week? It practically crackles.

And it’s home.

Which is why, despite the fact that your schedule is packed, your inbox is overflowing, and you technically have a job to do, you’ve spent your morning making pancakes.

Because priorities.

Balancing two containers stacked with still-warm pancakes, you navigate through the paddock with ease, stopping first at Charles’s motorhome.

You barely get a chance to knock before Charles pulls open his door, eyebrows lifting when he sees what you’re holding.

"T’es un ange, vraiment," (You’re an angel, truly) he says, grinning as he takes the container from your hands without hesitation.

"C’est juste des pancakes, Charles," (It’s just pancakes, Charles) you reply, amused.

"Non, non, c’est un acte d’amour," (No, no, this is an act of love) he insists, dramatically pressing a hand to his chest before lifting the lid.

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch. This is exactly why you like Charles—because every interaction is either chaotic or slightly ridiculous. Usually both.

" T’as décidé de lancer une boulangerie ambulante ou quoi?" (Did you decide to start a traveling bakery or what?) he asks, already picking up a pancake with his bare hands like a menace.

"Pas pour tout le monde," (Not for everyone) you smirk.

"Ah, je suis privilégié, alors." (Ah, so I’m privileged, then)

"T’as toujours aimé être traité comme un prince, non?" (You’ve always liked being treated like a prince, haven’t you?)

"Exactement," he says, nodding solemnly. "Tu me comprends trop bien." (You understand me too well)

Before you can fire back, a new voice enters the conversation.

"What’s all this?"

You glance over your shoulder just in time to see Carlos Sainz strolling past, still in a Williams hoodie, his hair an absolute glorious mess.

"Morning, Carlitos," you greet, smiling as you pull him into a hug.

"Morning," he replies, hugging you back before spotting the pancakes. His expression immediately shifts to pure interest. "And what exactly do we have here?"

"Homemade, fresh, and delivered with love," you say, handing him a plate.

"I’m so glad I walked by at the right time," Carlos grins, already taking a bite.

Charles shakes his head. "I knew you’d steal my breakfast."

"I didn’t steal anything," Carlos says, pointing at you. "She offered. Huge difference."

"She only offers because she’s too nice," Charles retorts.

"Yeah, that’s definitely the reason," you deadpan.

Carlos gives a thumbs-up, still chewing. "Ten out of ten. Would accept again."

You laugh, stepping back. "Well, I have another stop to make before you two start fighting over the last one."

"Tell Oscar he’s not worthy," Charles calls after you.

"Noted."

…

The McLaren garage is already buzzing by the time you step inside, a steady hum of engineers, team personnel, and the occasional blur of papaya moving past. You barely take it in, though—your focus is on one person.

You find Oscar exactly where you expect him—perched on the edge of a counter, legs swinging idly, his attention completely fixed on the screen of his iPad.

You step closer, peering over his shoulder.

"Are you—wait, are you watching The Office?"

Oscar pauses mid-chew, glances at you, then tilts the screen just enough for you to see.

Season 2, Episode 4.

You stare.

"Oscar."

"What?" he says, around another bite of pancake.

"You’re watching it at a glacial pace," you accuse, setting the pancake container beside him. "For someone so fast on track, you’re painfully slow with TV shows."

Oscar smirks, finally glancing up.

"I told you, I don’t binge-watch things in one sitting like you do."

"That’s not a flex, Osc. That’s just a character flaw."

"I like to savor things," he argues, grabbing another pancake like it’s part of his defense.

"No, you like to take six months to finish a single season," you counter, crossing your arms.

"Tell that to my racecraft."

"Oh, I will," you say, grinning. "Right after I tell everyone you still haven’t finished White Lotus."

Oscar lets out a long, genuinely pained groan, dropping his head back against the cabinet.

"You’re the worst."

"I’m just speaking facts."

"You’re speaking like someone who finished all of Breaking Bad in four days."

"Five, actually," you correct.

"See? That’s unhinged behavior."

"It’s called commitment," you say, shrugging.

Oscar shakes his head, taking another bite, clearly accepting his fate. The conversation flows easily, like all your conversations do—comfortable, familiar, like second nature.

Which is probably why you don’t notice Lando walking in until the energy shifts.

It’s subtle—not a full stop, not an obvious shift in tone, but a flicker of something tense in the air.

Lando walks in like he always does—quick, purposeful, in the middle of something. But as soon as his gaze lands on you sitting beside Oscar, there’s a beat of hesitation.

It’s a fraction of a second—barely long enough to register—but you catch it anyway. The way his shoulders go rigid for half a breath, the way his gaze flickers over you before smoothing into something unreadable.

Then, just as quickly, he masks it.

"Oscar," Lando says, tone clipped, neutral. He doesn’t acknowledge you. Not even a glance.

The sting of it is instantaneous, even though you pretend not to care.

Oscar, still chewing, looks up. "Yeah?"

"The whole team’s been looking for you," Lando says, gesturing vaguely toward the engineers. "We need to go over a new strategy."

"Right," Oscar nods, setting his plate down and dusting his hands off. "I’ll be there in a sec."

Lando doesn’t leave immediately.

Instead, he lingers—half-turned away, but still close enough that you can see the tension in his posture. 

Then, with an exhale just sharp enough to sound frustrated, he turns and walks off.

Oscar watches him go.

Then he slowly turns back to you, chewing with far too much thought behind his expression.

And then he gives you the look.

One that very clearly says: What the fuck was that?

You lift an eyebrow, also a bit confused by what just happened.

"Don’t look at me like that," you mutter.

Oscar snorts. "Right. Because I’m the weird one here."

"Glad we agree," you deadpan.

But as Oscar grabs his plate and follows after Lando, you can’t shake the feeling that this weekend just got a lot more complicated.

…

Singapore is breathtaking at night.

The humid air clings to your skin, thick and warm, but the city more than makes up for it. The skyline is a glowing masterpiece, skyscrapers illuminated against the inky sky, the Marina Bay waters reflecting every vibrant light.There’s something surreal about being here during the race weekend—the most beautiful night race on the calendar, the entire city pulsing with energy, every street feeling like it belongs to Formula 1.

You walk leisurely through Gardens by the Bay, your steps slow against the backdrop of towering Supertrees, their neon lights casting a futuristic glow over the path. The air is still buzzing with life—distant laughter, the hum of nearby conversations, the occasional whoosh of a breeze pushing through the palm leaves.

Beside you, Lily Zneimer, Oscar’s girlfriend, matches your pace effortlessly, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her lightweight sweater.

You met her earlier in the evening, introduced through Oscar with the casual ease of someone who genuinely thought you’d get along. And, to be fair—he was right.

Lily is incredibly easy to talk to—soft-spoken but sharp, with a warmth that makes conversation flow naturally. You clicked instantly, which is why, when she asked if you wanted to step out for a walk, you didn’t hesitate.

"I still can’t get over how beautiful it is here at night," Lily muses, tilting her head to admire the towering Supertree structures above.

"It’s insane," you agree, glancing up at the web of glowing branches stretching toward the sky. "It almost doesn’t feel real."

"Right?" she laughs lightly. "It looks like something out of a sci-fi movie. Oscar loves this place."

You hum, smiling. "You’ve been to Singapore before?"

"Just once," Lily nods, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I came last season, but it was a short trip. It’s nice actually having time to enjoy it this year."

"Yeah, the races kind of turn everything into a blur," you admit.

"Exactly," she agrees, before pausing just long enough for you to notice the slight shift in her tone. "Speaking of racing…"

You glance over.

She’s smiling, but there’s something pointed behind it.

"I heard you’ve been having some… trouble with his teammate."

Your steps falter slightly.

"Trouble?" you repeat.

"Maybe that’s the wrong word," Lily says, tilting her head in thought. "Let’s say… tension."

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. "I wouldn’t call it trouble, but… yeah. It’s a bit weird."

Lily nods knowingly.

Then, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world, she drops: "Oscar said Lando was annoyed with him after the whole pancake thing in Monaco."

Your stomach pulls tight.

"Wait—annoyed?" you blink. "Why?"

Lily raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "He never mentioned it?"

"Not even once," you say slowly, trying to piece together what you’re hearing.

"They usually get on well," Lily continues, studying your reaction carefully. "But after that, apparently, he barely spoke to him. It was noticeable enough for Oscar to bring it up, which says a lot."

You had assumed that whatever had happened in Monaco—whatever weird, quiet grudge Lando had been holding—had been aimed solely at you. That he had ignored you and moved on.

But now…

Now you’re hearing that he had barely spoken to Oscar that whole weekend?

You stare ahead, processing.

"I thought it was just me," you admit, mostly to yourself.

Lily watches you for a moment before giving you a gentle nudge. "Maybe you should talk to him. Just clear the air."

You open your mouth, hesitate, then exhale through your nose.

"I don’t know if that would help," you say honestly.

Lily hums, thoughtful. "Maybe. But ignoring it doesn’t seem to be working either."

You don’t have a counter for that.

…

Mexico city is loud and bright, and the warmth in the air feels almost celebratory. Alexandra had been talking about this dinner she was hosting for weeks, making sure everyone knew it was the event before the race weekend officially kicked off. If the turnout is anything to go by, no one wanted to miss it. The restaurant is stunning—high ceilings, flickering candlelight, the scent of fresh tortillas and smoky mezcal curling through the air. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel like the whole night is stretched out in front of you, waiting to unfold into something memorable.

You arrive in high spirits, weaving through the tables, greeting familiar faces. The atmosphere is relaxed, conversations overlapping in different languages, the soft clink of glasses mingling with bursts of laughter. It doesn’t take long before you find yourself sliding into a seat beside Oscar, who acknowledges your presence with an easy grin.

“Ah, look who finally decided to show up,” he teases, nudging your arm as you set your bag down.

“Had to mentally prepare for whatever nonsense was waiting for me at this table,” you reply, scanning the group.

Carlos, sitting across from you, lets out a dramatic sigh. “I’d say welcome, but I think you already know you’ve walked into enemy territory.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “That bad already?”

“Carlos is just upset that I’m his biggest threat now,” Oscar chimes in, reaching for a glass of water. “He’s still not over the last race.”

Carlos scoffs. “You think too highly of yourself.”

“You should be honored,” Oscar counters smoothly. “Most people would love to be my rival.”

“Por Dios,” Carlos mutters under his breath, laughingly shaking his head.

Max, who had been swirling his gin and tonic lazily, finally looks up, unimpressed. “You two are still on this?”

Carlos points at him accusingly. “You’re just saying that because you don’t care.”

Max shrugs. “I care about my cats.”

Charles smirks. “And somehow, you still win races.”

Max lifts his glass as if to toast himself. “It’s all about balance.”

Oscar turns to you, shaking his head. “This is what I deal with on a daily basis.”

“Sounds tough,” you say, completely unsympathetic.

Max leans back, eyeing you playfully. “So, what do you think? Who wins if they go head-to-head next race?”

You hum, pretending to give it serious thought. “I think I’ll stay neutral and just enjoy the show.”

Carlos nods approvingly. “Smart answer.”

Oscar rolls his eyes. “Coward.”

The night moves on, drinks are refilled, plates are passed around, and the warmth of the evening settles into your bones. The food is incredible, Alexandra beaming every time someone compliments her choice of venue. The conversation is easy, filled with teasing and inside jokes, but even through the laughter, you can feel a certain presence in the room. A presence that, despite your best efforts, you’re hyper-aware of.

Lando arrives late, but when he does, it’s impossible to miss him.

His voice carries across the restaurant before you even see him, his laughter breaking through the steady hum of conversation. When he finally makes his way over, he’s in full form—grinning, animated, throwing an arm around Max like they’ve just won something. He slides into a seat between Carlos and Max, immediately falling into conversation, his energy big enough to pull focus. But every time you’re around?

He says nothing.

You don’t think anyone else notices at first. He’s still himself, still cracking jokes, still pulling people into conversations, still loud and impossible to ignore. But whenever you’re in the same circle, whenever your paths inevitably cross, he keeps his focus carefully elsewhere. You catch him sneaking glances when he thinks you’re not paying attention, his gaze flickering your way for barely a second before shifting back. And when he joins a conversation you’re already in, he acts as if you don’t exist at all.

You think you might be imagining it, but then you catch Oscar watching. Charles, too. And when the opportunity presents itself, when the moment naturally shifts and they see their chance, they both take it.

Charles stretches with an exaggerated sigh. “I think I need another drink.”

Oscar pushes his chair back immediately. “Yeah, same.”

You narrow your eyes at them. “Really?”

“Oh yeah,” Oscar nods, already standing.

“Absolutely,” Charles adds, following suit.

They’re gone before you can argue.

And just like that, it’s just you and Lando.

The air changes immediately. 

Lando drums his fingers against the table, gaze flicking briefly toward the bar, then back to the space in front of him. He doesn’t look at you, but it still feels like he’s aware of you, like the silence between you is taking up more space than it should.

You let the quiet stretch for a moment before finally breaking it.

“So,” you say casually, leaning back. “How are you?”

He glances at you, just for a second, and something shifts in his expression. Like he wasn’t expecting the question. Like he was caught off guard. You think, for a moment, that he might actually answer, that he might let whatever this is crack just a little.

But then, just as fast, his face smooths over.

“Could be better,” he says simply.

And then, without another word, he stands and walks off to talk to Carlos, leaving you there.

…

The paddock is still buzzing as the sun starts to set over Abu Dhabi, casting long shadows against the garages. It’s the usual pre-race chaos—engineers moving in and out, last-minute interviews happening outside team motorhomes—but your world has narrowed down to a single conversation.

You lean against the doorframe of Oscar’s driver room, arms crossed, watching as he sips from a water bottle like he hasn’t just blindsided you with his latest observation.

“You know he’s jealous, right?”

You blink. “I’m sorry, what?”

Oscar sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “Lando. He’s jealous. And you, my friend, are being absolutely insufferable about it.”

You scoff. “I’m insufferable?”

“Yes.” He nods, completely serious. “The ignoring-you thing? The weird, brooding glances? The fact that he’s acting like a Victorian husband who just found out his wife is writing letters to another man?”

Your lips part in disbelief. “That is a ridiculous comparison.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Is it? Because if he had a top hat, I’m pretty sure he’d be angrily adjusting it every time you walked past.”

Despite yourself, you let out a short laugh. “That is not what’s happening.”

“It is what’s happening.” Oscar tilts his head, unimpressed. “And you’ve just been letting it happen all season.”

Your arms tighten over your chest. “I don’t see how that’s my problem.”

Oscar shrugs. “It’s not a problem, it’s just… a situation you could easily resolve if you both stopped being so painfully repressed.”

You glare. “We are not repressed.”

Oscar snorts. “Oh, right. My mistake. Just two people who definitely don’t have unresolved tension standing in opposite corners of the paddock, staring dramatically across the room like they’re in a period drama.”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “I hate that you’ve started narrating my life.”

“Then fix your storyline.”

There’s something about the way he says it—calm, like he already knows he’s right, like he’s just waiting for you to figure it out yourself—that makes your stomach turn. You hate that there’s truth in his words, that deep down, you already know what’s happening here. You hate that ignoring it has been easier.

And you really hate that Oscar sees through you so easily.

“Just talk to him already,” he says, exasperated.

You huff, pretending to check your nonexistent watch. “Wow, would you look at the time? That’s enough of Oscar’s therapy hour.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

You push off the doorframe. “I have very important things to do.”

Oscar smirks. “Like knocking on Lando’s door?”

“Like avoiding you,” you correct, already walking away.

He grins, but doesn’t push it further. “Let me know how it goes.”

…

Your heart is pounding by the time you knock.

It’s stupid. You’ve seen him a thousand times before. You’ve spent years around him. But something about this—about actively choosing to be here, about acknowledging something unspoken after months of pretending—makes your nerves coil tight in your stomach.

There’s a brief pause, the muffled sound of movement inside, and then the door swings open.

Lando stands before you, still in his race suit, half unzipped, sleeves tied loosely around his waist, the fabric clinging to the remaining sweat on his skin. His hair is a mess, damp, sticking up in different directions. Hot.

He looks at you, and for the first time, he doesn’t try to mask it.

There’s no indifference. No forced distance.

Just recognition.

“Hey,” he says, voice lower than usual, rough around the edges.

You swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is, of the heat radiating off his skin, of the way his fingers twitch slightly against the doorframe.

“I just…” You hesitate, feeling a little stupid, a little out of place. “I wanted to say good luck. And that I’m happy to see you doing so well.”

Lando’s expression flickers. Not surprise, not exactly, but something close.

You don’t give yourself time to overthink it.

Before you can stop yourself, you step forward and wrap your arms around him.

He freezes.

It’s a split second—his whole body tensing like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. His arms remain stiff at his sides, and for a moment, you think this was a mistake.

Then, slowly, he exhales.

His fingers brush against your back, hesitant at first—then firmer, pressing lightly against your spine. He doesn’t hold you tightly, but he holds you.

Your face is against his shoulder, and for a moment, neither of you move.

Then, just as quickly as you stepped into him, you pull away.

You meet his eyes for a brief second, your pulse a little uneven, and then, just to break the tension, you flash a small grin.

"Right. So. Uh… don’t crash, I guess?"

Lando lets out a short, breathy laugh—like he wasn’t expecting that.

And then you turn on your heel and walk off, leaving him standing in the doorway, watching you go, hands still hovering slightly at his sides like he’s not sure what just happened.

…

The paddock is quiet now, the chaos of the race replaced by a slow, methodical dismantling of the weekend. Mechanics move with practiced ease, packing up equipment, coiling cables, loading crates. The bright lights above cast long shadows across the pit lane, stretching out into the empty grandstands.

You lean against the railing of the paddock terrace, high above it all, watching the world wind down. There’s something almost peaceful about it—the way everything slows after the high-energy storm of the season’s final race.

Oscar was supposed to meet you here, but you don’t mind the solitude. After months of back-to-back weekends, the rare quiet feels like a luxury.

Then, you sense someone stepping beside you.

You don’t even have to turn. You already know it’s him.

Still, when you do, Lando is watching you.

His race suit is still tied around his waist, curls damp from the post-race exhaustion. His face is unreadable, but his presence is steady, intentional.

“Hey, you,” he murmurs.

You smile softly. “Hey.”

For the first time in months, standing next to him doesn’t feel like balancing on a tightrope. There’s no hesitation in the silence, no unsaid words pressing against the edges. Just a quiet that feels comfortable. Familiar.

Lando exhales, staring down at the pit lane below. His fingers tap lightly against the railing, like he’s debating something.

Then—he sighs.

“I’m sorry.”

You blink, caught off guard. “For what?”

A small, self-deprecating laugh escapes him. “For how I’ve been acting all season. For ignoring you. For being… whatever the hell that was.”

You nod, gaze flickering back to the track. “Yeah. You were kind of a dick.”

He chuckles under his breath. “I know.”

There’s a weight in the air, but it isn’t suffocating. Just something that has been waiting too long to be acknowledged.

Lando shifts closer, resting his elbows on the railing. His hands grip the metal a little tighter than usual.

“I didn’t handle things well,” he admits.

You glance at him. “What things?”

His jaw tightens. He hesitates. Then—

“Seeing you every weekend. Looking all happy with Oscar. It was—” He stops himself, inhaling deeply. “It was fucking unbearable.”

You cut him off before he can spiral. “Oscar was just being nice. Made me feel welcome.”

It’s a subtle dig. You know it. He knows it.

Lando scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, I hated it.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “Lando… do you know what was actually nice about spending time with Oscar?”

His lips press together, shoulders tense. “Enlighten me.”

You keep your voice casual, but there’s an edge to your words.

“Being treated like I exist.”

His jaw flexes. He hears the meaning beneath it.

Lando shifts, his weight rocking slightly onto his heels. He stares down at the pit lane for a long moment, then exhales slowly.

“It’s hard, you know?” His voice is quieter now, rougher. “Trying to move on from something when it still feels unfinished.”

He swallows, glancing at you, then, carefully—

“I didn’t think I moved on.”

Your breath catches.

“What?”

He looks at you then—really looks at you. There’s something raw in his expression, something vulnerable.

“I thought ignoring you would make it easier. That if I acted like you weren’t there, maybe I could get over it.” He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “It didn’t fucking work.”

You exhale, finally understanding.

“Truthfully?” You pause, then admit, “I never moved on either.”

His eyes flicker with something unreadable. Relief. Frustration. Longing. Maybe all of it at once.

“Then why did we do this to ourselves?” he mutters.

You shake your head. “Because we’re idiots.”

He laughs, breathless, like he can’t believe it. “Yeah.”

The weight of the moment settles between you both. It stretches, thickens, morphs into something tangible. Something inevitable.

Then, suddenly, the air shifts.

Lando’s gaze drops—to your lips.

It lingers.

Your heart pounds, but you don’t move away this time.

Hesitantly—like he’s giving you the chance to stop this, to pull back—he leans in.

And you meet him halfway.

The kiss is soft at first. Tentative, hesitant, like he’s testing the waters, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away. His lips brush against yours, light as air, but the way his fingers graze your jaw, the way his breath catches, gives him away.

Then, slowly, something shifts.

His hands slip to your waist, fingers pressing against the fabric of your shirt, tentative at first, then firmer. He pulls you flush against him, your bodies aligning in a way that feels too natural, too easy, like you were always meant to be here.

And then he deepens it.

Not rushed, not desperate but slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring it, like he’s trying to make up for every wasted second. Like he knows this moment is fragile and he doesn’t want to risk breaking it.

Your fingers slide into his curls, damp from the night, messy from the hours he’s spent in his helmet, but softer than you imagined. The second you do, he exhales—a sound somewhere between a sigh and relief, like this is what he’s been waiting for, like something inside him is finally settling into place.

The world shrinks.

The paddock is forgotten.

It’s just him.

Just you.

Just this.

And when you finally pull away, your breath is uneven, your hands still tangled in his hair.

Neither of you speak. You don’t need to.

Your forehead rests against his, both of you lingering in the space between, breath mingling, hearts still racing—like neither of you are quite ready to let go just yet

Lando grins—dazed, breathless, like he’s still processing it.

“So… does this mean you’ll bring me pancakes in Monaco next year?”

You groan, shoving his chest.

“You just kissed me, and that’s the first thing you say?”

“It’s an important question.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll consider it.”

Lando raises an eyebrow. “Consider it?”

“Yes. If you keep this up.”

He grins. “That shouldn’t be too hard.”

…

bonus scene 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. About time.”

You both jolt apart, startled, turning to see Oscar standing there, arms crossed, looking equal parts exasperated and amused.

Lando lets out an actual whimper before burying his face in your shoulder. “No. Nope. This is a dream. This isn’t real.”

Oscar tilts his head. “Nah, it’s real. And I wish it wasn’t.”

You press your lips together, trying not to laugh. “How long have you been standing there?”

Oscar throws his hands up. “Long enough to regret every decision that’s brought me to this moment.”

Lando, still hiding his face, mumbles into your shoulder. “If I don’t move, maybe he’ll go away.”

“Yeah, that’s what you tried with her all season, and look how that turned out,” Oscar deadpans.

Lando groans loudly before finally lifting his head to glare at him. “You’re the worst person I’ve ever met.”

Oscar nods, completely serious. “I was genuinely starting to think I’d have to suffer through another season of whatever that was.”

Lando throws his hands up. “I did not—”

Oscar holds up a finger. “Oh, you did. And I had to watch. Every week.”

Lando groans. “I hate everything about this.”

Oscar nods solemnly. “Yeah, well, so did I. I’d estimate I’ve aged about six years in the span of this season.”

You raise an eyebrow. “It was that bad?”

Oscar gestures vaguely. “I mean… watching you two pretend you didn’t carewas exhausting. Do you know how hard it is to be the only sane person in this situation?”

Lando chuckles under his breath. “Fair.”

Oscar narrows his eyes at him. “Oh, now you admit it?”

Lando shrugs. “Had to keep things interesting.”

Oscar scoffs. “For who? Your personal character development?”

You laugh, shaking your head as Lando sighs beside you.

Oscar, still looking far too pleased with himself, claps Lando on the back. “Alright, lovebirds. Carry on. Don’t let me stop you.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he simply turns and walks off, whistling like he’s just closed a major business deal.

Lando watches him disappear, blinking in mild disbelief. “We’re never hearing the end of this, are we?”

You grin, looping your arms around his neck.

“Nope.”

[sunkeji]

Finding out you're a girl 🫵🏻👯‍♀️😱⁉️

A/N: idk guys I lost my train of thought(s) so you get this. I decided to do this differently than the other ones.

C/W: mentions of bra, hinting at your pp (it's nth bad I promise), yuu is reader

Heartslabyul Savanaclaw Octavinelle

Riddle, Trey, Cater

Sorry guys but the Adeuce duo can't keep a secret for shit 😭. They have good intentions I promise but their approach is questionable. You've sent them out to get more pads during one of your horrible cramps. Sam sells them to you so all they need to do is go there, get the right one and come back.

Nothing is easy with them though 😔. Currently, they're crouched on the floor in the store room having a whisper-shouting argument of what sized pads to buy you.

During their heated debate of what kind of pads to get for you, they don't hear their 3 seniors walking into the shop and have stopped an Isle away from the storage room behind them.

"I think Yuu wants the longer ones."

"nah, I think they'll fit the medium one better"

"what? What do you mean by that??"

"you know the..."

"the what???"

"don't make say it!"

After hearing the familiar voices as well as bits and pieces of their unusual conversation coming from the room, Cater opens the door.

"uh what are you guys doing?"

The Adeuce duo whip their heads back to see Cater with his hand still on the door knob, Trey with an eyebrow raised and Riddle having a suspicious look on his face with his arms crossed.

"Are you stealing?" Riddle asks with growing irritation.

The Adeuce duo freeze like deer caught in headlights, their hands still clutching two different-sized packs of pads like they were some kind of forbidden treasure(?).

Ace, ever the quick thinker (or so he thought), blurted out, "We’re not stealing! We’re just… uhh… conducting a very important research project!"

Deuce, even more panicked than Ace aggressively nods his head. "Yeah! For school!"

Riddle’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "Science. For school." His voice was flat, dripping with disbelief.

Trey, ever the peacemaker (but also unable to resist the chaos), leaned in and squinted at the pads in their hands. "Ah, I see. A comparative analysis of absorbency levels?"

Cater, barely holding in his laughter, pulled out his phone. "This is so going on Magicam. ‘Heartslabyul’s Finest: Pad Investigators.’ #NotAllHeroesWearCapes #ButTheyDoBuyPads."

Ace turning bright red. "DON’T YOU DARE—"

Deuce, in a desperate attempt to salvage the situation, held up both boxes like a shield and went on a word vomit;

"Lookwe’rejusttryingtohelpYuu!Shesentustogetthesebecauseshe'sonherperiodandwedon’twannamessitup,andwhilewe'reonthetopic,Yuu'sagirlifyouhaven'tfigureditoutyet"

[Look we’re just trying to help Yuu! She sent us to get these because she's on her period and we don't wanna mess it up, and while we're on the topic, Yuu's a girl if you haven't figured it out yet]

A beat of silence.

Then Riddle sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We'd be more surprised if more people didn't know Yuu was a girl with how loud you two idiots always are. We've known since months ago when we heard you guys talking in the corridor"

Trey chimes in bringing focus back to the matter at hand; "So instead of asking which one she needed, you decided to have a covert operation in the storage room?"

Ace cross' his arms defensively. "Well, it’s embarrassing! We didn’t wanna yell it across the store!"

Trey, now fully grinning, shook his head. "Well, it's much too late for that AND Yet here you two are, whisper-shouting about pad sizes loud enough for all of Sage’s Island to hear."

Cater wipes a tear from his eye while giggling. "ugh, I can’t. I just can’t. Yuu’s gonna die when they hear about this."

Deuce groaned, slamming his head into a shelf. "We’re never gonna live this down, are we?"

Riddle, after a long, suffering pause, finally uncrossed his arms. "Just get the overnight ones. And for goodness sake, next time, write it down."

As the seniors walked away (Cater already typing at lightning speed to fill you in on what's happened), Ace and Deuce stood there, defeated, holding the correct pads at last.

Ace: "…We’re never doing Yuu a favor again."**

Deuce: "Agreed..."

Meanwhile, you're back at Ramshackle, curled up in pain, wondering why it’s taking so long to get pads and if you should’ve just asked Grim to steal some instead.

Ace & Deuce

The story starts when these 2 Knuckleheads are hanging out after class with you at the Ramshackle dorm and become curious of your belongings. While you're away, they're in your room opening drawers and looking at your things.

When they eventually get to your wardrobe, they're opening drawers haphazardly and looking at what minimal belongings you have, expecting to see normal guy clothes and hoping to find something to laugh at you about but the first thing they see is a bra. Both of them stop in their tracks and just stare at it speechless.

Deuce picks it up and stares at it while Ace's eyes grow wide and smacks it out of his hands, sending the bra flying. "Don't touch it dummy! don't you know what that is?!".

Unexpectedly, you enter the room at the exact moment your bra lands on the floor, right in front of you.

Ace immediately points at Deuce and shouts; "IT WAS DEUCE! HE'S THE PERVERT!". Deuce immediately gets red at that while shouting that he's not a pervert and then the 2 of them have started slapping and shoving each other, completely forgetting the precarious situation they were caught in.

Grim grabs your pants leg and stares from behind you. "Welp, looks like the cat's out of the bag."

[vivwritesfics]

On Your Head

You wanna wear the hat? You gotta ride the cowboy

Warnings: 18+, smut, riding, dry humping

COTA. A time for cowboy hats. No matter how ridiculous they looked, it was the done thing for some drivers (none of them took it as far as Daniel Ricciardo did, riding Horsey MC Horse into the paddock).

Lando's sister loved the charm of COTA. She loved the track, loved the promos of drivers dressed up in cowboy hats and cowboy boots. It was different to the glamour of Monaco or intensity of Vegas.

It was fun in her eyes.

The first time she saw her brother in a cowboy hat, she folded over laughing. Lando wasn't born to be a cowboy, his curls poking out beneath the hat, his orange McLaren shirt not quite going with the brown hat. But that didn't matter. He was having fun.

Oscar didn't look the cowboy part either. She didn't know how much they paid him for this, to wear that cowboy hat through the paddock.

Here's the thing you have to understand about Y/N Norris. She loved all things cowboy. Cowboy books, cowboy TV shows. That was why COTA was her jam, why she went every with Lando every year.

(Basically, she knew the cowboy hat rule. She was VERY aware of the cowboy hat rule).

Now that Oscar was in the mix, it just made the charm of Cota better.

"Don't," Oscar said as he walked towards her, still wearing the hat. It was the grin she woke that had her stopping her before she said anything.

"What?" She asked, still grinning as she followed him through the paddock.

Oscar went to take the hat from his head, but she got there first. Pulling the hat from Oscars head, she placed it on her own.

Stepping beside Oscar, he threw his arm around her shoulders. "Have it," he said, absentmindedly leading her to his drivers room. "It looks better on you, anyway."

Hell yeah it did, and she knew it.

"Osc, do you know the cowboy hat rule?" She asked innocently.

It could have been sweet, but Oscar knew better. "Is that the whole 'save a horse, ride a cowboy' thing?" He asked, arm still around her shoulders.

She hid a giggle behind her hands. "No, not that," she said. "You wanna wear the hat, you gotta ride the cowboy."

Suddenly, Oscar stopped walking. His cheeks were flushed red as he stared ahead.

This was it, she had broken him. That wasn't what she meant to do. She meant to make him blush and giggle. But he was completely red. From his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

"I'm only joking," she said and Oscar released a breath.

He kept walking, arm still around her as he led her into his drivers room. "Joking?" He echoed.

"Yeah," she sat on the sofa in his drivers room and stared up at him. Her tongue poked through his cheek. "Only joking. Maybe."

Maybe. Maybe she was joking. Maybe she really did want to ride him.

Oscar swallowed as he sat on the sofa beside her. His big hands sat on his thighs, tempting. Like dangling a bone in front of a job and expecting it not to jump.

"Maybe?" Oscar asked.

It wasn't like he hadn't thought about it. But she was Lando's sister. If Lando found out, he'd kill him. And he had every opportunity to do so.

But maybe it was worth it. Just maybe.

She threw her leg over his lap and climbed onto it. "I got the hat on," she mumbled. Her hands sat on his shoulders. "All I gotta do now is ride the cowboy."

Oscar settled his hands on her waist. "I don't have the horse," he mumbled.

Her only reaction was to kiss him to shut him up. "What about all the times I wore your helmet?" She mumbled against his lips. "Same rule applies, right?"

"Yes," he replied breathlessly, squeezing her hips.

When she grinned, he could feel it. "Got a lot of time to make up for," she whispered and moved her hips experimentally. Just rocking, just to feel him grow beneath her.

When Oscar released a groan, she stopped. "We don't have to do this," she mumbled, pulling away from him slightly.

But Oscar kept his hold on her tight. "Don't stop," he whispered and she stared up at him from beneath her hat.

Again, she moved her hips, rocking them against him. Oscar helped, fingers digging into her sides as he moved her against him. Fuck, she kept up like this and he was going to blow his load in his trousers.

When he got to that point, positively leaking through the material of his underwear, Oscar pulled her off of him. "I... fuck," he said and breathed deep. "I need to he inside you right now."

It was a real pretty display, the way she stripped down to nothing but that cowboy hat.

Completely bare before him, she wiggled her hips as she leaned over and pulled down the zip of his trousers. A grin was painted on her face as she popped the button and pulled him out.

"You got a condom?" She asked, hands braced on his thighs.

Oscar raised his hips up slightly and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. He pulled a condom from between the folds, discarded his wallet and pulled it open. In a matter of moments he rolled the latex over his dick.

Sinking down onto him was easy work. She held her breath as she did so, gripping the material of his shirt as he did so. Oscar's eyes were blown wide, watching the way she sank down onto him.

Utterly full of him, she kissed him again.

This was it, he was inside of Lando's sister. Holy fuck, he was inside of Lando's sister.

"Ride the cowboy," she whispered and began moving. Lifting herself up and sinking herself back down onto him again and again. She let her eyes fall shut, her grip on him growing tighter.

There came a point where she couldn't tell who the moans of desperation came from. He held her, moving her up and down and she clenched down around him.

His name left her lips again and again. So close, so damn close, she threw her head back. The hat tumbled from her head, falling to the floor, but neither of them cared.

Lifting herself up became a struggle, her limbs trembling with the exhaustion. Nearly there, just a little more. Oscar clenched his jaw as he helped her move, as he finally tipped her over the edge.

Her head hit Oscar's shoulder as he gave a few more thrusts. His breaths came out in pants as he spilled inside of the condom.

Oscar pulled her off of him. His chest heaved as he held her against him. The two of them took a moment to gather themselves, pressed against each other.

"I'll wear your helmet next week," she whispered and tucked herself against his sweaty neck.

"Can't wait."

Oscar's fingers brushed up and down her arm as he held her against him. Perfectly content, hidden away in his drivers room.

But then a knock came at the door. "Oscar? You in there?" The handle jiggled. "Can I come in?"

"Fuck!" She cried.

"Lando!"

[stxxrlights]

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐀𝐘?... 𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍!

headcanons of jjk men based on this ask

you set up your camera while your lovely boyfriend is laying on your bed, doom scrolling on his phone. you set up the camera, and angle were both you and your boyfriend are visible and hit record.

☆𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔

"one thing you need to know about him first is that he's a big baby. so starting the call with 'hey baby', gets him swooning like a twelve year old with a crush"

"now hold on!", you're trying hard stifle a laugh as he sits up. "what are you talking about?"

"don't act like you don't like it"

"i didn't say that. it's just that how can you think i'm a bigger baby than you", he raises his brow at you, his phone now discarded on the bed.

"because you are", he rolls his eyes.

"weren't you the one who cried literal tears when you finished the ice cream?"

"that's different"

"literally, how?", he stands up and crosses his arms over his chest as you're both smiling at each other like idiots. "do not believe this girl. she is a pathological liar", he leans in and says to the camera and then turns his attention to you. "now, come to bed with me i wanna cuddle"

"look who's a big baby now"

"that's different!"

☆𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔

"so basically, my boyfriend blushed so hard when i call him my little adorable pookie wookie in the whole wide-"

"Wow, wow, wow...!", he interrupts you sitting up on the bed clearly offended. "why are we lying?"

"what are you talking about?", you ask, feigning innocence. he narrows his eyes, studying your face to make sure your not messing with him.

"anyways- as I was saying. he starts blushing and avoiding eye contact-"

"what the heck! literally when have i done that?"

"can you not interrupt me! i'm trying to make a tiktok"

"uh-uh! you are lying to these people", he gets up and walks towards you and spins you around in the chair. and in one swift motion he's got you on his shoulder making you let out a yelp.

"suguru!"

"no. until you learn how not to lie, then i'm gonna let you finish your cute little tiktok", he gives your as a light smack, startling you and then throws you on the bed. "for your punishment, your gonna cuddle with me until tomorrow"

"what! but we have things to do"

"should've thought about that before you lied"

☆𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎

"my boyfriend is the fucking cutest sometimes. especially on call, 'cause like he gets so flustered when i say 'i miss you so much', he just starts stuttering and-"

"sorry dear, but who are you talking you?", you turn around to look at your confused boyfriend.

"i'm recording a video ken", you lean so that he can see the camera, his confused face looking right back at him.

"what for?"

"well... to let people know how absolutely adorable and sweet my boyfriend is". he bows his head down and lets out a chuckle that makes you smile. he walks up infront of you and leans in, placing a lingering kiss on your lips. "what was that for?", you ask, a stupid grin on your face

"now they'll know how much i love you too"

☆𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎

"as scary as my boyfriend looks, he can be so adorable sometimes. like when i call him something like big daddy, he gets so exited"

"damn right i do!", you quickly gets up, a shit-eating grin on his stupid handsome face. he comes closer to the camera still with that smile. you roll your eyes at him trying to control your smile.

"you're so childish toji. i wanna talk to the people"

"uh-uh. let me tell you what other names she calls me; prince charming, the future father to her kids, papi-"

"okay there. slow down! when have i called you papi?"

"you haven't but you will", he raises his brows at you making you smile. "infact, why don't you call me that now"

"what are you talking about?"

"don't act like you don't know ma. you'll finish this later. right now... i need you..."

☆𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐌𝐄𝐍

he had seen you. watching you from his peripheral vision. he wasn't at all paying attention to his phone. but his attention on you was pulled further when you started talking.

"whenever my boyfriend's away, he's normally the one to call me. and he absolutely adores when i call him my sweet adorable baby"

"there has to be something wrong with you. because no", he suddenly says catching your attention.

"it's the truth though", he gets up and snatches your phone, reading the text and his brows furrowed even more.

"what is this? what trends have i missed?"

"it's not a trend. i'm just sharing my experiences to the world", you cross your arms over your chest.

"so we're lying now?"

"it's not lying if it's canon"

"i do not like it when you call me-"

"my sweet adorable baby", you say in a baby voice as his ears grow pink.

"that! i don't like that!"

"your body's saying otherwise", you tease him further, laughing as he narrows his eyes at you. he steps closer to you and lifts you up and you wrap your legs around his waist.

"i'm gonna teach you a lesson and we'll see if you still think i'm your adorable baby"

comments and reblogs are appreciated.

[retrowitchy]

katniss & peeta vs haymitch watching the 50th quell replay, 25 years apart (a textual comparison)

sunrise on the reaping:

"The recap opens on the reading of the card, which I watched from home with Ma and Sid in the spring. A little girl all dressed in white, the picture of innocence, lifts the lid on a wooden box filled with envelopes. They widen the shot to include President Snow, who intones, "And now, to honor our second Quarter Quell, we respect the wishes of those who risked all to bring peace to our great nation." He leans over and carefully selects the envelope marked with a 50 and reads the card inside. "On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district will be required to send twice as many tributes to the Hunger Games. Two female and two male. In this doubling of reparations, we remember that true strength lies not in numbers, but in righteousness,"" (SOTR, pg. 340)

catching fire:

"After the anthem, they show President Snow drawing the envelope for the second Quarter Quell. He looks younger but just as repellent. He reads from the square of paper in the same onerous voice he used for ours, informing Panem that in honor of the Quarter Quell, there will be twice the number of tributes," (CF, pg. 221)

sunrise on the reaping:

" "Maysilee Donner!" There's Maysilee, Merrilee, and Asterid clutching one another in the crowd. One of the tearful good-byes captured by Plutarch." (SOTR, pg. 340)

catching fire:

"...and then I hear the name "Maysilee Donner". "Oh!" I say. "She was my mother's friend." The camera finds her in the crowd, clinging to two other girls. All blond. All definitely merchants' kids. "I think that's your mother hugging her," says Peeta quietly.

And he's right. As Maysilee Donner bravely disengages herself and heads for the stage, I catch a glimpse of my mother at my age, and no one has exaggerated her beauty. Holding her hand and weeping is another girl who looks just like Maysilee. But a lot like someone else I know, too. "Madge," I say.

“That's her mother. She and Maysilee were twins or something,” Peeta says. “My dad mentioned it once.”" (CF, pg. 221 )

sunrise on the reaping:

"Incitatus Loomy could not have masterminded a finer parade. The frantic backstage prep never makes an appearance, just a amjestic, orderly rollout of the tributes. There's a final aerial shot of all twelve chariots cruising along the route in perfect sync, which ends about fifteen seconds before that blue firecracker exploded, sending the whole event into chaos. This is all the country saw anyway. You had to be there in person to know about the crrashing chariots and me holding Snow accountable for Louella's death." (SOTR, pg. 341)

catching fire:

"The chariot rides — in which the District 12 kids are dressed in awful coal miners' outfits — and the interviews flash by." (CF, pg. 222)

sunrise on the reaping:

"Lou Lou's reduced to a girl wearing live-reptile fashion, Maysilee's and Wyatt's memorable turns are entirely ignored, and I get one snarky exchange with Caesar:

"So, Haymitch, what do you think of the Games having one hundred percent more competitors than usual?"

"I don't see that it makes much difference. They'll still be one hundred percent as stupid as usual, so I figure my odds will be roughly the same."

The audience laughs, and I give them this grin that confirms me as a stuck-up, selfish jerk. No mention of my support of the Newcomers. No silly interplay about making booze for Peacekeepers. The rascal's just a jackass." (SOTR pg. 342)

catching fire:

"There's little time to focus on anyone. But since Haymitch is going to be the victor, we get to see one full exchange between him and Caesar Flickerman, who looks exactly as he always does in his twinkling midnight blue suit. Only his dark green hair, eyelids, and lips are different. 

“So, Haymitch, what do you think of the Games having one hundred percent more competitors than usual?” asks Caesar.

Haymitch shrugs.

“I don't see that it makes much difference. They'll still be one hundred percent as stupid as usual, so I figure my odds will be roughly the same.” The audience bursts out laughing and Haymitch gives them a half smile.

Snarky. Arrogant. Indifferent. “He didn't have to reach far for that, did he?” I say." (CF, pg. 223)

sunrise on the reaping:

"The jackass, meaning me, grabs his gear and hightails it out of there and then we get to watch the bloodbath, where eighteen kids are killed in excruciating detail." (SOTR, pg. 342)

catching fire:

"The beauty disorients many of the players, because when the gong sounds, most of them seem like they're trying to wake from a dream. Not Haymitch, though. He's at the Cornucopia, armed with weapons and a backpack of choice supplies. He heads for the woods before most of the others have stepped off their plates. Eighteen tributes are killed in the bloodbath that first day." (CF, pg. 224)

sunrise on the reaping:

"Up until this point, I think the recap's been a fair record of what occurred in the arena. However, on Day 2, things start to go wonky. At some point, Maysilee, on her own, kills the boy from District 1, Loupe, which I believe to be true because she told me this. There are a lot of tributes still recovering from the poison and the Career pack's hunting Newcomers. That, too, seems likely. But the recount of what happened in the woods, my tale, begins to deviate almost immediately. Timelines are twisted. Connections misleading. It's less flat-out lying than lying by ommission. For instance, I see myself fighting squirrels, although they weren't around until the third day when I fought them to save Ampert. But we haven't even met up yet, so I seem to be trying to save my own life. They show Lous Lou gasping in the flowers, only I'm nowhere in sight. Later, I'm just running from the butterflies without even a glimpse of my feeling with her body, hiding in the willows, and bringing on the shockers as punishment." (SOTR, pg. 343)

catching fire:

"Others begin to die off and it becomes clear that almost everything in this pretty place—the luscious fruit dangling from the bushes, the water in the crystalline streams, even the scent of the flowers when inhaled too directly—is deadly poisonous. Only the rainwater and the food provided at the Cornucopia are safe to consume. There's also a large, well-stocked Career pack of ten tributes scouring the mountain area for victims. Haymitch has his own troubles over in the woods, where the fluffy golden squirrels turn out to be carnivorous and attack in packs, and the butterfly stings bring agony if not death. But he persists in moving forward, always keeping the distant mountain at his back. Maysilee Donner turns out to be pretty resourceful herself, for a girl who leaves the Cornucopia with only a small backpack." (CF, pg. 224 )

sunrise on the reaping:

"In fact, our picnic, the campout, the bombing of the tank, my rampage, and the arena going haywire- not a bit of that appears. The horrors of the volcano take center stage. The tributes experience the flame-shooting eruption, asphyxiation by the ash cloud, burns from the chemical lava. Twelve die." (SOTR, pg. 343)

catching fire:

"With the mountain spewing liquid fire, and the meadow offering no means of concealment, the remaining thirteen tributes — including Haymitch and Maysilee — have no choice but to confine themselves to the woods." (CF, pg. 225)

sunrise on the reaping:

"With the tank plot erased, my whole agenda seems to have been about getting to the end of the arena, which was, I guess, my cover story. It rains, but they've concealed all the bombing's damage. The arena's as perfect as ever. I get trapped in the hedge, follow the gray rabbit to freedom, and run into Panache and company." (SOTR, pg. 343)

catching fire:

"Haymitch seems bent on continuing in the same direction, away from the now volcanic mountain, but a maze of tightly woven hedges forces him to circle back into the center of the woods, where he encounters three of the Careers and pulls his knife." (CF, pg. 225)

sunrise on the reaping:

""We'd live longer with two of us." Oh, Maysilee. I am mortified to be sitting here." (SOTR, pg. 344)

catching fire:

"“We'd live longer with two of us.” “Guess you just proved that,” says Haymitch, rubbing his neck." (CF, pg. 225)

sunrise on the reaping:

"Is it Day 4 or 5? Maysilee and my attempts to carve our way through the hedge have merged into one big sequence that involves the ladybugs and blowtorch. We're on the cliff that looks down on the treacherous rocks, but they steer clear of the generator. They've edited out the cannon announcing Maritte's death and with it the part where Maysilee says she's just going back for the potatoes, so it looks like we've really decided to split up." (SOTR, pg. 344)

catching fire:

"When they finally do make it through that impossible hedge, using a blowtorch from one of the dead Careers' packs, they find themselves on flat, dry earth that leads to a cliff. Far below, you can see jagged rocks. 

“That's all there is, Haymitch. Let's go back,” says Maysilee. 

“No, I'm staying here,” he says.

“All right. There's only five of us left. May as well say good-bye now, anyway,” she says. “I don't want it to come down to you and me.” 

“Okay,” he agrees. That's all. He doesn't offer to shake her hand or even look at her. And she walks away." (CF, pg. 226)

sunrise on the reaping:

"The pink birds attack Maysilee and she screams. For the first time, I look like I might be redeemable because I run to her aid. Oh, no. They haven't turned this into a redemption story, have they? Selfish rascal learns to care about others? Please tell me no." (SOTR, pg. 344)

catching fire:

"The alliance is over and she broke it off, so no one could blame him for ignoring her. But Haymitch runs for her, anyway. He arrives only in time to watch the last of a flock of candy pink birds, equipped with long, thin beaks, skewer her through the neck. He holds her hand while she dies, and all I can think of is Rue and how I was too late to save her, too. " (CF, pg. 227)

sunrise on the reaping:

"I appear to have finally remembered that I belong to a wider alliance so I'm going to the rescue, when the cannon sounds and I come upon Silka, Wellie's head in hand. Smash cut to the golden squirrels stripping Maritte to the bone. No matter that she's been long dead by this time." (SOTR, pg. 345)

catching fire:

"Later that day, another tribute is killed in combat and a third gets eaten by a pack of those fluffy squirrels, leaving Haymitch and a girl from District 1 to vie for the crown." (CF, pg. 227)

sunrise on the reaping:

"Silka dies, her cannon fires, and I'm hanging on by a thread. The sunflower bomb, the quartz, the flint striker- there's no record of any of them. All of them gone or tucked away from sight. The hovercraft removes Silka's body. Trumpets declare my victory. A claw closes around me." (SOTR, pg. 345)

catching fire:

"The cannon sounds, her body is removed, and the trumpets blow to announce Haymitch's victory. Peeta clicks off the tape and we sit there in silence for a while." (CF, pg. 228)

[mrsfancyferrari]

Marriage of Convenience

Summary: Lewis has to get married to you for a year for his engagement in Ferrari. Who knew how much he would get sucked into your life…. pt 1

Song: Heartless · The Weeknd

Author’s note: Hey guys! I saw some tiktok that was about tropes with F1 drivers and Lewis's one was marriage of convenience. It has stuck with me ever since! I'll be using some real results from the races so it will not always be updated every week! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 18.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

Lewis Hamilton, the illustrious Formula One champion, stood in the opulent office of his PR manager, the walls adorned with gleaming trophies and framed newspaper articles detailing his meteoric rise in the racing world.

The sun cast a warm glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the room in a hue of gold that matched the luxury that surrounded him.

Yet, the warmth did little to dispel the chill that had settled in his stomach at the mention of the words "marriage of convenience."

"But why now?" he pressed, his voice laced with a hint of desperation. "I've been single for years, and it's never been an issue."

His PR manager, a sharp-witted woman named Elena, leaned back in her chair, her fingers steepled under her chin.

She wore a smile that was both empathetic and firm, as if she knew this was a battle she'd already won.

"Lewis, my dear," she began, her British accent crisp and professional, "the rumors have been swirling like a tornado around a trailer park. Your personal life is becoming a distraction, and your competitors are using it to their advantage. A whirlwind romance, a quick 'I do,' and voilà, you're the settled, mature, and dedicated racer that everyone adores."

Lewis sighed, running a hand through his close-cropped hair. "Fine," he conceded with a begrudging nod. "But you're finding someone who understands this is all for show, right? No strings attached, no messy feelings."

Elena's smile grew wider, a knowing glint in her eye. "Leave that to me," she said. "I have the perfect candidate in mind."

"Her name is Y/N," Elena began, sliding a sleek manila folder across her desk. "She's a model and an influencer with a taste for fast cars and an even faster lifestyle."

She opened the folder to reveal a photograph of a breathtaking black woman with goddess braids that cascaded down her back like a midnight waterfall.

Her almond-shaped eyes sparkled with intelligence and a hint of mischief, her full lips curving into a smile that could make the sternest of hearts flutter. "Y/N understands the business, and she's more than capable of playing her part. She's signed an NDA that would make Fort Knox look like a suggestion box."

Lewis studied the photo, his heart racing slightly at the thought of being married, even if it was just for show. He wasn't a stranger to beautiful women, but this was different—this was a strategic move, a chess piece in the grand game of his career.

He cleared his throat, trying to push aside the butterflies. "Alright, let's get this over with. When do I meet her?"

Elena's smile remained unwavering. "Tomorrow night, I've set up a dinner meeting at Le Château de Lumières. It's the most romantic spot in the city, perfect for a first date that'll look like it was plucked from a fairytale."

Lewis nodded, his throat suddenly dry. "Fine," he murmured, his eyes still lingering on the picture. "But what happens after the season ends?"

Elena leaned in closer, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "Then, my dear Lewis, we orchestrate a spectacularly tragic fallout. Something dramatic, but not scandalous—perhaps you're both too busy with your careers, or you realized you were better off as friends. The public will eat it up, and you'll be free to pursue whatever—or whoever—you wish afterward."

He nodded, trying to calm down the tornado of emotions swirling inside him. Marriage, even a fake one, was a concept he'd never truly considered.

The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on his shoulders, but he knew he had to trust Elena.

She had a knack for spinning his life into gold, and if this was what she deemed necessary for his career to continue shining, then he'd have to go along with it.

Elena slid the folder back to him with a knowing smirk. "You can have the file if you want to admire her more," she teased, her fingertips brushing against the glossy surface of the photo. "Her numbers are in it, of course."

Lewis grumbled something unintelligible under his breath before snatching it and walking out of the office, his mind racing with a mix of apprehension and intrigue.

The folder felt heavier than it should have, as if it contained the weight of his future rather than just a few pieces of paper and a photo.

He knew the drill—fake relationships had been part of his public persona before, but marriage was a whole new level of commitment, even if it was just for show.

"Remember to study her likes and hobbies, you might find something in common," Elena yelled from the office. He couldn't help but smirk at her enthusiasm—it was infectious. He knew she had his back, and that was all that mattered.

Back in his penthouse, Lewis found himself staring at the folder on his coffee table, Y/N's mesmerizing eyes peeking out from the photograph.

He decided to take Elena's advice, eager to find common ground with his soon-to-be fake wife. As he scanned through the pages detailing her life, he found himself genuinely intrigued.

Her love for fast cars, her charity work, and her penchant for extreme sports mirrored his own passions.

Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad after all.

With a sigh of resignation, he pulled out his phone and searched for her social media profiles. He told himself he was only interested in her fashion sense, but as he scrolled through her feed, he couldn't help but admire her beauty.

Each picture was a masterpiece of angles and lighting, showcasing not only her impeccable style but also the way she carried herself with an air of confidence and grace.

Her figure was a symphony of curves, each one highlighted by the designer garments she modeled. But he was a man of integrity, so he focused solely on her outfits, nodding in approval at her exquisite taste in luxury brands.

He noticed her love for racing reflected in some of her captions, with shots at various Formula One tracks around the globe. It was clear that she had an appreciation for the sport that went beyond the glamour.

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"Fans would definitely believe this," he murmured to himself, his thumb hovering over the screen.

They both shared a love for speed and the thrill of the chase—both on and off the track.

With a sigh, he set his phone aside and rolled onto his back, his thoughts racing faster than his cars ever could. The reality of the situation was setting in: he was about to embark on a season-long charade with a woman he had never even met. His stomach churned with a mix of anxiety and anticipation.

As he lay there, the sound of a bark pierced the silence, jolting him out of his contemplative haze. Quick footsteps approached, and before he could react, Roscoe's furry face poked into the doorway. The bulldog's eyes sparkled with curiosity, his tail wagging enthusiastically.

"Did you have a good nap, Roscoe?" Lewis asked, his voice thick with affection. The dog's response was a series of eager growls and sniffs as he trotted over to his dad, his paws thumping rhythmically against the hardwood floor.

Lewis chuckled and sat up, his six-pack abs rippling as he did so. He reached out and scratched behind Roscoe's ear, the dog's eyes closing in bliss. The simple act of bonding with his pet helped to ease the tension that had been building in his chest.

"Alright, buddy," he said, standing and stretching. The fabric of his sweatpants outlined the firm muscles of his thighs and the curve of his ass, evidence of countless hours spent in the gym and behind the wheel. "Tomorrow is a special day, so you better be on your best behavior. You're about to meet the woman who's going to be my fake wife and your fake mom for the season."

Roscoe cocked his head to the side, as if he understood the gravity of the situation. Lewis couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all—his burly bulldog playing step-son to a supermodel for the sake of his image. He stood up and padded over to the windows, his bare feet sinking into the plush carpet, the coolness a stark contrast to the warmth of the day outside.

He looked out over the bustling city, the setting sun casting a fiery glow across the horizon. It was a stark reminder of the race he'd run in the morning, the thrill of the wind in his face and the roar of the engine still echoing in his ears.

Tomorrow would be a different kind of race altogether—a race to win over the hearts of his fans, to keep the sponsors happy, and to maintain the facade of a perfect life. But as he felt the comforting weight of Roscoe's head on his leg, he realized that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be so bad to have a partner in this charade.

"Come on, let's get you a treat," Lewis said, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate through the room. He walked to the kitchen, the dog's nails clicking against the floor as he followed. The sleek chrome and marble surfaces gleamed under the pendant lights, a stark contrast to the warm, lived-in feel of the living room.

Lewis grabbed a treat from the jar on the counter and tossed it to Roscoe, who caught it with surprising grace for his bulk. "You're going to need to charm her, buddy. Maybe even more than you charm the judges at those dog shows."

The bulldog's eyes lit up, and he trotted over to his bed, the treat forgotten as he began to perform a series of clumsy, yet earnest tricks.

Lewis couldn't help but laugh as he watched Roscoe's antics. "I think she'll love you," he said, his voice filled with affection. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. We're both just actors in this little play."

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

"Y/N, repeat what you just said," your mother repeated, looking utterly perplexed, her perfectly manicured hand hovering over the delicate china teacup as if it were a lifeline to sanity.

"I signed a contract to 'marry' Lewis Hamilton for a year," you announced with the casual air of someone discussing a weekend getaway, a smug smile playing on your lips as you watched the shock ripple through her impeccably made-up visage.

"The Lewis Hamilton?" she queried, her eyes narrowing to slits as she tried to process the ludicrous information you'd just served up like a hot slice of gossip at a high society luncheon.

"Yes, Mother," you drawled, not bothering to look up from your phone as you swiped through the latest collection of designer shoes. "The very one who races cars and breaks hearts for a living. But don't worry, this is strictly business."

Her silence was palpable, thick enough to slice with a knife. You could almost see the cogs whirring in her head, trying to piece together this unexpected jigsaw puzzle of your life.

Finally, she found her voice, "Why on earth would you agree to such a… such a… frivolous arrangement?"

"To boost our engagement," you said, enunciating each word with the precision of a seasoned politician, raising your gaze to meet hers. "It's a win-win, really. His fanbase goes through the roof, and I get to live like a queen for a year. Plus, think of the networking opportunities!"

"But your reputation," she gasped, setting the teacup down with a clink that sounded like a death knell for your social standing.

You rolled your eyes, "Mother, it's all just for show. And it's not like we're actually going to be doing the whole marriage thing. We're just going to pretend."

Her sigh was one of resignation, tinged with a hint of disappointment. "I just hope you know what you're getting into," she murmured, her eyes searching yours for a glimmer of doubt.

"Trust me, I've got it all figured out," you assured her, your voice a blend of confidence and nonchalance that would make any business mogul proud. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, I need to go pick out a wedding dress. The press will be all over this, and I can't disappoint them with a lackluster wardrobe."

Your mother's expression was a masterclass in poise under pressure. "Very well," she conceded. "Send me the pictures. I'll handle the social media side of things."

You leaned in to kiss her cheek, the scent of her expensive perfume lingering as you pulled away. "Thanks, Mother," you said with a wink. "I knew you'd understand."

As you sailed out of the room, her voice followed you like a soft breeze. "Just remember, darling," she called after you, "keep your emotions out of it. You're playing a role, nothing more."

Your heart thudded in your chest, a delicious mix of excitement and trepidation. You had signed up for a year of make-believe with the world's most desired man, and you had no intention of letting reality spoil the fantasy.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The velvet leash grew taut as Lewis tugged it gently, urging the bulldog, Roscoe, to follow him through the dimly-lit corridor. The dog's jowls swayed with each reluctant step, a silent protest to the indignity of being tethered like a mere accessory.

Despite his displeasure, Roscoe's curiosity about the evening's events remained piqued. The whisper of fabric against fabric grew louder as they approached the private dining room, where the scent of fine cuisine wafted through the air.

"Come on, Roscoe, you have to meet her too," Lewis murmured, his voice a blend of excitement and nerves.

The restaurant's peculiar policy of leashing dogs seemed almost comical in the grand scheme of the evening, yet it was a small price to pay for the exclusivity of the venue.

The walls of the corridor were adorned with paintings of pastoral scenes, a stark contrast to the urban jungle outside.

Upon entering the room, a soft glow from the candles on the table cast a warm embrace around the figure of a woman who was more than just beautiful—she was an embodiment of elegance.

Her eyes sparkled like the diamond necklace that hung delicately around her neck, and her smile was as radiant as the polished silverware that lay before her.

As they drew closer, the air grew thick with anticipation, charged with the electricity of new beginnings and the thrill of the unknown.

Y/N's gaze fell upon the unusual duo—Lewis, the charming billionaire, and Roscoe, the leashed bulldog. Her eyes narrowed playfully as she took in the scene.

She knew that this was not a typical dinner date, and that was precisely what made it so alluring.

"Well, hello, Mr. Hamilton," she purred, her voice a velvet caress that seemed to resonate through the very air. "I'm surprised you didn't bring your entire zoo."

Lewis chuckled, his grip on the leash loosening as he felt the tension in the room dissipate.

"Ms. Y/N, I assure you, this is a very special occasion. Besides, I thought you'd appreciate the company of my best man here."

Her smile grew, a knowing twinkle in her eye. "Best man, huh?" she said, standing up with the grace of a gazelle. "I see you've got a sense of humor, Mr. Hamilton."

Roscoe, feeling the shift in the room, allowed his tail to wag slightly, his earlier annoyance forgotten as he caught the scent of her perfume.

It was a sweet, intoxicating blend of jasmine and vanilla that seemed to speak of exotic lands and passionate nights.

"And who's this handsome boy?" she cooed, leaning down to address Roscoe. The bulldog, ever eager for affection, leaned into her touch, his eyes closing in pleasure.

"Ah, this is Roscoe," Lewis said with a touch of pride. "He's a bit of a diva, but I assure you, he's quite well-behaved when properly motivated."

Y/N reached out to stroke the dog's head, her fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary, feeling the softness of his fur and the warmth of his body.

"Well, it seems I've got quite the welcoming committee," she said, straightening up to her full height and extending a hand to Lewis.

Their fingers met in a firm, yet delicate handshake, sending a thrill up his spine. Her touch was cool and smooth, like the finest silk, and it sent a jolt through his body that he hadn't felt in years.

"Lewis, please," he said, his voice a whisper. "I think we can dispense with the formalities."

Her hand remained in his, the warmth from their palms mingling, creating a current that seemed to pulse through the very air that surrounded them.

Y/N's eyes searched his, looking for a hint of what was to come, a promise of the evening's delights.

"Very well, Y/N," he murmured, the sound of his voice a caress that seemed to stroke her very soul. "Shall we sit?"

The three of them moved to the table, the leather chairs creaking softly as they settled into them. The table was set with fine china, the crystal glasses casting rainbows of light across the crisp, white linen.

A bottle of champagne chilled in an ice bucket, the promise of a celebration yet to unfold.

As they sat, Y/N couldn't help but feel a strange sense of déjà vu, as if she had been here before, with another man, under very different circumstances.

But this was no ordinary man, and this was certainly no ordinary dinner. The weight of the necklace grew heavier, a silent reminder of the deal she had struck.

The waiter, a young man with impeccable manners, approached with a silver tray laden with hors d'oeuvres. His eyes flickered briefly to the leash in Lewis's hand before he focused on the couple, his expression unchanged.

"Your usual, Mr. Hamilton?" he inquired.

"Yes, thank you, Freddie," Lewis replied, his gaze never leaving hers. "And for the lady?"

Y/N's eyes roved over the selection, her stomach fluttering with a mix of excitement and nerves. "Surprise me," she said with a smile.

The waiter nodded and deftly selected a few items before retreating, leaving them in the warm cocoon of the candlelit room.

The silence that followed was filled with the soft crackle of the candles and the distant clink of silverware on porcelain.

Lewis reached for the champagne bottle, his fingers sure and steady as he popped the cork with a flourish that sent a spray of bubbles into the air.

The sound was like a declaration of intent, a promise of the passion that was to come. He filled her glass, his eyes never leaving hers, and then his own.

"To new beginnings," he toasted, the crystal flutes clinking together like the ringing of wedding bells.

The bubbles danced in the golden liquid, a fizzy symphony of anticipation. Y/N took a sip, the cool liquid sliding down her throat with a tantalizing tickle that made her shiver.

She watched as Lewis did the same, his Adam's apple bobbing with the motion, a gesture she found inexplicably erotic.

"So, do you know more about this… arrangement," he asked, the word 'arrangement' rolling off his tongue like a secret shared between lovers.

"Yes, I do," she spoke politely, setting her glass down with a soft click. "We're supposed to take our wedding photos next week Thursday, but it can be changed if you like."

Her words hung in the air, a silent invitation for him to take the reins, to assert his dominance in this game of pretense they were playing.

He leaned back in his chair, stroking Roscoe's head as he contemplated her words. "I trust you have everything under control, then?"

Y/N's smile grew, a hint of mischief playing at the corners of her lips. "I always do."

"Excellent," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through her very core. "But there's something I need to discuss with you before we proceed."

Y/N's eyebrow arched slightly, a question lingering in her eyes. "And what might that be?"

Lewis took a deep breath, his gaze flicking to the dog for a brief moment before returning to her. "Do you mind if my dad comes with me?" he said, his voice a soft rumble. "He said this was the 'only' time he was going to see his son get married."

Surprise flitted across Y/N's features, but she quickly schooled her expression back to neutral. "Of course," she said, her tone even. "I would be happy to include your father in our…arrangement."

Lewis's eyes searched hers, looking for any sign of hesitation or mockery. Finding none, he nodded slowly.

"Thank you," he murmured, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. "He's quite the character, but he means well."

Y/N's smile grew warmer, her eyes gleaming with understanding. "I'm sure he does," she said. "And I'm quite fond of characters myself."

"As long as my mother can come too," she said, her voice teasing.

Lewis's eyes widened, his grip on the champagne flute tightening for a brief second before he managed to compose himself.

"Your mother?" he repeated, his voice a mix of incredulity and amusement.

Y/N nodded, a wry smile playing on her lips. "Yes, my mother. She's quite the socialite, you know. She'll make sure the photos are absolutely perfect for the society pages."

Lewis's eyes searched hers, trying to discern if she was joking or if this was a genuine request. The thought of his stern, business-like father being a part of their staged nuptials was one thing, but the addition of her mother, a woman known for her sharp tongue and even sharper wit, was another matter entirely.

"Your mother, you say?" he repeated, his voice laced with a hint of apprehension. Y/N nodded, her smile unwavering, and took another sip of her champagne, her eyes never leaving his.

The bubbles danced on her tongue, a fizzy counterpart to the dance of emotions playing out before her.

Lewis's mind raced, trying to imagine the woman who had raised the enigmatic Y/N, who had agreed to this unorthodox union for the sake of his own ambition.

He could almost hear the whispers of her reputation, the tales of her social triumphs and the occasional scandal that had graced the pages of high society magazines.

"I see," he said finally, his tone measured. "And what does your mother think of… our arrangement?"

Y/N's laughter was like a chime of fine crystal, delicate and alluring. "Mother is quite thrilled," she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "She's always had a soft spot for a man who knows his worth and isn't afraid to show it."

Lewis couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease. Her mother's presence would add an unexpected dynamic to the already complex situation. But he knew better than to argue with a woman who could navigate the treacherous waters of high society with such ease.

"Very well," he conceded, his smile forced but genuine. "The more the merrier, I suppose."

The tension between them eased as they delved into their meals, the succulent flavors of their dishes a delightful distraction from the unspoken tension.

Roscoe, seemingly aware of the shift, settled at Lewis's feet, his snoring a gentle bass line to their conversation.

"Your mother is quite…known," Lewis said, choosing his words carefully. "What should I expect?"

Y/N's gaze grew distant as she thought of her mother. "Expect the unexpected," she replied with a knowing smile. "But she has a heart of gold beneath that tough exterior."

They ate in silence for a few moments, the weight of the unspoken contract hanging heavy in the air.

Finally, Y/N cleared her throat. “We should probably talk about…appearances. What’s the plan for things like…races?”

Lewis leaned back in his chair, pushing his plate away. "Right. Races. Well, the team and my management have a schedule in mind. They want us to be seen together at as many events as possible. It’s all about maximizing…visibility."

Y/N frowned slightly. “Visibility. Right. Well, my work is quite demanding, but I'll be able to attend at least 3 races at the start before my work starts again.”

Lewis seemed surprised. “Three? That’s…more than I expected, actually. Which races?”

“China, Japan, and Australia,” she replied. “I managed to clear my schedule for them. After that, it will be more difficult, but I can try to make a few here and there when I have more time.”

“Australia is a long way,” Lewis commented, more to himself than to her. “It’s a demanding circuit, and the jet lag is brutal.”

"I'm aware," Y/N said dryly. "I've traveled before."

He gave her a small, apologetic smile. “Of course. Sorry. It's just…it's a lot to ask you to be a part of this, especially knowing you have your own life and career.”

Y/N shrugged. "It is what it is. I agreed to it, didn't I?" she replied trying to stay formal.

Lewis nodded slowly. "Yes, you did. And I appreciate it. More than you know." He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time that evening.

He saw a hint of apprehension in her eyes, but also a surprising strength. He wondered, fleetingly, what she really thought about all of this.

“So, Australia,” he continued, breaking the eye contact. “We’ll be traveling on different days, of course. Security and logistics are…complicated. But we’ll be staying at the same hotel. There will be a lot of press events, photo opportunities, things like that. My team will brief you on the details.”

Y/N resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Of course. I wouldn't want to deviate from the pre-approved narrative."

Lewis smirked, a genuine smile reaching his eyes for the first time. “You catch on quick. Look, I know this is all…surreal. And probably incredibly annoying. But I promise, I’ll try to make it as…bearable as possible. And I’ll try to be as respectful of your time and your life as I can.”

“I appreciate that, Lewis,” Y/N said, her voice softening slightly. “I’m not expecting this to be a fairytale, but I do expect us to treat each other with respect. We’re both professionals, and we should act like it.”

“Agreed,” Lewis replied, extending his hand across the table. "To professionalism."

Y/N hesitated for a moment before taking his hand. The contact was brief, but a faint spark seemed to pass between them.

It was nothing dramatic, just a subtle shift, a momentary acknowledgment of the strange and uncertain journey they were about to embark on together.

Lewis, observing Y/N stroking Roscoe, his bulldog, said, "So, what about dates?"

Y/N stopped mid-stroke, fixing him with a sharp glare. "Dates? Lewis, we're in a contractual agreement. This isn't real."

"What? I heard married couples still go on dates and we're going to be married soon," he retorted, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Y/N sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Fine. What are your hobbies so we can link them to it without making it too obvious that we're reading from a script?"

"Well, I like golfing, surfing, playing the piano…" he started, ticking them off on his fingers.

"Boring," Y/N teased, more out of habit than malice. Lewis didn't seem offended, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Okay, okay. What about you then? Give me something good to work with."

"Easy. Archery, animal riding, shooting…" she said casually, continuing to pet Roscoe.

"Shooting?" he repeated, thinking it was a joke. "Like…guns?"

"Yeah, shooting. I am one of the best shooters in my family," Y/N said matter-of-factly. Lewis looked genuinely shocked. "Guns? Really? You don't seem like a…gun person."

"Appearances can be deceiving," Y/N replied with a cryptic smile. "It's a family tradition. We've been competing in shooting competitions for generations. It's quite exhilarating, actually."

Lewis shook his head, seemingly trying to reconcile the image of the elegant, equestrian beauty with a crack shot. "Well, that's…unexpected. Maybe we could arrange a 'date' at a shooting range. Show the world a different side of you. Spice things up a bit."

Y/N considered this, a flicker of genuine interest in her eyes. “Perhaps. I haven’t been to the range in a while. I could certainly give you a lesson. Though I can’t promise you’ll be any good.”

Lewis laughed. "Challenge accepted. But you have to promise not to be too competitive. I'm a champion, you know."

"We'll see about that," Y/N said, a playful glint in her eyes.

The conversation drifted, covering details about their upcoming staged engagement party, the social media strategy, and the general rules of engagement (pun intended).

After an hour, they were both feeling the strain of the pretense. Roscoe, however, seemed to be thriving on the attention.

When they finally finished the catered lunch, Roscoe, true to form, woke up again, demanding belly rubs. It was time for Y/N to leave. Surprisingly, Lewis didn't want her to.

He found her sharp wit and unconventional hobbies intriguing.

"Do you need a ride home?" he asked, walking her to the grand entrance of the restaurant. The question felt surprisingly genuine, a departure from the carefully crafted facade.

"No, my friend is picking me up, thank you for the offer," she said.

They waited for a few minutes, a comfortable silence settling between them. The only sound was the gentle hum of the city in the distance. Then, a car pulled up and honked.

"That's her, I'll be going home now, bye Lewis," she said, her hand hovering for a moment before gently touching his arm.

The contact was brief, almost hesitant, but enough to send a strange flutter in his stomach. She then looked down, rubbing Roscoe's face, who was nestled in his arms. "Bye Roscoe, I'll see you soon,"

Then she walked down the opulent stairs, entered the waiting car, and with a final wave, she was gone, leaving Lewis standing alone in the doorway, Roscoe snoring softly in his arms.

That evening, Lewis found himself thinking about Y/N. He couldn’t deny she was interesting.

Far more interesting than the endless parade of socialites and models he usually surrounded himself with. . . .

▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀

The roar of the Ferrari engine faded, replaced by a dull hum in Lewis' ears. He should have been focused on the intricacies of the new aerodynamic package the mechanics were painstakingly explaining.

Instead, his mind was a runaway train, careening toward a single, looming destination: Y/N.

He was getting 'married' to Y/N. For a year. The absurdity of it all still felt surreal, even after weeks of negotiations, contracts, and carefully crafted press releases. It was a business arrangement, pure and simple.

A calculated maneuver orchestrated by his management team to boost engagement, fan interaction, and ultimately, his brand. A fake marriage.

He hadn't even argued. His career was his everything. He'd poured his life, his soul, into racing. If this…stunt, this temporary charade, helped solidify his position, then he'd play the part.

But that didn’t stop the unsettling flutter in his stomach.

He only half-heard the mechanic's concluding remarks, a jumble of downforce percentages and drag coefficients. He mumbled a thank you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and practically bolted from Maranello.

The image of Y/N in a wedding dress swam in his mind, a mirage both enticing and terrifying.

He gripped the steering wheel, pushing the car to its legal limit as he sped towards the Bridal Boutique. His own suit, a classic black tailored piece, was already sorted.

It had been his father’s, a detail that had felt strangely poignant amidst the manufactured romance.

Pulling up outside the boutique, he took a deep breath, trying to regulate his racing pulse. He stepped out of the car and headed inside, the tinkling of a bell announcing his arrival.

"Y/N's here," he announced to the receptionist, a woman with bright, friendly eyes. He felt a ridiculous need to justify his presence. "I'm…ah…Lewis Hamilton."

The receptionist's smile widened, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Ah, Mr. Hamilton! We've been expecting you. She's over there. You're a very lucky sir, she's very beautiful."

Lewis swallowed, feeling a lump form in his throat. He murmured a thank you and navigated through the maze of tulle and lace.

His gaze scanned the room, passing over blushing brides-to-be and their entourages, until he found her.

Y/N was standing on a raised platform, surrounded by fabric and mirrors. She was facing away from him, but even from this distance, he could see the curve of her neck, the way the light caught in her hair.

She was wearing a simple, elegant gown, ivory silk that cascaded to the floor.

The satin felt heavy against your skin, a stark contrast to the lightness you usually embraced. You stared at your reflection, a stranger in a sea of white lace and tulle. This wasn't you.

This wasn't the free-spirited, motorcycle-riding, target-shooting version of yourself that you carefully cultivated. This was… bridal.

And you were about to be a bride. For a year. To Lewis Hamilton, the racing prodigy whose reputation was as fast as his cars.

You swirled again, the dress billowing around you like a cloud. It was beautiful, objectively. Expensive, undoubtedly. But it felt like a costume, a character you were trying to embody but couldn't quite grasp.

Father would have loved it. Traditional, elegant, perfectly… safe. A sigh escaped your lips. Since when did you care about safe?

You had been trying on dresses for hours, each one more elaborate than the last. Each one failing to capture the essence of you. You knew Lewis was going to be late.

His team meetings always ran long, especially with the season going to be in full swing soon. He’d apologized profusely over the phone, his voice laced with a nervousness that mirrored your own.

You glanced at the clock on the wall. Still another hour to go. “Next!” you called out to the stylist, your voice echoing slightly in the opulent boutique.

You needed to get this over with before Lewis arrived. The thought of him seeing you in this parade of frills and lace sent a shiver down your spine.

Dress after dress, disappointment mounted. A mermaid gown that made you feel like you were suffocating. A ballgown that swallowed you whole. An A-line that was simply… boring. None of them felt right. None of them felt like you.

Standing before the mirror, you examined the latest contender – a strapless, heavily beaded monstrosity that sparkled under the chandelier light.

You looked like a disco ball. A very uncomfortable, very expensive disco ball.

“I can’t do this,” you muttered to yourself, the words barely audible. You had agreed to this arrangement – the fake marriage, the orchestrated photos, the carefully crafted narrative designed to boost Lewis’s public image.

You knew what you were signing up for. But seeing yourself in this getup, imagining walking down the aisle towards a man you barely knew, felt surreal.

He cleared his throat. "Y/N?"

You spun around, the heavy dress making the movement awkward. Lewis stood just inside the doorway, his shoulders filling the space.

The breath caught in his throat. The receptionist hadn't exaggerated. You were stunning. The dress, while beautiful, paled in comparison to your natural radiance. Your eyes, usually sparkling with playful mischief, were now tinged with a nervous apprehension that mirrored his own.

"Lewis," you said softly, your voice a low, melodic hum. "You made it."

He managed a weak smile. "Couldn't miss it. The… dress looks amazing on you."

"Thank you," you replied, your fingers nervously pleating the fabric. "Did… did you see your suit?"

"Yeah, it's… it's great. My father's. Which feels… I don't know, significant, somehow. Even though all of this..." He trailed off, gesturing awkwardly around the room.

"Is what it is," you finished for him, a hint of wry amusement in your voice. "A very public, very expensive, agreement."

The silence that followed hung heavy in the air, thick with unspoken anxieties and uncertainties. You both knew this wasn’t a real marriage.

It was a business transaction, a carefully calculated move to improve Lewis’s image and, let’s be honest, give your fledgling art career a boost. But standing here, in a bridal boutique, surrounded by the symbols of love and commitment, it felt… complicated.

"So," he said, trying to inject some levity into the situation, "are you ready to become Mrs. Hamilton for the next year?"

A small smile touched your lips. "As ready as I'll ever be. Just try not to crash the car on our wedding day, okay? Think of the engagement rates."

He chuckled, the sound easing some of the tension in his shoulders. "Wouldn’t dream of it. My driving is worth more than that." He paused, his gaze sweeping over you. "Is this the dress you're picking?"

You shook your head, the movement causing the beads to clatter softly. "I hate it. It doesn't represent me. It's… too much."

"Maybe your fiancé should pick one for you," one of your entourages said. You forgot they were even there. All this while they were sitting on the couch, probably bored out of their minds.

Lewis seemed surprised by the suggestion, but a playful glint appeared in his eyes. "Sure, I think I know your taste well." Before you could protest, he disappeared into the racks of dresses, a wide grin on his face.

"Don't pick something too girly!" you yelled after him, and you heard his laughter echo from behind a curtain.

You rolled your eyes and turned to your entourage, “I should have never let him do that.”

“But it’s too late now!”

Lewis emerged, holding a dress that was… surprisingly you. It was a sleek, ivory slip dress, with delicate lace detailing at the neckline and a subtle, almost imperceptible train. It was understated, elegant, and undeniably chic.

"Well?" he asked, holding it out. "Think this is more your style?"

You took the dress, running the silk through your fingers. "This is... perfect. How did you know?"

He shrugged, a self-deprecating smile on his face. "I've been paying attention. Besides, anything would be better than that monstrosity."

The fitting room suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker. You met his gaze, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. This was going to be a strange year, a year filled with pretense and performance.

But maybe, just maybe, there was a sliver of something real amidst the artifice.

"When I go change into this, why don't you go try on your father's suit?" you suggested, trying to break the unexpected tension.

Lewis's smile widened. "Good idea. I'll see you in a bit." He winked, and with that, he left the fitting room, leaving you alone with the dress and your increasingly complicated thoughts.

The ivory silk felt cool against your skin as you slipped the dress over your head. It fit perfectly, as if it had been made for you. You looked in the mirror, and for the first time since agreeing to this ridiculous scheme, you didn't feel like you were playing a part.

You felt… like yourself. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't be a complete disaster.

"Lewis? Are you there?" you asked hesitantly from behind the curtain.

"Yep, just waiting for my future wife to be revealed," he joked.

"Okay," you said shyly, feeling a blush creep up your neck.

You could hear the rustle of fabric and a muttered, "Alright, here we go." Then, with a dramatic flourish, the curtains were drawn open, revealing Lewis in a impeccably tailored suit.

It was classic, understated, and undeniably him. In his hands, he held a bouquet of bright yellow and blue flowers.

He stood there, momentarily speechless, his eyes fixed on you. The air crackled with an unspoken energy, a palpable tension that both thrilled and terrified you.

"Wow," he finally breathed, his voice a low rumble. "You look… incredible."

You felt your heart skip a beat. "You don't look too bad yourself."

He grinned, handing you the flowers. "Yellow and blue. They're your favorites, right?"

You took the bouquet, inhaling their sweet fragrance. "They are. Thank you."

"Right, we'll leave you alone to suck up the moment," the main entourage, Monica, announced, herding the rest of the entourage out of the room.

The door clicked shut, leaving you and Lewis alone in the opulent room. The weight of the situation settled heavily on your shoulders.

You walked towards the plush velvet sofa and sat down, the voluminous dress swallowing you whole.

"Where's Roscoe?" you asked, referring to Lewis’s beloved bulldog. "I miss him." You’d met Roscoe several times during the contract negotiations and found the wrinkly pup to be far more endearing than his owner, at least initially.

"So you miss my dog but not me, your future husband, your future love of your life, your…" Lewis teased, a playful glint in his eyes.

"Okay, okay, I get it," you said, slapping his arm lightly. "I missed you too." It wasn't entirely a lie. During the days of rehearsals and media training leading up to this day, you'd found yourself strangely comfortable around him.

He was surprisingly down-to-earth, considering his fame and fortune.

He chuckled, the sound easing some of the tension in his shoulders. "So… do you need help getting out of that dress? I'm sure you're dying to take it off."

You laughed, a genuine, bright sound that surprised him. "Actually, I was kind of enjoying it. Makes me feel like a real princess, even for a few hours."

"Well, you certainly look like one," he said, a genuine compliment escaping his lips.

"Alright, enough flirting," you said, trying to regain your composure. "We have a fake marriage to attend."

"Right," he said, suddenly remembering the logistics of the whole thing. "The venue, the vows, the… first dance."

"Don't worry," you said, your eyes twinkling. "I've taken care of most of it. The venue is a beautiful church outside of Florence. The vows are… well, let's just say they're carefully worded. And the first dance? I'm thinking something slow and romantic. What do you say?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Slow and romantic? You think you can handle it, Mrs. Hamilton?"

You grinned, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "Try me, Mr. Hamilton."

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I think… I think I might just enjoy that."

The drive to the church felt surreal. You were seated next to Lewis in the back of a sleek, black car, the Tuscan countryside whizzing by in a blur of vineyards and olive groves. You expected awkward silence, maybe a stilted conversation about the weather. Instead, Lewis surprised you.

"So," he began, turning to you with a genuine smile, "tell me, what do you actually know about Formula 1? Besides the fact that I'm supposedly good at it?"

You chuckled. "More than you probably think. I've been following the sport since I was a kid. My dad's a huge fan, and he practically raised me on a diet of qualifying laps and race strategy."

His eyes lit up. "Really? Most of the 'celebrity' guests I meet at the races barely know the difference between a pit stop and a penalty. It's… refreshing to actually talk to someone who gets it."

He launched into a detailed explanation of the upcoming season, his passion evident in every word. He spoke about the new regulations, the aerodynamic changes, the challenges they were facing with the car's performance.

"We're struggling with the downforce," he explained, his brow furrowed in concentration. "The simulations are promising, but we're not seeing the same results on the track. We're working on adjusting the suspension and the rear wing design to try and find that extra bit of grip."

You listened intently, nodding occasionally, asking informed questions. "Have you considered tweaking the differential settings? Maybe a more aggressive locking strategy could help with traction out of the corners?"

Lewis stopped mid-sentence, staring at you in surprise. "That's… actually a really good point. I hadn't thought of that. I'll bring it up with the engineers. You have to come to the factory in Maranello so you can get to know the team before the season starts."

"I'd like that," you admitted, a genuine smile spreading across your face.

This wasn't the superficial celebrity encounter you'd anticipated. He was treating you like an equal, someone whose opinion he valued. It was… disarming.

As the car pulled up to the church, a mix of nervousness and anticipation fluttered in your stomach. You were about to 'marry' a Formula 1 legend, a man you had met, for the sake of boosting his public image. The absurdity of the situation hit you full force.

The church was even more breathtaking in person. Nestled amongst rolling hills, its ancient stone walls seemed to whisper stories of centuries past.

There were some photographers strategically positioned, discreetly snapping aesthetic pictures of the venue. They were there to sell the illusion, to capture the romance that wasn't truly there.

Lewis left the car first, extending a hand to help you out. "Ready?" he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.

You took his hand, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver through you. You smiled and walked towards the entrance of the church, the sound of hushed chatter growing louder with each step. Your palms were sweating, and your heart hammered against your ribs. You were anxious. Terribly anxious.

Lewis squeezed your hand reassuringly. "It's gonna be great, wifey," he murmured, a playful glint in his eyes.

You nodded, trying to force a smile. "Just…don't call me that in public, okay?"

He chuckled. "Deal. And relax. Everyone here is in on it. It's just us, our friends and family."

The heavy wooden doors swung open, revealing a small gathering of people. You saw a mixture of familiar faces – yours and Lewis's close friends, the ones trusted enough to keep the secret – and family. All their faces were directed to you.

You and Lewis were immediately engulfed in hugs and pats on the back. Some of your friends were teary-eyed, overcome with emotion, while others offered proud congratulations. The scene was chaotic, overwhelming, and strangely…supportive.

"You look beautiful, darling," one of your friends gushed, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "I'm so happy for you both!"

You managed a weak smile. "Thanks, Sarah. Don't cry, you'll ruin your makeup."

Finally, you spotted your mom across the room, engaged in conversation with Lewis's father. Your mother was already crying, naturally. She always cried at weddings, even the fake ones. Seeing her emotional state made your own eyes start to sting.

"Mom!" you called out, gently extricating yourself from the throng of well-wishers.

Your mother turned and rushed towards you, engulfing you in a tight hug. "My baby is getting married!" she sobbed, her voice thick with emotion. "I'm so happy for you, sweetheart. He seems like such a wonderful man."

You glanced over at Lewis, who was smiling warmly at your mother. He could charm the birds out of the trees, you thought.

"He is, Mom," you said, deciding to play along. "He's wonderful."

She pulled back, holding you at arm's length, and examined your face. "Are you happy, darling? Really happy?"

You hesitated for a moment, the question hitting you with unexpected force. Were you happy? You were about to embark on a year-long sham marriage with a man you barely knew. Logically, the answer should be no. But as you looked at Lewis, standing there patiently, a curious feeling began to stir within you. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to this arrangement than met the eye.

"Yes, Mom," you said, surprising yourself with the conviction in your voice. "I'm happy."

Your mother squeezed your hand. "That's all that matters. Now, go get married!" She beamed, wiping away a stray tear with the back of her hand.

Just then, Anthony Hamilton approached, his face etched with a nervous concern that mirrored my own. He fidgeted with his tie, avoiding direct eye contact.

"Y/N, dear," he began, his voice a low rumble. "Are you… are you sure you want me to do this?" He gestured vaguely towards the makeshift altar. "It’s not too late to back out, you know. Lewis… he can be a handful."

My heart went out to him. He was a good man, Anthony, despite the pressures of his son's demanding career. He probably felt as uncomfortable with this whole charade as I did.

"Of course, Mr. Hamilton," I answered, offering him my most reassuring smile. "I feel like it would be the best option for everyone." For Lewis's career, for my future, for my mother's peace of mind.

His eyes welled up, and he nodded slowly, his voice thick with emotion. "Alright, alright. But promise me you'll look after him, eh? He needs someone solid in his corner."

"I promise," I said, though I wasn't sure if I was promising him or myself.

"Alright! Everyone go to your positions now!" the videographer yelled, his voice cutting through the emotional tension like a rusty knife. The sound of hushed conversations and shuffling feet filled the room as everyone scrambled to their assigned seats along the aisle.

Anthony, after taking a deep breath, offered me his elbow. I placed my hand there, the silk of my dress cool against his suit. We walked behind the large oak doors that led into the ballroom, hiding from the expectant gaze of the crowd. I could feel my pulse throbbing in my ears.

Suddenly, the opening bars of "Canon in D" filled the room, a classic choice for a deeply un-classic situation.

"Ready?" Anthony asked, his voice barely a whisper.

I took a deep breath, forcing a calmness I didn't feel. "Ready."

The doors swung open, and I started to walk. Slowly. Deliberately. Each step was calculated, designed to capture the perfect angle for the cameras. The faces of the guests blurred into a sea of expectant smiles and glittering jewels.

She could see her mother beaming in the front row, her eyes brimming with tears. Y/N hoped they were tears of joy, not disappointment that her daughter was entering into such a transactional union.

At the end of the aisle, Lewis stood waiting, looking impossibly handsome in his custom-tailored suit. He caught my eye, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I saw something flicker in his gaze – a vulnerability, perhaps, or just a raw, naked ambition.

We reached the altar, and Anthony squeezed my hand before stepping aside.

"You look lovely, Y/N," Lewis murmured, his voice low and smooth.

"Thank you, Lewis," she replied, keeping her voice equally neutral. "You don't look so bad yourself."

The officiant, a jovial man who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, cleared his throat.

"Dearly beloved," he began, his voice echoing through the hall, "we are gathered here in the presence of God, family, and friends to witness a joyous occasion—the union of Lewis Hamilton and Y/N L/N in holy matrimony."

The ceremony was a blur of rehearsed lines and forced smiles. They exchanged vows that felt hollow and meaningless. They slipped rings onto each other's fingers, the cold metal a stark reminder of the contractual nature of their relationship.

Then came the moment she had been dreading.

"You may now kiss the bride," the officiant intoned.

Lewis turned to her, his eyes searching hers for a moment. Then, he leaned in and kissed her. It was a chaste, professionally executed kiss, designed to elicit cheers from the crowd and likes on Instagram.

But even so, you felt a strange flutter in her stomach, a sensation she quickly dismissed as the product of nerves and exhaustion.

It was all a blur from then on. Walking down the aisle with Lewis in hand, waving at the guests, mostly family and friends, throwing confetti over our heads.

The whirlwind of congratulations, the endless photos, the forced smiles that were starting to ache my cheeks.

Then, suddenly, we were in a room by ourselves, apparently, it's tradition for newly weds to stay in the same room right after the ceremony to soak up the moment.

The honeymoon suite was extravagant, all plush velvet and panoramic views. It felt absurd to be here, pretending, with 24-hour security just outside the door to ensure the “integrity” of our little charade.

My friends, bless their hearts, had noticed my tense demeanor and, with a knowing wink, had slipped two glasses of wine into my hands. "Relax a little, Y/N," Maya had whispered, "You look like you're about to explode."

I took a tentative sip. The wine was crisp and refreshing, a welcome distraction from the buzzing in my head. I was a lightweight, a fact I had conveniently neglected to mention to Lewis. He stood awkwardly by the panoramic window, his perfectly tailored suit looking even more impeccable against the velvet drapes.

He turned, his expression hesitant. "That kiss was... nice," he said, almost as an afterthought.

I raised an eyebrow, taking another sip of my wine. "Well, I'm happy you enjoyed it because that's all you're getting from me today," I said, leaning back against a ridiculously ornate chaise lounge.

He frowned slightly. "We do have to kiss more during the first dance and the reception party."

The wine had officially loosened my inhibitions. A mischievous glint sparked in my eye. I found myself leaning forward, a dangerous smile playing on my lips. "Is that an order, Mr. Hamilton?"

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "It's…a suggestion. A highly recommended suggestion."

I burst out laughing, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings. He looked even more uncomfortable. "Alright, alright. A suggestion it is. But tell me, Lewis," I drawled, tilting my head, "how passionate are we talking? A quick peck for the cameras? A lingering lip-lock for the tabloids? Or perhaps a full-blown, movie-style makeout session to send your fans into a frenzy?"

He gaped at me, his usually composed facade cracking. "Y/N, are you…teasing me?"

"Maybe," I said, grinning. "Consider it a rehearsal. For the sake of public perception, of course. We have to be convincing, right? This isn't just about boosting your engagement numbers; it's about protecting your reputation."

He took a deep breath, visibly steeling himself. "Fine. Let's…rehearse." He approached me cautiously, like he was approaching a wild animal, his eyes locked on mine. "Just…remember it's all for show. This is purely professional."

"Of course," I whispered, the wine singing in my veins. "All for show. Completely professional." My heart, however, seemed to have missed the memo. It was thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird.

He placed his hands on my waist, his touch surprisingly gentle. He leaned in, his breath warm against my cheek, and I suddenly found myself struggling to remember my lines. "Ready?"

My voice caught in my throat. I managed a shaky nod, my heart suddenly pounding a rhythm that had nothing to do with wine and pretense. As his lips met mine, a strange sensation washed over me. 

 He hesitated, giving you a moment to back out, but you didn't. Instead, you raised a hand and rested it on the back of his neck, your fingers threading slightly into his short, dark hair.

It started slowly. A tentative brush of lips, a polite greeting. He tasted of mint and something else, something subtly powerful and undeniably Lewis. He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours. "Is this… believable?"

"Believable enough to fool millions?" you countered, your voice a husky whisper. "Probably not. Try again. Think longing, think desperation, think… you're about to lose the most important thing in your life."

Lewis frowned. "That's a bit dramatic, even for this."

"Welcome to acting, darling," you said, your smile widening. "Now, try again."

This time, he didn't hesitate. He leaned in, his lips claiming yours with a possessiveness that sent a shiver down your spine. This wasn't the gentle, chaste kiss from before. This was raw, demanding, and surprisingly… good.

Your eyes fluttered closed, and you found yourself responding without conscious thought. Your fingers tightened their grip on his neck, pulling him closer.

The kiss deepened, tongues dancing, breath mingling. It was a whirlwind of sensation, a delicious chaos that blurred the line between rehearsal and reality.

For a fleeting moment, you forgot this was all a performance, that you were just pawns in a PR game. You were just two people, caught in the heat of a kiss that felt anything but fake.

He finally broke away, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and intense. "Okay," he said, his voice raspy. "That… that was better."

You were still trying to catch your breath. "Better indeed," you managed to say, your voice slightly breathless. "But was it believable? Or just…intense?"

Lewis looked away, running a hand through his braids. "It was…both. Maybe too intense."

"Too intense for a fake marriage?" you challenged, raising an eyebrow.

Before he could answer, I noticed the smear of red on his chin. "Oh, you've got my lipstick all over your mouth," I said, a mischievous glint in my eyes.

Before Lewis could touch his face, I held his hand, preventing him. "Leave it there, at least that will convince people that we were kissing," I said, letting go of him.

He stared at me, a mixture of surprise and something else I couldn't quite decipher flickering in his eyes. "You're… surprisingly good at this," he said, a hint of admiration in his voice.

"That's my job," I replied, a smile playing on my lips. "But you're a quick learner, Lewis. I'll give you that."

The large hall was bedecked in a symphony of white roses and crystal chandeliers that cast a soft glow across the polished floor. The moment you and Lewis stepped in, the buzz of conversation hushed and all eyes turned to you.

The crowd erupted in applause, a wave of congratulations that made you blush despite the artifice of it all.

You took Lewis's offered arm, his grip firm and surprisingly comforting, as you both glided towards your sweetheart table at the center of the room.

The scent of his cologne mingled with the floral bouquets scattered around, creating a heady aroma that was at odds with the butterflies doing somersaults in your stomach.

Your hearts beat in sync with each step, echoing the rhythmic thump of the bass from the live band playing in the corner. The dress you wore was a vision of elegance, a stark contrast to the nervous energy thrumming through your body.

You felt like a moth drawn to a flame as you approached the table, the spotlights seemingly highlighting every imperfection, every lie. Yet, as you sat down, the plush chair enveloping you in a gentle embrace, the weight of the moment lifted slightly. You exhaled and offered him a tentative smile.

"Well, we've made it this far," you murmured under the guise of the applause.

"Barely," he quipped, a playful glint in his eye.

As the applause died down, a server appeared, filling your glasses with champagne. The cool liquid was a welcome relief against the dryness of your mouth.

You took a sip, feeling the bubbles tickle your nose. The room was alive with the sound of laughter and clinking glasses, a cacophony of happiness that seemed almost surreal.

"To us," Lewis said, raising his glass. His smile was perfect, a masterpiece of diplomacy. You mirrored the gesture.

You clinked glasses, the sound resonating in your ears like a toll of fate. "To the most convenient marriage of the year," you toasted, trying to keep your voice steady.

The liquid slid down your throat, a potent symbol of the agreement you'd made. You felt the warmth spread through your body, loosening the tension slightly.

The dress, a creation of satin and lace, whispered against your skin with every movement, a silent reminder of the part you had to play.

As the applause faded into the background, the first course of the meal was served. The table was an opulent display of gourmet delights, each dish more tempting than the last.

Lewis picked up a piece of hors d'oeuvre, a dollop of caviar perched atop a tiny cracker, and held it out to your lips.

"Open for me," he said, his voice low and playful.

You parted your lips and allowed him to feed you, the salty fish roe bursting on your tongue. The sensation was oddly intimate, and you watched his eyes darken as he observed your reaction.

The taste was decadent, a delightful assault on your senses that made you want to moan. You chewed slowly, savoring the richness.

You returned the favor, plucking a strawberry from the fruit platter with your fingers and bringing it to his mouth.

The fruit was ripe, the juice staining your fingertips and leaving a sweet trail across your skin. He took the berry with a smoldering look that sent a bolt of heat through your core.

You picked up a piece of chocolate-covered fruits, the dark chocolate shimmering with edible gold dust. You held it to his mouth, watching as he took it with a bite, the gold leaving a glittering trail on his bottom lip.

Leaning in, your heart racing, you couldn't help yourself. You licked the remnants of sweet chocolate from his lips, the taste a tantalizing mix of the rich confection and the salt of his mouth.

You blamed it on the alcohol, the way it loosened your inhibitions and made everything feel more daring, more alive. His eyes searched yours for a moment, and you realized with a start that he wasn't objecting.

The room spun slightly as you felt his hand come to rest on the small of your back, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the bare skin exposed by your dress.

"You're doing great," he whispered in your ear, his breath hot against your neck.

You leaned into his touch, the warmth of his hand spreading like a brand across your skin. The champagne had done its work, the tension giving way to a pleasant buzz that made everything feel a little less forced.

You turned to face him, your eyes locking for a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity.

"Thank you," you murmured, your voice a soft purr that seemed to resonate through the room.

His gaze dropped to your lips, and for a heart-stopping second, you thought he might kiss you.

But instead, he leaned back, his expression unreadable.

The band struck up a tune, the sound of instruments swirling around you like a warm embrace. You felt a sudden pressure to perform, to be the bride everyone expected you to be.

Maya bustled over to your table. "Can you guys cut the cake now, or do you need more time for yourselves?" she teased, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

The question was like a splash of cold water, reminding you of the façade you were maintaining. You laughed, a little too loudly, and nodded.

"We're ready," you said, standing up. Lewis's hand was at your elbow, guiding you through the crowd towards the grand, multi-tiered cake.

The cake was a masterpiece, a cascade of white fondant adorned with intricate lace detailing and delicate sugar roses.

You felt a strange sense of detachment as you both took the knife, your hands shaking slightly.

As you made the first slice, the sound of cameras clicking filled the air. The flashes were like stars in a night sky, blinding you to everything else.

But all you could see was Lewis's profile, the tension in his jaw, the way his hand held the knife with surprising tenderness.

He took a piece of cake and offered it to you, a silent question in his eyes. You took it, feeling the soft cake crumble against your teeth.

The sweetness was overwhelming, a metaphor for the situation you found yourself in.

You took a deep breath, willing yourself to be the poised and elegant wife Ferrari required.

The spotlight was on you, but it was the pressure of his hand against your back that kept you from crumbling like the dessert in your mouth.

"Move closer," you whispered, holding out a dainty slice of the heavenly cake to him. The scent of vanilla and buttercream filled the air as you brought it closer to his lips.

The moment was charged with a current that made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

With a gentle nudge, you coaxed him to open his mouth. His full lips parted slightly, and you placed the cake on his tongue.

His eyes never left yours as you traced the outline of his mouth with your fingertips, catching the crumbs that clung to his perfect smile. The warmth of his breath danced across your fingertips, sending a shiver down your spine.

You watched as he closed his eyes, savoring the flavor. His Adam's apple bobbed with each swallow, and you felt a sudden urge to trace the path the cake took down his throat with your own mouth.

As the music grew louder and the flashes grew more insistent, Lewis leaned in, his breath warm against your ear.

"Dance with me?" His voice was a velvety rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. You nodded, and he took your hand, leading you to the dance floor.

The lights dimmed, casting the room in a romantic glow. A slow song began to play, a classic ballad about love and commitment. Ironic, you thought, given the circumstances.

Lewis placed his hand on your waist, and you reluctantly put yours on his shoulder. The fabric of his bespoke suit felt smooth beneath your fingers.

He pulled you closer, and you could feel the heat radiating from his body. You avoided looking at him, focusing instead on the swirling patterns of the projected lights on the ceiling.

"Relax," he murmured, his breath tickling your ear. "It's just a dance."

But it wasn't just a dance. It was a performance, a charade, a carefully constructed illusion. Every step, every sway, every glance had to be perfect, believable.

You caught the eye of someone, notebook in hand, eagerly observing your every move. You forced a smile, hoping it looked genuine.

As the song continued, you found yourself slowly starting to relax. Lewis was a surprisingly graceful dancer, guiding you effortlessly across the floor.

The rhythm of the music, the warmth of his body, the soft lighting – it was all strangely seductive.

"You look beautiful," he said softly, his voice barely audible above the music.

You finally met his gaze, and you were surprised to see genuine warmth in his eyes. Was it possible? Could there be something more to this arrangement than just business?

"Thank you," you whispered, feeling a blush rise to your cheeks.

He smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile that transformed his face. "You know, this isn't so bad."

"What isn't?" you asked, confused.

"This. Us. Pretending to be in love," he said, his eyes twinkling. "We're pretty good at it, don't you think?"

You laughed. "We are, aren't we?"

As the song ended, he leaned in closer, his lips hovering just above yours.

"You know what would make this even more believable?" he whispered.

Your heart skipped a beat. "What?"

"If we kissed," he murmured, the words sending a shiver down your spine.

You looked up at him, your pulse racing. The idea was ludicrous, of course. This was a marriage of convenience, a contractual agreement to help him secure his engagement at Ferrari.

Yet, as his eyes searched yours, you found yourself leaning into the moment, curious about the sensation of his lips on yours.

The music swelled around you as his hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you closer. His other hand cupped your cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing lightly across your skin.

You felt the electricity crackle in the air between you, and without another word, he closed the gap, pressing his mouth to yours.

His kiss was gentle at first, exploratory, as if he too was surprised by his own actions.

But the alcohol was really hitting the both of you, and with it, your inhibitions began to melt away like candle wax in the heat of desire.

Your arms slid around his neck, pulling him closer, your body responding instinctively to his touch.

Lewis's hand slipped down from your waist to the curve of your hip, his thumb tracing lazy circles through the fabric of your dress.

You held back, though, coming back to your senses. This wasn't what you had signed up for. You were supposed to be his beard, not his lover.

You stiffened in his arms, and he must have felt the shift in your demeanor because his hand stilled.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice low and thick with a hint of regret. "I didn't mean to cross a line."

You took a deep breath, your chest rising and falling against his firm embrace. "It's okay," you managed, even though your body was screaming for more. "We just need to remember what this is."

He nodded, his eyes searching yours for reassurance. "Right," he murmured, his grip loosening slightly. "A marriage of convenience."

The music had changed to something faster, a pounding bass that seemed to echo the beating of your heart. You stepped back, trying to compose yourself and smiled for the cameras.

"We should focus on the wedding," you said, your voice shakier than you would have liked.

Lewis's hand remained at your waist, his thumb continuing to stroke your skin in a gentle, hypnotic rhythm. "Are you okay?" he asked, concern etched into his features.

You took another deep breath, willing your racing pulse to slow. "I'm fine," you lied, plastering a smile back onto your face. "We're just playing our parts, right?"

He nodded, his eyes lingering on your mouth. "Right."

The music changed again, the tempo quickening. The DJ announced that it was time for everyone to join in, and the floor flooded with guests eager to dance. The pressure of the moment was lifted as the spotlight shifted away from the two of you.

The crowd grew thick around you, a sea of bodies moving in a harmonious wave of color and sound. Lewis's hand remained at the small of your back, his fingers splayed possessively.

You felt a thrill of excitement as you realized that in this chaos, you could be anyone, do anything, and no one would question it.

And then, through the kaleidoscope of faces, you saw her. Your mother, standing at the edge of the dance floor, watching you with a knowing smile.

She had always had a knack for reading your expressions, and even from this distance, you could feel her approval. It was as if she knew the secret desires that had blossomed in the warmth of Lewis's embrace.

Her eyes sparkled with a mischief that told you she wasn't fooled by the pretense of your union.

You felt a sudden rush of heat, remembering the way Lewis's kiss had made your knees weak. You hoped she hadn't seen that.

"I'm going to talk to my mother," you murmured into Lewis's ear, your voice low and urgent.

He nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before you slipped away from the dance floor and made your way through the throngs of partygoers.

Your mother's smile grew wider as you approached, her eyes twinkling with the same mischief that had always made you feel both cherished and exposed.

She knew you so well, and as you reached her side, you were acutely aware of the rapid beat of your heart, the warmth still lingering on your cheeks from Lewis's kiss.

"Having fun?" she asked, her voice a sweet symphony of teasing and concern.

"Mother, let's talk outside," you suggested, gesturing to the balcony, desperately needing a moment of respite from the pounding rhythms and probing gazes.

Her smile never wavered as she nodded in agreement, placing a hand on your forearm. "Lead the way, dear," she said, the warmth of her touch grounding you amidst the whirlwind of emotions.

The cool night air hit you like a breath of fresh oxygen as you stepped out onto the balcony, the sound of laughter and music muffled by the thick double doors.

The moon cast a silvery glow over the cityscape, painting the buildings in a soft, ethereal light. The distant sounds of traffic were a faint reminder of the world beyond the bubble of the penthouse suite where your lives had suddenly become a performance for the paparazzi.

Your mother looked stunning in a midnight-blue gown that accentuated her figure, her eyes dancing with curiosity. She took a sip of her champagne, her gaze never leaving you.

"What's on your mind, darling?" she asked, her voice a gentle coo that could melt the coldest of hearts.

You leaned against the balcony railing, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat still pulsing through your veins from Lewis's kiss.

"I just needed a break," you replied, hoping she wouldn't push further. The night air kissed your skin, sending goosebumps along your arms.

Your mother's eyes searched yours, a knowing glint shimmering in her gaze. "You seem…flustered," she said, her tone light but her words carrying the weight of a thousand unasked questions.

You took a deep breath, the cool air filling your lungs and calming your racing thoughts. "It's just…Lewis," you began, struggling to find the words.

"What about your fake husband?" your mother said, her voice dripping with playful accusation. She had always been perceptive, and she knew you better than anyone.

You felt a blush creeping up your neck, and you took a sip of the cool, bubbly champagne to buy yourself some time. "What do you mean?" you asked, feigning innocence.

Your mother raised an eyebrow, the gesture so familiar it was as if you were a teenager caught sneaking in past curfew. "I saw the way he was looking at you during the first dance," she said, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "And the way you two were just…dancing."

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the pulsing heat between your legs, the phantom feeling of Lewis's hand on your hip. "It's all for the cameras," you protested, even though the words felt hollow.

Your mother's smile grew knowing, and she leaned closer, her perfume a faint whisper of gardenias in the night air. "Is that all it is?" she murmured, her eyes twinkling with the same mischief that had always made you squirm. "Or is there something more going on between you two?"

You took another deep breath, the coolness of the air doing little to ease the heat pooling in your belly. "Mother," you began, feeling the weight of her gaze on you, "I've only known him for less than a month."

Her smile softened, the playful glint in her eyes fading to a look of understanding. She leaned closer, her voice a warm, comforting whisper. "Sometimes, love doesn't care about time, darling. It just happens."

You stared out into the night, the city lights blurring as you replayed the last few minutes in your mind. The feel of his lips on yours, the gentle caress of his hands, the way your body had responded so instinctively.

Was it possible to develop feelings so quickly, so intensely, when the foundation of your relationship was nothing but a business deal?

The question lingered in the air as you watched Lewis mingle with the other guests, his charisma lighting up the room. His laugh was infectious, his smile captivating, and the way he moved through the space was like watching a panther – sleek, powerful, and utterly in control.

You took another sip of champagne, the bubbles fizzing against your tongue as you contemplated your mother's words. Love? In a marriage of convenience? The very notion seemed absurd, and yet, you couldn't deny the undeniable pull you felt towards him.

The way your body had responded to his touch, the way your heart had skipped a beat when he looked at you – it was all too real, too potent to dismiss as mere infatuation.

"Just remember what you said three weeks ago, that 'it's all just for show. And it's not like you're actually going to be doing the whole marriage thing, that you're just going to pretend.'"

Her voice, usually a soothing balm, was sharp with an undercurrent of something you couldn’t quite place. "Don't break your own promise, but I wouldn't mind it. Lewis will take good care of you."

Her words hit you like a ton of bricks. Was she…encouraging you? But before you could respond, she had already turned away, leaving you alone with the night's whispers and the tumultuous dance of your thoughts.

You took another sip of champagne, the bubbles fizzling down your throat, and tried to convince yourself that it was just the alcohol playing tricks on you.

But deep down, you knew it was more than that.

Sighing, you set the champagne flute down on the railing and smoothed your hair back, trying to regain your composure. The chilly breeze whispered across your skin, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.

With one last deep breath, you pushed away from the balcony and turned to face the warm embrace of the party once more.

As you stepped back into the penthouse suite, the heat and the music enveloped you like a lover's arms. The lights danced over the guests' faces, casting a spell of excitement and anticipation.

The DJ announced that it was time for the welcome toasts, and a hush fell over the room. You searched the crowd for Lewis, your heart skipping a beat when your eyes met his across the sea of bodies.

He offered you a smile, his own eyes a storm of emotions that mirrored your own.

Making your way to the makeshift stage, you took your place beside him. The spotlight was hot on your face, and you could feel the eyes of the guests on you, eagerly waiting for you to speak.

Lewis took your hand in his, the warmth of his touch sending a jolt of electricity up your arm.

You cleared your throat, the words of your toast already written but feeling so insignificant now. "Thank you all for joining us tonight," you began, your voice steady despite the tumult in your chest. "This is a very special occasion."

Lewis squeezed your hand, his thumb stroking the back of your palm in a silent message of support.

You glanced at him, his eyes locked onto yours, and felt a jolt of something primal, something that had nothing to do with the contract you'd signed.

"We're here to celebrate the beginning of a new chapter in our lives," you said, your eyes never leaving his. "One filled with adventure, success, and," you paused, feeling the weight of his gaze, "passion."

The room erupted in cheers and applause, and Lewis stepped up to the microphone, his hand still wrapped around yours. "Thank you," he said, his voice a rich baritone that seemed to resonate in the very air around you.

"To my beautiful wife," he turned to you, a smoldering look in his eyes that sent a delicious shiver down your spine, "Thank you for agreeing to this crazy adventure."

You leaned into the microphone, the warmth of his body against yours a potent cocktail of desire and nerves. "And to my dashing husband," you said, your voice a purr, "Thank you for making this marriage of convenience feel like anything but."

The crowd gasped, and a smattering of laughter filled the room, but you didn't care. You knew you were playing with fire, but the heat was too tempting to resist.

As you finished your toast, Lewis leaned down and whispered, "You're going to pay for that later." The words sent a shiver of anticipation through you, and you couldn't help but smile.

You took your cue, your voice steady despite the tumult of emotions raging inside you. "To our friends, our families, and Ferrari," you said, raising your glass, "Thank you for bringing us together."

The room erupted in cheers and applause, and you couldn't help but feel a twinge of satisfaction at the success of your ruse.

But as you watched Lewis, the way his eyes sparkled with mischief, you knew that this marriage of convenience was about to take a very inconvenient turn.

"Now, it's time for the parent dances," the DJ announced, breaking the spell of the moment. You felt a knot in your stomach. You had lost your father years ago, and having your mother dance with Lewis was the closest thing you'd ever get to a traditional wedding dance with a parent.

"Mrs. L/N," Lewis said, extending his hand towards your mother with a charming smile. "May I have the honor of this dance?"

Her eyes sparkled with delight as she took his hand, the same hand that had sent shockwaves through your body just moments before. "Why, Mr. Hamilton, I'd be thrilled," she replied, allowing him to lead her onto the dance floor.

You watched as they swayed to the music, the connection between them palpable. The sight was bittersweet – a reminder of what you had lost and what you never had.

But as you observed them, the tension in your chest began to ease. If Lewis had to dance with someone, you were happy it was your mother.

She deserved this moment of joy and glamour, even if it was all an act.

As the song came to a close, Lewis guided your mother back to her seat and returned to you, his eyes never leaving yours. "Your turn," he murmured, extending his hand.

You nodded, trying to ignore the butterflies that had taken up residence in your stomach. This was your job, to make this marriage look believable, and part of that meant playing the role of a loving wife to a tee.

As the music changed to a slower tempo, Lewis' father, Anthony, made his way over to you, his smile warm and welcoming. He took your hand in his, his grip firm but gentle, and led you onto the dance floor.

"Thank you for being here, my dear," he said, pulling you closer into his embrace. You could feel the strength in his arms, a stark contrast to the softness of his voice.

His cologne, a rich blend of leather and sandalwood, wrapped around you, a comforting scent that reminded you of the safety and protection a father's arms could offer.

"The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Hamilton," you replied, your voice a soft whisper against his chest. You felt a strange comfort in his arms, a sense of belonging that you hadn't felt since your own father had passed away.

The music washed over you, a gentle symphony that seemed to be composed just for the two of you. You moved in sync with him, his steps guiding yours with a grace that could only come from years of experience.

His hand rested at the small of your back, the heat from his palm seeping through the fabric of your dress and setting your skin alight.

You looked up at him, his eyes crinkling with kindness. "You know, you're quite the catch," he said, his voice a gentle rumble. "My son is a very lucky man."

You blushed, your heart fluttering at the compliment. "Thank you," you murmured, your voice barely audible over the music. "Lewis is… quite the catch himself."

Anthony chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Yes, he is," he agreed. "But I can see the way he looks at you. There's more to this than just a business deal."

You swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond. The truth was, you didn't know what was happening between you and Lewis. It was like you had stumbled into a fairy tale, except the prince was a billionaire race car driver, and the marriage was as fake as the smile you painted on every day.

"You don't have to tell me," he said, as if sensing your discomfort. "But just remember, love has a way of sneaking up on you when you least expect it."

His words hung in the air, and you felt a sudden tightness in your chest. Was that what this was? Love? The very thought was terrifying, and yet, as you watched Lewis across the room, his eyes never leaving yours, you couldn't help but wonder if there was some truth to it.

The dance ended all too soon, and you found yourself back in the swirl of the party, the music and laughter a cacophony around you. You searched the room for Lewis, needing to be near him, to feel the reassurance of his presence.

Then, you heard a mic being tapped, and the volume of the room dropped like a curtain. You looked at the stage to see Maya and Miles with grins on their faces that could only mean one thing – they were about to give their speeches.

Your heart skipped a beat. You knew Maya all too well; she was the kind of friend who had a knack for speaking her mind, especially when it came to juicy secrets.

Miles took the mic first, his voice smooth and charming. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "I'd like to start by saying how honored I am to be standing here today, witnessing the union of two of the most amazing people I know."

"Now," he continued, "I know we're all here to celebrate the love between Lewis and his beautiful bride," he said, pausing for effect. "But what I'd like to remind everyone is that this isn't just a marriage – it's a partnership that's going to be taking the racing world by storm. And speaking of storms, I've got a little something for you two,"

Maya strutted up to the podium, the mic in one hand and a glint in her eye that had you on the edge of your seat. She tapped it, the sound echoing through the room, and announced,

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to share a little story about how our dashing couple met. It's not your average love at first sight tale, oh no."

You felt your face heat up as the room grew quieter, all eyes on Maya. Lewis's hand tightened around yours, his thumb stroking your knuckles in a silent message of reassurance. You could see the curiosity in his eyes, a hint of amusement playing on his lips.

Maya began, "Picture this: Two strangers, thrown together by fate, or should I say, by Ferrari. A billionaire playboy, and a girl with a heart of gold. They say opposites attract, but in this case, it was more like a collision of epic proportions!"

The audience chuckled, and you couldn't help but feel a mix of dread and excitement. You knew Maya had a wild imagination, and she wasn't one to shy away from spicing things up.

"They say love is a wild ride," she continued, her voice taking on a dramatic tone. "But let me tell you, when these two hit the track, it was nothing short of explosive! The chemistry was palpable, the tension could have fueled a race car!"

Your heart raced as she painted a vivid picture of your whirlwind romance, embellishing every detail and adding a steamy twist here and there. You shot her a glare, but she only winked back, reveling in the moment.

Miles took over, his deep voice a stark contrast to Maya's. "But what you don't know," he said, leaning into the mic, "is that there was a secret deal made, a deal that would change the course of their lives forever. A marriage of convenience, you say? Pish-posh!"

The crowd leaned in, eager to hear the juicy details. You held your breath, waiting for the inevitable revelation of your arrangement with Lewis. But instead, Miles spun a tale of a daring bet between the two friends, one that had led to a year of adventure and discovery.

"They said they'd keep it professional," Miles said with a wink. "But when love enters the race, all bets are off!"

You felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. It wasn't the truth, but it was close enough to keep the secret intact. The crowd roared with laughter, and you couldn't help but laugh along, the tension in the room dissipating like mist on a warm morning.

As the applause died down, you leaned into Lewis, whispering, "Your friend is something else."

He grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "He does have a way of keeping things interesting," he murmured, pulling you closer.

The rest of the reception was a blur of laughter, dancing, and whispered secrets. The speeches had been a wild ride, but somehow, you found yourself enjoying the thrill of it all.

The way Lewis looked at you, the way his hand never left your side – it was as if you had stumbled into a love story after all.

As the night went on, you were able to relax, a glass of champagne in hand, chatting with your friends who had flown in for the occasion. They were all buzzing with excitement, eager to hear every detail of your whirlwind romance with the infamous Lewis Hamilton.

You felt a thrill run down your spine every time they talked about your "true love," knowing that it was all just a well-orchestrated facade. But the way he made you feel, the way he looked at you – it was easy to get lost in the fantasy.

You took a sip of the bubbly liquid, the coolness of it spreading through your body like a gentle caress. The alcohol did its work, loosening your inhibitions and making you feel light, like you were floating on air.

The room was warm, a cozy cocoon of friendship and goodwill that enveloped you, making the weight of your deception feel a little less heavy.

Your friend Laura leaned in, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "So, what's it really like being married to a superstar?" she asked, her voice low and conspiratorial. You giggled, feeling a little tipsy and more than a little bit naughty.

"Well, it's not all fast cars and glamour," you said, your voice a purr. "But the perks aren't too shabby." You shared a knowing look with her, and she squealed, her hand flying to her mouth. You had always had a flair for the dramatic, and tonight was no exception.

As you talked, the room grew hazier, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfumes and cologne mingling with the aroma of fine wine and rich food.

The music was a sensual backdrop, the rhythm pulsing through the floorboards, inviting you to move. You felt the warmth of Lewis's hand on the small of your back as he joined your circle of friends, his presence a comforting warmth that seemed to drive the chill of doubt away.

"Let's dance," he whispered in your ear, his breath sending a shiver down your spine. You nodded, placing your hand in his, and allowed him to lead you into the throng of bodies, each swaying to the seductive rhythm.

His hand slid to your waist, his fingers ghosting over the smooth fabric of your dress, and you felt a thrill at the possessive way he held you, his other hand cradling yours.

The music was a slow, sultry number that seemed to resonate within the very core of your being. His thigh brushed against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through you.

His touch was like a brand, leaving a trail of heat wherever it went. You looked into his eyes, and for a moment, you forgot about the cameras, the guests, the lie. It was just the two of you, lost in a dance that felt all too real.

The conversation with your friends was lively, their questions about married life to the legendary Lewis Hamilton met with your playful evasions and coy smiles. The champagne bubbled in your veins, making you feel more daring, more alive.

You caught Laura's eye, and she winked, a knowing smile playing on her lips. The tension between you and Lewis was palpable, a secret only the two of you shared, and it was intoxicating.

Suddenly, the music shifted to something softer, a classic love song that seemed to beckon for a more intimate moment.

You felt Lewis's hand tighten around your waist, pulling you closer, your bodies fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle you never knew you were meant to complete.

His breath was hot against your neck, sending shivers down your spine as he whispered, "Let's take the family picture."

You nodded, allowing him to lead you off the dance floor and towards the small area designated for family photos. Your mother sat watching, her eyes filled with a warmth that seemed to say she knew more than she was letting on.

She patted the seat beside her, and you sat down, feeling a sudden vulnerability that the alcohol hadn't quite prepared you for.

Lewis's father, Anthony, took a seat. The sight was surreal, a makeshift family portrait that was as beautiful as it was unexpected. The photographer, a friend of the Hamiltons, approached with a professional smile. "Ready?" he asked, holding up the camera.

You took a deep breath, trying to calm the erratic beating of your heart. Lewis sat beside you, his hand reaching for yours, and you felt a rush of affection that was as surprising as it was overwhelming.

The camera clicked, capturing the four of you in a moment of forced intimacy that somehow felt more genuine than you had anticipated.

The flash illuminated the room, freezing the scene in time – a snapshot of a life that wasn't quite real, but felt more right than anything you had ever known.

The picture was taken, and the moment passed, but the warmth lingered. You couldn't help but look at the image displayed on the camera's screen – the four of you, a small but significant representation of what could have been.

Your mother's smile was wide, her eyes sparkling with happiness, and you realized that maybe this wasn't just about the Ferrari deal. Maybe, just maybe, it was about creating a new kind of family, one born from necessity but blossoming into something more.

The photographer handed the camera to Lewis, who studied the picture with a thoughtful expression. "It's perfect," he murmured, his thumb brushing over the image of your joined hands.

"Yes," your mother agreed, her voice thick with emotion. "It's like looking at a real family."

The words hung in the air, and you felt a sudden tightness in your throat. This was supposed to be just a year of pretending, but the lines between reality and the role you were playing were beginning to blur.

As you looked into the camera lens, you realized that the love in your eyes for Lewis was no longer just an act.

It was a tangible thing, a living, breathing entity that had snuck into your heart without you even noticing. . . .

His eyes scanned the room, finally settling on her. Y/N. Even her name felt foreign on his tongue. She was surrounded by her friends, a vibrant group of women who punctuated her words with laughter. He watched her, a strange curiosity washing over him.

She seemed… lighter, more at ease than he’d ever seen her with him. The corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled, a genuine, unburdened smile that never quite reached him.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. His father, Anthony, stood beside him, a proud smile plastered on his face. "Son, I've gotten you and your wife a present."

Lewis braced himself. He knew his father’s “presents” usually came with strings attached.

Anthony gestured towards a nearby table. On it sat a framed picture. Lewis's breath caught in his throat. It was a photo from the ceremony, taken just as the priest declared them husband and wife.

In the picture, he was kissing Y/N. The angle made it look passionate, intimate. A lie meticulously crafted for public consumption.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Anthony beamed. “A perfect memento of your special day. I’ve already had copies made for all the papers.”

Lewis forced a smile. “Right. Perfect.”

He took the frame, the cold glass a stark contrast to the warmth of his hand. The kiss in the photograph was nothing more than a well-rehearsed move, a performance for the cameras. Yet, looking at it now, with the love in her eyes captured in that split second, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of something akin to regret.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice thick with something he couldn’t quite identify.

Anthony clapped him on the back, his eyes gleaming. "Remember, son, this is just the beginning. You two are going to be the golden couple of the racing world. A powerhouse team that can't be beat."

Lewis nodded, trying to ignore the knot in his stomach. He had agreed to this sham of a marriage for the sake of the Ferrari deal, for the sake of his career, but seeing the hope in his father's eyes made him feel like a fraud.

Anthony leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Now, I know this isn't the way you planned your wedding night," he began, "but I've got a little surprise for the two of you."

Lewis's heart skipped a beat, his mind racing with what his father could possibly mean.

"Dad," he began, his voice tight. "We've talked about this. It's just for show."

Anthony's smile never wavered. "Of course, of course," he said, patting Lewis's back. "But a little bit of authenticity goes a long way, doesn't it?" His eyes twinkled with mischief. "Besides, I've got a feeling that there's more to this arrangement than meets the eye."

Lewis felt a sudden heat rise to his cheeks. His father had always had a knack for reading him like a book, and it was clear he wasn't fooled by the façade. But before he could protest, Y/N's mother called Anthony over, her eyes sparkling with happiness.

"Goodbye son," his father said, his grip firm on Lewis's shoulder. "I hope you can enjoy this new chapter in your life."

The words echoed in Lewis's ears as he watched his father walk away, leaving him standing next to the framed photograph.

He glanced back at Y/N, her laughter filling the air like music. Her eyes caught his, and she offered a soft smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It was a smile for the cameras, a smile that said, “Everything is fine.”

But Lewis knew better. He could see the shadows that lurked beneath the surface, the doubt that she kept so well hidden.

He made his way over to her, the floor seeming to tilt beneath his feet. He had to admit, the champagne was hitting him harder than he'd expected.

The warmth of her hand in his was like a lifeline, grounding him in a reality that was quickly becoming more tangled than the vines that adorned the walls of the venue.

Their guests began to file out, their laughter and chatter fading like the last notes of a symphony. The grand ballroom grew quiet, the only sound the soft clink of crystal and the rustle of fabric as they moved together.

The first guest approached, an older woman with a cackle that could cut through glass. She leaned in, her breath hot with whiskey, and whispered in his ear, "A little something to keep you both warm on those cold nights, dear."

With a wink, she handed him a velvet box that was surprisingly heavy. He took it, feeling the weight of her assumption pressing down on his shoulders.

The next was a burly man, a sponsor for the racing team, who clapped him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Here you go, champ," he said, his meaty hand palming Lewis a bottle of cognac.

"Keep her happy, yeah?" The bottle was cold, the condensation already forming on the glass a stark contrast to the heat of his cheeks.

A procession of well-wishers followed, each with a gift more extravagant than the last. A set of silver cufflinks that weighed down his wrists, a leather-bound book of love sonnets that smelled faintly of cigars, and a sculpture of a Ferrari that was so intricately detailed it looked as if it could drive off the table at any moment.

Each time, the guest would lean in and whisper something about the marriage bed, their eyes glinting with knowing amusement, as if they were all in on a secret that was anything but secret.

The weight of the gifts grew heavier with each addition, until Lewis felt like he was carrying the weight of a thousand expectations. The room spun around him, the lights playing tricks on his vision as he tried to keep his smile in place.

Finally, the last guest had gone, the caterers had cleared away the last of the dishes, and the music had faded to a dull throb.

The only people left were their closest friends, the ones who had known them before the racing world had claimed them, before the Ferrari deal had turned their lives into a performance.

Lewis placed the last gift on the pile, his heart racing. He could feel the eyes of their friends on him, the same friends who had seen them through the ups and downs of their careers, who knew that this marriage was a sham.

He approached Y/N, who was still sipping on her champagne, surrounded by her giggling friends. The way they leaned into her, whispering sweet nothings, made him feel like an outsider in his own wedding. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions that surged within him.

As he drew closer, the scent of her perfume reached him, a delicate blend of jasmine and vanilla that had haunted his dreams for weeks. It was the same scent she'd worn on their first time meeting each other.

He wrapped his hand around her waist, feeling the smooth fabric of her dress give way to the warm, supple flesh beneath. Her breath caught in her throat, the sudden touch sending a tremor through her body that made him tighten his grip, if only to steady her.

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes wide and searching, and for a moment, Lewis wondered if she could feel the storm of doubt and desire that raged within him.

He leaned closer, the scent of her perfume wrapping around him like a seductive embrace.

Her breath hitched, the soft fabric of her dress whispering against his fingertips as he pulled her closer. He felt the warmth of her skin through the gossamer material, her body responding to his touch with a delicate shiver.

Their eyes locked, and in the silence of the emptying ballroom, the truth of their arrangement danced unspoken between them. The air grew thick with tension, the only sound the erratic beating of their hearts.

"Are you ready to go?" he muttered, the words barely escaping his lips.

The music had stopped, the laughter had faded, and the only sound left was the erratic thumping of their hearts. The question hung in the air, a silent plea for a connection that went beyond the script they'd been given.

Y/N's eyes searched his, a mix of confusion and something else, something he hadn't anticipated. Her cheeks were flushed, not from the heat of the room but from the potent cocktail of emotions that swirled within her.

The champagne had done its work, loosening her inhibitions and leaving her vulnerable to the storm that brewed in her chest.

"Tired?" she murmured, her breath warm against his neck. The word was a question and an invitation, a gentle challenge to his intentions.

Her pulse quickened, a silent rhythm that matched the tempo of his own heartbeat, echoing through the sensitive skin of his neck.

Lewis nodded, the simple gesture loaded with a world of meaning. His eyes never leaving hers, he felt a strange thrill at the thought of her submission, her willingness to follow him into the unknown.

He wasn't tired in the traditional sense; he was weary of the charade, the endless masquerade that had become their lives.

"Let me say bye to my friends," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. The words seemed to hang in the air, a declaration of intent that sent a shiver down his spine. The room swirled around them, the faces of the remaining guests a blur of pastel colors and forced smiles.

He nodded, his hand still clutching hers, the heat of their connection a stark contrast to the cool air conditioning. The tension between them was palpable, a living thing that seemed to pulse in time with their racing pulses.

Y/N turned to her friends, her smile a practiced mask that didn't quite reach her eyes. She whispered her goodbyes, each word a silent promise that she'd return to them, unchanged by the whims of fate that had brought her to this moment.

The women hugged her tightly, a few whispering words of advice or congratulations that she barely heard over the roar of blood in her ears.

As she moved from one friend to the next, her mind swirled with the gravity of the situation. The warmth of their embraces was a stark contrast to the icy grip of doubt that had taken hold of her heart. Each goodbye felt like a final farewell, a symbolic cutting of ties to the life she knew.

When she finally turned back to him, her eyes searched his for reassurance. The intensity of his gaze made her knees wobble, and she took a deep breath to steady herself.

"I'm ready," she murmured, the words a soft caress against his skin.

Their friends had formed a corridor, cheering and showering them with the remaining confetti as they walked hand in hand towards the exit.

Each step felt like a leap into the abyss, the weight of their decision pressing down on their shoulders. Yet, with every footfall, the tension grew more electric, the anticipation more potent.

The confetti fluttered around them like a blizzard of colorful secrets, whispering sweet nothings of passion and promise.

Each piece that stuck to their skin was a silent testament to the excitement of the night to come. The cheers grew louder, the claps more insistent, as if the very air was urging them onward.

Y/N felt a strange mix of exhilaration and fear. The confetti stuck to her lashes, her hair, the fabric of her dress, a glittering reminder of the happiness they were expected to embody.

His grip on her hand was firm, grounding her in the present, as the cacophony of their friends' celebration grew dimmer with every step.

As they passed the threshold, the confetti cascading down like a glittering waterfall at their backs, the weight of their decision settled over them.

The cool evening air kissed their flushed faces, a stark contrast to the heated passion that awaited them. The world outside the ballroom felt alien, a place where their roles could be shed like the very confetti that clung to their clothes.

Their eyes met, a silent promise exchanged, and the cheers of their friends faded into the distance. The night was theirs, a canvas upon which they would paint their desires without the judgmental eyes of society watching over them.

He led her to the limo, the driver holding the door open with a knowing smile.

The cool leather of the seat was a stark contrast to the heat that emanated from their bodies, their hearts beating in unison like a primal drum.

As the car pulled away from the curb, the city lights danced across their faces, casting shadows that played upon their features like lovers' whispers.

The confetti that clung to them fluttered in the breeze from the open window, a gentle reminder of the world they'd left behind.

Y/N leaned back into the plush seat, her eyes closing for a brief moment as she allowed herself to be enveloped by the sensation of the cool leather against her skin. She was tired, but it wasn't the physical exhaustion of the wedding that weighed her down.

"Wake me up when we get there," she muttered, the words slipping out of her mouth like a soft sigh.

Lewis chuckled lowly, his eyes never leaving the road ahead.

"I don't think that's going to be an issue," he murmured, his voice a velvety rumble that sent shivers down her spine.

The idea of staying at his house had been a fleeting thought, a secret fantasy that had danced at the edge of their consciousness since the moment they'd met.

The car's smooth ride seemed to mimic the rhythm of his breath, deep and steady. The scent of her perfume filled the space around them, an intoxicating blend of jasmine and vanilla that had become as familiar to him as his own heartbeat.

Lewis hummed but discarded that thought immediately. He wasn't going to wake her up.

The gentle vibrations of the car's engine lulled her into a deep, peaceful sleep, her head resting against his shoulder. Her soft, even breaths brushed against his neck, sending waves of warmth through his body.

He felt a primal need to protect her, to shield her from the world outside, even if just for this one night. His eyes remained on the road, but his mind was lost in the sweetness of her presence.

When the limo arrived at his house, he thanked the driver with a nod and a tip that conveyed the depth of his gratitude.

The engine's purr grew quieter as the car came to a stop, and the world outside seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of what was to come. The headlights cast an ethereal glow across the manicured lawn, illuminating a path that led to his front door.

He turned to her, the soft curve of her cheek still pressed against his shoulder, her lashes fluttering with the beginnings of a dream. Gently, he lifted her into his arms, cradling her like a precious treasure that had been entrusted to him.

Her eyes remained closed, but a faint smile played upon her lips as if she knew she was safe, protected in the cocoon of his embrace.

The cool night air kissed her skin as he carried her up the stone steps to the grand entrance of his house. The weight of her was comforting, grounding him in a way that his vast wealth and power never had.

The door swung open, revealing a warm, inviting foyer that was a stark contrast to the cold, impersonal hotel suite they had just left behind.

Inside, the scent of freshly baked cookies wafted from the kitchen, a welcome greeting that seemed to have been orchestrated by some invisible hand.

He kicked off his shoes, the sound echoing through the hallway, and carried her to the living room. The crackling fireplace cast flickering shadows across the floor, dancing over the polished hardwood like a living tapestry.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she took in her surroundings with a sleepy smile. "This isn't the hotel," she murmured, her voice a soft purr that seemed to resonate with the warmth of the room.

He chuckled, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. "No, it's not. This is my home," he said, his voice thick with the promise of what the night would hold.

He lowered her onto his plush bed, her legs draped over his as he sat beside her, one hand never leaving her waist.

Her eyes searched his, the sleepiness replaced by a spark of excitement. She knew this was a pivotal moment, one that would change their dynamic forever. "What are we doing?" she whispered, her heart racing.

With a knowing smile, he leaned in and brushed his lips against hers, the warmth of his breath mingling with hers. "Whatever you want," he replied, his voice a seductive whisper that seemed to coil around her like a lover's embrace.

He kissed her again, more insistent this time, his hand sliding up her side to cradle her neck, his thumb tracing the delicate line of her jaw.

Her breath hitched, and she leaned into him, her body responding instinctively to the heat of his touch. The weight of his hand on her neck sent a shiver down her spine, and she could feel her skin prickling with anticipation.

His thumb traced the outline of her ear, sending a cascade of sensations through her, making her squirm with pleasure.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring the soft recesses of her mouth, tasting the sweetness that was uniquely hers.

Her hands found his shoulders, her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as if to hold onto him, to never let go. . . .

[wbbpls]

Platonic Plus One

Chapter 10

Word count: 3800 thank you all for being patient with me! I hope this chapter gives my angst and fluff people somewhat of equal happiness. as always yap away in my inbox I love hearing from you guys!

Everything was distinctly not okay. After dance lessons, the girls were quickly sent to dinner, and even though they sat next to each other, it felt like they hadn’t spoken once since their kiss in the hotel room. It was a passionate, in-the-moment reaction that felt so right, yet so scary. What does it mean now?

Throughout dinner, everyone pulled them in different directions. Still, Paige kept her arm around Azzi’s chair, mindlessly rubbing her back. By the end of the night, everyone was exhausted and headed to their rooms. 

“Night, ladies. See you in the morning!” The girls said bye to Aziz's mom and dad in the elevator and began to head to their room. Paige held the door open for Azzi, and they sheepishly smiled at each other. 

“Tonight was a good night.” Azzi smiled at Paige as she plugged in her phone. 

“Yeah, forreal. That desert was next level.” 

“Hey Paige, could we—” Azzi wanted to ask Paige to talk about their kiss, but her phone began to ring. 

“Ah shit, it’s KK. Can I see if she’s good?” 

“For sure. I’m, uh, yeah, I’m gonna go shower then.” The water started as KK and Paige caught up. She threw herself on the bed to get comfortable.

“Soooooo, P Boogers, I gotta ask. How’s it all been going?” 

“It’s fine, man, just chillin' with her family.” 

“Okay, but this has gotta be hard for you, dude.”

“It’s definitely not easy.”

“What vibes are you picking up on from her?”

“I just heard the water turn off, so I’ll tell you more later, but earlier today, we kissed in the hotel room, and it was so intense, man.”

“DUDE THAT'S A BIG DEAL!”

“I don’t know...we haven’t even acknowledged it.”

“Okay, so grow a pair and talk to her about it.” 

On the other side of the door, Azzi finished putting product in her hair and getting dressed. Through the door, she could still hear Paige talking to KK. As Azzi went to grab the handle to leave, she stopped when she heard the end of Paige’s sentence.

“At the end of the day, it’s all a fake relationship. The kissing is like practice, if anything.”   

Azzi’s heart sank. Their kiss was far from practice. It felt like a declaration. But apparently, to Paige, it was nothing. Azzi feels like such an idiot for thinking it was more than just a kiss. She’s the one who stupidly asked Paige to fake a relationship with her. 

“Aight, man, I gotta sleep. I’ll catch up with you later.” When Paige hung up, she sighed and stared up at the ceiling. Why did everything have to feel so complicated? She heard the door open and smiled at Azzi as she came out. 

“Hey, Az. Good shower?”

Azzi didn’t even look up as she made her way to her side of the bed and shortly said, “Yeah, fine.” 

“Oh, cool, cool...wanna watch a movie?”

“No thanks.”

“You good, Azzi?” Paige looks at her with such concern and adoration. How can she go from saying their kiss was nothing but practice to looking at her like that? 

“I’m fine. I’m just really tired and want to go to bed.”

“Oh, uh, okay. Night, Az.” 

Azzi laid down with her back to Paige, desperately craving her touch. Paige shifted to face Azzi, unsure of what to do. She went to wrap her arm around Azzi but just couldn’t do it. What if Azzi regretted everything?

Neither girl slept well that night. 

====================================

The next morning, they woke up tangled in each other's arms. Azzi woke up first with her head comfortably nuzzled in Paige’s neck. No matter how hard she tries to pull back, she can’t. They’ve been like they’re magnets since the first day they met. Azzi takes advantage of this moment, taking in the sounds of Paige’s deep breaths. She always knew she and Paige were different, but something about opening this door opened Azzi’s eyes, and she’s not so sure she knew how to come back from it. As she looks at Paige, she can’t find it in herself to even be mad at her. She’s the one who pressured Paige into this stupid situation in the first place. 

Paige’s eyes fluttered open, and she softly smiled down at Azzi. “Mornin’.” Azzi smiled up at her and tightened her grip around Paige’s waist, and Paige rubbed her hand up and down her back. 

“You feelin’ better, Az?”

“Yeah, just really needed sleep, I guess.” 

“Mmm, I get it. I just missed you last night.” Paige mumbled as her eyes closed again, sending her back to sleep. 

“I miss you too, Paige.” Azzi kissed her on the forehead and got ready for the day. While she was doing her hair, her phone dinged. 

Scissor Sister ✂️: Hey Az, how’s the week been going?

Az: Morning, Car! It’s alright. Good to see family. 

Incoming call: Scissor Sister ✂️

“Okay, tell me for real, and don’t give me fake bs. Your texts have been weird all week, and your moods give me whiplash.”

“Well, hello to you, too.”

“Ugh, I’m fine. I’m just trying to keep up with this whole fake relationship thing, and it's a lot sometimes.”

“Maybe because you want it to be a relationship?” Caroline says sarcastically. 

“No, she’s just my best friend and being a good friend and helping me out. That’s it.”

“Azzi...friends don’t do what Paige does for you.”

“You’re saying she’s not a good friend?”

“C’mon now, Az, you know it's more than that.”

“Hm. Nope! I don’t know anything you’re talking about, actually.”

“It’s more than that, and you know it.” Caroline sighs.

“Oh, do I?” Azzi says combatively despite how fast she can feel her pulse quickening under the accusation. 

“Yes.” Caroline challenges. 

“She’s my friend, just like you are.”

“Alright, fine. When you were sick last semester, what did your friends do for you?”

Azzi automatically responds, “You guys brought me food and checked in on me. What does this have to do with anything?”

“Uh huh. And what did Paige do?”

“She stayed with me, put on my favorite movies, got me flowers, and made sure I ate. Any of you would have done that. Paige just did it first.”

“Azzi. I love you so much. But I will never sleep in your bed every night holding you until you fall asleep, especially when you have gross germs to spread. I don’t love you like that.”

“Gee, thanks, Carol.”

“But Paige...?”

“But Paige, what?”

“Paige doesn’t do that for everyone. When I was sick, she told me to stop coughing everywhere. Paige would do anything to make you feel better. To make you smile.”

“No, that’s just Paige. She’s just- she’s just so…”

“So…what?”

“I don’t know!” Azzi snaps, frustrated she can’t find the right words.

Caroline presses, trying to force it out of her. “You do know. You’re just overthinking this. Now, reverse the roles. Paige is sick. What do you do?”

“Easy. I make sure she has her favorite foods, especially purple Gatorade, and wake her up for her meds because she hates taking them. She gets really clingy when she’s sick, so I’d plan to stay there the week, and I don’t know whatever she needs, I guess.”

“Okay, what have you done for me when I’m sick?”

“I don’t know...get you soup?”

“You don’t want to cuddle me all night until I feel better?”

“Ugh, c’mon, it’s just different.”

“Why?”

“She’s my best friend.” The statement feels like the biggest lie, even to her.

“Is that the real reason why?” Caroline gently asks.

“I- uh…”

“Mhm. I’m here when you’re ready to really talk, Az.”

====================================

After her call with Caroline, Azzi was stuck in her head. She knows something is between her and Paige, but genuinely acknowledging it to everyone else? That’s where she draws the line. She was lounging on the couch near the lobby after breakfast when Katie walked up to her.

“Hey, Azzi, I’m gonna go on a walk. Wanna join?”

“Sure, Mom, that sounds great, actually.”

They enjoyed the sounds of the wind and the chirping birds for the first few minutes before Katie broke the silence. 

“So, how are you and Paige doing?”

“Uh, good? Why do you ask?”

“It’s just really nice seeing you guys together.” Azzi nods, taking in what her mom is trying to say.

“Hey, Azzi, you know you can always talk to me, right?”

“What? Yeah, of course, I know that, Mom. Did something happen?”

Katie sighed and looked down as if she was building up the courage to say something. Finally, she looks up at Azzi. “Why didn’t you tell me you guys were official, honey? You know I’ve always loved Paige. She is practically a part of the family. I’ve always known there’s more between you two. I just never wanted to push it.” 

Azzi feels sick with guilt. She tells her Mom everything, maybe even too much. Of course, this would make her feel like she’s hiding something. 

“No, it’s not because of you! I guess I just didn't want things to change, and I wanted to make sure Paige and I were good before coming to you with anything.” Azzi hates herself for how easily that lie rolled off her tongue. 

“Okay, baby, I just need you to know I’m always on your team. And I know Paige is, too. I hope you know how much we all love you.” Azzi smiles at that. People would kill to have this kind of approval of their relationships from their parents. And her mom is right; Paige would do anything for her and is always on her side. Being mad at her for doing what she asked her to do isn’t fair.

“I know, Mom.” Azzi practically whispers as they continue their walk. 

====================================

Paigey 💗: hey az imma go grab lunch you finna join?

Princess 💗: yeah i’ll be there in 5

Azzi finds Paige in a rounded booth, scrolling through her phone. She slides in next to her. “Hey, sleepy head.”

“Mmm, hey, mama.”

“Hey Paige, before we get food...can we talk?”

“Course, Az. Everything okay?”

“You know you’re my best friend, right?”

“Uh, yeah? Is that a trick question or somethin’?”

“N-no. I guess I just need you to know that no matter what, our friendship comes first. So, like if any of this has been weird for you, we can stop pretending.” 

“W-wait, no, I don’t want to! I mean, u-uh, it would just make things weird for your family. Wait, are you uncomfortable?”

“No, not at all.”

“Me neither.”

“I just don’t want to lose you, P.”

“There’s not a world where I’d let that happen.”

Paige leans in and hugs Azzi tight. Maybe the kiss last night had her second-guessing? Nothing about the kiss felt fake, but perhaps it freaked Azzi out. 

“I-If you want me to pull back, I totally can.”

“No, I like how it’s been.” Azzi's eyes flickered down at Paige’s lips for just a split second. Something was missing here, and Paige wasn’t quite sure what. 

“Me too, Az.” The girls hold each other for a moment before Paige breaks the silence. “How about we skip real food and go straight to dessert?”

“Ice cream?!” Azzi’s eyes lit up, and she pulled Paige’s arm, dragging her out of the booth. On their way out, the girls ran into Jose. 

“Oh, thank god I found you guys. Dad won’t leave me alone! I’ve already made like 10 tik toks with hi,m but he won’t give up. Please, I beg of you to save me.”

“Aight, influencer, come with us,” Paige smirks and laces her fingers in Azzi’s hand.

“Thank god, man. I’ll do anything to get out of that.” The girls look at each other with a knowing smile.

“Anything, you say?”

“Oh no, what did I just sign up for?”

“You can buy us ice cream,” Azzi says with a cute smile and walks towards the front. 

“What?! Dude, your girlfriend has NIL money. What you got me buying ice cream for?”

“Hey man, Princess gets what she wants,” Man says with a hand up, laughing at Jose’s regrets. 

====================================

When it comes to Azzi, Paige lost all rationale. That’s part of what made this all so difficult. Usually, Paige could set her emotions aside and be rational, never letting her emotions dictate her actions. But the kiss from yesterday just kept replaying in her mind and how she felt, well, complete. Then, seeing Azzi so distant last night and nervously making sure their friendship comes first today put Paige in a whirlwind. Despite all the confusion, things are starting to feel like normal again. Paige has been able to take a step back and see things with a fresh set of eyes. Whatever happened with Jonathan is in the past. They’ve grown so much since high school, and holding her accountable for things they did at 16 is unfair. The world was so confusing then and has honestly only gotten more confusing. Azzi’s family is happy with how things are going, and Azzi gets to enjoy her week without being hounded about her dating life. No matter what, they’re best friends.

Once the three of them get out of the car, Paige takes a moment to take in the feeling of the sun on her skin. There’s something peaceful about getting ice cream with Azzi and her brother. Something so normal and mundane about it in the best ways. 

Jose pushed Paige. “C’mon, Mrs. NIL, who can’t buy her girlfriend ice cream. You’re gonna get burned by the sun.”   

“Bro, I’m not that pasty damn.”

“You’re pretty pale, Paigey.”

“All I heard is that I’m pretty.”

“Sure, whatever your need to hear to sleep at night, Bueckers.” 

“Oh, I sleep just fine knowing I’m pretty, Fudd.”

“That’s Mrs. NIL to you.” Azzi winks and gets in line. Azzi orders chocolate and strawberry in a cup, Jose gets coffee ice cream, and Paige gets mint chocolate chip on a waffle cone. 

“Ew, mint?”

“If you ever tried it, you’d probably like it, Az.” Paige rolled her eyes and made her way to a picnic table. The three of them enjoy their ice cream and laugh, talking about the most random stuff. Jose stands up to order more ice cream to go for Azzi’s family, leaving the two girls alone.

Azzi starts going on some rant about a training camp she is setting up. Paige loves basketball. Paige also loves Azzi. But Azzi talking about basketball? That’s her biggest weakness. Paige finds herself zoning out into Azzi’s voice, oblivious to the world around her. All she can think about is how pretty Azzi is and how beautiful she is when she’s passionate about something.

“Paige?”

“Hmm?”

“Uh, your hand is getting all sticky.”

“Yeah...” Paige still hadn’t popped out of her Azzi bubble until she pushed at her knee. “Wait, what?” 

Azzi giggles, “Paigey, you’re dripping everywhere.” Paige’s head is so far in the gutter that she can’t process the ice cream dripping from her hand. Without thinking, Paige catches the green ice cream dripping down her hand and wrist with her tongue. She licks up her hand, back to the waffle cone, and smiles proudly at her success.  

When Paige looks back up at Azzi, who is staring at her with the same intensity she had last night, her mouth goes dry. Paige licks her lips, feeling like a fish out of water, and Azzi’s eyes follow each movement. Azzi reaches out to swipe off the remaining mint on the side of Paige’s mouth, then sucks on her finger rid of the ice cream. The tension in the air is thick and heavy. Paige audibly gulps. Their eyes snap up, meeting each other's deep gaze.

“Paige, is it just me or—” Jose unknowingly interrupts their moment. “Alright, guys, let’s head back before their ice cream melts too.” He is oblivious as ever to the charged space between the two girls. 

Something about that moment gave both girls just enough confidence to continue to push boundaries. In the car, Paige put her hand on Azzi’s thigh. She used handing Azzi her phone to pick one of her playlists as an excuse and just never moved her hand. Azzi, on the other hand, was very aware of the hand placement, trying to keep it together for the longest 10-minute caride of her life. When Azzi rested her hands on her lap, she slipped her pinky into Paige’s, and in response, Paige’s thumb gently rubbed the side of her thigh.

Once they arrived back on the property, Jose ran inside, and Paige handed her keys to the valet. “Hey P, I have to go to this bridesmaid meeting to finish planning the party the night before the wedding. I’ll meet up with you after?”

“Cool, imma go shoot some hoops. Come find me after.” 

After about ten minutes of shooting, Azzi shows up. “Well, that was fast. I didn’t realize you were such an elite planner.” She passes Azzi the ball and shoots a three as if it’s as easy as breathing. 

“The maid of honor wasn’t feeling good, so we rescheduled for tomorrow.”

“Damn that sucks.” Paige drops another shot. 

“Yeah, it’s just a bad headache, so she should be back up and running again soon. Besides, it means I’m free for the rest of the day.”

“Hmm, so you’re free to spend time with me now?”

“‘I’m all yours, P,” Azzi said it about her free time, but the words felt heavy with a truth she wasn’t sure how to completely articulate yet.

Paige smiled, “Good, let’s keep it that way.”

“What do you wanna do then?”

“Whatever you want, Princess.” Heat shot its way down Azzi’s body, remembering the last time Paige had called her a princess. The feeling of Paige’s body over her, grinding into her while she kisses her neck—

“Azzi?”

“U-uh yeah. Right. S-something to do.” Azzi tries to play it down, but she sees Paige smirk as the blush runs up her face. “What about the massage Jess suggested?”

“Ugh, yes. I could really use it. Great idea, Az.” Paige tosses in one last basket before they make their way over the spa. 

====================================

“Room number and last name, please?”

“355 and Fudd.”

“Ah, yes! I see your name right here. The bride has offered complimentary massages to all of her bridesmaids and their partners. We will set up a couple's room for you in just a moment.”

When Azzi considered going to the spa, she didn’t think they would end up in the same room, especially a couples room. The girls silently waited in the lobby, taking in the peaceful sounds until they heard their name called. When they were brought to their room, each masseuse asked them their preferences and offered them water. As Azzi sipped her water, she overheard Paige answering the masseuse about the pressure she’d like for her massage. 

“Yeah, I definitely like it deep.” 

Azzi choked on her water. She still hasn’t been able to take her mind out of the gutter since the ice cream incident, and now it just feels like life is playing jokes on her. 

“Okay, ladies, please undress and lay down on your stomachs. We will come back shortly.”

Once the door closes, the silence is so thick that not even a knife could cut it. They change in locker rooms together all the time, but the intimacy of the moment, the roses everywhere, and the lingering looks make this feel like a much bigger deal. Paige is the first to make a move. She takes her t-shirt and shorts off, leaving her in just boxers and a sports bra. Azzi follows and pulls her sundress up over her head, but it gets caught in her necklace. 

“Shit, Paige can you help me?” Paige freezes. This isn’t a big deal. Just normal best friend things. 

“Y-yeah, I gotchu.” Azzi feels Paige’s hands make their way under her dress to detach it from the necklace. 

“Aha, got it!” Paige pulls the dress over her head, and the girls realize how close and underdressed they are. The only thing Azzi could focus on was how easily she could kiss Paige right now. 

“Thanks, P. I owe you.”

Paige moves even closer. “Oh yeah?” The comforting smell of Paige’s perfume and the unnecessary confidence in her smirk overtook any decision-making power she had left. Azzi closes the gap for a gentle kiss, taking Paige off guard. 

“Is that—”

Another kiss.

“—a good enough—”

They kiss again.

“—thank you?”

At the third kiss, Paige moves her hands to Azzi’s waist. 

“Definitely,” Paige responds breathlessly. Seeing Paige caught off guard and flustered sends a jolt through Azzi’s body, shocking her into motion. She leaned in again, kissing Paige slowly. Azzi knows there’s no reason to kiss her right now other than she just wants to. She’d wanted to for so many years, but she shoved that feeling deep in the back of her head. The feeling of Paige’s tongue swiping the bottom of her tongue and pulling her in closer validates all of those feelings. Azzi knows that what she feels is real, and she’s not sure she can ever go back. She wrapped her arms around Paige’s neck, pulling her in even closer. 

As Paige kisses her back with so much softness and adoration, Azzi takes a moment to let herself feel what it would be like to actually be with Paige in such an intimate way. She pushes the thoughts of Paige seeing it all as fake to the back of her head when she moves her hands into Azzi’s hair. Maybe Paige must hear how loudly she’s thinking, so she pulls back slightly, not removing her hands.

“You know no one is watching, right?”

Azzi took a deep breath, never losing eye contact. “I know.” 

Paige looks down at Azzi in confusion, breathing heavily from their kiss. Azzi starts to wonder if she took it too far this time. There’s nothing that can save her from this moment. From the possible rejection. 

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Fuck no.”

Paige kisses her hard, losing themselves in the kiss. Azzi sighs in relief at her best friend's response. There’s no hesitancy anymore. No thoughts and insecurities were floating around their heads. It’s just them. 

When they hear a knock at the door, they slowly pull apart, and Paige looks between Azzi’s lips and eyes. 

“You ready, ladies?”

“Yeah, in just a sec!” Paige responded before she leaned in for one more soft kiss. Then she whispers, “Enjoy your massage.” 

They smile at each other and rush to lie down on the massage tables. Their respective masseuse comes in and begins to work on their knots. For the first time since this whole situation started, Paige and Azzi finally feel relaxed.

[book-lore]

Hello again friends. Library goblin here to ruin something else for you! It's apparently what I do but this one might be worth your time.

I've said it before and I continue to rail against AI because it is a blight. It's theft of other people's work. It's ruining the environment to run it. It's filling the internet with questionable and outright incorrect information based on its hallucinations. All of these things you've heard before likely and while I would argue that all these things are important, let me help you hit it home.

For one, you'll note this poor gent has made a point to include that he's still failing. There's a reason for that. ChatGPT doesn't form opinions. It has no concern for what it's doing and you'll note that a lot of what it produces isn't particularly engaging, even though it can technically create (steal) things. It's at its most interesting when it's failing to produce something. But that's also because those things are usually incoherent horse shit. It's amusing (if we ignore the amount of water waste that goes into creating it), but if you were hoping for a better grade with it, or even the ability to graduate, you're likely to be sorely disappointed. Writing is a skill and when someone works at it and gets better at it, they can produce things that make the reader more excited than just a bunch of technical sentences strung together can.

But maybe you don't care about any of that. Maybe you just want to get out of the class with something resembling a decent mark. The thing is, that class was likely once designed with the idea that it was going to give you the skill to write something later if you need to. And trust me, whether you think you will or not, you may need to. Communicating well is something people take for granted because those who do it regularly making it seem like it's easy. I've literally seen CEOs fuck this up because they didn't regard this as anything worth their time and stunningly, they ended up getting in trouble for it. Maybe you don't care about it now, but what about when you need to write a cover letter that doesn't suck? Your ability there is going to be the difference between you getting a job or not. Or maybe you want to get a little more personal.

Right now, you probably aren't thinking about something that hasn't happened yet, but are you prepared to write your wedding vows? A eulogy? These are difficult things to do and very personal pieces that you will want to be able to express yourself with. How about writing a love letter? It might be old fashioned but if you wanted to, shouldn't that be something you can do? Isn't having that skill worth trying a little bit to impress someone you like?

The point of this is that there is a lot to the world of expression that you miss out on by pretending the computer can just do it for you. It can be fun. It can be rewarding. It can be the difference between you getting a chance to interview for a job or not. And for the record, a lot of teachers can tell that the bullshit paper you turned in from ChatGPT was written by AI. If you're going to turn in something poorly written in the first place, at least if you wrote it, you can probably make something better that will garner you a better mark. Contrary to what you might think, your teachers have a sense of humour. ChatGPT does not.

Be creative. Be expressive. Be able to write your own life down. No matter how much you don't think you'll need it, it's better to be more skilled in this world than it is to be unprepared.

[himbo-kuto]

ceo!sylus x secretary!reader  summary: what happens you you become sylus' trusted secretary? part one.

the secretary position for your ceo just opened up at your job and you heard they were now trying to hiring from within

the pay was 10x more than what you were originally making just as an office employee, but the glaring problem was first and foremost: your ceo.

you’ve seen many a secretary come through those doors and all of them leave within the first week. needless to say your ceo was a pretty intense person who had zero tolerance for mistakes

you’ve only ever seen him at major company events for a split second or through pictures of him in the news, but never have you seen him up close.

you were a fairly competent worker– always meeting your deadlines, submitting your work with minimal mistakes, you were sociable with your co-workers and overall, people liked you

so you thought fuck it, why not! and submitted your application to be his secretary

you may have girl bossed a little too close to the sun because you did not think it would land you in the top floor lobby, waiting to be interviewed by him and his two associates the next day.

there were floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the city, it was a breathtaking view that gave you a bit of hope. maybe this is the view you could be looking out to everyday.

what could go wrong? (famous last words)

the sound of your name jolted you out of your daze. you were greeted by two people who introduced themselves as luke and kieran before they lead you into your ceo's office

it was starkly different from the vibe lobby– his office was dark. black, grey, red accents were painted all over the room, not even an ounce of sunlight was shining through his windows. 

you took a look around admiring the artistry of it all, you knew your ceo was a person of high class and his office clearly reflected that. 

you took a seat in the arm chair in the middle with luke and kieran being seated on the couches on either side, while your ceo sat with his back towards you.

“so we did a few background screenings– criminal records, speeding tickets– standard stuff, viewed your application, along with the work you’ve previously submitted on behalf of the company and we'd say that on paper, you’re pretty good fit for the job.” the one on the left said who you remembered to be luke began speaking.

“but does that mean you can actually do the job?” kieran, the one on the right chimed in. 

“you see our boss has a very low tolerance for mistakes, how can you ensure that you don’t make any mistakes?”

you took a second to breathe– they were both coming at you with comments and remarks so fast that it took you a second to catch up. 

you looked over to see that the chair in the middle was still turned around. a small bitter chuckle escaped your lips. was he even going to greet you? you were tired of men in power treating people below them like they’re nothing just cause they didn't have the privilege that people with money had. 

maybe this wasn’t worth the time and money. if he wasn’t even going to look at you when you stepped into the room, then what the hell were you trying so hard for? so again you thought.. eh, fuck it.

“well, first off, nobody’s perfect. i’m sure as long as you two have been working with mr.qin, one of you hasn’t made a mistake before. as an employee working for her boss, it’s more about accountability. how much is mr.qin willing to take on for your mistake as a ceo who i’m sure has a very specific image. nobody ever wants to make a mistake.. but i would hope that if mr. qin is the man that all the news outlets paint him out to be, that he would vouch for his employees. though it has been interesting to see the amount of secretaries walking in and out of this building for the past month so maybe he’s not all he’s chalked up to be” 

silence– you could hear a pin drop in there.

‘fuck, maybe that was too much.’ you felt the sweat drop down your back as the silence filled the room, but before you could backtrack, you heard a deep chuckle. 

your eyes snapped in the direction of the noise, to find that it was none other than your company’s ceo. you don’t ever think you’ve heard him speak, let alone laugh before. 

he finally turned his chair around and you could've sworn you felt all the air get knocked out your lungs. sure, you’ve only ever seen him from afar but seeing him this up close... it truly took your breath away. he was mesmerizing. from his silver hair and red eyes to his custom tailored suit, all the way down to his designer dress shoes. 

you’ve heard whispers in the office about how attractive he was, but now you were able to confirm their observations. 

“you’ve observant, i’ll give you that. luke and kieran have been working for me for as long as i could remember. i fired them many times from the amount of mistakes they’ve made, just ask them. they’re annoying, rowdy and loud, but they're loyal to me. they do good work and they’ve learned a thing or two over the past couple of years. they’ve earned that."

"but know that i’m not putting my reputation on the line for some random stranger without merit.” 

that shut you up. 

“if you want that job, it’s yours. i’ve gone through everything the boys have given me about you and you’re more than qualified. but just know that working for me is no easy feat.” with that he turned his attention to his computer, signaling to the boys that you are to be dismissed.

“luke and kieran will give you a tablet with my schedule and meetings. i start my day at 5:00am at the boxing gym. prepare the breakfast listed in the notes and pick me up from my residence at 6:00am.” as promised, the boys handed you a small stack made up of different notes and said tablet.  

“and if i choose not to accept?” he smirked. 

“then simply, don’t show up dear.” 

[pisceanfilm]

⋆ ｡  𐀔  ° ‧     what does this person want you to know?

KEYWORDS: romance, relationships, (past) situationships, seperation, energy check between you and your person of romantic interest.

ꕤ * ． pile one. → ꕤ * ． pile two. → ꕤ * ． pile three.

relax your body, close your eyes, and take a deep breath. ask yourself: "which pile has a message for me today?" when you open your eyes, what image did your eyes fall on? what image do you feel most drawn to energetically? that's your pile!

this reading is timeless! it will cross your path whenever it's meant to find you 🍀 while my main intention was to channel someone you're already involved with, you can also use this for your sp, a future partner, a soulmate, or whoever you're thinking about!!

PILE # 01

your person is a true yearner, i'll tell you this much. their heart is very fragile, they want you to know they're scared of getting hurt, of being betrayed. this is a person who didn't have many healthy relationships in the past. they're confused, unsure what to do, and just wishes to avoid it all right now.

they're very much fantasising about a future with you, though... they want it all with you, they loooove your laugh. (i'm seeing that maybe they want to travel with you? explore the world together is what i heard.) with you on their side, they feel invincible. they really want you on their team. when this person has been processing their emotions healthily, i see that they're very attentive, unafraid of showing a passionate desire towards you, and generally very caring and loving. they appreciate you so much, you're the brightest star in their existence.

however, if this person isn't standing strong in their emotions, i see them being very hot and cold. when you're together, everything feels right. you feel secure, you feel like there's something there. but when you're apart i see that you're very confused by the energy of your relationship. your mind appears to be your biggest enemy: do they like me? am i good enough for them? is this something that could work out? (i see that this is you picking up on the energy of your person... their confusion and doubts are making you doubtful as well.)

what i'm hearing is that you need to focus on your own healing and stability, so you can help this person heal energetically as well. this is a connection that's mostly guided by the divine. (currently there's a lot happening behind the scenes that you aren't even aware of.) you're meant to heal and complete certain cycles with this person for sure, this is not the end of the connection. so have faith, and trust that everything will align!!

a letter from your person: do you think about me too? i can't get you out of my head, no matter how much i try. you're always there. it frustrates me, how easy it would be for you to secure a spot inside of my heart. how well we could work together if i let my guard down. i'm scared, though. scared of hurting you, scared of hurting myself, scared of failing. what if i have something so beautiful with you and then ruin it by my fears and self sabotaging tendencies? i don't know why you still stick around, but i'm trying to be a better person. please call me out on my bullshit, i need you to be firm and stand your ground. don't take shit from me, i know i need to step up. i care for you, i'm trying to put my ego aside.

PILE # 02

god help my soul, i'm sensing a very intense and determined energy coming from your person 😭 this is definitely giving me the energy of an ex, or a situationship that was meant to take off but somehow didn't (i see this being your person's fault, for sure). this person absolutely regrets losing you. they're the reason things aren't moving forward. they blame themselves, they're angry and devastated. they wish they could've done things differently.

in the most favourable outcome, i see this person working on healing themselves. they're going through an ego death/dark night of the soul and are questioning everything and everyone around them. in this reflection i see them wanting to become a better person (for you), if you're willing to give them a chance. they want to love you right, they want to show you how much you mean to them... i see them wanting to swoop in and steal you away so you can ride into the sunset together!!

if this person refuses to face their demons, however, i see that spirit is going to give them a very difficult time unfortunately</3 they will hit them with the same harsh lessons over and over again until they finally see the light. in this case i see spirit keeping this connection in a separation (or limbo) in order to protect you. you can't heal this person right now... if they open their eyes, if they're able to see... they would understand what you truly mean to them. what a treasure they had in front of them. they will get there, though. it might take some time, i'm hearing.

depending on your situation with this person, only take them back if you can see that they've changed!! you know this is the case when they come back and show humble energy, that they're able to admit that they were wrong. i see, for some of you, they truly fucked up. so please use your discernment! losing you has been their biggest regret, though, and they will be carrying this guilt for a very long time...

a letter from your person: i'm going to win you back. i'll return to you and prove that i can be the person you need me to be. i'm sorry for hurting you in the past, i'm sorry for making you feel like you weren't good enough. apologies won't cut it, i know things need to change. i'm working on facing my demons. you were right, you made me realise i need to heal. i hope you still will be there when i come back... do you have someone new? are you willing to forgive me? i messed up, and losing you will be the biggest regret of my life.

PILE # 03

this is such a sweet and gentle energy, i just want to squish their cheeks<33 i see many different scenarios for you two. you could be dating, this could be a secret admirer, this could be your friend... this person feels very hesitant to me. i feel like they often have a poker face or wear a mask. i sense that you might pick up that they're hiding something from you/aren't being 100% authentic. don't be afraid, they aren't hiding anything malicious! if anything, i see they're hiding the depth of their emotions for you. they fear coming off too strong, they fear scaring you away. if you're in a relationship together, i see them wanting to take the next step... (making things official, living together, an engagement maybe? 🤭) they want to move things forward in a fruitful way, they want to give you all the love in the world. they're sooooo gentle with you, this makes my heart want to burst with love. they have such good intentions with you and they want to make you happy for as long as you'll have them<3

i don't feel any negative energies for this pile</3 literally, the worst case scenario here is that your person is a bit hesitant and reluctant to show the depths of their true feelings for you. they fear rejection, they fear being judged by you. (i see this person really cares and values your opinion of them, so your rejection would hurt tbh.) they're mostly testing the waters right now, trying to figure out what you want and what you're ready for. this is a very considerate person! but again, their insecurities might stop them from taking any action right now.

you have such a special place in their heart, it's no joke. you must have such a beautiful and powerful energy because this person literally loves every. single. thing. about. you. they see you as their sun, their moon, their stars, their whole universe... you mean a lot to them. i think the depth of their emotions scares them as well, to be honest. but i see them being brave and facing this head on. they want you, they know they want you, so i see them making a very significant move in the very near future.

please, my pile 3, be gentle with their heart<3 their energy is so pure and wholesome, they could be such a bright light in your darkness! i'm hearing that, if you aren't sure of this person's intentions, know that it's safe to trust them. you'll be very pleasantly surprised with what's waiting for you if you open your heart!

a letter from your person: do you like me? you shine so bright, sometimes it's blinding me. you radiate so much warmth, you make me so happy. when i'm with you there's no other place i'd rather be. did you know this? i'm placing my heart in your hands, i surrender myself to you...

(i'm not getting much more from them because this person is a bit shy... but when i'm in their energy... their heart just glows thinking about you. i see shy smiles, unable to keep eye contact without blushing, i feel like sometimes they need to take breaks from you because you're so overwhelming. love love love this energy 🩷)

[judesmoonbeauty]

Ikémen Villains 2025 Vil Fest 280 Hearts ECB Story: Jude Jazza

This is a fan translation only. Please expect grammatical errors and translation inaccuracies. This is a full translation. Creative liberties are taken for characterization and smoother translation process. Cybird owns everything. Re-blogs are appreciated, but please do not post my translation elsewhere. Thank you for your support! ☾.

This is a stand alone story and has no bearing on the main election story.

On the way back from the port, Jude passes by a warehouse and stops when he spots someone inside.

Kate: Do you know them?

His gaze was fixed on a middle-aged man holding a cane, 

Jude: He's the president of a company that was in the red ‘n struggling ‘til a few months ago.

Jude: There was talk o’ the business shuttin’ down, but now it’s gotten so much better I can’t explain it.

Seems like he’s suspicious of the company’s president he had business dealings with……

Kate: What kind of deal is he doing?

We stick close to the door of the warehouse and watch what's going on inside.

The company president took a pocket watch from the trader, and inspected the watch’s details.

With a meaningful smile, he produced a contract.

Jude: ….Ha.

And then this company president smiled meaningfully -

Jude: What’re ya lot doin’ here?

He pushed the warehouse door open with his foot and went inside.

Kate: Wait, Jude?!

When I quickly try to stop him, the people in the warehouse drew their swords all at once.

President With A Cane: Who? Jude Jazza?

Jude walked coolly, not even minding the sword pointed at him.

President With A Cane: Ah!

He snatched the pocket watch from the president's hand.

Jude: Dale Watches…..That’s a good business deal.

(Dale is one of the leading luxury watch brands in the country.)

Dale watches are luxurious timepieces whose dials are individually hand-painted by craftsmen,

It’s said that the appeal of the same product is that it has slightly different designs.

President With A Cane: Oh, yeah that’s right. An acquaintance of mine just so happened to provide me the job to distribute them.

I felt something was off about the president's unsteady gaze,

Jude: Ah, sorry. I made a mistake.

Jude pointed to the logo on the back with a warped smile.

Jude: It’s a sham Dale’s watch.

Kate: What…..

Jude: The size o’ the logo, scratches on the joints, ‘n even the dial’s got printed paper pasted on it.

Jude: Ya made money by sellin’ counterfeit goods to idiots who didn't know if they were real, ‘n got outta financial trouble.

Jude: Fer an incompetent president, ya sure put a lotta thought into it.

The company president grew frightened and trembled, when he saw him throw the watch away.

President With A Cane: I’ll kill you, Jude Jazza!

With those words, the men who had been waiting suddenly attacked Jude.

Kate: Jude!

Jude: Tch.

He avoids the men attacking him with weapons, punching and kicking them away.

During the fierce battle unfolding before me,

I notice out of the corner of my eye, the president holding the cane trying to make a get away.

Kate: Hold it!

I grab his hand, but another man appears from behind and grabs my arm -

Kate: Ah!

Jude: Oi!

President With A Cane: What should I do to this woman?

The president who was trying to escape, seemed to feel cocky about having caught me, and brought a sword close to my neck.

Jude: Why’d ya get caught ya idiot.

(Idiot…..)

Kate: Is that anyway to talk to your girlfriend?

However, our president that looked at me with exasperation, then instigated me with a smile,

Jude: Yer not gonna ask me to help ya with somethin’ like that are ya?

(As if!)

Unable to contain my irritation at the sight of that face, I kicked the man who had captured me in the shin with all my strength.

President With A Cane: Damn!

Kate: Mnn!

The moment my restraint was released, the tip of the sword grazed my neck as I was thrown aside, and Jude’s eyes widened when he realized that.

Jude instantly grabbed my arm and pulled me towards him,

And then he grabbed the sword that had fallen from the crouching man's hand -

Jude: Ya know whose woman ya laid yer hands on, yeah?

President With A Cane: Hic- ARRGGGGGH!!

The red that splattered from the cut-down man reflected in the sunset.

President With A Cane: N-NO! This woman…..GAAAHHH!!!

With quiet anger he cuts off the arm of the sword-wielding president in one slash.

Although I was frightened by his icy expression, I also thought he was beautiful.

As I was admiring this unusual behavior, Jude pointed his sword at the president's face and spoke.

Jude: I’ll make sure ya never screw ‘round like that again.

With that, the battle inside the warehouse ended.

Afterwards, the men were taken away by Ellis, who had come to check out the situation.

On the way back in the carriage, Jude treated the wound on my neck -

Kate: Um, Jude.

Jude: …….

Kate: Geez! It’s only a scratch!

(Only a little skin peeled off!)

As I grabbed the hand that was bandaging me, I blurted out something I shouldn't have.

Kate: Most of the marks you make-

Jude: Hah?

(Ah-)

I quickly shut my mouth, but it was too late. Jude slowly smiles.

Jude: Just what was my princess thinkin’?

Kate: Nothing!

He stopped bandaging me, grabbed my chin and kissed me.

Jude: Why ya gettin’ hurt by anyone other than me?

Jude: I’m pissed as hell.

Kate: Mnn…Ju-

Unable to resist the kiss ravaging my mouth, I cling to him. 

Then Jude said with a serious expression.

Jude: There’s no next time, stupid Kate.

That expression of quiet anger is so lovely, that I want to see it again…..There’s no way I could say that.

—So, I give myself over to the drowning kiss.

[Event Master List]

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[nerd-party]

Well. This is new.

"What happened here, Luci?" I ask, blinking in the sudden bright sunlight. All around, people relax and laugh, looking uncomfortable but relieved.

Luci shrugs. "Meh, got bored." Asshole. He always was impulsive like that- part of the reason he was cast down, really. "Come to enjoy the resort?" He flashes me a perfect, dazzling smile.

What a prick. Even when we were both angels he was always flirting with me- brushing his hands over the small of my back when he passed, lifting me up to reach things and putting his hand a little too far up my thigh, holding eye contact a little too long. When the humans really started developing, he'd change his appearance to match the latest hot guy in town- right now, he's stolen the visage of a mortal called 'Ian Somerhalder'. I can't figure out if I care or not.

"As if. You know your father is going to be pisse- annoyed?" I bite back the curse at the top of my tongue. Something about him always makes me slip up- last time I spent fifty years in accounting for swearing at him. Fuck's sake.

At least the Father doesn't police pur thoughts unless we do something untoward. He believes we should have autonomy over our actions, and we can't have that if we live afraid of what he would do. He doesn't want us to fear him.

Luci never cared about that.

His grin is infuriatingly beautiful. "The more pissed off he is, the better. Say, care for a tour?" He gestures around and begins to walk down the red-marble steps, each languid, graceful step making me jog to catch up.

"So how exactly is this up to code?" I ask, gazing in mild amazement at the flaming trees and steaming pools. Devils and mortals alike soak their bones and bathe in the almost-shade of the towering hotel stretching high through the Seven Layers.

"Well, of you look to your right you'll realize the water in our state-of-the-art pools is still at boiling point, and our trees offer no respite from the heat of the Eternal Furnace below. Each floor of our hotel reaches into a different Layer and the things inside correspond to this. I'm guessing you'll need to check, though?" He bats his long, perfect eyelashes at me. For a split second, he doesn't look human anymore- he looks more like the old him, with softly curling brown hair, tanned skin and sparkling eyes, but it's quickly replaced with a mortal face once again.

"I certainly do." It's becoming harder and harder to focus on my job. It seems like all the heat in the worlds is emanating from him as we walk together, his hand brushing my arm as he steers me towards the entrance. His skin is cold to the touch.

I pull away from him and smartly knock on the looming doors of the hotel. He raises an eyebrow at me.

"What?" I snap at him, face flushing.

He says nothing, just snaps his fingers. The doors fly open at that instant, a rush of warm air flowing over me and blasting my golden hair back.

"Come on in." He leads the way as I frantically fix my hair, reclipping my butterfly clips and smoothing my silken dress.

"Tosser." I grumble, storming in behind him. My clipboard floats behind me, taking notes automatically.

"What was that, angel?" He says over his shoulder, walking up the first set of stairs into the first level - Envy.

"Nothing." I reply sweetly, blowing him a sarcastic kiss. He laughs, a warm, hearty sound, and it reverberates down my spine like a lighting bolt.

I need to focus. He is trying to distract me on purpose.

Envy turns out to be a mirror maze, filled with mirrors that distort your appearance in various ways. I peer through the magic of one mirror that shows me as having a perfectly skinny frame. Obviously as an angel I get to choose how I look so it has no effect, but looking through the veil shows a devil mimicking my movements. He waves at me.

"Your employees seem happy enough." I remark as we pass through Gluttony. Around us, mortals gorge themselves on red-hot metal and sharpened spikes. "What do they think they're eating?"

Luci snaps his fingers again and my vision blurs and shifts. On the tables now seems to be piles of delicious cupcakes, roast dinners and impeccable sweets. My mouth waters at just the sight of it all.

"Want some?" He suggests sweetly, holding out a red velvet cake to me.

"Fuck off." I slap it away, hearing it clatter to the ground. His grin widens, shark-like teeth embedded in his mouth like gems in stone.

We walk through Sloth (a gaming café), Pride (an awards ceremony), Greed (a casino) and eventually end up at the doors to Wrath.

I push them open, my legs burning from all this walking. I could use my wings, but I feel bad for Luci, flying while he's cursed to walk.

When I open the doors to Wrath I'm shocked. Instead of the shouting and yelling I expected, it is silent. The only sound is our footsteps on the feet-thick ice of the frozen waters that is Wrath.

"What is this?" I whisper, the noise disappearing off into the distance. Luci seems somber, walking almost silently beside me.

"The perfect Layer. You're assigned to the Layer you most aligned with in Life. What is the cruelest hell for a wrathful person but a silent, cold, empty expanse? All that rage, and nowhere to put it?"

I'm stunned silent. "Hell has changed."

Luci scuffs his feet on the ice, trainers kicking up frost. His breath is barely visible, while mine puffs out in huge clouds. "So have I."

"Since my last visit? In fifty years, your perception of hell has changed so much?"

His eyes meet mine, and for the second time this visit I see the angel he used to be below the beautiful facade of humanity. This time, I refuse to look away.

"I like this Layer best." He says suddenly, not breaking eye contact. He circles me, eyes trailing over every inch of my body like a predator surveying his prey. For some reason, it feels less intimidating and more... Intimate. I want to sink into the warmth he emanates like a soft blanket as he comes up behind me, gripping my shoulders with his cold hands and leaning right close to my ear. "It reminds me of you."

I jerk away. "Me?"

"Untouchable. Unknowable." He swallows. "Unhavable."

"That's not a word." I can't think of anything else to say.

"You know what I mean." His eyes, golden as candlelight are still fixed on mine.

"Luci..." I murmur, rooted to the spot as he steps towards me again, gently taking my hand. The cold is starting to get to me now.

"I love that you still call me that. After everything." He admits, squeezing my hand and tracing something in my palm.

We say nothing as he draws it, again and again whilst I try and commit it to memory, learn the shapes of by heart so I can learn this picture like I've learned him. Slowly, the lines make a shape in my head. A heart. Anatomically correct, the Perfect Design, his and mine matching. Human.

"Let's move on." He whispers, and snaps his fingers.

One sickening lurch later I am standing beside Luci looking at a set of pink doors in the shape of a heart, amorous sounds coming from within.

"Lust." He announced dramatically. I shiver, still adjusting from the cold, and realize his hand isn't in mine anymore. Without a word, he removes his dinner jacket and drapes it over my shoulders, the loose hurt he was wearing fully revealed. His biceps strain slightly against the rolled-up fabric of the white sleeves as he pushes open the door. I pretend not to notice, just like I'm pretending not to notice the spicy smell of his jacket on my body.

A pink haze fills the room, creeping around corners and seeping under doorways. Loud moans blare from speakers above each closed door of the private rooms, broadcasting what's happening inside. I wrinkle my nose in distaste.

"You don't like it?" Luci asks, mock-offended.

"This one hasn't changed." I remark bluntly. "I've always hated it."

A devastating smile flickers over his face. "Part of it has."

He leads me through winding corridors, up sets of carpeted pink stairs strewn with rose petals, past bathhouses with pink water and heart-shaped pools, and eventually, finally, out onto a balcony.

Roses twist and twine around the railing, adding pops of beautiful red and shimmering purple. The stars above twinkle brightly and I gasp, because, high above us, lies Heaven.

"Do you like this part?" Luci asks me, sneaking up behind me and resting his hands gently on my hips, gazing up at the stars with me as if that simple action isn't stamping down on the accelerator to my heart. My angel, human, confused heart that's betraying itself and heaven to fall in love with this man, this devil, this unstoppable force that's just zapped into my not-life-not-death and is pulling me forever towards him like a magnet.

"I love it." Honesty was always my best quality.

"Good. I made it for you." He's so, so still, so perfectly relaxed. It feels oddly safe in his arms, though I know it's false. Nothing about Hell is safe.

"Why? Why make me a special balcony in Lust of all places? You know I only visit once every half-century. What's the point?"

"Do I need to have one?" He replies, and I might be crazy but do his lips move right beside me ear, in a tentative almost-kiss? I think they do. I hope they do.

"Yes." I'm resolute, trying not to let my stupid human knees buckle below me as his arms snake around my waist and twist me around to face him.

I gasp. He's dropped his human face fully, revealing the Luci I knew. The one I know, with hair as shining golden as mine with a dark streak at the front, with gorgeous eyes and perfect teeth and he's beautiful. As beautiful as the day I had to see him go.

"Fine." He replies, and drags his lips across my skin towards my ear, breath tickling the strands of hair beside it. "This is my reason."

His lips are soft and insistent, sweet like liquor and just as intoxicating. I lose myself in the drag and slide of his lips, gripping his hair as his arms pull me impossibly closer and yet not close enough. Never close enough.

We break apart, breathing heavily. "Will that suffice, angel?" He grins, pressing two fingers to his lips in half-shock, half-arrogance.

"I suppose it will have to. I'm being summoned back." I say, removing my hands from his face (when did that happen?) and inspecting them, detecting the soft, sparkling glow that seems me finished.

Luci's eyes are pleading. "Stay?"

I shake my head sadly. "I can't. Out of my power. I'll see you in a half-century as always." I glance towards heaven, a glittering silver kingdom in the night, and Luci nods again sadly.

"Until then, my love."

~~~

The Father barely looks at me when I return before ordering the other angels out.

"Are you happy?" He asks me abruptly, still seated in his throne.

I'm taken aback but I nod, almost on command. "I am, Lord. But what shall become of me now?"

He smiles a twinkling, fond smile. "Whatever you wish, child. Love is not merely a mortal thing. It is My blessing to all those that deserve it. And you, child, deserve this."

"Then what do I do?"

He sits back and spreads his arms. "What you wish."

~~~

Luci open the door six days later.

"Angel?" He says in disbelief as I drop my bags and throw my arms around him. "What are you doing here? You should be in Heaven!"

I point at my new name badge. "Meet the first and only angel in the Heaven/Hell Relations Department! Once a year I'll go back up and tell the Father about how it's going down here."

"So you're staying with me?" His voice shines with joy as I nod and he scoops me up into his arms, burying his lips in my neck.

"I have a private room in Lust, if you like." He whispers to me.

"Perfect." I murmur back, and I don't even care that all the devils in Hell and angels in Heaven are gawping at us right now. The only thing that matters right now is Luci.

You are an angel sent down to Hell every half-century for a routine checkup. One day, you find it completely remade. It is now a luxury resort without a single scream to be heard. When you confront the Big Man, he simply says "Meh, got bored."

[heartbreakfeelsogood]

coffee run | buddie | ~1k | for @bark-barkley ♡

It starts with an Instagram post.

Buck’s a sap, okay? His explore page is constantly filled with ‘send this to your best friend’ posts, and you know what? Nine out of ten times he does send them to his best friend, even if said best friend doesn’t see his dms for about a week. Point being: it’s not surprising to see a post stating, “morning, because if it was a good morning, my best friend would be in the same city as me and we'd be getting coffee together.” Beneath the text is a sketch of two people holding iced coffees. Buck does not pout as he reposts it to his story; that’s just his face.

What is surprising is when Eddie likes Buck’s story upload within minutes, because Eddie barely uses Instagram. He goes on once, maybe twice a week when he’s bored. Eddie just moved to Texas, though, and is quite literally in the process of unpacking, so how could he be bored? Yet here he is in Buck’s notifications. Not only that, but he reposts it to his story, too.

The pout that was definitely not on Buck’s face turns into a small smile as he sees that. Buck knows what it feels like to be left and ignored, but this is the first and only time Buck is experiencing someone leaving and openly missing him. Buck misses Eddie like a lung, but that feels okay, because Eddie misses Buck, too. It’s a lot for Buck to wrap his head around.

Buck closes Instagram and opens his recent call log. Underneath the names of Maddie and a guy from C shift who was asking for coverage is Eddie. Buck presses call.

“You bringing me a coffee?” Eddie greets.

Buck huffs out a laugh and responds, “Might be cold by the time I get there.”

Eddie laughs a little louder than necessary, but Buck would be lying if he said he didn’t like that. He loves how easily he can make Eddie laugh. Even when everything feels bad, Buck can say something that makes Eddie laugh, and when Eddie laughs it makes Buck feel like everything will be alright.

“I could use a coffee right now, man. I’m losing stamina. That’s why I’m on my phone instead of unpacking,” Eddie pauses, and Buck hears a box move. “Living room: throw blankets,” he reads off.

Maybe it’s because Buck’s a well-established sap; maybe it’s because Buck would do anything to hang out with Eddie right now, even if it’s eight-hundred miles apart over the phone; maybe it’s because Buck really wants an iced cookie dough latte with oat milk and mocha sauce; maybe it’s all of the above that makes Buck say, “Let’s go get coffee together.”

Eddie laughs, and Buck can practically hear his eye roll when he quips, “Yeah, sure, I’m on my way now.”

“No, I’m serious. Well— I don’t mean it like that. I— I mean you should go get a coffee, you deserve a break, and I’ll go get one too. We could stay on the phone.”

Now that Buck’s said it he’s worried he sounds juvenile. He imagines this is what kids Christopher’s age do with their online friends. (Christopher has rules, and he’s come to Eddie or Buck any time something weird happens, so they trust that he’s safe.) All the fear melts off of him when Eddie responds though.

“Yeah,” Eddie’s voice sounds soft, “we could do that.”

They both drive about twenty minutes to get to their respective coffee shops. Mindless chatter fills their cars through the speakers as they make their way. Eddie tells Buck about a chess tournament Christopher is going to be playing in, which gets Buck going about some videos he watched to better understand chess. He tells Eddie about the history, the different strategies, and various records set by players. Eddie listens intently, always happy to learn about both what Buck is learning about and his son’s interests.

They’re still on the phone as they make their way into the cafes, when they’re standing in line, and when they each approach the counter. Buck’s line is shorter, so he orders first. He steps to the side to wait for his latte and checks in with Eddie.

“You about to order?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m next. Hey—“ Eddie pauses. For a quick second, Buck wonders if he got called up. “This might seem stupid, but this place has similar flavors to the one we go to back h— in LA. And I really want that iced latte you get me. If I make this call a FaceTime, will you order it for me?”

Something flips inside Buck’s stomach. His lips part pointing upwards and he has to stop himself from tearing up over the fact Eddie wants him to order him a coffee from eight-hundred miles away. Good tears, to be clear; emotional, but filled with love.

“Yeah, of course, Eddie.”

Their timing is perfect, because not even thirty seconds after the FaceTime connects Eddie is being called up to the counter. Buck is turned towards the barista, who looks rather confused by the whole interaction, so Buck makes a joke about how he got Eddie hooked on a very specific latte and orders a cinnamon latte with soy milk and a quad shot.

They both sit in the back corners of their respected cafes with their phones propped up on napkin holders, FaceTime still connected. Eddie takes a sip of his latte and hums.

“Thank you for ordering this for me. Think it’s exactly what I needed.”

Buck’s smile as he responds is all teeth. “Any time. I’m glad to be of service.”

Eddie laughs at the way Buck salutes as he says that. He leans his head on his hand as he looks back at Buck fondly through his screen.

“God, I love y— Hanging out with you.”

If Buck notices his fumble, he doesn’t say anything except: “Yeah. You too.”