#public choice theory

[mostlysignssomeportents]

In defense of bureaucratic competence

Sure, sometimes it really does make sense to do your own research. There's times when you really do need to take personal responsibility for the way things are going. But there's limits. We live in a highly technical world, in which hundreds of esoteric, potentially lethal factors impinge on your life every day.

You can't "do your own research" to figure out whether all that stuff is safe and sound. Sure, you might be able to figure out whether a contractor's assurances about a new steel joist for your ceiling are credible, but after you do that, are you also going to independently audit the software in your car's antilock brakes?

How about the nutritional claims on your food and the sanitary conditions in the industrial kitchen it came out of? If those turn out to be inadequate, are you going to be able to validate the medical advice you get in the ER when you show up at 3AM with cholera? While you're trying to figure out the #HIPAAWaiver they stuck in your hand on the way in?

40 years ago, Ronald Reagan declared war on "the administrative state," and "government bureaucrats" have been the favored bogeyman of the American right ever since. Even if Steve Bannon hasn't managed to get you to froth about the "Deep State," there's a good chance that you've griped about red tape from time to time.

Not without reason, mind you. The fact that the government can make good rules doesn't mean it will. When we redid our kitchen this year, the city inspector added a bunch of arbitrary electrical outlets to the contractor's plans in places where neither we, nor any future owner, will every need them.

But the answer to bad regulation isn't no regulation. During the same kitchen reno, our contractor discovered that at some earlier time, someone had installed our kitchen windows without the accompanying vapor-barriers. In the decades since, the entire structure of our kitchen walls had rotted out. Not only was the entire front of our house one good earthquake away from collapsing – there were two half rotted verticals supporting the whole thing – but replacing the rotted walls added more than $10k to the project.

In other words, the problem isn't too much regulation, it's the wrong regulation. I want our city inspectors to make sure that contractors install vapor barriers, but to not demand superfluous electrical outlets.

Which raises the question: where do regulations come from? How do we get them right?

Regulation is, first and foremost, a truth-seeking exercise. There will never be one obvious answer to any sufficiently technical question. "Should this window have a vapor barrier?" is actually a complex question, needing to account for different window designs, different kinds of barriers, etc.

To make a regulation, regulators ask experts to weigh in. At the federal level, expert agencies like the DoT or the FCC or HHS will hold a "Notice of Inquiry," which is a way to say, "Hey, should we do something about this? If so, what should we do?"

Anyone can weigh in on these: independent technical experts, academics, large companies, lobbyists, industry associations, members of the public, hobbyist groups, and swivel-eyed loons. This produces a record from which the regulator crafts a draft regulation, which is published in something called a "Notice of Proposed Rulemaking."

The NPRM process looks a lot like the NOI process: the regulator publishes the rule, the public weighs in for a couple of rounds of comments, and the regulator then makes the rule (this is the federal process; state regulation and local ordinances vary, but they follow a similar template of collecting info, making a proposal, collecting feedback and finalizing the proposal).

These truth-seeking exercises need good input. Even very competent regulators won't know everything, and even the strongest theoretical foundation needs some evidence from the field. It's one thing to say, "Here's how your antilock braking software should work," but you also need to hear from mechanics who service cars, manufacturers, infosec specialists and drivers.

These people will disagree with each other, for good reasons and for bad ones. Some will be sincere but wrong. Some will want to make sure that their products or services are required – or that their competitors' products and services are prohibited.

It's the regulator's job to sort through these claims. But they don't have to go it alone: in an ideal world, the wrong people will be corrected by other parties in the docket, who will back up their claims with evidence.

So when the FCC proposes a Net Neutrality rule, the monopoly telcos and cable operators will pile in and insist that this is technically impossible, that there is no way to operate a functional ISP if the network management can't discriminate against traffic that is less profitable to the carrier. Now, this unity of perspective might reflect a bedrock truth ("Net Neutrality can't work") or a monopolists' convenient lie ("Net Neutrality is less profitable for us").

In a competitive market, there'd be lots of counterclaims with evidence from rivals: "Of course Net Neutrality is feasible, and here are our server logs to prove it!" But in a monopolized markets, those counterclaims come from micro-scale ISPs, or academics, or activists, or subscribers. These counterclaims are easy to dismiss ("what do you know about supporting 100 million users?"). That's doubly true when the regulator is motivated to give the monopolists what they want – either because they are hoping for a job in the industry after they quit government service, or because they came out of industry and plan to go back to it.

To make things worse, when an industry is heavily concentrated, it's easy for members of the ruling cartel – and their backers in government – to claim that the only people who truly understand the industry are its top insiders. Seen in that light, putting an industry veteran in charge of the industry's regulator isn't corrupt – it's sensible.

All of this leads to regulatory capture – when a regulator starts defending an industry from the public interest, instead of defending the public from the industry. The term "regulatory capture" has a checkered history. It comes out of a bizarre, far-right Chicago School ideology called "Public Choice Theory," whose goal is to eliminate regulation, not fix it.

In Public Choice Theory, the biggest companies in an industry have the strongest interest in capturing the regulator, and they will work harder – and have more resources – than anyone else, be they members of the public, workers, or smaller rivals. This inevitably leads to capture, where the state becomes an arm of the dominant companies, wielded by them to prevent competition:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/05/regulatory-capture/

This is regulatory nihilism. It supposes that the only reason you weren't killed by your dinner, or your antilock brakes, or your collapsing roof, is that you just got lucky – and not because we have actual, good, sound regulations that use evidence to protect us from the endless lethal risks we face. These nihilists suppose that making good regulation is either a myth – like ancient Egyptian sorcery – or a lost art – like the secret to embalming Pharaohs.

But it's clearly possible to make good regulations – especially if you don't allow companies to form monopolies or cartels. What's more, failing to make public regulations isn't the same as getting rid of regulation. In the absence of public regulation, we get private regulation, run by companies themselves.

Think of Amazon. For decades, the DoJ and FTC sat idly by while Amazon assembled and fortified its monopoly. Today, Amazon is the de facto e-commerce regulator. The company charges its independent sellers 45-51% in junk fees to sell on the platform, including $31b/year in "advertising" to determine who gets top billing in your searches. Vendors raise their Amazon prices in order to stay profitable in the face of these massive fees, and if they don't raise their prices at every other store and site, Amazon downranks them to oblivion, putting them out of business.

This is the crux of the FTC's case against Amazon: that they are picking winners and setting prices across the entire economy, including at every other retailer:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/25/greedflation/#commissar-bezos

The same is true for Google/Facebook, who decide which news and views you encounter; for Apple/Google, who decide which apps you can use, and so on. The choice is never "government regulation" or "no regulation" – it's always "government regulation" or "corporate regulation." You either live by rules made in public by democratically accountable bureaucrats, or rules made in private by shareholder-accountable executives.

You just can't solve this by "voting with your wallet." Think about the problem of robocalls. Nobody likes these spam calls, and worse, they're a vector for all kinds of fraud. Robocalls are mostly a problem with federation. The phone system is a network-of-networks, and your carrier is interconnected with carriers all over the world, sometimes through intermediaries that make it hard to know which network a call originates on.

Some of these carriers are spam-friendly. They make money by selling access to spammers and scammers. Others don't like spam, but they have lax or inadequate security measures to prevent robocalls. Others will simply be targets of opportunity: so large and well-resourced that they are irresistible to bad actors, who continuously probe their defenses and exploit overlooked flaws, which are quickly patched.

To stem the robocall tide, your phone company will have to block calls from bad actors, put sloppy or lazy carriers on notice to shape up or face blocks, and also tell the difference between good companies and bad ones.

There's no way you can figure this out on your own. How can you know whether your carrier is doing a good job at this? And even if your carrier wants to do this, only the largest, most powerful companies can manage it. Rogue carriers won't give a damn if some tiny micro-phone-company threatens them with a block if they don't shape up.

This is something that a large, powerful government agency is best suited to addressing. And thankfully, we have such an agency. Two years ago, the FCC demanded that phone companies submit plans for "robocall mitigation." Now, it's taking action:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2023/10/telcos-filed-blank-robocall-plans-with-fcc-and-got-away-with-it-for-2-years/

Specifically, the FCC has identified carriers – in the US and abroad – with deficient plans. Some of these plans are very deficient. National Cloud Communications of Texas sent the FCC a Windows Printer Test Page. Evernex (Pakistan) sent the FCC its "taxpayer profile inquiry" from a Pakistani state website. Viettel (Vietnam) sent in a slide presentation entitled "Making Smart Cities Vision a Reality." Canada's Humbolt VoIP sent an "indiscernible object." DomainerSuite submitted a blank sheet of paper scrawled with the word "NOTHING."

The FCC has now notified these carriers – and others with less egregious but still deficient submissions – that they have 14 days to fix this or they'll be cut off from the US telephone network.

This is a problem you don't fix with your wallet, but with your ballot. Effective, public-interest-motivated FCC regulators are a political choice. Trump appointed the cartoonishly evil Ajit Pai to run the FCC, and he oversaw a program of neglect and malice. Pai – a former Verizon lawyer – dismantled Net Neutrality after receiving millions of obviously fraudulent comments from stolen identities, lying about it, and then obstructing the NY Attorney General's investigation into the matter:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/08/31/and-drown-it/#starve-the-beast

The Biden administration has a much better FCC – though not as good as it could be, thanks to Biden hanging Gigi Sohn out to dry in the face of a homophobic smear campaign that ultimately led one of the best qualified nominees for FCC commissioner to walk away from the process:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/15/useful-idiotsuseful-idiots/#unrequited-love

Notwithstanding the tragic loss of Sohn's leadership in this vital agency, Biden's FCC – and its action on robocalls – illustrates the value of elections won with ballots, not wallets.

Self-regulation without state regulation inevitably devolves into farce. We're a quarter of a century into the commercial internet and the US still doesn't have a modern federal privacy law. The closest we've come is a disclosure rule, where companies can make up any policy they want, provided they describe it to you.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out how to cheat on this regulation. It's so simple, even a Meta lawyer can figure it out – which is why the Meta Quest VR headset has a privacy policy isn't merely awful, but long.

It will take you five hours to read the whole document and discover how badly you're being screwed. Go ahead, "do your own research":

https://foundation.mozilla.org/en/privacynotincluded/articles/annual-creep-o-meter/

The answer to bad regulation is good regulation, and the answer to incompetent regulators is competent ones. As Michael Lewis's Fifth Risk (published after Trump filled the administrative agencies with bootlickers, sociopaths and crooks) documented, these jobs demand competence:

https://memex.craphound.com/2018/11/27/the-fifth-risk-michael-lewis-explains-how-the-deep-state-is-just-nerds-versus-grifters/

For example, Lewis describes how a Washington State nuclear waste facility created as part of the Manhattan Project endangers the Columbia River, the source of 8 million Americans' drinking water. The nuclear waste cleanup is projected to take 100 years and cost 100 billion dollars. With stakes that high, we need competent bureaucrats overseeing the job.

The hacky conservative jokes comparing every government agency to the DMV are not descriptive so much as prescriptive. By slashing funding, imposing miserable working conditions, and demonizing the people who show up for work anyway, neoliberals have chased away many good people, and hamstrung those who stayed.

One of the most inspiring parts of the Biden administration is the large number of extremely competent, extremely principled agency personnel he appointed, and the speed and competence they've brought to their roles, to the great benefit of the American public:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/18/administrative-competence/#i-know-stuff

But leaders can only do so much – they also need staff. 40 years of attacks on US state capacity has left the administrative state in tatters, stretched paper-thin. In an excellent article, Noah Smith describes how a starveling American bureaucracy costs the American public a fortune:

https://www.noahpinion.blog/p/america-needs-a-bigger-better-bureaucracy

Even stripped of people and expertise, the US government still needs to get stuff done, so it outsources to nonprofits and consultancies. These are the source of much of the expense and delay in public projects. Take NYC's Second Avenue subway, a notoriously overbudget and late subway extension – "the most expensive mile of subway ever built." Consultants amounted to 20% of its costs, double what France or Italy would have spent. The MTA used to employ 1,600 project managers. Now it has 124 of them, overseeing $20b worth of projects. They hand that money to consultants, and even if they have the expertise to oversee the consultants' spending, they are stretched too thin to do a good job of it:

https://slate.com/business/2023/02/subway-costs-us-europe-public-transit-funds.html

When a public agency lacks competence, it ends up costing the public more. States with highly expert Departments of Transport order better projects, which need fewer changes, which adds up to massive costs savings and superior roads:

https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=4522676

Other gaps in US regulation are plugged by nonprofits and citizen groups. Environmental rules like NEPA rely on the public to identify and object to environmental risks in public projects, from solar plants to new apartment complexes. NEPA and its state equivalents empower private actors to sue developers to block projects, even if they satisfy all environmental regulations, leading to years of expensive delay.

The answer to this isn't to dismantle environmental regulations – it's to create a robust expert bureaucracy that can enforce them instead of relying on NIMBYs. This is called "ministerial approval" – when skilled government workers oversee environmental compliance. Predictably, NIMBYs hate ministerial approval.

Which is not to say that there aren't problems with trusting public enforcers to ensure that big companies are following the law. Regulatory capture is real, and the more concentrated an industry is, the greater the risk of capture. We are living in a moment of shocking market concentration, thanks to 40 years of under-regulation:

https://www.openmarketsinstitute.org/learn/monopoly-by-the-numbers

Remember that five-hour privacy policy for a Meta VR headset? One answer to these eye-glazing garbage novellas presented as "privacy policies" is to simply ban certain privacy-invading activities. That way, you can skip the policy, knowing that clicking "I agree" won't expose you to undue risk.

This is the approach that Bennett Cyphers and I argue for in our EFF white-paper, "Privacy Without Monopoly":

https://www.eff.org/wp/interoperability-and-privacy

After all, even the companies that claim to be good for privacy aren't actually very good for privacy. Apple blocked Facebook from spying on iPhone owners, then sneakily turned on their own mass surveillance system, and lied about it:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

But as the European experiment with the GDPR has shown, public administrators can't be trusted to have the final word on privacy, because of regulatory capture. Big Tech companies like Google, Apple and Facebook pretend to be headquartered in corporate crime havens like Ireland and Luxembourg, where the regulators decline to enforce the law:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/15/finnegans-snooze/#dirty-old-town

It's only because of the GPDR has a private right of action – the right of individuals to sue to enforce their rights – that we're finally seeing the beginning of the end of commercial surveillance in Europe:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2022/07/americans-deserve-more-current-american-data-privacy-protection-act

It's true that NIMBYs can abuse private rights of action, bringing bad faith cases to slow or halt good projects. But just as the answer to bad regulations is good ones, so too is the answer to bad private rights of action good ones. SLAPP laws have shown us how to balance vexatious litigation with the public interest:

https://www.rcfp.org/resources/anti-slapp-laws/

We must get over our reflexive cynicism towards public administration. In my book The Internet Con, I lay out a set of public policy proposals for dismantling Big Tech and putting users back in charge of their digital lives:

https://www.versobooks.com/products/3035-the-internet-con

The most common objection I've heard since publishing the book is, "Sure, Big Tech has enshittified everything great about the internet, but how can we trust the government to fix it?"

We've been conditioned to think that lawmakers are too old, too calcified and too corrupt, to grasp the technical nuances required to regulate the internet. But just because Congress isn't made up of computer scientists, it doesn't mean that they can't pass good laws relating to computers. Congress isn't full of microbiologists, but we still manage to have safe drinking water (most of the time).

You can't just "do the research" or "vote with your wallet" to fix the internet. Bad laws – like the DMCA, which bans most kinds of reverse engineering – can land you in prison just for reconfiguring your own devices to serve you, rather than the shareholders of the companies that made them. You can't fix that yourself – you need a responsive, good, expert, capable government to fix it.

We can have that kind of government. It'll take some doing, because these questions are intrinsically hard to get right even without monopolies trying to capture their regulators. Even a president as flawed as Biden can be pushed into nominating good administrative personnel and taking decisive, progressive action:

https://doctorow.medium.com/joe-biden-is-headed-to-a-uaw-picket-line-in-detroit-f80bd0b372ab?sk=f3abdfd3f26d2f615ad9d2f1839bcc07

Biden may not be doing enough to suit your taste. I'm certainly furious with aspects of his presidency. The point isn't to lionize Biden – it's to point out that even very flawed leaders can be pushed into producing benefit for the American people. Think of how much more we can get if we don't give up on politics but instead demand even better leaders.

My next novel is The Lost Cause, coming out on November 14. It's about a generation of people who've grown up under good government – a historically unprecedented presidency that has passed the laws and made the policies we'll need to save our species and planet from the climate emergency:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865939/the-lost-cause

The action opens after the pendulum has swung back, with a new far-right presidency and an insurgency led by white nationalist militias and their offshore backers – seagoing anarcho-capitalist billionaires.

In the book, these forces figure out how to turn good regulations against the people they were meant to help. They file hundreds of simultaneous environmental challenges to refugee housing projects across the country, blocking the infill building that is providing homes for the people whose homes have been burned up in wildfires, washed away in floods, or rendered uninhabitable by drought.

I don't want to spoil the book here, but it shows how the protagonists pursue a multipronged defense, mixing direct action, civil disobedience, mass protest, court challenges and political pressure to fight back. What they don't do is give up on state capacity. When the state is corrupted by wreckers, they claw back control, rather than giving up on the idea of a competent and benevolent public system.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/23/getting-stuff-done/#praxis

[sophsicle]

OKAY question

i wanna reread choices and edit it but i can never make myself do it cause im like "ugh wow so long i simply cannot"

but also, every time i do reread parts of it i have like *thoughts* like SO many thoughts about it and about what i was thinking at the time and how that has or hasn't changed and what i was trying to do and what i love and what i hate and blah blah blah

SO the question: if i did like a lil read-a-long with soph thing, would anyone be interested? like maybe in the form of small podcast episodes where i discuss the chapters as i edit them and you guys can like tell me the different stuff you want me to talk about etc etc and then i will have the motivation to actually do this and also somewhere to dump all of my *thoughts*

or is that like, a stupid idea that no one asked for? i cannot decide whether this is leaning more on the fun cute side or the annoying keep this to yourself side, Y'KNOW????? so i ask

[kinda-iconic]

Omg bestie what’s ur theory 👀

I think it’s the LI…

And I don’t think they’re working alone 👀

[cyberkiss2uu]

this is so self indulgent but i watched abd illustrates new video and i loved the fashion designer character soo much T_T Beau made me think of my own fontaine chara, Théo, who's like a .... performer lol? idk he does a lot of stuff... singing, dancing, theatre shows, events etc.. but i thought they would be fun together because Théo would probably seek out a fashion designer .. a lot ... if not for his productions then for his own personal wardrobe LOL

this is super rough omfg my apple pencil has been glitching like crazy lately.. can hardly draw for more than a few mins wout getting annoyed i have no idea whats causing it.. its not even old T_T maybe i dropped it too many times lol

OH MY GOD HIS LEG JUST CUTS OFF i forgot i was going to crop it um. i dont care thats too much work

[creature-wizard]

Okay y'all, going forward, this is what we're doing.

Shit's scary, I know. But we absolutely cannot afford to surrender to that fear, because that benefits the GOP. They want us to feel powerless, because they know we are not powerless. That's why they have so many shills and bots discouraging people from voting.

We will not demoralize ourselves and each other by doomposting in our moments of panic. If we have a panic attack, that's okay. But we are not going to spread that fear to other people in public. We will save our most scared thoughts for our private journals and close friends. And we will support our friends who are feeling hopeless.

We will remember that spreading awareness of Project 2025 and Agenda 47 has been hurting Trump. And we will continue to do this.

We will remember that right now, our only option is Biden, because without ranked choice voting, getting a third party candidate in is simply impossible. We might not like it, but that's why we're going to push like hell for ranked choice voting once we get his pruny old ass in to office for a second term. (And thank God, he can't have more than a second term; the Democrats will have to find someone else afterward.)

We will not spread conspiracy theories. Conspiracy theories are the weapon of the enemy. We don't need them.

We will not publicly mock Trump in all of this. Making Republicans feel even more victimized is a losing strategy. "But it's my blog-" I'm sorry, are you playing for political keeps or are you just here to fuck around and put everyone's life in even more danger?

We will emphasize the ways that Project 2025/Agenda 47 will hurt everyone. And we will keep talking about it.

We will remember that the UK and France have already avoided far right takeovers in their elections.

All right? You got that? Because we got this if we stick together and keep at this. Shit's bad right now but that doesn't mean it has to be bad forever. We got each other, and we can do this.

[lizardsfromspace]

It's bizarre how a quasi-denialist stance on COVID is becoming the accepted one in mainstream discourse, like, questioning masks and lockdowns and asking Questions about lab leak theory as the Enlightened stance. There are more mainstream stories insisting we must take lab leak seriously and treat it as if it's basically true, even though we not only haven't turned up any more evidence for it since 2020, we've turned up more evidence that it came from animals at one specific market in Wuhan. There was a piece claiming to turn up evidence, and the evidence was...that some scientists privately mentioned it as a possibility in emails early on. It's not even partisan anymore bc I've seen liberal and leftist publications & influencers all say we need to ask Questions and insist that masks and lockdowns didn't work, or at least made people angry, and thus we shouldn't have done them

The weirdest part, though, is that most of these Reflections just...write out Donald Trump and anti-vaxxers? They talk about "scientists" giving mixed messages and about the CDC, but some of them straight up don't mention Trump, and like. I feel like if you're talking about confusing messaging about COVID, the entire response being headed by a deranged anti-vaxxer who said whatever came to his mind about how horse medicine would cure it would be a major factor to address, but apparently not! It's just public health officials who dropped the ball. Hell, it almost feels like people have started to misremember COVID to think Biden was President during the lockdowns, just another step in the strange memory holing of Trump's first term

(They mess up the basic history of events that happened five years ago, too, like how a lot of these takes talk about how "confusing" it was that they went from "masks are for medical professionals and the most at risk" to "masks for everyone"...without mentioning that wasn't a random choice, but down to a shortage of masks early in the pandemic. Literally nothing was the result of outside factors or the government, all of it was just scientists confusing us for no reason)

[newsbluster]

Amartya Sen: The Unsung Hero!

Amartya Sen: Amidst a whirlwind of false news, let’s unravel the inspiring journey of renowned economist Amartya Sen, a man whose legacy continues to shape the world. In this blog post, we delve into the life and achievements of this extraordinary individual, debunking myths and celebrating the truth. Unraveling the Truth:In a recent wave of misinformation, reports surfaced claiming the demise…

[contact-guy]

Hi I'm really confused. Professor Moriarty's first name is James, but your comic says his brother is Colonel James Moriarty. Does he have the same name as hus brother? Is this a mistake or is something else going on?

I love the webcomic! Have a nice day!

Okay I think it probably IS a mistake, but it's one that is over a hundred years old. Quote from THE FINAL PROBLEM:

"My hand has been forced, however, by the recent letters in which Colonel James Moriarty defends the memory of his brother, and I have no choice but to lay the facts before the public exactly as they occurred."

We only get the Professor's first name also being James later, both in chronology and publication order, in THE EMPTY HOUSE:

“Well, well, such is fame! But, then, if I remember aright, you had not heard the name of Professor James Moriarty, who had one of the great brains of the century. Just give me down my index of biographies from the shelf.”

Is Holmes making a mistake? Is Watson? Was Arthur Conan Doyle so fucking done with writing Holmes that he didn't proofread? Did the Moriarty parents just decide to give all their kids the same name? Currently accepting theories.

[lbcreations-blog]

Yandere Alastor with daughter reader

A Stag and his Fawn

‐-----‐----‐-----------------------------------

(Not proof read cause I'm tired but I need to post)

Masterlist

---------

Alastor was your adoptive father. He adopted you when you were both still alive. You were only a baby at the time, being left in a dumpster.

When Alastor was dumping bodys in the dumpster he found you, he was originally going to put you in a foster home, but when he saw you open your eyes and look at him seeming at peice, he knew it was a bad idea to put you in any foster home.

Of course, he could not just take you in. He had to get you some medical treatment. So he took you to the nearest hospital to get a check-up and other things. Then he had to do even more other things like birth certificate and adoption stuff. (You know, the essentials)

Anyways, once you were old enough, he taught you his ways of voodoo and murder. (You were already learning from about 4, lmao), and you became a perfect daughter to him (even though you were already perfect to him).

If you were to get bullied in school, those kids would regret it. He would also teach those kids' parents a lesson as well.

If you end up dying before him from it being someone's fault, he would torture that person/persons and eat that person's corpse.

Once he enters hell, he would search for you while aswell becoming a terrifying overlord. And once he finds you, he would pretend you are not his daughter in public so you would not get targeted. He knows you can look after yourself so he would let you in public by yourself, but a shadow will follow you.

But if you are an overlord, he wouldn't admit being your father, but he will treat you like his daughter in public, and he will let others' theories flow. (Overlord or not, a shadow will follow you, btw)

Now, if he dies first, he will patiently wait for you. You, of course, kill the one who mistakes your father for a deer. You then live life how he wanted you to, until you finally arrive in hell.

Once you arrive in hell, he ether will take a while to find you or find you quickly. If you quickly become an overlord just like him, he would be proud, like you have no idea.

(The ways he is with you in hell is the same as I explained in the first death choice.)

Of course, introducing you to people as Alastors' daughter, you will get interesting reactions.

The overlords would be shocked, to say the least, Carmila might like Alastor slightly more cause she has her own daughters.

Now the hotel's reactions ig

Of course, the entire hotel is shocked except for niffty and husk cause yall already probably met (I would tell you that, but that's a different kind of worm)

Anyway, sir pentious would be most likely terrified of you or just won't admit it.

Angel- well, Angel-... he's probably going to start off with sex jokes, and how unfair it is that some random bitch got to fuck Alastor. Your father was not happy.

Vaggie is very suspicious of you once you met. She knew how your father was, so you were not trustworthy. (Which was fair, you showed that same creepy smile your father did)

Charlie loved meeting you. She was and is so happy that Alastor has a daughter and she is and was happy to meet you. She was hoping to help you get redeemed, but you just told her you would rather be in hell with your father.

--------_______--------

I was going to make Alastor more yandere but because of 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑠, he's like that, ok? OK

I did get lazy at the end, so... Yyyeeeaaaa

Hope you enjoyed it

- 𝐋.𝐁 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

[sillymommy6969]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝖄OURS TRULY

Manon Bannerman x actor!fem!reader

summary: being an actress can be pretty demanding, and manon's pretty understanding of the things that came along with your career, but lately it’s feeling a little too real

warnings: slight!angst, some sm posts, jealous!manon, one mean comment, kinda used rachel zegler as a face claim only because i used those pics for the smau, harsh language

Being an actress came with lots of benefits; you travelled all around the world to film in beautiful, exotic locations, you get to meet a lot of amazing new people within and beyond the industry, and you get to do what you were most passionate about. But, it also meant every aspect of your life would be examined under a microscope, on and off set, and you would be made to post or say things that weren’t true just for the sake of promotions or publicity.

You absolutely loathed that part of your job. It has driven a wedge between your relationship with so many ex-boyfriends or girlfriends and even some friendships.

When you met Manon at your good friend and fellow Euphoria costar, Dominic’s New Year’s Eve party, you were absolutely entranced by this walking shred of heaven. Back then, she had not joined Dream Academy yet and she was just in between modelling gigs. You couldn’t help yourself, grabbing her hand and kissing the back of it. You had to get to know her better, and by the end of the night you were leaving Dominic’s condo and stumbling into yours with her pressed against you.

When you begun dating, you made sure Manon knew the extents of your career. You were blunt, dating an actress wasn’t always going to be easy, especially with the way tabloids write their own narrative about your life.

a) Your job entailed partial nudity at times; you’ve been in enough movies or series to know women are always asked to strip in front of cameras. You weren’t exactly the biggest fan, but it wasn’t your artistic choice to make.

b) Your job entailed lots of cameras and eyes constantly trained on you, meaning they would spin stories and insane theories out of the most ridiculously insignificant detail. Nothing the tabloids report can ever be trusted.

c) Your job entailed doing things with your costars, i.e. kissing, making out, filming intimate scenes, etc. As somebody in the industry, you have become so desensitized by the concept of faking things for art. But you understood not many people understood the gravity of everything your career demanded from you, and it can cause lots of issues emotionally.

Manon was very reluctant about these three rules at first, skeptical of how bad things had to be for you to drop this on her the first month in. But then she got on dream academy, she then successfully debuted in Katseye, and she, herself, experienced a lot of the things you fell victim to. She understood and accepted much more than she had to because she loved you, she really did, and to anybody with eyes, the two of you were absolutely smitten.

Recently, you were onset of a new project you were cast in—a remake of Romeo & Juliet but with a modern edge to it. Everything was going good, internal reviews for what, and as you wrapped up filming, you were asked to post an ‘wrap dump’ to promote the movie. Your manager presented you with a selection of photos, and you compiled them into a post.

Liked by kitconnor, lararajj & 821,440 others

ynln Can’t wait for ya’ll to see us in six months <3

19 hours ago

user01 THE FIRST SLIDE HELLO???????

user02 yall stronger than me i would’ve fallen in love

dominicfike aye get it sis

ynln you really do be everywhere but the studio

dominicfike kys

user03 has anybody seen the leaked kiss

user04 YES OMG

user05 they’re such a theatre kid power couple

user03 DID YALL SEE KIT GRABBING HER FACE

user06 you can’t convince me they’re not tgt

user07 Is this a hard launch I’m sobbing

user08 girl you ever heard of marketing 😭😭

user09 no they’re dating

user10 THEYRE LITERALLY NOT??

user11 guys y/n’s dating manon rmb not kit

user12 they never confirmed tho so maybe it’s kit

user13 @user12 Denial is a river in Egypt…

You didn’t think much about the post, getting out of your makeup from the day before hitching a ride home with your manager. You had a couple hours to freshen up and get ready before the wrap party that night, and you were very excited to have invited Manon as your plus one.

It was one of those rare days your girlfriend had a day off that matched your schedule. She had her reservations about being seen or photographed with you at such a public event, but you assured her everything was going to be cast and crew only.

Back at her dorm, Manon was doing her makeup on the floor of her room. She had the room to herself, Lara invited some of the girls home for the weekend with her—which meant Daniela was gone as well. Only Sophia and Yoonchae opted to stay home, wanting to spend the free time they had shopping for decorations to liven up their room. She was nervous, to say the least, about meeting all the professional filmmakers and famed actors and directors you worked with every day.

A knock on her door sounded through the music blasting.

“Yo, Manon, you getting ready to go soon?” When she turned her head to catch a glimpse of Sophia poking her head through the doorway, the leader was focused on the phone in her hand, strolling in to stand behind the older member.

“Yeah, heading over to Y/N’s in fifteen-ish… why?”

“You seen Y/N’s latest instagram post?” Sophia asked.

Manon shook her head. She hadn’t been on social media since the night before, she slept in, waking up late and immediately had to throw herself into the shower to get ready.

“Well, you gotta see this shit.”

Sophia knealt, holding her phone out for Manon to peep at the tweet she had pulled up onscreen. The way she snatched the filipina’s phone was nothing short of urgent and stunned.

It wasn’t like Manon hadn’t seen you kiss your costars onscreen, she’s been to many movies watching you lead in a film. But this, watching this bag of bulging muscles in a tank touch you where she usually did, your hands grabbing his face as the two of you made out on a bed?

Manon had never, and I mean ever, felt such rage. She was experiencing so many emotions at once; some rationality, some discomfort, but mostly an overwhelming sense of rage.

She didn’t care. She was a jealous girlfriend. And she can say she understands as many times as she could, but she hated every single time you’d kiss, touch or feel anybody but her. She knew it was what you did for a living, but she couldn’t shed the way she felt like smashing Kit Connor’s face through a wall.

“That’s a wild ass movie your girl’s making,” Sophia scoffed, in attempts to lighten the tension.

Manon’s jaw clenched, shoving the phone back into Sophia’s chest before standing. She was now sad she had gotten her hair and outfit done all nice, because she didn’t feel like showing up to an event thrown somewhat in your honour.

“Manon…? Manon!” Sophia called after the Ghanaian woman, but she had already grabbed her purse and left the house.

When you came out of the shower, your hair wet and your body glistening, you were taken aback by the sudden pounding you heard from your condo’s door. You quickly put on your panties and one of Manon’s oversized shirts. Slipping into your slippers, you stumbled out your bathroom and to the door. Just a couple feet away from it, another round of thrusts throw you off. “I’m coming, Jesus Christ!”

Swinging your door open, you were ready to rip into whomever so disrespectfully made their presence known, but upon seeing your girlfriend, dressed all nice and looking pretty, your expression softened. “Baby, I thought you were coming—!”

She held a hand over your mouth, pushing you into your home before kicking the door shut behind her.

You furrowed your eyebrows, “Manz, what the fu—?”

“Are you fucking Kit Connor?” She immediately barked, a hand on your bare chest, backing you up towards the couch. “I get myself all nice and pretty for your party and I find out you’re macking this hunk like there’s no tomorrow?”

Your hand rested on your chest, before you were knocked onto your ass. You glanced up at your dining girlfriend, her lips pursed and her sharp brows knit together.

“Woah, woah, woah, what’re we talking about here?”

She yanked her phone out her pocket, her fingers jabbing at her screen as she pulled up your instagram page. The photos you and Kit took on set was harshly shoved into your face, you gently cradled her hand with both of yours, carefully pulling it back so you could see. She then harshly pulled her hand back, pulling up Pop Base’s tweet of a leaked onset photo.

“When the fuck did you even get these photos taken? I mean, having to do minimal stuff for work is one thing, but letting him carry you and grab your ass and your thighs and getting all close and intimate behind the scenes when you’re not even on fucking camera is so far over the line, Y/N.” she rambled, “Then I have to see you basically dry hump this man?”

You sighed, knowing it was another one of the older woman’s jealous episodes. You tried being more understanding, to listen and calm her down, knowing it was a consequence of your job.

“Baby, please, take a deep breath, okay?” You gently grab the phone from her hand, setting it down on the couch beside you. You entertained your fingers, kissing her knuckles. “What did I tell you about the rules, hm?”

With a pout, Manon’s voice dropped low, “You’re a public figure and need to get intimate with coworkers a lot.”

You hummed, nodding. “That’s right. And y’know what the best way to promote a new movie is?”

She rolled her eyes, staring away. “Dating scandals.”

“Yes, baby, dating scandals.” You tugged at her hands, pulling her down to take a seat. Her body slumped to sit on your lap, her eyes still refusing to meet yours as you fixed a loose curl from her temple. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Manz. I never do things I don’t need to. I took those pictures on a press day a while back when Kit and I were asked to do ‘behind the scenes’ photos, none of it is real.”

“Yeah, well, it looked pretty real when you were eating his face on that bed,” she huffed, “What was I supposed to think?”

You chuckled, nodding. You wrapped your arms around her waist, pulling both of you to lie back into the couch. “I know, I know, but I’m not going to the party as Kit’s date, right? He’s not the one I’ve been waiting to see all day.” You gestured at your dripping appearance, “That’s why I wanted you to come in twenty, so I could be ready and beautiful just for you, baby.”

Manon scoffed, “Yeah, you’re lookin’ real rough right now.”

You playfully slapped her at the joke, “I promise you, I am yours, truly. I don’t even care about Kit, because all I think about when I’m at work is coming home and getting to see my ridiculously beautiful and sexy girlfriend.”

That statement seemed to win Manon over, her hands coming up to cradle your cheeks. “You better swear on your life.”

“I swear on this life and the next. I love you, Manz.”

“Mmh, I love you more,” she hummed, leaning in to kiss you softly. When the two of you pulled apart, she sneered, “Is that how you kiss him too?”

You clicked your tongue, a hand reaching under her thigh to move her body so she was straddling you. “Do you really wanna know? I’ll show you exactly what Kit and I do when nobody’s looking.” you spat, earning a gasp from Manon when your hand cupped the back of her neck, yanking her down into you for a heated kiss.

It was a long night of entertaining producing executives and crew members, but you were very happy to have your girlfriend meet the people you’ve been working with for months. When it came time for you to give Kit a hug in greeting though, Manon made sure her disapproval was made known.

You had an upcoming role in the third season of the White Lotus, you were not excited about how the Ghanaian woman would react to the scenes on that show.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Can I request a fic about that theory that pure vanilla cookie is the avatar of destiny where during episode 7 & 8 where instead of awakening pure vanilla becomes the avatar of destiny and he is already in a relationship with both reader and shadow milk cookie? Fluffy with a bit of angst please

At first I was like "wait that's a theory???" and then I started looking it up and now I'm like "omg that's actually cool"

In the context of episode 8-30 beast yeast idk how to incorporate PV already being in a relationship with SMC so I decided to leave that ambiguous

...........

"GRAAHH!! GIVE BACK MY SOUL JAM!!!"

In a blinding fury, Shadow Milk Cookie rushed at the Truthless Recluse.

He was fully prepared to kill him at this point, for being "betrayed" after realizing the soul jam's power wasn't in his total control anymore. It couldn't end this way, he thought. He wanted..needed to have it.

But unfortunately for him, his attack struck far too late as Truthless Recluse drove his own staff through the soul jam.

Through the cracks that formed, blinding beams of light consumed the Beast's vision, forcing him to halt mid-flight. With a grunt, he shielded his eyes. Black Sapphire Cookie and Candy Apple Cookie had no choice but to do the same, but after the light faded, they all finally had a chance to see what became of their latest pawn...

But he was not a pawn anymore.

Instead, something incredible--something divine--had taken his place, and was now looming over them.

The Truth--no, Pure Vanilla Cookie had returned, and he was an angel. A literal angel, with four fluffy wings, dressed in white robes, and a crown atop his head. Chocolate syrup dripped down from underneath his ruffled neck, and a ring made of waffle cones hovered behind his back, rotating idly.

Although his eyes initially remained closed, they suddenly opened to reveal those familiar shades of blue and yellow.

Indeed, this was unmistakably Pure Vanilla, with a now fully intact soul jam resting in the very center of his chest.

"Yes...it's all coming back to me now." His voice boomed throughout the spire, yet there was a certain gentleness to it. "There is something new..a boundless conviction, warming me from within. I recognize this feeling..."

The more he kept musing to himself and over his new form, the more enraged Shadow Milk was becoming.

Absolutely nothing could have prepared him for this. Nothing in the cards came even remotely close to predicting this would happen.

All along, he thought he had finally won. That his other half would finally see things his way and become the other Cookie of Deceit. One who was a mirror of himself. An ally who would help him reshape this world.

But now, not only did he--the master of lies and trickery--get tricked by him, but he used the soul jam--their soul jam--to transform into this divine entity, using the Light against him and his other realm.

How was that possible?

Why couldn't he turn into something similar?

"You...You TRAITOR! LIAR!!"

His outrage snapped Pure Vanilla out of his thoughts, and he looked down on him, almost amusingly. "Hahaha. Should there be Deceit, I shall embrace it. Should there be doubt, I shall accept it." He extended a hand out. "Come now, Shadow Milk Cookie..let us end this."

With gnashed teeth, the jester leapt into the air, meeting him at eye-level with his staff grasped tightly between his claws. "You think I'm scared because you're bigger than me?!!" He snarled. "I'LL DESTROY YOU!!"

"A lie shall vanquish a lie."

In one swift motion of his hand, Pure Vanilla cast a powerful beam of light that illuminated the entire sky, further empowering the other realm to bend to his will.

What was his will?

To dispel the lies, rumors, and gossip that have devastated Crispia, saving Parfait Cookie, Princess Cookie, and Latte Cookie from being ostracized from the public and convicted of any wrongdoings. Their reputations were restored, and the cookies who once condemned them had come to apologize.

And just like that, there was peace once more throughout the lands.

At first, Shadow Milk was perturbed, but when he suddenly began to snicker, Pure Vanilla looked at him in confusion. "What's so funny?"

"You may have won this battle. You may have undone my work...but your friends and your beloved cookie are still gone forever!" He cackled. "All that power won't bring them back! They've crumbled to dust! Nothing more than helpless souls that will roam my Spire for eons-!"

"We're actually fine! Thank you, though."

Bewildered, he whirled around just in time to see you, Gingerbrave, Strawberry Cookie, and Wizard Cookie rush into the room, weapons drawn. Not a scratch nor crack was left on any of your dough.

It's like he never pushed you all off that tower to begin with.

Not only that, but Fortune Teller Cookie was also present, silently following you four to confront the Beast once and for all.

However, upon realizing who he was currently facing, your jaw dropped. "No way.."

"Woah! What on earthbread is that?!" Wizard Cookie exclaimed, almost frightened. "Another one of his monsters?"

"No. That can't be Shadow Milk Cookie's minion!" Gingerbrave huffed. "It looks too much like-"

"Pure Vanilla Cookie..?" Strawberry Cookie uttered, only to gasp as the giant angel nodded.

"Is...i-is that really you?"

He looked to you, tilting his head, before shifting form---this time shrinking down to his normal cookie height, resembling the Ancient Hero you've always known and loved. His wings, crown, and waffle ring remained, but he gazed at you with that familiar smile. "It always has been me, [Y/n] Cookie."

Tears brimmed your eyes as you rushed over to hug him. "I never thought I'd see you again! Did you ever plan on telling me that you were..?"

"To be honest, I wasn't sure when or where. But I suppose there's no time like the present." He chuckled, holding you tightly. "I'm happy you're safe."

"We owe it all to Fortune Teller Cookie. But I'm confused.." You let him go, eyes shifting between the two. "You guys are the same person, so...how did you pull that off?"

"Haha, don't you remember? "In this tower, space and time intertwine in a myriad of reflections." Here, the past and present coexist. The cards showed me a glimpse of a possible future. A future that had yet come to pass...fortunately, I was able to prevent it."

"I see. I'm glad Fort--err, you were there to help us." You turned to the hooded cookie with a smile. "Thank you, my dear."

Fortune Teller Cookie nodded his head, a smile coming to his own lips as he returned to his present-self, where they merged as one. It was such a beautiful and mesmerizing display that had the younger cookies beside you in awe.

But it did not last, as the Spire's violent rumbling reminded you all that your job wasn't done yet.

"Excuse me? I'm so sorry to disturb you..but I'M STILL THE MAIN CHARACTER HERE!!" Shadow Milk snapped, tired of being ignored as he raised his weapon. "You got lucky. So what?! I have other ways to kill you all!!"

Several small portals spawned in the room, and the monsters that you've faced during your ascent began to appear on all sides: Haetaes of Lies, Slithering Scrolls of Lies, Winding Totems of Lies, and Shadow Wolves in Sheep Clothing gnashed their teeth--each and every one ready to attack on his command.

"Oh for crying out loud!" Wizard Cookie groaned, charging his staff with lightning magic. "How many of these things have we beaten?! Just give up already!"

"He can keep summoning them forever.." You sighed, although you stood firm and glared at the nearby wolf. "But if he's not gonna surrender, we won't either. For the good of the Cookie World, we have to win-"

"Hold on." Pure Vanilla raised a hand, abruptly silencing you as he looked to his counterpart. "Shadow Milk Cookie, wait."

"What now? Afraid to lose them again, little birdie?" He taunted.

"You are right. For me, nothing is more important than protecting my friends. But they are much stronger than you realize." The Ancient Hero huffed. "They've helped me find my path again."

"...hah, seriously? You're gonna lecture me now?"

"Well, I've been wondering...instead of taking my soul jam by force, you decided to try me and see if I could truly fall. Why?"

There was an uncomfortable pause, and you weren't sure what his motivations were for asking that now instead of fighting back--but you stayed quiet.

"Oh, what does that matter? Can't I have a little fun? Seeing the seeker of Truth tremble, consumed by self-doubt? So scared to be devoured by Deceit?!" He flicked his weapon to you. "Afraid of what your sweetheart might think? They see a different side of you now. Something you've kept hidden from them for oh-so-long~! Amazing how they didn't feel betrayed by-"

"You say that, and yet..I saw your records. I saw how happy you were to see my soul jam touched by Deceit."

".....what?" He blinked.

"And I could feel how lonely you truly are." With a slight frown, Pure Vanilla put a hand to his chest. "[Y/n] Cookie could sense it, too."

Silent, Shadow Milk Cookie's gaze shifted to yours, noticing how you loosened your grip on your weapon, as well as the subtle nod of your head. "At first I didn't, but now...I think I have a better understanding of you-"

You were cut off by a howl of laughter that echoed throughout the room.

"AHAHAHA! NOW WHO IS THE CLOWN HERE?! Him or you?? Oh, I'm tearing up!! Look at my Spire! Bask in its splendor! Here, I have anything I want! Fools eager to fall to their knees in exchange for one little lie!" He gestured to everything, sneering at you. "You...You must've lost your minds! How could you possibly understand me?!"

"You say you can have anything you want here, but..it's really him that you want. And you realized I was in the way." You pointed out. "You could've gotten rid of me. Torn me up in a card. Shattered me as a chess piece. But...you let me be a spectator. You hesitated to push me off this tower. You did everything you could to test our bond. To see if we would break, or if I'd shun him for turning into a liar. All of that couldn't have been out of simple "enjoyment"."

"SILENCE!!" He barked. "You dare act like you know me?!! You lowly cookies know NOTHING!!"

Pure Vanilla stepped forward despite the snarling monsters still surrounding you all. "That's where you're mistaken, I'm afraid. When you and I became one briefly-"

Without warning, Shadow Milk slammed his weapon down, now redirecting his anger to the Ancient Hero. "One more word out of you, and I will wipe your pathetic dough off the face of the world!!"

Yet he wasn't intimidated by the threat. Nobody was.

"--I felt it. A minute droplet of longing, hiding in the dark."

"........."

"I know it, for I've felt the same. Many times. Until [Y/n] Cookie brought me out of that darkness." He looked to you with the warmest smile, prompting you to come forward as well and take his hand. "They've saved me. And maybe..that's who you needed all along, too."

"I...I don't need any cookie to "save" me." Shadow Milk tried protesting, although his resolve was weakening. "How could you-?"

"We share the same soul jam. So yes..I am the only one who truly understands you, Shadow Milk Cookie."

"....but..that's.."

"And..if you'd let me, I'd like to understand you, too." You added with a tiny smile of your own. "You laugh in the face of loneliness, but you still haven't denied it, have you?"

"....."

"This doesn't have to end in violence." Pure Vanilla let go of your hand, instead offering it to the Beast. "You don't have to be lonely anymore. We are here. Please..let us walk the path of truth and deceit together."

The monsters of lies were still awaiting their orders to attack, but much to their confusion...their master abruptly fell to his knees, staff clattering to the ground.

And just like that, all of them had vanished into thin air.

"Together..?" He asked in the smallest of voices, although when he realized how vulnerable that sounded, he growled and scowled deeply at you all. "No...why did you have to make this so difficult?!! I HATE you all! I hate YOU and your soul jam and your stupid bird form and lovely-dovey relationship-!"

"Okay that's enough."

In an impulsive act that was either very stupid or very brave, you kneeled down to sweep him into a hug--but in your gut, you trusted that he had no tricks left up his sleeves. "That's no way to talk to the Avatar of Destiny now, is it?"

"...wh-wha...what are you doing?" He struggled a little. "Didn't you hear me?! I said I hate you!"

"Come on, Shadow Milk Cookie. Give a rest already. Aren't you tired?"

"...I...I'm not..." Yet despite his attempts, he could not get the words out.

Because even he knew they would were lies you and Pure Vanilla could easily see through.

You felt him struggle less and less in your hold, until he stopped moving entirely. His expression became unreadable, and for once...he didn't say anything at all.

"Uh..[Y/n] Cookie? Maybe it's time to let him go..." Wizard Cookie warned.

"It's okay, my friend. This is how I'm gonna embrace Deceit, by literally embracing him." You chuckled softly, only to fall silent as you felt the Beast's head fall onto your shoulder, his body going slack. "Huh? Oh..."

"H-How can you do this? After all I did to him..to you and your friends?!" He asked, his tone utterly defeated as he trembled a little, blue claws clutching at your armor. "Is this...what you truly desire?"

Before you could answer, Pure Vanilla's wings came into view as he knelt down on the other side of him, embracing him from behind. "This is what we both desire, Shadow Milk Cookie. Thank you for accepting us."

The only response he got was a tiny sniffle, but given how the blue cookie practically melted into your arms, you knew that he was beyond exhausted and had no room left in him to fight.

While Black Sapphire and Candy Apple were bewildered that their master had fallen like this, Gingerbrave and his friends couldn't help but smile, relieved that the mind-bending games and illusions were finally over.

The Avatar of Destiny was certainly a shocking reveal,....but so was the truth that Shadow Milk just wanted somebody who understood him and was willing to reach out and dig up that loneliness he so desperately tried to keep buried.

And it ends up being two cookies, not one, who succeeded.

[cherryblossomshadow]

Rather than creating hand-washing rules for restaurant kitchens, we should let restaurateurs decide whether it's economically rational to make us shit ourselves to death. The ones that choose poorly will get bad online reviews and people will "vote with their dollars" for the good restaurants

.

Regulation is corruptible, but it need not be corrupt

.

Google and Apple and Meta … claim that a bunch of eminently possible things are impossible. Apple claims that it's impossible to have a secure device where you get to decide which software you want to use and where publishers aren't deprive of 30 cents on every dollar you spend. Google says it's impossible to search the web without being comprehensively, nonconsensually spied upon from asshole to appetite. Meta insists that it's impossible to have digital social relationship without having your friendships surveilled and commodified

.

We can have nice things … The truth is knowable. Doing stuff is possible. Things don't have to be on fire. (quoted from above)

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Great explanation of how neoliberalism keeps the Overton window small, so the real solutions we need don't become part of the conversation. (comment courtesy of @fr-economics)

Greenwashing set Canada on fire

On September 22, I'm (virtually) presenting at the DIG Festival in Modena, Italy. On September 27, I'll be at Chevalier's Books in Los Angeles with Brian Merchant for a joint launch for my new book The Internet Con and his new book, Blood in the Machine.

As a teenager growing up in Ontario, I always envied the kids who spent their summers tree planting; they'd come back from the bush in September, insect-chewed and leathery, with new muscle, incredible stories, thousands of dollars, and a glow imparted by the knowledge that they'd made a new forest with their own blistered hands.

I was too unathletic to follow them into the bush, but I spent my summers doing my bit, ringing doorbells for Greenpeace to get my neighbours fired up about the Canadian pulp-and-paper industry, which wasn't merely clear-cutting our old-growth forests – it was also poisoning the Great Lakes system with PCBs, threatening us all.

At the time, I thought of tree-planting as a small victory – sure, our homegrown, rapacious, extractive industry was able to pollute with impunity, but at least the government had reined them in on forests, forcing them to pay my pals to spend their summers replacing the forests they'd fed into their mills.

I was wrong. Last summer's Canadian wildfires blanketed the whole east coast and midwest in choking smoke as millions of trees burned and millions of tons of CO2 were sent into the atmosphere. Those wildfires weren't just an effect of the climate emergency: they were made far worse by all those trees planted by my pals in the eighties and nineties.

Writing in the New York Times, novelist Claire Cameron describes her own teen years working in the bush, planting row after row of black spruces, precisely spaced at six-foot intervals:

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/09/15/opinion/wildfires-treeplanting-timebomb.html

Cameron's summer job was funded by the logging industry, whose self-pegulated, self-assigned "penalty" for clearcutting diverse forests of spruce, pine and aspen was to pay teenagers to create a tree farm, at nine cents per sapling (minus camp costs).

Black spruces are made to burn, filled with flammable sap and equipped with resin-filled cones that rely on fire, only opening and dropping seeds when they're heated. They're so flammable that firefighters call them "gas on a stick."

Cameron and her friends planted under brutal conditions: working long hours in blowlamp heat and dripping wet bulb humidity, amidst clouds of stinging insects, fingers blistered and muscles aching. But when they hit rock bottom and were ready to quit, they'd encourage one another with a rallying cry: "Let's go make a forest!"

Planting neat rows of black spruces was great for the logging industry: the even spacing guaranteed that when the trees matured, they could be easily reaped, with ample space between each near-identical tree for massive shears to operate. But that same monocropped, evenly spaced "forest" was also optimized to burn.

It burned.

The climate emergency's frequent droughts turn black spruces into "something closer to a blowtorch." The "pines in lines" approach to reforesting was an act of sabotage, not remediation. Black spruces are thirsty, and they absorb the water that moss needs to thrive, producing "kindling in the place of fire retardant."

Cameron's column concludes with this heartbreaking line: "Now when I think of that summer, I don’t think that I was planting trees at all. I was planting thousands of blowtorches a day."

The logging industry committed a triple crime. First, they stole our old-growth forests. Next, they (literally) planted a time-bomb across Ontario's north. Finally, they stole the idealism of people who genuinely cared about the environment. They taught a generation that resistance is futile, that anything you do to make a better future is a scam, and you're a sucker for falling for it. They planted nihilism with every tree.

That scam never ended. Today, we're sold carbon offsets, a modern Papal indulgence. We are told that if we pay the finance sector, they can absolve us for our climate sins. Carbon offsets are a scam, a market for lemons. The "offset" you buy might be a generated by a fake charity like the Nature Conservancy, who use well-intentioned donations to buy up wildlife reserves that can't be logged, which are then converted into carbon credits by promising not to log them:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/12/fairy-use-tale/#greenwashing

The credit-card company that promises to plant trees every time you use your card? They combine false promises, deceptive advertising, and legal threats against critics to convince you that you're saving the planet by shopping:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/17/do-well-do-good-do-nothing/#greenwashing

The carbon offset world is full of scams. The carbon offset that made the thing you bought into a "net zero" product? It might be a forest that already burned:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/03/11/a-market-for-flaming-lemons/#money-for-nothing

The only reason we have carbon offsets is that market cultists have spent forty years convincing us that actual regulation is impossible. In the neoliberal learned helplessness mind-palace, there's no way to simply say, "You may not log old-growth forests." Rather, we have to say, "We will 'align your incentives' by making you replace those forests."

The Climate Ad Project's "Murder Offsets" video deftly punctures this bubble. In it, a detective points his finger at the man who committed the locked-room murder in the isolated mansion. The murderer cheerfully admits that he did it, but produces a "murder offset," which allowed him to pay someone else not to commit a murder, using market-based price-discovery mechanisms to put a dollar-figure on the true worth of a murder, which he duly paid, making his kill absolutely fine:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/14/for-sale-green-indulgences/#killer-analogy

What's the alternative to murder offsets/carbon credits? We could ask our expert regulators to decide which carbon intensive activities are necessary and which ones aren't, and ban the unnecessary ones. We could ask those regulators to devise remediation programs that actually work. After all, there are plenty of forests that have already been clearcut, plenty that have burned. It would be nice to know how we can plant new forests there that aren't "thousands of blowtorches."

If that sounds implausible to you, then you've gotten trapped in the neoliberal mind-palace.

The term "regulatory capture" was popularized by far-right Chicago School economists who were promoting "public choice theory." In their telling, regulatory capture is inevitable, because companies will spend whatever it takes to get the government to pass laws making what they do legal, and making competing with them into a crime:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/13/public-choice/#ajit-pai-still-terrible

This is true, as far as it goes. Capitalists hate capitalism, and if an "entrepreneur" can make it illegal to compete with him, he will. But while this is a reasonable starting-point, the place that Public Choice Theory weirdos get to next is bonkers. They say that since corporations will always seek to capture their regulators, we should abolish regulators.

They say that it's impossible for good regulations to exist, and therefore the only regulation that is even possible is to let businesses do whatever they want and wait for the invisible hand to sweep away the bad companies. Rather than creating hand-washing rules for restaurant kitchens, we should let restaurateurs decide whether it's economically rational to make us shit ourselves to death. The ones that choose poorly will get bad online reviews and people will "vote with their dollars" for the good restaurants.

And if the online review site decides to sell "reputation management" to restaurants that get bad reviews? Well, soon the public will learn that the review site can't be trusted and they'll take their business elsewhere. No regulation needed! Unleash the innovators! Set the job-creators free!

This is the Ur-nihilism from which all the other nihilism springs. It contends that the regulations we have – the ones that keep our buildings from falling down on our heads, that keep our groceries from poisoning us, that keep our cars from exploding on impact – are either illusory, or perhaps the forgotten art of a lost civilization. Making good regulations is like embalming Pharaohs, something the ancients practiced in mist-shrouded, unrecoverable antiquity – and that may not have happened at all.

Regulation is corruptible, but it need not be corrupt. Regulation, like science, is a process of neutrally adjudicated, adversarial peer-review. In a robust regulatory process, multiple parties respond to a fact-intensive question – "what alloys and other properties make a reinforced steel joist structurally sound?" – with a mix of robust evidence and self-serving bullshit and then proceed to sort the two by pantsing each other, pointing out one another's lies.

The regulator, an independent expert with no conflicts of interest, sorts through the claims and counterclaims and makes a rule, showing their workings and leaving the door open to revisiting the rule based on new evidence or challenges to the evidence presented.

But when an industry becomes concentrated, it becomes unregulatable. 100 small and medium-sized companies will squabble. They'll struggle to come up with a common lie. There will always be defectors in their midst. Their conduct will be legible to external experts, who will be able to spot the self-serving BS.

But let that industry dwindle to a handful of giant companies, let them shrink to a number that will fit around a boardroom table, and they will sit down at a table and agree on a cozy arrangement that fucks us all over to their benefit. They will become so inbred that the only people who understand how they work will be their own insiders, and so top regulators will be drawn from their own number and be hopelessly conflicted.

When the corporate sector takes over, regulatory capture is inevitable. But corporate takeover isn't inevitable. We can – and have, and will again – fight corporate power, with antitrust law, with unions, and with consumer rights groups. Knowing things is possible. It simply requires that we keep the entities that profit by our confusion poor and thus weak.

The thing is, corporations don't always lie about regulations. Take the fight over working encryption, which – once again – the UK government is trying to ban:

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2023/feb/24/signal-app-warns-it-will-quit-uk-if-law-weakens-end-to-end-encryption

Advocates for criminalising working encryption insist that the claims that this is impossible are the same kind of self-serving nonsense as claims that banning clearcutting of old-growth forests is impossible:

https://twitter.com/JimBethell/status/1699339739042599276

They say that when technologists say, "We can't make an encryption system that keeps bad guys out but lets good guys in," that they are being lazy and unimaginative. "I have faith in you geeks," they said. "Go nerd harder! You'll figure it out."

Google and Apple and Meta say that selectively breakable encryption is impossible. But they also claim that a bunch of eminently possible things are impossible. Apple claims that it's impossible to have a secure device where you get to decide which software you want to use and where publishers aren't deprive of 30 cents on every dollar you spend. Google says it's impossible to search the web without being comprehensively, nonconsensually spied upon from asshole to appetite. Meta insists that it's impossible to have digital social relationship without having your friendships surveilled and commodified.

While they're not lying about encryption, they are lying about these other things, and sorting out the lies from the truth is the job of regulators, but that job is nearly impossible thanks to the fact that everyone who runs a large online service tells the same lies – and the regulators themselves are alumni of the industry's upper eschelons.

Logging companies know a lot about forests. When we ask, "What is the best way to remediate our forests," the companies may well have useful things to say. But those useful things will be mixed with actively harmful lies. The carefully cultivated incompetence of our regulators means that they can't tell the difference.

Conspiratorialism is characterized as a problem of what people believe, but the true roots of conspiracy belief isn't what we believe, it's how we decide what to believe. It's not beliefs, it's epistemology.

Because most of us aren't qualified to sort good reforesting programs from bad ones. And even if we are, we're probably not also well-versed enough in cryptography to sort credible claims about encryption from wishful thinking. And even if we're capable of making that determination, we're not experts in food hygiene or structural engineering.

Daily life in the 21st century means resolving a thousand life-or-death technical questions every day. Our regulators – corrupted by literally out-of-control corporations – are no longer reliable sources of ground truth on these questions. The resulting epistemological chaos is a cancer that gnaws away at our resolve to do anything about it. It is a festering pool where nihilism outbreaks are incubated.

The liberal response to conspiratorialism is mockery. In her new book Doppelganger, Naomi Klein tells of how right-wing surveillance fearmongering about QR-code "vaccine passports" was dismissed with a glib, "Wait until they hear about cellphones!"

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/05/not-that-naomi/#if-the-naomi-be-klein-youre-doing-just-fine

But as Klein points out, it's not good that our cellphones invade our privacy in the way that right-wing conspiracists thought that vaccine passports might. The nihilism of liberalism – which insists that things can't be changed except through market "solutions" – leads us to despair.

By contrast, leftism – a muscular belief in democratic, publicly run planning and action – offers a tonic to nihilism. We don't have to let logging companies decide whether a forest can be cut, or what should be planted when it is. We can have nice things. The art of finding out what's true or prudent didn't die with the Reagan Revolution (or the discount Canadian version, the Mulroney Malaise). The truth is knowable. Doing stuff is possible. Things don't have to be on fire.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/16/murder-offsets/#pulped-and-papered

[saddleups]

you're single handedly feeding all the james sunderlanders tysm for ur service 🙏🙏🙏 can i request if you'd do submissive pathetic james? he's just sooo wet cat in a box left in the rain vibes. again, tysm in advance & lovelovelove ur work 🫡🫡🫡

★ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 . . . 5k

★ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 . . . request , complete. JAMES SUNDERLAND X F!READER !! 18+ SMUT MDNI !!

★ 𝐂𝐖 . . . sub!james . slight fem!dom . handcuffs . cock torture(?) . cervix kissing . breeding ( kinda ) p_rn with a plot !

★ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 . . . omg i wouldn't go that far ! there's so many great writers out there feeding us all <3 i appreciate the kind words tho ?? like ur too sweet <3 <3 trying my hand at being more confident with my exposition ( tend to delete a lot out of fear that it just sounds rambly ) so it may flow differently than my other stuff , i still hope u like it tho !!

Kind and attentive, James was always perfectly in sync, never too early or too late. He opened doors, walked on the side of the sidewalk closest to the street, steering you clear of puddles and surprises. Every morning began with his texts, every night ended the same. Sweet surprises, from flowers to stuffed bears, little notes in his distinct handwriting—I was thinking of you. In bed, his touch was just as intimate, hands locked, eyes meeting, searching each other deeply, with neither of you leaving unsatisfied.

Yet, despite the warmth of his affection, a nagging thought persisted: were you giving James the attentiveness he secretly craved? Something seemed to linger in him, an unspoken kink kept close, like a shy confession he wasn’t ready to make. You found yourself distracted by it, craving to claw into the mystery of what he kept hidden. James Sunderland had seen so many sides of you, held you in your most vulnerable moments. You could feel him pushing you to the edge, waves cresting in those unforgettable, mind-bending orgasms that left a faint blush in your cheeks when the memory caught you off guard in public. Still, you yearned to uncover his own desires; fulfill him in the same sense he fulfilled you.

It was a simple date to the mall, his hand holding yours as you strolled the tiled floors under bright fluorescent lights. He soothed you, indulged your whims. And when you passed the shop—kitschy and dimly lit with laughing teens slipping in and out—a sudden idea sparked.

“Let’s go in here.” You didn’t give James much of a choice, tightening your grip and pulling him inside. The shop started tame enough—T-shirts, quirky collectibles—but deeper inside, past a beaded curtain, the lights dimmed. Shelves were lined with rows of phallic toys, vibrating bullets, and skimpy costumes. You glanced at James, noting his hands tucked into his pockets, his expression steady. He didn’t seem fazed by the setting, unlike you, whose pulse had picked up, curiosity running hot as you wondered what was on his mind.

You watched his gaze flick to a BDSM kit, then quickly away. You raised an eyebrow, reading nothing from him as he moved on. Maybe he's into that? A school girl costume caught his eye next, the model on the package striking a bold, risqué pose. Is it roleplay? He only shook his head, lips quirking, dismissing the thought. Okay, not that either.

You broke the silence with a grin. “I used to have one of these,” you said, tapping a box with a vibrator behind a clear, glittery window. Mutual masturbation? It had to be.

James turned, slightly intrigued. “What?”

You shrugged. “It was cute, but it kept dying on me.”

He only smiled, and your theory about mutual kinks dissolved a bit more. Not that either? Just when you thought your plan had fallen flat, you caught his gaze settling on a different item—a pair of classic handcuffs, fluffy pink like in the movies. Tame, yet there was something in his eyes. You reached over, fingertips brushing his arm as he shivered under your touch. So, it is the handcuffs.

You lingered a second longer, voice low. “Ready to go?”

James nods as you exit the store, hand in hand just as you’d entered. Absent of the handcuffs, you start devising a new plan. “Shoot! —I think I left my phone in there.”

You rummage through your bag, feigning worry. “Must’ve set it down when I picked up that box.” You glance up to see James’ hand resting on his chest, his heartbeat quickening, reassuring your suspicions concerning the cuffs. “Stay here; I’ll be right back.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Sure you don’t want me to come with?”

You flash him a quick smile. “It'll be quick. Don’t miss me too much.”

Inside the shop again, you move swiftly to the shelf, snatching up the handcuffs and stuffing the small black bag deep into your purse before heading back. Adrenaline pumping through your veins as you rejoin James, he asks, “Want to catch a movie?”

You shake your head, a little grin tugging at your lips. “I’m a bit tired. Let’s head home.”

He agrees quickly—maybe too quickly, his usual composure slipping just enough for you to catch a hint of nervous anticipation in his eyes. You're reassured. It is the handcuffs.

As he drives, the silence between you is thick with tension, each mile seeming to stretch. The new toy in your purse become impossible to ignore, the mere thought of them swirling in your mind. Your plans with the cuffs still in the air, unsure what your intentions were, what James' could be. Meanwhile, James keeps his gaze steady on the road, one hand resting on your thigh, his slender fingers gently pressing against you—a subtle but treasured touch. Your mind adrift at the sight of the manicured nails, he kept them pristine. His wrist, stronger than it looked it's held you down on multiple occasions as he thrusted into you. And when he wasn't? Those pretty fingers circled on your clit, exposing the hood of your bud in order to allow his mouth to work until your undoing. Biting your lip you fiend your hunger, keeping it dormant until your plans come into fruition.

"At the shop," James cuts the silence. "What was that, that thing? The one that you said kept dying on you."

You blink, "the vibrator?"

"Yeah, vibrator... That's the word."

"What about it?"

"Nothing," he shrugs.

Unwilling to accept his answer, you press him. "You wouldn't bring it up if it was nothing."

James chuckles stealing a quick glance. "You caught me." He confesses lightheartedly, "those...toys always interested me."

Fuck. You should've grabbed the vibrator.

Your heart races as you realize you may have misread the situation. Even so, you're not about to let this opportunity slip away. "Really?" you ask, trying to keep your voice casual. "What interests you about them?"

James hesitates, his fingers tightening slightly on your thigh. It's hard not to notice his possessive edge, only furthering your doubts. "I guess... the intensity. The way they can make someone lose control."

You swallow hard, heat blooming in your core. "Have you ever used one before?"

He shakes his head. "No, never."

"Well," you say, your voice low and teasing, "maybe we can go back another time and pick one out together."

James' grip on your thigh tightens slightly. "I'd like that," he says softly.

God, were your plans for the night ruined?

The car pulls into your driveway, and James cuts the engine. For a moment, you both sit in silence, the air thick with unspoken words. James opens your car door as always, ever the gentleman. Inside, you set your purse down carefully, acutely aware of its hidden contents; feeling foolish for your possible blunder. However, one thing is for certain; the experience in the shop must've had an effect on him. The conversation about your vibrator, the pretty fluffy cuffs. It was still thrilling, keeping this from him like a dirty little secret. The plan still forming in your head had you battling with how to introduce the object to the bedroom. He didn't seem into the roleplay, BDSM was, well...that was something.

James moves to the kitchen, falling into his usual routine of making tea. He asks if you’re interested in having a cup yourself, you shake your head. “I’m okay, thank you.”

You watch James as he sips his tea, his long fingers wrapped around the delicate porcelain cup. You watch him from across the kitchen, admiring the way his Adam’s apple bobs with each swallow. Steam rises in lazy curls, and you can smell the faint aroma of bergamot. He looks relaxed, at ease, and you wonder if he's forgotten about the tension from earlier. You certainly haven't. The handcuffs weigh heavily in your mind, tucked away in your purse like a guilty secret. You'd been so sure, so certain that you'd cracked the code of James' hidden desires. Now, doubt gnaws at you. What if you'd misread everything? What if the vibrator comment had been genuine curiosity, not a hint at a deeper kink?

You push the thoughts aside, determined to enjoy this quiet moment with James. Domestic bliss. He tells you about his day at work, about the new project he's excited about, and you listen, nodding and smiling at all the right moments. But your mind keeps drifting back to the handcuffs, the vibrator, you plans, your precious plans.

James excuses himself, saying he's going to take a shower before bed. He gives you a quick kiss on the forehead before leaving you in the kitchen. You let out a sigh and start thinking about where you may have hidden your vibrator. There's no way you threw it out; even though it died frequently, it was still there for you when you needed it. You hold your head in frustration until you finally decide to brave your panty drawer, trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to disturb James' shower.

After digging around for a bit, you find the glittery pink wand nestled in the back. It looks less phallic than you remember; perhaps it was too embarrassing to use such a lewd-looking tool. You unscrew the bottom and see that the batteries have died. Typical. With determination, you rush to the kitchen and rummage through the junk drawer until you find a spare set of batteries. You pop them into the vibrator and turn the dial, feeling a surge of relief as the motor whirs to life. The sound alone makes your cheeks flush with embarrassment and excitement. You quickly switch it off, straining your ears to ensure that the shower is still running. Relief washes over you as you hear the water splashing against the title.

Clutching your prize, you retrieve the black bag from your bag, before tiptoeing back into the bedroom. Heart racing as you place both items on the bedspread. Observing them with your hands on your hips, wondering how to introduce the two new toys into your bedroom routine.

James stands underneath the showerhead, the scalding water pelting his skin like a punishment. He pulls at his hair and bites his lip in a desperate attempt to distract himself from the torturous thoughts consuming him. The memories of that trip to the sex shop send a surge of arousal through him, instead of the expected shame. Images of you in lingerie and him bound in pink fluffy cuffs flood his mind, sending shivers down his spine. The mere mention of a vibrator had been enough to make him squirm with sinful desire. Your words saying such dirty things, it did things to him. His twisted desires boiling beneath the surface, threatening to consume him. James grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut as he tries to suppress the rising heat in his core. But it's no use. His half-hard cock betrays him, twitching with need. Surrendering to his own perverse nature, he presses his forehead against the cold tile wall and clenches his fists above him. With one hand, he pumps his length in agonizing strokes, edging himself closer and closer to release until ribbons of hot cum collect in his palm before washing away down the drain, leaving him spent but still craving more.

The bathroom door creaks open, drawing your attention away from the pile of toys you were hastily trying to hide. James emerges, his muscular form barely concealed by a towel wrapped around his waist. Droplets of water cling to his toned chest, glistening in the soft light of the room. The towel sits low on his hips, revealing the v-shape that leads down to his happy trail - a dark patch of hair that looks enticingly natural and trimmed. Your heart races as he steps closer, your gaze unable to resist lingering on the course hair framing his girth. You try to act nonchalant, but you know he can see right through your flushed cheeks and nervous demeanor.

"Everything okay?" he asks, running a hand through his damp hair.

"Of course," you reply, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Just... thinking." Your voice trails, urging James’ curiosity. He raises a brow, “what about?”

You hesitate, caught between desire and uncertainty. The handcuffs and vibrator are hidden beneath the covers, but their presence feels electric, charging the air between you. James' eyes are dark, searching yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

"I was thinking about... us," you manage, your voice low. "About what you might like."

James takes a step closer, the towel slipping dangerously low on his hips. "What I might like?" he repeats, his voice husky.

Your heart races as you nod. "In the shop, I noticed you looking at some things. I thought maybe..."

You trail off, unsure how to continue. James closes the distance between you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. "What did you think?" he asks softly. There’s eagerness in his eyes, ones that mimicked your own. The moment stretches, taut with possibility. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. With a weak smile, you slide your hand underneath the pillow and retrieve the pink wand and pair of cuffs. James' eyes widen with disbelief as he looks down at the toys in your possession.

"I bought them," you say coolly, "the cuffs at least. The vibrator, it’s mine. I found it."

"It's the same one you used before?" he asks. His arousal builds as he seeks clarification. You can feel his tension and anticipation.

You nod, feeling a sense of power and control wash over you. "I used it all the time before I met you."

James swallows, his desire growing with each passing moment. He can't help but wonder what you have planned for him.

"What do you want to do with them?" you ask, noticing the shift in James' demeanor. He's waiting for your command, his naivety and innocence only adding to his appeal. There it was. It wasn’t the cuffs or the vibrator, it was your control he craved.

"Do you want me to use them on you, James?" you ask, your voice dripping with dominance.

His breath hitches and he nods eagerly, his eyes wide like a lost puppy begging for an owner.

But you're not satisfied with just a nod. You need to hear it from his lips, to make him submit completely.

"Answer me," you demand, your eyes boring into his with an intense heat. Your own confidence grows as you embody James' ultimate desire.

James swallows hard before finally giving in. "Y-yes," he stammers out, unable to resist your commanding presence.

"Yes?" you repeat, reveling in your newfound power over him.

“Yes, please.”

Your heart races at James' submission. You've unlocked something within him, a side he's kept hidden until now. With gentle authority, you guide him to the bed, pushing him down onto the soft sheets. His towel falls away, revealing his sculpted body in all its glory.

"Tell me everything," you whisper, trailing your fingers along his chest. "Every fantasy, every secret. I want to know it all."

James shivers under your touch, his voice barely above a whisper. "I've always wanted... to be at your mercy. To surrender control completely."

You nod, encouraging him to continue. He takes a shaky breath. "I imagine you tying me up, teasing me. Using toys on me, making me wait for your permission to come." His cheeks flush as he confesses, "Sometimes I think about you... using a….”

You nod, a thrill running through you at James' confession. "Go on," you urge softly.

James swallows hard, his voice wavering. "Sometimes I think about you... using a strap-on on me. Taking me completely."

Your breath catches at his words, a surge of heat flooding your core. You hadn't expected that, but the image it conjures is intoxicating.

"Is that what you want, James?" you ask, your voice low and husky. "You want me to fuck you?"

He nods, unable to meet your gaze. "Yes," he whispers. "Please."

You lean in, capturing his lips in a searing kiss. When you pull back, your eyes are dark with desire. "We'll work up to that," you promise. "For now, let's start with these."

Dangling the handcuffs in front of James, watching his eyes widen with anticipation. "Hands above your head," you command softly, and he complies without hesitation. The metal clicks as you secure his wrists to the headboard, leaving him exposed and vulnerable beneath you. Your fingers trail down his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. "Such pretty boy," you murmur, drinking in the sight of him. James shivers under your touch, straining slightly against the restraints.

You reach for the vibrator, turning it on to its lowest setting. The soft buzz fills the air as you trace it along James' collarbone, down his sternum, circling his navel. He gasps, his hips lifting involuntarily.

"Someone’s excited," you chide gently. "Tell me more, James," you purr, trailing the vibrator along his inner thigh. "What other fantasies have you been hiding from me?"

James squirms, his breath coming in short gasps. "I... I've thought about you dominating me completely. Ordering me around, making me pleasure you in public places where we might get caught."

You reward his confession with a gentle buzz against his shaft, making him moan. "Go on," you encourage, completely enthralled by his unwinding state. His breath becoming irregular, eyes struggling to stay open. His fingernails digging into his palm, and his toes, digging into the comforter beneath him. Completely submissive to you and it hadn’t even been five fucking minutes.

"Sometimes," he continues, his voice strained, "I imagine you denying me release for days, keeping me on edge until I'm begging for your touch."

Your own arousal spikes at his words. You increase the vibrator's intensity, circling it around the base of his cock. "What else?"

James arches into your touch, pulling at the handcuffs. "I want you to use my body for your pleasure.” He gasps out, “to make me your toy, your plaything. I want to be at your mercy.”

His words send a jolt of electricity through you. You've never seen James like this - so open, so vulnerable, so desperate for your touch. It's intoxicating.

"Such a good boy," you purr, rewarding him by sliding the vibrator up his shaft. James moans, his hips bucking involuntarily. "But I think you can do better. Tell me your deepest, darkest fantasy. The one you've never dared speak aloud."

James bites his lip, hesitating. You increase the vibrator's intensity, making him cry out. "Tell me," you demand softly.

"I... I want you to use me.” James gasps out, “to control me, to punish me when I disobey you.”

You hadn’t expected James to harbor such intense submissive desires. The power he’s surrendering to you intoxicates you. “Is that what you want, baby?” You purr, trailing the vibrator along his inner thigh away from his twitching cock already glistening with pre-cum. “To be all mine?”

He nods frantically, straining against the handcuffs. "Yes, please. I want to be yours completely."

You reward him by pressing the vibrator against the base of his cock, making him cry out. "Such a good boy," you murmur. "So honest for me."

James writhes beneath you, his his hips bucking desperately as you tease him with the vibrator. His confession has ignited a fire within you, unleashing a dominant side you didn't know you possessed.

"Look at you," you purr, drinking in the sight of him. "So needy, so desperate. And all mine."

You trail the vibrator along his shaft, circling the sensitive head. His saline blending onto the base of the vibrator until it shined. James moans, pulling at the handcuffs. "Please," he gasps.

"Please what?" you ask, your voice low and commanding.

"Please... touch me. Let me come. I need you so badly."

You smile, a wicked glint in your eye. "Oh baby, we're just getting started."

With a flick of your wrist, you turn off the vibrating wand and gaze at James' cum that had coated its base. He watches you with curious eyes, desperate for more of your attention. Sensing his desire, you bring the wand to your lips and kiss it, flicking your tongue against the salty residue of his pleasure. A jolt shoots straight to your core, igniting a fiery heat within you.

James lets out a low whimper as you lean in with a sly smirk, pressing your soft lips against his. You allow him to taste himself on you, driving him wild with desire. "Don't you taste so sweet?" you tease, knowing just how much he loves to hear you say it.

His reaction is like a drug to you, taking you to a place of pure ecstasy that you never knew existed. Slowly and deliberately, you begin to undress, each piece of clothing teasingly removed as James watches, mesmerized. He's always enjoyed the undressing aspect of sex, but now it's torture for him since it isn't him peeling away the layers of fabric. You take your time removing your flowy blouse, undoing the strings that hold it together and allowing it to gracefully fall from your shoulders. James can feel himself getting harder at the sight of your exposed skin. Next comes the silky camisole, adorned with delicate lace and a cute bow at the center. The mere sight of it makes James close his eyes in an attempt to control his overwhelming desire. He knows he could cum right then and there if he let himself give in completely.

But then you demand his attention by whispering firmly, "Eyes on me." His eyes shoot open in response.

"Yes, sorry," he stammers, unable to look away from your figure.

The camisole is slowly removed, revealing a simple jersey bra that may not have the same allure as lace, but it doesn't matter. Nothing can distract James from the beauty before him. Your bra comes off next, and with it, all of James' self-control begins to crumble. The fabric falls to the floor, leaving you completely exposed and vulnerable before him. And he can hardly contain himself any longer. How is this possible? The thought races through his mind. I’m already so hard, god she’s making me harder. Is that possible?

Savoring the way James’ eyes devour you, his gaze burning with lust that can no longer be contained. His hands strain against the cuffs, desperate to touch you. Your hands move to the waistband of your skirt, slowly unzipping it and letting it pool at your feet. James' eyes hungrily take in every inch of newly exposed skin. You're left in just a pair of lacy panties, the final barrier between you.

"Do you want these off too?" you ask teasingly, hooking your thumbs under the waistband.

James nods frantically, straining against the handcuffs. "Yes, please," he begs.

You smile wickedly. "I don't know... I kind of like seeing you squirm."

You crawl onto the bed, straddling James' thighs. His erection strains against your inner thigh, hot and insistent. You grind against him slightly, making him groan.

"Tell me what you want, James," you purr, running your hands up his chest. “I wanna hear you beg for it.”

James' eyes are wild with desire, his chest heaving as he struggles against the handcuffs. "Please," he gasps, "I need to touch you. I'm dying. I’m going fucking crazy." The tears welling in the corners of his eyes begin to fall down his cheeks. What a sight, it almost leaves you breathless.

A soft laugh falls from you, trailing a finger down his chest. "Is that so? And why should I let you?"

"Because I'll do anything," James pleads, his voice thick with desperation. "Anything you want, anything you ask. I'll be your perfect plaything, your obedient servant. Just please, let me touch you."

You lean in close, your breath hot against his ear. "Anything?" you whisper.

"Yes," James moans. "I'll worship every inch of your body. I'll pleasure you for hours, until you're trembling and begging for release. I'll let you use me however you want - tie me up, spank me, tease me. I'll be your good boy, your perfect toy. Just please, I need to feel you."

His raw desperation sends a thrill through you. You've never seen James like this - so needy, so vulnerable. "Such pretty words," you purr, nipping at his earlobe. "But I think you can do better."

You shift, positioning yourself so that your core hovers just inches above his straining erection. James whimpers, his hips bucking up fruitlessly.

"Tell me how badly you want me," you command softly. "Paint me a picture with your words."

James swallows hard, his eyes wild with lust. "I want you so badly it hurts," he gasps out. "Every inch of my body is on fire, fuck I need you. Please, please. Untie me. I need to fuck you.”

He’s biting at you, his desperation etched into the lines of his face. His eyes are wild, like a caged animal longing for freedom. You grip his cheeks tightly, your nails digging into the soft flesh and leaving red marks in their wake.

“Watch your tone,” you warn firmly.

“I’m sorry…I-I” he stammers, his breath ragged and uneven. “I’m sorry, please.” He exhales heavily, defeated. “I need to feel you, to fuck you.”

“Be specific,” you demand.

He licks his lips nervously. “I want to put my cock inside you,” he says boldly, his gaze never faltering from yours. “Deep inside, until it reaches your cervix. I want to worship you, to serve you.”

“Please,” he pleads again. “Untie me, I’m begging you. Please.” The desperation in his voice is palpable as he begs for release, not just from his restraints. Your resolve crumbles at James' desperate pleas. With trembling fingers, you reach up and unlock the handcuffs, freeing his wrists.

The moment he's unbound, James surges forward, crushing his lips against yours in a searing kiss. His hands are everywhere at once, roaming your body with frantic need, as if he's trying to memorize every curve and plane. The sound that elicits from your throat betrays your once dominating nature, but neither of you pay it any mind. Both of you hopelessly turned on, seeking for any form of release.

He flips you onto your back, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His mouth trails hot kisses down your neck, nipping and sucking at your pulse point. You arch into him, gasping as his teeth graze your collarbone.

"God, I've been dying to touch you," James growls against your skin. His hands cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they pebble under his touch. You moan, threading your fingers through his hair and tugging him. “Good boys deserve a reward,”

James' eyes light up at your words, a mix of excitement and lingering desperation in his gaze. He captures your lips again, the kiss deep and hungry. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting, exploring, as if he's trying to devour you whole. You respond with equal fervor, your hands roaming the planes of his back, nails raking lightly down his spine. He breaks away, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jawline and down your neck. His teeth graze your pulse point, making you gasp. "James," you breathe, arching into him.

His hands explore your body with reverence, as if he's mapping out every curve and dip. He cups your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they pebble under his touch. You moan softly, threading your fingers through his hair and tugging gently.

James tugs your earlobe with a bite, “can I put my cock in you?” He whispers.

"Tease me first.”

James gently pushes your legs apart, spreading you wide open before him. His eyes drink in the sight of you, pupils dilated with lust. Your panties are soaked through, the delicate lace darkened and clinging to your folds. James runs a finger along the damp fabric, making you shiver. "It’s so wet," he murmurs, his voice low and husky. He hooks his fingers under the waistband, slowly dragging the panties down your legs. The cool air hits your heated core, making you gasp.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers reverently, his fingers trailing up your inner thighs. "So perfect." James positions himself between your thighs, his cock hard and throbbing. He wraps his length in the damp fabric of your panties, groaning at the sensation. "You feel so good," he whispers, "even through this. I can't wait to be inside you."

“Please let me put it in.”

With a devilish smirk, James pulls your panties aside, revealing your glistening and eager cunt. He can practically taste your arousal and you swear you see him drool with hunger. “Fuck me, James. Show me how good of a boy you really are.”

James enters you, the cool dampness of your cunt enveloping him as he thrusts deep inside. In unison, both of you curse and scream profanities, calling out to some higher power as waves of ecstasy begin to rip through your bodies. His pace is slow and deliberate, each movement calculated to bring you closer to the edge. “Harder,” you beg, craving more.

“Harder, James,” you moan as he swallows hard, adjusting his body to hit just the right angle that will send both of you over the edge. With each thrust, your walls stretch and clench around him, unable to resist his powerful girth. It's a sensation that no toy could ever replicate. “You're so good for me,” you praise him, urging him on as he seeks out that spongey treasure inside of you.

And then he finds it. Your spongey, angelic cervix kissing the tip of his reddened cock. He knows he does when your legs start to buckle and your back arches in an almost unnatural way. Your body seizes with pleasure and surrender as a loud, guttural groan escapes your lips, surprised at the primal sound that can be made in the throes of passion.

“You're mine,” you growl possessively as James relentlessly pounds into you, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. Your bodies are slick with sweat, the scent of desire filling the air. The sound of skin slapping against each other echoes loudly in the room, fueling both of your lust. As James’ pace quickens and his breath hitches, you can sense his own release approaching.

Desperate to please him and yourself, you demand as firmly as you can, “James—James, be a good boy and cum for me okay?”

Too lost in the throes of passion, he nods blindly before gasping out, “Inside you?” His voice is strained with desire as he asks, “You want my hot cum inside your tight pussy?”

“Yes, James, please,” you moan desperately, writhing beneath him. In a final burst of ecstasy, James grips your hips tightly and releases himself deep inside you, claiming you completely as his own.

You both collapse in a sweaty, exhausted heap, your limbs tangled together as you struggle to catch your breath. The room is thick with the heady scent of sex and sweat, the air still vibrating with the echoes of your shared pleasure. James' weight presses you into the mattress, his body a warm, comforting presence above you. You can feel his heart thundering against your chest, matching the frantic rhythm of your own.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The only sound is your ragged breathing slowly returning to normal. James nuzzles into the crook of your neck, pressing soft, lazy kisses against your damp skin. You run your fingers through his hair, reveling in the silky texture and the way he hums contentedly at your touch.

Slowly, reluctantly, James rolls off you, but he doesn't go far. He gathers you into his arms, pulling you close against his chest. You can feel the rapid beating of his heart gradually slowing as he holds you.

"That was..." James trails off, struggling to find the right words.

"Intense," you finish for him, your voice soft and a little hoarse.

He nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I've never... I mean, I didn't know…"

You tilt your head up to look at him, seeing a mix of vulnerability and awe in his eyes. "Was it okay?" you ask, suddenly feeling a flicker of uncertainty. "I didn't push you too far, did I?"

James shakes his head emphatically. "No, god no. It was... You were incredible." He pauses, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. You smile, warmth blooming in your chest at his words. "I'm glad," you murmur, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. "I loved seeing that side of you."

You sneak him a glance.

“You should tell me more about your fantasies more often.”

[helvegen-s]

terms and conditions apply

a Lando Norris one-shot

Summary: Lando Norris's career is spiraling. The solution? A fake relationship with equestrian star, Charlotte Hayes. It's a clean deal, in theory. But fame is a wild animal, and feelings are even wilder. What happens when the lines blur, and the cameras keep rolling?

Word count: 18k ☠️☠️

Warnings: public scrutiny, fake relationship, emotional manipulation, cheating…

A/N: uuuuhm, yeah. please give it lots of love beacuse writing for lando???? nuh uh. anywaysssss, I hope you like it a lot and that you enjoy it. Comments, likes, and reblogs are welcome. Your support is what keeps me motivated to write more stories!!!!! <3

masterlist

Fame was a wild animal.

It could lift you like the wind to the top of a mountain or drag you down like a treacherous current, leaving you breathless in the depths. And the worst part was that you never truly had control over it. No matter how disciplined you were, how many strategies you devised, or how many times you tried to make the right choice, in an instant, an out-of-context photo, a misleading headline, or a wildfire of online speculation could change everything.

Lando Norris had learned that the hard way.

The past few months had been a parade of headlines that had little to do with his talent on track and far too much to do with his life outside of it. Leaked photos, baseless rumors, internet theories spreading like uncontrollable fires. And while it wasn’t the first time the media had linked him to someone or accused him of being too carefree, this time, things had escalated too far. His team was concerned. His sponsors were losing patience.

And that was how he found himself sitting in a conference room in London, arms crossed over his chest, a deep scowl on his face, as they told him that the best solution to his problem was to pretend to be in love with a woman he had never met in his life.

Charlotte Hayes.

The name didn’t mean much to him, but the story did. A professional equestrian, from a family with a strong tradition in the sport, with a clean and promising public image. She had faced her own share of controversies—a footballer ex-boyfriend with too many scandals to his name—but unlike Lando, she had managed to restore her reputation. And now, if everything went according to plan, she would do the same for him.

But this agreement wasn’t just for Lando’s benefit.

For Lottie, being associated with someone like him meant more than just controlled damage. Formula 1 wasn’t just a sport with millions of fans worldwide—it had one of the strongest young fan bases on social media, capable of skyrocketing her public image. More visibility meant more sponsorships, more opportunities both within and beyond equestrian sports, and a definitive way to leave behind the shadow of her past relationship.

The agreement was clear. They would fake their relationship until the end of the season. They would be seen together in public, attend sponsor events, she would make occasional appearances in the paddock, and he would show up at some of her competitions. They would smile for the cameras, blur the lines between reality and fiction, and make people believe whatever they needed to believe.

It was a clean deal. Simple. No emotional complications.

At least, in theory.

Because fame wasn’t just a wild animal. It was unpredictable. And once you stepped into its game, you could never really know how things would unfold.

Lando had spent the past hour looking for a way out.

It wasn’t the first time his team had put a contract in front of him and expected him to sign without question. But this? This was ridiculous. Pretending to be in a relationship with a stranger just to smooth things over with sponsors? It was humiliating. Unnecessary.

And yet, here he was, sitting in a sleek London office, with his PR team on one side of the conference table and Charlotte Hayes—his supposed fake girlfriend—on the other.

She wasn’t alone.

Her own PR manager sat beside her, a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper tone when she spoke. If Lando’s team was desperate to get him under control, hers was just as invested in making sure this arrangement benefited Lottie.

Because that was the truth of it—this wasn’t just about fixing Lando’s public image. It was a mutually beneficial deal. His reputation got a necessary clean-up, and Lottie? Well, she got a fast track to an even bigger audience. Formula 1 was a marketing machine, and a name like Lando Norris, whether she liked it or not, came with global reach.

Not that she seemed fazed by any of it.

Lottie sat with one leg crossed over the other, scanning the contract with the same calm focus someone might use while reviewing their grocery list. Her long fingers drummed idly against the table, her posture relaxed, her expression unreadable.

Meanwhile, Lando was radiating I don’t want to fucking be here energy, and everyone in the room could tell.

"Lando, this is the best course of action, mate," one of his PR reps finally said, exhaling as if this wasn’t the first time he’d had to repeat it.

Lando scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "No, the best course of action would be to let people talk their shit and move on, just like we always do."

"Except we aren’t moving on. The rumors are getting worse, and sponsors are—"

"Yeah, yeah, they’re unhappy. I got the memo."

Across the table, Lottie flicked her gaze up from the contract, eyebrows raised slightly at his tone. "They do have a point, you know. This will help you."

Lando’s jaw tensed. He didn’t like the way she said it—like she was stating a fact rather than trying to convince him. "And you? What do you get out of this?"

Before Lottie could answer, her PR manager spoke for her, voice crisp and professional. "Increased media presence. New sponsorship opportunities. A stronger connection to younger audiences, particularly through social media engagement."

"Ah, right. The noble quest for clout."

Lottie didn’t even blink. "Says the guy who’s been in half the tabloids this month for allegedly dating six women in one night."

The room went silent.

Lando’s gaze snapped to her, sharp and disbelieving. There was no hostility in her voice, no sharp edge of annoyance. Just a perfectly neutral observation, like she was reading a headline aloud. And that only pissed him off more.

"Bold of you to bring up fake relationships when you were dumb enough to date a walking scandal, Hayes."

His PR team collectively inhaled.

Lottie’s manager frowned.

Lottie herself? She just let out a soft breath, a hint of amusement flickering in her expression, but nothing more.

"Touché."

And that was it. No anger, no embarrassment. Just one word, calm and measured, before she turned the page in her contract as if he hadn’t just insulted her choice in men in front of a room full of professionals.

Lando hated that. He wanted her to get pissed. He wanted her to roll her eyes, throw the contract back at his team, and call the whole thing off so he wouldn’t have to. But she didn’t. She just waited.

"We need to move forward with this, Lando," his manager cut in, sensing his growing frustration.

Lottie tapped a perfectly manicured nail against the table, looking at him expectantly. "Are you going to keep whining about it, or are you going to sign?"

Lando clenched his jaw.

Fucking hell.

With an irritated sigh, he grabbed the pen, flipped to the last page, and scribbled his signature.

Lottie, still cool and unbothered, signed her own name right after.

Then, as she capped her pen, she glanced at him with the smallest, most infuriating smirk. "Welcome to the relationship, babe."

Lando was going to hate every second of this.

Lando adjusted his jacket for the third time, resisting the urge to tug at the collar. The café was warm—too warm, or maybe it was just him. Outside, the London drizzle painted the windows in shifting streaks of grey, blurring the figures that lingered on the street. He could feel them, even if he didn’t look. The quiet anticipation. The not-so-subtle presence of cameras, some hidden behind the glass, others held up brazenly by people passing by.

He hated this.

The performance. The expectation. The weight of eyes that didn’t belong to him, of opinions forming before he had even said a word.

Across from him, Lottie stirred her tea with deliberate ease. She didn’t seem bothered. If anything, she looked almost bored—like a woman indulging in an afternoon routine rather than sitting through the first act of a meticulously staged fiction.

Lando envied that.

She had chosen the table, one with just enough privacy to allow conversation, yet positioned well enough to guarantee they’d be seen. Everything was calculated—the placement of their drinks, the slow, natural rhythm of their conversation. They had to sell this. Make it seem real.

"You’re staring," Lottie remarked, not looking up from her cup.

"I’m processing," Lando muttered. "Trying to understand how you’re so relaxed about this."

"Because I came prepared." She finally met his gaze, unbothered. "Unlike you, apparently."

Lando scoffed, leaning back. "Sorry, I don’t have a manual on how to fake-date a stranger for PR points."

"Shame. I hear it’s a best-seller."

Despite himself, Lando huffed a small laugh, shaking his head.

"Right," she continued, placing her spoon down. "Let’s get the basics out of the way. We should have a story, something simple. Mutual friends?"

"Sure."

"And a timeline—when did we supposedly meet?"

"Couple of months ago?"

"Too soon. Feels rushed."

"Fine. Six months."

"Better."

Lando exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "This feels like an interview."

"It kind of is." Lottie tilted her head. "Though you’re terrible at answering questions. No wonder you get into trouble with the media."

"Wow. Thanks."

"Just an observation."

Lando narrowed his eyes. "Fine. You want questions? Let's switch it up. Since we’re dating, I should know something about you."

"By all means," Lottie gestured. "Impress me with your curiosity."

He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "Favourite food?"

"Easy. Pasta."

"Boring."

"Says the guy who survives on toasties and Monster."

"Fine, what’s your biggest fear?"

"The Daily Mail."

Lando snorted. "Valid."

Lottie smirked, taking a sip of her tea. "What about you?"

"Oh, we’re making this mutual now?"

"Obviously. It’s only fair."

Lando pretended to think. "Losing a race by milliseconds. Or getting stuck in an elevator with someone who chews loudly."

"Fascinating depth of character, Norris."

"Thanks, I try."

Lottie shook her head, amusement flickering in her eyes. "God, you really do sound like you’re in an interview. 'Yeah, no, obviously, it’s just great to be here, the team did an amazing job—'"

Lando groaned. "Oh, shut up."

"’At the end of the day, we gave it our all, and that’s what matters—’"

"Charlotte."

"’We keep pushing, onto the next one—’"

"I swear to God."

The moment the first flash went off, the spell was broken.

Lottie pulled back instinctively, her laughter dying on her lips as reality set in. Across from her, Lando stiffened, his easy grin vanishing as he exhaled sharply through his nose. Neither of them turned immediately, but they didn’t have to. The sound of hurried whispers, the unmistakable shuffle of someone pretending not to take a photo—it was enough.

They’d been caught.

Of course, they had known this would happen. The meeting had been carefully orchestrated, a casual café in the heart of London, just enough visibility to invite speculation without being obvious. They had prepared for it, planned every detail down to what they should wear, where they should sit.

But still, feeling watched—actually living the moment—was different.

Lottie exhaled quietly, reaching for her coffee to give herself something to do. "Well, that’s our cue to leave," she murmured, taking a slow sip.

Lando’s jaw tensed. "Yeah. Before we end up on every gossip page in the next twenty minutes."

She refrained from pointing out that they already would.

They moved with practiced ease, keeping their pace natural as they slipped out of the café and onto the street. The cool London air hit immediately, but Lottie barely registered it—she was too focused on the shifting energy around them, the occasional glances from passersby, the girl a few feet away already typing furiously on her phone.

Lando walked beside her, hands stuffed in his pockets, his posture the perfect blend of relaxed and detached.

They made it a block before he spoke. "So, how long do you think until the internet tears this apart?"

Lottie hummed, tilting her head. "I’d say... fifteen minutes? Maybe ten if we really underestimate them."

Lando scoffed. "Fantastic."

And as soon as he got home, he sat on his couch, phone in hand, already regretting opening Twitter.

The photos had spread like wildfire. There they were—walking out of the café, sitting across from each other, that one moment where Lottie had laughed and leaned slightly toward him. If he hadn’t been in the situation, he might have thought they looked... believable.

The internet, however, was not convinced.

PR stunt, obviously.They look like they’re negotiating a business merger.Maybe they’re just friends?Why does Lando look like he’s being forced to be there at gunpoint?No way this is real. No one flirts like that.

Lando groaned, tossing his phone onto the table before dragging a hand over his face.

This was not going well.

Somewhere across the city, Lottie was probably reading the same comments, except she was probably laughing. She had taken this whole thing with the kind of casual indifference that should have made things easier, except it only highlighted how utterly useless he was at this.

And the worst part?

This was only the beginning.

Lando barely had time to process the disaster unfolding on social media before his phone buzzed aggressively on the table.

His manager.

He groaned, already knowing exactly what was coming.

"Yeah?" he answered, sinking further into his couch.

"Are you actually incapable of looking like you enjoy someone’s company?" Mark’s voice was sharp, cutting straight to the point.

Lando exhaled slowly. "Nice to hear from you too."

"Mate, I am getting calls." There was a pause, followed by a rustling sound—papers, maybe, or the sound of Mark rubbing his temples in frustration. "Do you have any idea how bad it looks when people are debating whether or not you even like her as a person?"

Lando pinched the bridge of his nose. "I thought we agreed we weren’t rushing into anything too intense. You know, slow build-up, natural progression, all that bullshit."

"Yeah, well, ‘slow build-up’ only works if people believe it’s actually leading somewhere. Right now, they think you were having a business meeting with your accountant."

Lando let his head fall back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling. Fantastic.

"So what do you want me to do?"

"Next time, I don’t know—smile, Norris. Maybe look at her like she’s a human woman and not a tax consultant."

Lando opened his mouth to argue, but Mark steamrolled right over him.

"And fix it fast, because I can guarantee her team is just as unimpressed as I am. They’ll probably want another public sighting soon. This time, try to act like you don’t want to die, yeah?"

With that, the call ended.

Lando scowled at his phone. "Brilliant."

He was about to toss it onto the table when another notification popped up—this time, a message from an unknown number.

[Unknown Number]: Heard you’re not a fan of tax consultants. 👀

Lando frowned. Before he could process that, another message came through—a screenshot from Twitter.

It was a meme. A side-by-side comparison of their café photo and a painfully awkward stock image of two businessmen shaking hands. The caption?

"Tell me this isn’t a corporate merger meeting."

Lando blinked. Then, before he could stop himself—before he could think—he let out a laugh.

Another message popped up.

[Unknown Number]: At least I look good in this one. You, however… yikes.

Lando didn’t need to ask who it was. He already knew.

Lottie.

Lando stared at the message for a second, debating whether to engage.

On one hand, he could ignore it. Pretend he was already asleep. Maintain some semblance of control in a situation where he clearly had none.

On the other hand... Well, Mark was right—this whole thing was a disaster. And if he was going to be stuck in it, he might as well make it slightly less painful.

His thumbs moved before his brain fully caught up.

[Lando]: Wow, cheers. Great to know my suffering is at least entertaining for you.

Three dots appeared immediately.

[Lottie]: Of course. If I have to put up with this, I at least deserve some entertainment.

[Lando]: Nice to know where we stand.

[Lottie]: You did look like you were in the middle of a hostage negotiation.

Lando huffed a laugh. He stretched out on his couch, feeling the conversation ease some of the irritation left behind by Mark’s call.

[Lando]: Not my fault I wasn’t born an actor.

[Lottie]: Not asking for DiCaprio, mate. Just try not to look like you’re planning your escape next time.

A pause. Then—

[Lottie]: Speaking of, where is next time? Or are we just going to wait until PR locks us in a room again?

Lando rubbed a hand over his jaw, considering.

The easy thing would be to let their teams handle it. Wait until some official plan was in place. But that had gone so well last time…

So instead, before he could second-guess himself, he typed—

[Lando]: Your turn to pick. Somewhere that doesn’t make me look like I’m being held at gunpoint.

It took all of five seconds for a reply.

[Lottie]: Got it. See you soon, finance bro.

Lando rolled his eyes. Brilliant.

Hyde Park, late afternoon.

Golden sunlight filtered through the bare branches, stretching long shadows across the gravel path. The crisp bite of early spring lingered in the air, mixing with the distant hum of the city. Joggers wove between tourists, families pushed prams along the walkways, and somewhere nearby, a street musician plucked at a guitar. It was peaceful. Unassuming.

And yet, Lando knew better.

There was always someone watching.

That fact alone made the entire situation unbearable. But if that wasn’t enough, there was also the dog.

A whirlwind of fur and energy, bounding ahead with a tail that moved like it had a mind of its own, panting happily as if every scent, every patch of grass, every floating leaf was the most exciting thing in the world.

Lando eyed the dog warily. "So… this is why you picked Hyde Park," he muttered.

"What, you thought I just liked scenic walks with fake boyfriends?" Lottie shot back, smirking. "Caesar needed his exercise. Might as well kill two birds with one stone."

"Caesar," Lando repeated, watching as the dog enthusiastically sniffed a nearby bush. "Of course he’s called something ridiculous."

"Technically, it’s Caesar von Woofenstein," she corrected. "But we keep it informal."

Lando snorted despite himself. "That might be the most pretentious dog name I’ve ever heard."

"He’s a rescue mutt. Mostly Border Collie, maybe some German Shepherd. Bit of a menace, but he means well," Lottie said, just as Caesar abruptly turned and flung himself onto Lando’s feet, rolling onto his back in the universal demand for belly rubs.

Lando stared down at him. Then back at Lottie.

"You mean to tell me I’ve been suffering through this entire ordeal, and I could’ve just been hanging out with him instead?" he muttered, crouching to scratch the dog's stomach.

"I’ll be sure to let PR know you’d prefer to date Caesar instead," Lottie deadpanned.

Lando grinned. "At least he wouldn’t drag me into this mess."

"No, but he would steal your food and ruin your furniture. Pick your battles, Norris."

With a final pat, Lando straightened, dusting off his hands as they resumed walking. Caesar trotted between them, completely unaware of the tension his owner was trying (and failing) to ignore.

Lottie broke the silence first. "Alright, small talk. Let’s make this look natural."

Lando groaned. "Again with this?"

"Yes, again with this. We’re supposed to be a couple, Lando. Couples talk. Casually. Like normal people."

"Right, normal," he muttered. "Because everything about this is normal."

Lottie ignored him. "Okay—music. What are you listening to right now?"

He shot her a look. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. Humor me."

He exhaled, thinking for a second. "I don’t know. Arctic Monkeys, probably."

Lottie hummed. "Predictable."

"Excuse me?"

"You give off strong ‘I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor’ energy."

Lando frowned. "And that means what, exactly?"

"Exactly what it sounds like."

Despite himself, Lando let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "Alright, your turn. Favorite artist?"

Lottie tilted her head. "Fleetwood Mac, I think."

Lando shot her a sideways glance. "Fleetwood Mac? Bit old school, isn’t it?"

"Says the guy clinging to his 2013 indie phase."

"Fair point."

The conversation lulled into something easy, their footsteps syncing as the city moved around them. Lottie’s grip on Caesar’s leash loosened, and the dog took full advantage—darting toward a pigeon, sending it flapping into the sky.

Lando grinned. "Menace, huh?"

"Oh, don’t act like you’re not obsessed with him already," Lottie said. "I saw your face when he rolled over for belly rubs."

"I mean… he’s alright, I guess."

"I’ll take that as a win."

For a moment, the weight of their fake relationship faded into the background. The cameras, the speculation, the absurdity of the entire situation—it didn’t feel so suffocating when there was something as simple as a dog trotting between them.

Then—Lottie grabbed his hand.

Lando stiffened. "What—"

"Relax," she muttered. "Two o’clock. Someone’s already got their phone up."

Right.

He exhaled slowly, forcing himself not to react. Their fingers didn’t interlock—just a light press of palms, casual enough to seem natural, deliberate enough to be caught on camera.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered.

"This is commitment," Lottie corrected.

"You’re enjoying this way too much."

"Absolutely."

And then—she laughed.

Bright, unrestrained. Like she’d just heard something genuinely funny.

Lando blinked. "What?"

"It’s your face," she said, breathless between laughs. "You look like you’re being held hostage."

"I do not."

"You really do."

Lando opened his mouth to argue—

—and then the camera shutter clicked.

Their eyes met.

The moment shattered, and just like that, reality came rushing back.

They weren’t two people, walking through the park, talking about music and careers.

They were Lando Norris and Charlotte Hayes.

And the internet was about to lose its mind.

The click of the camera was unmistakable—sharp, invasive, a reminder that they weren’t alone.

But Lottie didn’t let go.

Instead, she tightened her grip just slightly, grounding the moment before it spiraled into awkwardness.

Lando felt the shift, the deliberate ease with which she handled the situation. No stiffness, no hesitation—just a perfectly timed adjustment, as if she was actually comfortable walking through Hyde Park with him, hand in hand.

She wasn’t, obviously.

But she was better at faking it.

Lando exhaled slowly, keeping his expression neutral as they continued walking. Caesar trotted ahead, blissfully unaware of the media circus about to erupt online.

Lottie reached into her coat pocket, pulling out a bright yellow tennis ball.

"Alright, enough about me," she said, rolling the ball between her fingers. "Tell me something about F1. Something interesting."

Lando arched a brow. "That’s vague."

"Fine, I’ll narrow it down." She gave the ball a light toss in her palm. "What’s the hardest part?"

Lando scoffed. "Everything."

Lottie shot him a look. "I feel like I should be offended on behalf of your entire profession."

"I mean it," he said. "It’s not just driving fast. You have to know how to manage tires, fuel loads, track conditions. You’re constantly adjusting, constantly calculating. And that’s before you factor in other drivers, team strategy, weather—"

Lottie hummed thoughtfully. "Sounds like a headache."

"More like a hundred headaches per race."

She nodded, considering, then suddenly wound back her arm and launched the tennis ball across the grass.

Caesar exploded forward, a blur of black and white fur, tearing after it with single-minded determination.

Lando watched him go, vaguely envious. Must be nice—having one simple goal and just going for it.

"Alright, next question," Lottie said, dusting off her hands. "Biggest misconception about F1 drivers?"

Lando smirked. "That we only turn left."

Lottie blinked. "Wait. Do people actually think that?"

"Americans do."

Lottie laughed, shaking her head. "Alright, now I feel bad for underestimating your job."

"You should," Lando said solemnly. "It’s very hard being me."

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

Caesar came sprinting back, ball clenched triumphantly in his teeth. He skidded to a stop at Lottie’s feet, tail wagging furiously.

"Good boy," she cooed, ruffling his fur before prying the ball from his mouth.

Lando watched, mildly fascinated. He wasn’t particularly bad with dogs, but there was something effortless about the way Lottie handled Caesar—like they understood each other in a way that didn’t require words.

She caught him staring.

"What?"

Lando shrugged. "Nothing."

She arched a brow but let it go, tossing the ball again. Caesar bolted after it without hesitation.

The wind picked up slightly, ruffling the edges of Lottie’s coat, brushing stray strands of hair across her face.

Lando glanced down at their joined hands—still together.

It should’ve felt weird. It did feel weird.

But maybe… slightly less weird than before.

The breeze carried the sound of laughter—distant, fleeting, swallowed by the open space of Hyde Park. A couple passed them, a man with a pushchair and a woman with a takeaway coffee, barely sparing them a glance. Lando had to remind himself that, to most people, they were just another couple out for a walk.

Which, in a way, was exactly the point.

He tightened his grip on Lottie’s hand—not dramatically, not enough to be noticeable in any pictures, but just enough to reinforce the illusion.

She didn't react, simply watched as Caesar disappeared into the distance, chasing his ball like his life depended on it.

"Alright," Lando said, shifting the focus. "Enough about me. Your turn."

Lottie gave him a side glance. "You want to hear about dressage and cross-country courses? I didn’t think you cared."

"I don’t." He grinned when she scoffed, then shrugged. "But I figure I should know a little more about the person I’m supposed to be madly in love with."

Lottie rolled her eyes but played along. "Fine. What do you want to know?"

Lando thought for a second. "Biggest misconception about your sport?"

"That it’s not a sport," she said instantly. "That the horse does all the work."

Lando snorted. "Do people actually believe that?"

"All the time," Lottie said. "There’s this idea that riding is just sitting there, looking pretty, while the horse magically does everything for you. But the reality is that you need insane core strength, leg control, precision. And trust—because no matter how good you are, you're still riding an animal with its own mind. One bad decision and you’re eating dirt."

Lando hummed. "Sounds like a headache."

Lottie arched a brow. "Did you just recycle my words?"

"Might’ve."

She shook her head, suppressing a smile. "Alright, next question."

Lando hesitated, then went for something lighter. "What do you do when you’re not taming wild beasts or dodging paparazzi?"

Lottie tilted her head, considering. "Depends. If I’m not training or competing, I like quiet things. Reading, movies, hiking. Cooking, if I’m in the mood."

"Cooking?" Lando looked at her, amused. "That surprises me."

"Why?"

"You don’t seem like the ‘domestic’ type."

Lottie scoffed. "What does that even mean?"

"I don’t know," he admitted. "You just have that ‘raised by nannies, never had to chop an onion’ energy."

Lottie gasped in mock offense. "Excuse you—I can chop an onion. I just choose not to."

Lando laughed, genuinely, and for a brief moment, the whole situation—the cameras, the pretending, the contract—faded into the background.

But then—click. Again.

Fuck it.

Lando felt the weight of the charade press down on him, a subtle but constant reminder of the performance they were putting on for the cameras. He looked at their joined hands—his fingers slowly loosening their grip on hers, the fleeting warmth from her skin now distant.

"Alright," he said, his voice breaking the stillness between them. "I think that's enough for today."

Lottie glanced at him, her expression unreadable, but there was something in the way she tilted her head that made him feel like she knew exactly what he meant.

"It was… nice," he added, trying to soften the abruptness of his words. "The walk, the conversation. But I've got stuff to do."

Lottie nodded once, a small movement, her lips pressed together in something like acknowledgment. She didn’t push for more. She just stood there, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, looking at him with that same cool composure.

"Right," she said simply. "See you later."

And just like that, the air between them shifted, the artificial ease of the moment slipping away, leaving them standing at the edge of something neither of them had fully understood. Without another word, Lottie turned, her steps brisk as she walked in the direction of the park’s exit.

Lando watched her go for a moment, a mix of thoughts swirling in his mind. Then, with a quiet exhale, he turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction. The sound of Caesar’s distant bark was the last thing he heard as the distance between them grew, until all that was left was the quiet hum of the city around him.

Lando had been to equestrian events before. Not many, but enough to navigate the showgrounds with ease. His sister, Flo, competed in show jumping—not eventing like Lottie—but it was close enough that he wasn’t completely out of his depth.

Still, there was a world of difference between watching his sister at a local event and standing here, at the prestigious Burghley Horse Trials, one of the most important competitions in the eventing calendar. This was the ultimate test for Lottie, with her place on the British Olympic team for Paris 2024 on the line. The pressure was palpable, and Lando felt it more than he expected as he watched Lottie prepare for her round, the cameras tracking his every move, waiting for his reaction.

He tugged the brim of his cap lower, shading his eyes, and slid his sunglasses up his nose.

This was the latest move in his PR team’s strategy. Their last public appearance, the walk in Hyde Park, had drawn mixed reactions from fans—some skeptical, but overall, the response had been positive. Both teams had agreed it was time to solidify things, to reinforce the image. This was the moment to take things further.

So here he was, dressed down in a hoodie and jacket, doing his best impression of a supportive boyfriend.

Except, Lottie was actually impressive.

Show jumping was more complex than he'd given it credit for. He had always thought it was about clearing fences without knocking them down, but now he saw that there was so much more—pace, timing, rhythm, the delicate balance between power and control.

And Lottie made it look effortless.

Her horse, a powerful dark bay, trotted around the warm-up area, each stride smooth and fluid. Lottie sat tall in the saddle, her posture perfect, her gaze intense as she prepared for her round. The arena around her buzzed with activity, but she was a picture of focus, the noise of the crowd, the shuffling of horses, and the calls of the event staff all falling into the background.

She was in her element.

When her name was announced over the loudspeaker, the crowd erupted in applause, their cheers carrying across the arena. Lando felt it in his chest, that electric surge of energy that reminded him of race weekends. The atmosphere was charged with anticipation.

Lottie barely reacted. She squeezed her horse forward, entering the arena with calm precision, her eyes locked on the first fence ahead. Her movements were measured, controlled, as she guided her horse with practiced ease.

The first few fences were textbook. Clean, precise, no hesitation. Lando found himself on the edge of his seat, watching her maneuver through the course. The jumps came quickly, and her control never wavered.

As the course grew more demanding, Lando could feel the intensity building. He knew enough to recognize the risks—the way each stride counted, the critical split-second decisions that could make or break the round.

Lottie rode with unshakable focus. She urged her horse forward, pushing him for speed without sacrificing form. It was a delicate dance of speed, timing, and trust, and Lottie was executing it flawlessly.

When they cleared the final fence, the clock stopped.

A perfect round.

The crowd erupted into cheers, the sound like a wave crashing around him.

Without thinking, Lando stood and clapped, the excitement of the moment taking over. For a brief second, he forgot the cameras, the PR strategy, the pressure. He just watched Lottie, as she slowed her horse and came to a stop, her expression unreadable beneath the shadow of her helmet.

Then, as if she could feel his gaze, she turned her head.

Their eyes met.

And Lottie—stoic, professional Lottie—smirked at him.

A small, knowing thing, barely there before she turned away.

Lando exhaled sharply, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The weight of that smile settled over him, and for a moment, everything else—the cameras, the contract, the whole PR game—seemed to fade into the background.

He blinked, suddenly aware of the cameras still trained on him. He hadn’t meant to stand up so eagerly, hadn’t meant to clap so loud. He was supposed to be playing the part of the supportive boyfriend, not the starstruck spectator. But Lottie had earned it.

Before he could retreat back into his seat, he found himself already making his way out of the grandstands, the crowd parting for him as they recognized who he was. He barely registered the smiles, the camera flashes—just enough to see the social media posts that would pop up in a few minutes. Lottie’s PR team would love that he was in the stables now, not just in the stands. His PR team would too.

He was walking toward the stables before he even realized it, his mind racing ahead of him, but when he reached the barn doors, the world around him seemed to still.

Lottie was there, bent over her horse, speaking to one of the stablehands, the horse’s head nuzzling her shoulder. The moment felt completely different—no cameras, no crowds. Just the faint smell of hay, the hum of the horses in their stalls, and the quiet intimacy of the space.

Lando didn’t know what to do. He had imagined this moment, sure, but the reality of it was a bit more daunting. He had no role here, no script to follow. It was just him and Lottie—and her horse, of course.

For a few seconds, he just stood there, watching her in silence, unsure of his place in all of this.

Finally, Lottie turned, catching his gaze. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker in her eyes, something that softened the hard edge she always wore when she was in public.

"You’ve really been following me all the way out here, huh?" she said with a teasing tilt to her voice, as though she were surprised to see him.

Lando cleared his throat, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. "Yeah, I, uh, figured I’d check in. You know... make sure you didn’t get lost in the whole... victory thing." He gestured vaguely toward the arena, trying to play it off cool.

Lottie raised an eyebrow, and then a small, smug smile tugged at her lips. "You mean 'make sure I’m not too busy for you,' right?"

Lando smirked, but it felt more like he was stumbling. "Something like that." He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "Anyway... You were... incredible out there."

Her smirk widened, though there was no real arrogance in it, just a playful recognition. "You’re not too bad at this, Norris," she teased. "Getting all sentimental over a horse show."

Lando chuckled, a little nervous but enjoying the banter despite himself. "I didn’t think I’d be clapping that hard for someone jumping over fences."

Lottie rolled her eyes, the warmth in her smile softening her usual sharpness. "You’re lucky you don’t have to do it yourself. This thing’s got more math involved than you’d think."

"I thought the horse did all the work," Lando shot back, remembering their earlier conversation, his grin widening.

Her laugh was quick, genuine. "Clearly, you haven’t been paying attention. You really should try it someday."

Lando shrugged, the moment of awkwardness beginning to ebb away. "I think I’ll leave it to the professionals."

They stood there for a beat, the easy banter flowing between them again. The tension from earlier, from all the weirdness of their fake relationship, had dissipated a little. It didn’t feel completely normal, but it was a start.

Lottie leaned against the stable door, her attention back on her horse. "So," she said, her tone turning slightly more casual, "what now? You just gonna stand there, or do you actually want to help me untack him?"

Lando blinked, momentarily thrown by the question. He cleared his throat. "I... wasn’t sure if I was allowed to get involved," he admitted, his voice a bit sheepish. "You seem like you’ve got it all under control."

Lottie chuckled, a low sound that seemed to fill the space between them. "Yeah, well, you’re not here to just watch me work. Come on, hold the reins for a second."

Lando stepped forward, taking the reins she offered, but his hands were a bit unsure as he adjusted his grip. "I’m not sure how much help I’ll be," he muttered, looking at the horse with a degree of caution. "This isn’t really my area of expertise."

Lottie smirked, her gaze drifting back to the horse. "I figured. But hey, it's not like you have to do anything complicated. Just stand there and make sure he doesn’t decide to wander off."

Lando gave a slight nod, trying to act natural. "Yeah, just stand here and look like I know what I’m doing, right?"

She shot him a teasing glance, her tone softening a little. "Basically. Don’t worry, he’s pretty easygoing. He’s more interested in snacks than anything else."

Lando relaxed slightly at that, but then caught the way Lottie was moving—how she worked with her horse so confidently, as if every movement was ingrained. There was something mesmerizing about it. He took a breath, unsure how to keep the conversation going.

"So, uh... how does it feel, you know, being this close to the Olympics?" He winced inwardly, wishing the question didn’t sound so... forced.

Lottie’s hands stilled for a moment, and she looked up at him, her expression guarded. "It’s not something I think about all the time," she said slowly, the words deliberate. "If I focus too much on it, I’ll start psyching myself out. But yeah, it’s kind of always there, hanging over you."

"Must be a lot of pressure," Lando said, feeling a sudden sympathy for her. He had his own kind of pressure—just in a completely different world. "I mean, with everything else going on, the media, the competition... I don’t know how you do it."

Lottie gave a small shrug, her face softening a little. "You just do. You can’t let it break you, or else what’s the point?"

Lando nodded, feeling a surprising respect for her resilience. "I get that. In my world, it’s the same. But I guess that’s why I’m here, right?" He glanced down at the reins in his hands, then back at her. "To make sure you don’t break under the pressure."

Lottie’s lips twitched into a smile, but it was brief. "Oh, so that’s your role here? The unofficial pressure manager?"

He gave a half-smile. "I can manage that."

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, returning her attention to the horse. "Just don’t expect me to thank you when I make it to the Olympics. I’m not that sentimental."

Lando chuckled, leaning back slightly. "I’ll take what I can get."

For a brief moment, the awkwardness between them seemed to fade, replaced by the kind of easy banter that, for whatever reason, seemed to come naturally. Lottie continued working, and Lando stayed quietly by her side, holding the reins and trying to act like he belonged here.

As the last of the gear was removed from the horse, Lottie finally turned to face him again. "Thanks for the... moral support," she said dryly. "Now, go on. You’ve done your part."

Lando raised an eyebrow. "That’s it? I thought I was supposed to be the hero in this scenario."

Lottie smirked, glancing at him sideways. "Yeah, well, you’re not quite there yet, Norris."

As Lottie finished up with her horse, she gave him one last pat on the neck before stepping away. “Alright, Norris,” she said, wiping her hands on her breeches. “You’ve done your good deed for the day. You can go back to whatever it is you do when you’re not being dragged into the equestrian world.”

Lando huffed a laugh, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “You say that like you’re getting rid of me.”

Lottie smirked. “Aren’t I?”

He didn’t have a real answer to that, because truthfully, he wasn’t in a hurry to leave. And somehow, instead of heading for the exit, he fell into step beside her as she made her way back toward the event grounds.  The competition was still in full swing, but many spectators had drifted toward the sponsor booths, the food stalls, or the shaded VIP areas.

Lottie walked with an easy confidence, the same way she rode—with control, purpose. Lando, on the other hand, was just along for the ride, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, his cap pulled low over his forehead.

They were almost past a group of young women chatting near one of the merchandise tents when Lottie heard an excited gasp.

“Oh my god, that’s Charlotte Hayes!”

She barely had time to react before the group turned toward her, faces lighting up with recognition.

“You were incredible out there!” one of them gushed.

“We’ve been following you all season—you’re seriously insane on cross-country.”

“Can we get a picture with you?”

Lottie blinked, a little taken aback. She was used to attention at equestrian events, but she wasn’t used to fans being quite this enthusiastic.

Before she could answer, Lando—who had been standing beside her, entirely unnoticed—cleared his throat dramatically. “Well, this is new,” he said, smirking. “People actually ignoring me for once.”

The girls turned at the sound of his voice, their excitement doubling when they recognized him.

“Wait—Lando?”

“Oh my god, I didn’t even see you there!”

“I had no idea you were into horses.”

Lando gave a dramatic sigh. “Yeah, well. She’s making me a proper equestrian, one event at a time.”

Lottie rolled her eyes. “Don’t let him fool you. He still thinks the horse does all the work.”

The group laughed, and one of the girls held up her phone. “Lottie, can we—?”

“Of course,” Lottie said, already reaching for the phone.

But before she could take it, Lando snatched it from her hands with a grin. “I got it,” he said. “I’ll be the photographer today.”

The girls practically melted on the spot.

“That’s adorable.”

“He’s so boyfriend-coded.”

Lottie shot Lando a look, but he was already positioning himself, phone in hand. “Alright, ladies,” he said, squinting at the screen. “Make sure to smile—this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Lottie groaned. “Oh, shut up and take the picture.”

He did. A few, actually. By the time he handed the phone back, the girls were giddy.

“You guys are actually, like… the cutest couple,” one of them said.

Lottie let out a laugh, shaking her head. “Don’t encourage him.”

“Too late,” Lando said, flashing a smug grin.

They said their goodbyes, the girls walking away in a flurry of excitement, undoubtedly uploading the pictures as they spoke.

Lando fell back into step beside her, nudging her lightly with his elbow. “See? You’re famous.”

Lottie scoffed. “You’re just upset they didn’t ask for a picture with you.”

Lando placed a hand on his chest, mock-offended. “I’m secure enough to let you have the spotlight.”

She arched a brow. “Really?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I’ll survive.”

Lottie shook her head, amused despite herself. But as they continued walking, Lando noticed something—she was smiling. Not for the cameras, not for PR.

Just for herself.

And for some reason, he really, really liked seeing it.

The Miami heat was already oppressive, pressing down on the tinted windows of the car as they rolled through the paddock gates. Outside, the usual chaos of a race weekend was in full swing—fans gathered behind barriers, cameras flashing, media personnel darting around like they were on a mission.

Inside the car, Lottie was acutely aware of the fact that they were being watched.

She had seen the madness surrounding Formula 1 drivers before, but this was the first time she was in it. And it wasn’t just Lando they were looking at—it was her.

"They’re already taking pictures," she muttered, staring out at the sea of fans through her sunglasses.

Lando, sitting comfortably beside her in the passenger seat, let out a chuckle. "Yeah, get used to that."

She shot him a look. "Easy for you to say. You signed up for this."

"So did you," he pointed out with a smirk. "Technically."

Lottie huffed, leaning back against the leather seat. "I signed up to fix my PR. I didn’t sign up for... that." She nodded toward a group of girls holding up their phones, faces lighting up the moment they spotted them.

Lando followed her gaze, then smirked again. "Welcome to the world of the WAGs."

She turned to him, frowning. "The what?"

"WAGs," he repeated. "Wives and Girlfriends."

She snorted. "That’s a thing?"

Lando raised an eyebrow. "Oh, it’s a thing. The fans love them. Some people treat them like celebrities. Others act like they personally offended them just by existing. It’s all a bit... intense."

Lottie stared at him, processing that information. "So, what you’re saying is... there’s an entire part of your fanbase that’s obsessed with who you’re dating?"

"Yup."

"And some of them hate me just because I’m standing next to you?"

"Basically."

She scoffed. "That’s ridiculous."

"Welcome to Formula 1."

Lottie exhaled sharply, adjusting the sunglasses on her face. "Great. Can’t wait to be publicly analyzed and torn apart by strangers."

Lando grinned, nudging her playfully. "Just smile and wave, Little. Smile and wave."

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smirk tugging at her lips.

Outside, the fans were practically buzzing with excitement as the car rolled to a stop.

Lando turned to her just before reaching for the door handle. "Ready?"

Lottie took a deep breath. "Not even a little bit."

"Perfect," he said, his grin widening. "Let’s go."

And with that, they stepped out into the Miami heat, into the cameras, into the madness.

Fans were already gathering, some chanting Lando’s name, others snapping pictures as they caught sight of him and Lottie. The loud hum of the paddock, the smell of the fresh tires, the mechanical sounds—everything seemed heightened for Lottie. She could feel herself stiffening at all the attention.

Lando, noticing the subtle change in her posture, immediately slowed his pace, instinctively staying close to her. He didn’t want to make her feel isolated in this sea of excitement.

Instead of rushing off to greet the fans, Lando subtly guided her toward the entrance, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back, a quiet gesture of reassurance. His touch was firm but gentle, keeping her close as he navigated them through the crowds.

As a few fans called out for pictures, Lottie was about to step back, not wanting to be the center of attention. But before she could, Lando leaned in slightly, giving her a reassuring glance, his hand still resting on her back. “We’ll do this together,” he said through his actions, offering her the chance to stick with him as he engaged with the fans for a moment.

When the fans asked for photos, Lando didn’t hesitate to take the lead, not stepping too far away from her, making sure to always keep her within arm’s reach. He made a few jokes with them, but his focus was still on Lottie, ensuring that she never felt left out or uncomfortable.

As they continued walking, Lottie noticed how little he was engaging with the crowd compared to his usual self. Normally, Lando would stop for autographs or selfies at every opportunity, but today, he kept moving, his attention always returning to her. His hand never left her back, guiding her through the noise of the paddock.

“Lando,” she said quietly, glancing up at him, “You don’t have to do this, you know. You can talk to the fans. I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t look at her, but his thumb made small, soothing circles on the back of her shirt as they walked. “I’m not doing it because I have to,” he replied softly. “I want to. Besides, I’m not letting you get lost in the crowd.”

Lottie felt a knot she hadn’t realized was there slowly unravel. She didn’t say anything more, but her posture softened, and she stayed right beside him. She was beginning to realize just how thoughtful Lando was—how much care he was putting into making sure she felt at ease.

As they walked deeper into the paddock, Lando started introducing her to people from his team, pointing out familiar faces to help her feel more comfortable. His gestures were small but meaningful: a gentle nudge to the side, a soft, “This is Jane, she’s in charge of our PR, and that’s Tom, he handles our data,” always making sure she wasn’t left in the shadows.

Lottie didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she watched him, taking in every small movement: the way he always made sure she was within his line of sight, the way he’d subtly check if she was okay whenever the crowd grew too loud. He never overdid it, never drew attention to it. It was just... him looking out for her, even when she didn’t ask for it.

They reached a quieter part of the paddock, away from the main traffic. Lottie took a breath, finally feeling like she could relax a little, and turned to him.

“Thanks,” she said quietly, her words almost lost in the noise of the paddock. She wasn’t sure if he heard her at first, but when he glanced at her, she could see the quiet acknowledgment in his eyes.

“No need to thank me,” he replied with a smile, though his eyes softened when he looked at her. “I’m just doing my job.”

Lottie chuckled softly, but there was a warmth in her expression now that hadn’t been there earlier. She wasn’t used to people looking out for her this way—so naturally, so without expecting anything in return.

But here was Lando, offering that kindness without hesitation, without ever drawing attention to it. She wasn’t sure what to make of it yet, but for the first time since stepping into the paddock, she felt like maybe she could actually enjoy this, after all.

The day had been a whirlwind. The noise, the constant movement, and the flashing cameras felt like they’d been part of their lives for hours. But as they finally found a quiet moment later in the evening, something was different between them. It wasn’t awkward—no, it wasn’t that. But there was a subtle shift in the air, something unspoken, like the calm before a storm, except there was no storm coming. It was just... different. Neither of them could pinpoint it, but there was a softness between them now that hadn’t been there before.

They chose to ignore it for the time being, pushing aside the strange tension in favor of the noise and chaos of the weekend. They weren’t sure how to navigate it, and so they didn’t.

That night, Lottie found herself sprawled out on her bed, still in her pajamas, replaying one of her past competitions. The footage was old, but it was comforting. Watching herself perform, even when she hadn’t been at her best, helped her focus, bringing a sense of peace to her mind after the chaos of the day. The low volume of the TV and the dim light created a calm atmosphere in the room, and she sunk deeper into the soft comfort of the bed.

But the peace didn’t last long. There was a knock at the door, followed by a familiar, playful voice.

“Room service,” Lando called, his voice making her smile despite herself. She had half-expected him to show up—he had been unusually thoughtful all day, checking in on her, introducing her to people in the paddock, and now it seemed he wasn’t going to let her end the day without at least a little more of his attention.

Lottie hesitated for just a moment, wondering what exactly he was up to, before pushing herself up from the bed and making her way to the door. When she opened it, she was greeted with a tower of takeout boxes, burgers, fries, and some of the most indulgent comfort food imaginable. Lando smiled at her, clearly proud of his delivery.

“I figured you were probably starving,” he said with a raised brow, playful as ever. “You didn’t seem all that keen on the paddock snacks today.”

Lottie couldn’t help but laugh. “You do know I’m not a child, right? You didn’t have to go all out like this.” Her eyes scanned the takeout boxes, each one more tempting than the last.

“Yeah, well, it’s not every day I get to spoil someone like this,” Lando teased, winking as he set the food down on the small table by the window. His movements were relaxed, natural, like he belonged here, in this space with her, despite the high-energy atmosphere of the paddock just hours before.

She raised an eyebrow at him, clearly amused. “Spoil me? I think you’re just trying to make sure I don’t get mad at you for dragging me into your chaotic world.”

Lando chuckled, collapsing onto the bed beside her with an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Not true. I just thought we could have a quiet night for once. You know, just food, no cameras, no crazy crowds.”

Lottie glanced at him, and for a moment, their eyes lingered, the shift from earlier hanging between them. The way they could just be in the same space, without any of the external noise or expectations, was oddly comforting.

“You’re right,” she said softly, her voice quieter now. “It’s kind of nice to have a normal night for a change.”

Lando grinned, his expression carrying something more genuine than the usual playful exterior. “It’s not perfect, but it’s... better than nothing, right?”

They dug into the food, the tension that had been there before starting to fade. Lottie couldn’t help but let out a satisfied sigh as she bit into a burger.

“So, what’s it like?” she asked after a moment, glancing at him. “The whole paddock thing, I mean. The chaos, the pressure... Do you ever get used to it?”

Lando shrugged, chewing slowly before answering. “Not really. It’s a lot of pressure, yeah. But you just sort of... get into the rhythm of it. And it helps when you’re surrounded by people who’ve been doing it for years. They make it look easier than it is.”

Lottie nodded, feeling the weight of his words. "Must be a weird kind of pressure," she muttered, her gaze drifting to her fries. “I mean, I have my own pressures with competitions and everything, but this... this is next level.”

“Yeah, well, I guess that’s the difference between being part of the team and being the one everyone’s watching, huh?”

The conversation shifted into comfortable silence as they ate. There were no rushed words or forced small talk, just the simplicity of being together in the same space, enjoying the quiet.

Lottie shifted on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. “I think you’re right, though. It’s kind of nice not to be in the spotlight for a change.”

Lando met her gaze, his smile softening. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “it is.”

Lando leaned back in his chair, tossing a fry into his mouth with a playful glint in his eyes. “So, I was thinking... if you ever make it to the Olympics, we should totally get matching tracksuits. You know, like a power couple thing.”

Lottie burst out laughing, rolling her eyes. “A matching tracksuit? You’d be the only person in the world who’d actually want to wear that with me.”

Lando grinned. “I’m serious! It’d be iconic. We could make it a thing for every major event—show up, match, and make the headlines.”

“Yeah, well, maybe we could make it work for your major events, but I’ll pass on the Olympics tracksuit idea, thanks.” She smirked, then her expression softened. “But honestly, I’m not sure what’s scarier: actually going or the pressure to not mess up once I’m there.”

Lando’s grin faded, and he looked at her more seriously. “It’s normal to feel that way. I mean, every race, every qualifying, I feel that weight too. But sometimes, the pressure is what drives you to be better. At least, that’s what I tell myself when I can’t sleep at night.”

Lottie tilted her head, her gaze steady on him. “I get it. But with the Olympics... it feels like this one shot. And if you mess it up, it’s not just one race—it’s everything. The years of work, the people who’ve supported you. And there’s me, wondering if I’m even good enough for it.”

Lando’s tone softened, his eyes locking with hers. “You are good enough. I don’t think anyone doubts that.”

Lottie gave a small, almost bitter laugh. “You’d be surprised. Sometimes it’s not even about how good you are. It’s the other stuff—the media, the expectations. It’s exhausting.”

“I get that,” Lando said quietly. “In F1, it’s all about the performance. But everyone’s watching, critiquing every little thing you do. It’s like you’re never allowed to just... be human.”

Lottie met his gaze, a slight frown on her face. “Yeah. You can’t just make a mistake, because that mistake will follow you around forever.”

For a moment, silence filled the room, but it was different this time. It wasn’t uncomfortable—just understanding. Lottie shifted uncomfortably before speaking again, her voice quieter.

“You know, I used to think I had to handle everything on my own. I mean, I have to, right? But... it’s weird, having someone else who gets it. Who doesn’t just brush it off like it’s no big deal.”

Lando met her gaze, his expression softer now. “I get it. It’s not easy, and yeah... I guess I’m here if you need someone to talk to about it.”

Lottie didn’t look away this time. “I know. I appreciate that, Lando. More than you think.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds, and for the first time in a long time, the weight of their respective pressures felt a little less heavy. For the first time in a while, they didn’t have to carry it alone.

Finally, Lottie broke the silence with a playful grin. “But seriously, no matching tracksuits. Ever.”

Lando couldn’t help but laugh, relieved to lighten the mood. “Alright, alright. No tracksuits. I’ll settle for just being your number-one fan instead.”

Lottie smirked. “That’s more like it.”

The morning light filtered softly through the hotel curtains, casting long golden streaks across the room. Lottie blinked awake, her body heavy with sleep, the exhaustion of the weekend settling deep in her bones. Instinctively, she reached for her phone, scrolling through the usual flood of notifications, skimming mindlessly—until one email stopped her cold.

British Olympic Committee - Selection Confirmation

Her heart stumbled.

With shaking fingers, she tapped it open, her breath hitching as she read the words that would change everything.

"Dear Miss Hayes, we are pleased to confirm your selection for the British Eventing Team for the Paris 2024 Olympic Games..."

A sharp inhale. Her vision blurred, the letters swimming as the weight of it all came crashing down on her.

She covered her mouth with her hand as the first tears spilled over, hot and uncontrollable. Her whole body trembled. Years of training, every fall, every broken bone, every grueling hour spent chasing a dream that had always felt just out of reach—until now. She was in. She was going to the Olympics.

A small, breathless laugh escaped her, equal parts disbelief and sheer, overwhelming joy. She wanted to scream, to call someone, to—

But no.

Not today.

Today wasn’t about her. Today was Lando’s race. And as much as she ached to tell him, to share this impossible, life-changing moment, she knew better. He had enough pressure on his shoulders without her dropping this on him hours before he got into the car.

So she wiped her tears, steadied her breath, and tucked the secret away for later.

Later, the McLaren garage buzzed with a nervous, electric energy, every person within it tuned into the same frequency of anticipation. Mechanics darted back and forth, engineers murmured into headsets, and the screens flickered with the ever-changing numbers of a race that was unfolding at breakneck speed.

Lottie didn’t have to fake anything.

Every time Lando made an overtake, she felt her pulse jump, her stomach twisting in that awful, addictive way that only live competition could bring. The cameras caught her reactions, but for once, she barely noticed. She was too caught up in the moment.

And then came the final lap.

Lando was leading.

The entire garage held its breath.

The roar that erupted when he crossed the line was deafening. The sheer force of celebration was enough to shake the walls as the McLaren crew erupted into cheers, throwing their arms around each other, jumping, screaming. Lottie felt it all at once—a rush of relief, excitement, pride so intense it made her dizzy.

She didn’t hesitate. She ran with them, pushing through the chaos toward parc fermé, the euphoria carrying her forward.

He celebrated, shouting into the sea of orange, hugging engineers, mechanics, anyone in reach. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her. Lottie. Standing just beyond the McLaren team, watching him with the brightest, most genuine smile he’d ever seen on her face. She wasn’t faking it for the cameras, wasn’t playing along for the sake of their contract. She was just… happy. For him.

And suddenly, he had to go to her.

Lando pushed through the crowd, still buzzing with euphoria, and reached her just as she was laughing, shaking her head in disbelief. “You did it!” she shouted over the noise, breathless, laughing, not caring about anything else. “You actually fucking did it!”

Lando let out a breathless laugh, still shaking from the adrenaline. “Hell yeah, I did!”

She nodded, and then, almost without thinking, she blurted it out—because what better moment was there than this? "I made it."

Lando frowned for half a second, still catching his breath. "Made what?"

Her smile wobbled slightly, her hands gripping his forearms like she needed to steady herself. "I got the email this morning. I’m in. The Olympic team. I—Lando, I’m going to the Olympics."

His world, which had already been spinning from the win, somehow tilted even more. His hands moved on instinct, gripping her shoulders, grounding them both in the chaos. "What?"

“I got the email this morning.” Her voice wavered, but her smile didn’t falter. “I made the team, Lando. I’m going to Paris.”

For a split second, everything around them disappeared. The noise, the cameras, the flashing lights—it all faded into the background as he just looked at her.

And then, without thinking, without planning, without hesitation—Lando kissed her.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t passionate. Just a brief, fleeting press of lips, quick and instinctive, like an exclamation point to a moment too big for words.

But it was enough. Enough to make both of them freeze in the aftermath, their faces inches apart, wide-eyed and breathless. Enough for the world around them to catch it, cameras flashing, thousands of eyes capturing something neither of them had expected.

Lottie swallowed hard.

Lando blinked, as if realizing what he’d just done.

Oh.

The moment stretched between them, fragile and electric. Lottie could still feel the ghost of Lando’s lips on hers, barely there, but somehow lingering.

They just stared at each other, breathless, caught in something they didn’t have time to untangle—because before either of them could say a word, McLaren’s team swarmed in.

Lando was yanked away in a blur of orange, lost in a chaos of arms slung around his shoulders, cheers, shouts, hands thumping his back, shaking him, pulling him into the celebration. He was gone in an instant, absorbed by the frenzy of victory.

Lottie remained frozen in place, watching.

Her heart was still pounding, but she wasn’t sure if it was from the race, from the sheer overwhelming euphoria of the moment—or from that. From the fact that, for the first time since they’d agreed to this whole thing, something had happened that wasn’t scripted.

A kiss wasn’t in the contract.

It hadn’t been planned, hadn’t been necessary.

So why had he done it?

Why had she let him?

Lottie swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe as she stood there, the noise of the celebrations ringing in her ears. She tried to convince herself it didn’t mean anything, that it was just the adrenaline, the heat of the moment, a natural reaction to winning.

But a small, unwelcome thought curled in the back of her mind.

Have we just crossed a line?

After the podium, the celebrations carried on in the McLaren garage, thick with champagne, music, and the high of victory. Lando was in the center of it all, surrounded by his team, his friends, people who had worked for this just as much as he had. He was laughing, grinning so wide his face ached, letting the euphoria consume him.

But even through the haze of it all, he kept catching glimpses of her.

Lottie, standing at the edge of the room, drink in hand, smiling at something one of the engineers had said. But not fully present. Not quite there.

Something twisted uncomfortably in his stomach.

So he slipped away, weaving through the crowd until he reached her side.

“Hey.”

She turned, surprised, as if she hadn’t expected him to seek her out. “Hey, champ.”

Lando let out a breathless laugh, still high on everything, but suddenly feeling way too aware of himself. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, hesitating for a second before blurting out—

“I didn’t mean to kiss you.”

Lottie blinked. Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t that.

Lando exhaled sharply. “I mean—I didn’t plan to. It just... happened. I thought it would look good for the cameras, and I—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “I should’ve asked. I’m sorry if I—”

“It’s okay.”

Her voice was quiet but certain.

Lando studied her face, trying to gauge if she really meant that, or if she was just saying it to make things easier.

And for a moment, they just looked at each other.

Neither of them spoke, but the silence wasn’t empty. It was full of unspoken questions, things neither of them dared to say.

Did it mean something to you?

Because I think it meant something to me.

Lottie cleared her throat, breaking the moment. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. We’re fine.” She offered him a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Lando nodded, pretending that was enough.

But as the party carried on around them, as the noise swallowed them up again, neither of them could shake the feeling that something had shifted. That maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something they weren’t ready for.

The night split them in two.

Lando, wrapped up in the whirlwind of celebration, surrounded by his team, other drivers, friends—anyone who wanted to drown in the euphoria of victory with him. The energy of the night was electric, pulsing through the city, through the people, through the drinks passed from hand to hand in the dim glow of club lights.

Lottie, on the other hand, chose something quieter.

“I think I’ll head back,” she told him when the chaos started to spill out of the McLaren garage, into the night. “I need to call my parents, tell them about—” She hesitated for just a second, then smiled. “About the Olympics.”

Lando blinked, like he’d almost forgotten that massive piece of news in the mess of everything else. “Right.” He exhaled, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Yeah, of course. That makes sense.”

She could see the question forming in his mind before he even said it.

“Are we—” He stopped, shifted on his feet. “We’re good, right?”

Lottie tilted her head, watching him carefully. “Good?”

His jaw tensed, and she could tell he was choosing his words. “With everything. With us. I just—I don’t want things to be weird after—”

“They’re not,” she interrupted, soft but firm. She didn’t let him finish. “We’re fine.”

And maybe it was the way she said it so certainly, the way she met his eyes without hesitation, but Lando believed her.

Still, something inside him felt unsteady.

She leaned in, pressing a quick, warm kiss to his cheek. “Go celebrate,” she murmured.

Lando barely had time to process it before the cameras around them clicked, a frenzy of flashes capturing the moment. A sweet, calculated moment. One that did exactly what it was supposed to—sent the message loud and clear: Charlotte Hayes and Lando Norris are stronger than ever.

Lottie pulled away, sending him one last small smile before stepping back, disappearing into the night, leaving Lando standing there, watching her go.

And then, he let himself get swept away.

The morning hit like a freight train.

Lottie wasn’t even fully awake when she reached for her phone, still hazy from sleep, her body aching from the long weekend. But the second she saw the notifications, her brain jolted awake.

Her screen was flooded.

Headlines. Twitter threads. Photos. Speculation.

Lando Norris partying the night away after victory—who’s the mystery woman?

A few hours after celebrating with his girlfriend, Lando Norris was spotted leaving a hotel that wasn’t his own.

Has Lando Norris already moved on from Charlotte Hayes?

Lottie sat up so fast she nearly got whiplash.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she clicked on the photos, one by one, each image sharper than the last.

Lando in the club, drink in hand, a dark-haired woman pressed close, his head tipped toward her ear.

Lando laughing, his hand resting on the small of her back.

Lando walking out of a hotel at sunrise, looking wrecked, his hoodie pulled low over his face.

The rage hit her fast.

Hot, violent, immediate.

It clawed up her throat, burned behind her ribs.

Because it wasn’t just about the rumors. It wasn’t just about what the press was saying.

It was the fact that he had done this.

After last night. After everything.

Lottie squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her thumb and forefinger against the bridge of her nose, trying to breathe through the anger simmering under her skin.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew what kind of person Lando was. She knew what she had signed up for.

But this?

This was humiliating.

And Charlotte Hayes didn’t do humiliation.

Lottie didn’t think.

She moved on pure, unfiltered rage.

Barefoot, still in her sleep shorts and hoodie, she stormed down the hallway of the hotel, barely aware of the pounding of her own footsteps. The anger was a living, breathing thing inside her, tightening its grip with every step.

She didn’t knock. Didn’t hesitate.

Just shoved the door open with enough force to make it slam against the wall.

Lando was sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, looking like absolute shit. His hair was a mess, his hoodie wrinkled like he had slept in it—if he had even slept at all. The dim light of the room cast shadows across his face, making the exhaustion in his eyes even more obvious.

The second he looked up and saw her, his eyes widened. “Lottie—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Her voice was sharp, slicing through the heavy morning air.

Lando winced, dragging a hand over his face. “Listen—”

“No. You listen.” She took a step closer, fury radiating off her in waves. “I wake up this morning to see the entire world debating whether or not you’ve cheated on me. Do you have any idea what this looks like?”

Lando exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I didn’t do anything, Lottie. I swear. Yeah, I was drunk, and yeah, she was—close, but I didn’t—”

“I don’t care.” Lottie’s voice was deadly quiet now. “It doesn’t matter what actually happened. It matters what people think happened. And right now, the entire internet is convinced that you just made a fucking fool out of me.”

Lando ran a hand through his curls, frustration evident in every tense muscle of his body. “It’s not like I took her to my room! Those photos—Jesus, I was literally leaving my friends’ hotel. That’s it. That’s the whole fucking story.”

Lottie let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “And what, you think people are going to believe that? You think the fans, the media, the sponsors, are going to take the time to fact-check before they start writing the next big headline?�� She shook her head, stepping even closer. “This isn’t about truth, Lando. It’s about perception. That’s all a PR relationship is, and you just made it look like I’m the pathetic girlfriend getting cheated on.”

Lando’s jaw clenched. “You’re not my girlfriend.”

She laughed. A sharp, bitter sound. “No, I’m not! And thank fuck for that, because at least I don’t have to actually deal with your bullshit!”

He stood up then, closing the space between them. “What do you want me to do, Lottie?” His voice was lower now, but the frustration was still there. “I can’t change it. I can’t go back and undo it.”

Her breath came fast, her heart pounding. “You want to fix it? Fine. Handle it.” She met his gaze, unflinching. “Clean up your own fucking mess.”

Lando swallowed hard, his hands flexing at his sides. “Lottie—”

“Don’t.”

She stepped back, shaking her head. “Don’t call me. Don’t text me. If you have something to say, tell my team. I’ll be busy—I don’t have time to be dealing with your shit when I have the Olympics to focus on.”

His brows pulled together, his expression unreadable. “That’s it? You’re just gonna cut me off?”

“No, Lando.” Her voice was steady. “I’m just reminding you that this isn’t real. You do whatever the fuck you want—I’m done cleaning up after you.”

She turned before he could say another word, slamming the door behind her, leaving him standing there in the wreckage.

Weeks go by. The headlines cool down. His PR team works damage control, pushing a new narrative—"misunderstanding," "taken out of context," "no trouble in paradise." They make sure Lottie and Lando are seen together again, and soon, the internet forgets.

But Lottie doesn’t.

She’s too busy winning. Training harder than ever, pouring all of her focus into the Olympics. And if there’s something fierce in the way she throws herself into it, something angry—well, she doesn’t think too much about that.

Then, their PR teams drop a bomb on them.

"Vacation."

Together.

"To keep up appearances," their managers explain. "To make sure everyone knows things are fine."

Lottie is livid. She wants to refuse, wants to tell them all to go to hell—but she can’t. This is what she signed up for. And if she has to suffer through another week with Lando Norris, she’s going to do it her way.

So, she picks the location.

Her family's estate. A sprawling, old-money English countryside estate—complete with horses, etiquette-dinner expectations, and the poshest group of people Lando has ever encountered in his life.

If she has to deal with him, then he has to deal with this.

And that?

That’s where the real fun begins.

Lando has been thrown into hell. Or at least, that’s what it feels like.

The estate is massive, straight out of a period drama, with towering trees lining the driveway and an overwhelming sense of old money oozing from every brick. The kind of place where history isn’t just remembered—it’s lived in. The house itself is ridiculous—high ceilings, chandeliers, endless hallways leading to even more endless rooms. Every surface gleams, polished to perfection, and the whole place smells faintly of expensive wood polish and fresh flowers.

Lottie is clearly thriving.

She doesn’t even try to ease him into it. If anything, she seems delighted by his suffering.

“Oh, did I forget to mention?” she says sweetly their first morning there, leading him into the grand dining room for breakfast. “We have a dress code for meals.”

Lando looks down at his hoodie and sweatpants, then back up at her. “You’re joking.”

She isn’t.

He doesn’t change. Not for breakfast, not for dinner, not ever. He shows up every morning in his McLaren hoodie, every evening in his cargo shorts, and every time he catches Lottie’s mother glancing at his outfit, he just smiles and takes another bite of whatever very expensive meal they’re eating.

It’s a battle of wills. And Lando? He likes winning.

But even though he’s standing his ground on the clothing front, there’s one battle he’s losing—the absolute zoo of animals in this house.

Caesar, at least, is familiar. The big German Shepherd recognizes Lando immediately, tail wagging as he trots up to him like they’re old friends. Lando crouches to scratch behind his ears, muttering, “At least you don’t hate me.”

But then come the others.

Three other dogs.

One of them—a scruffy little terrier mix—steals his shoes every time he takes them off. Another, a massive black Labrador, insists on sitting directly on his feet whenever Lando is standing still. And the third, a tiny white ball of fluff, just stares at him. Silent. Judging.

Then there are the cats. So many cats. Lando has no idea how many there actually are—every time he turns a corner, there’s another one. On the stairs. On the windowsills. Watching him from the bookshelves like tiny, furry spies.

“I feel like I’m being monitored,” he tells Lottie one afternoon, eyeing a particularly fluffy orange tabby that hasn’t blinked in minutes.

Lottie just hums, flipping a page in her book. “You probably are.”

Then there are her brothers, the twins. They don’t hate him. They don’t even intimidate him. But they do make him uncomfortable.

Because for the first two days, they just watch him. Always there, just slightly in the background. Lando will be sitting in the lounge, and suddenly, he’ll realize they’re behind the couch. Not saying anything. Just observing.

Or he’ll walk into a room and they’ll already be there, speaking in low voices, only to stop immediately when he enters.

At one point, he catches them sitting across from each other in the drawing room, both drinking tea, both looking at him with the exact same neutral expression.

“You two are terrifying,” he says flatly.

One of them blinks. “Thank you.”

But then, on the third day, something changes.

They’ve just finished dinner, and Lando is mentally preparing himself for another round of polite-yet-unsettling observation from Lottie’s twin brothers when one of them—Oliver? Nate? No clue—leans forward, elbows on the table.

“Do you play FIFA?”

Lando pauses, thrown by the sudden normalcy of the question. “Uh. Yeah?”

The twins exchange a glance.

“Come with us.”

It sounds less like an invitation and more like a summoning, but Lando follows them anyway, intrigued. They lead him through the house, down a hallway, and into what can only be described as a shrine to sports and gaming. A massive flat-screen TV, shelves lined with games, beanbags strewn about, and a top-of-the-line gaming console already set up.

They settle in, and within minutes, they’re locked in battle.

It turns out the twins are good. But Lando is better.

By the time he scores his third goal in a row, he can practically hear their egos fracturing.

“Jesus,” one of them mutters, scowling at the screen.

“You’re a Formula 1 driver,” the other points out. “How the hell are you this good? Do you really have time to play games?”

Lando just smirks, lounging back into the couch. “Hand-eye coordination, mate.”

For the first time since he arrived, the tension eases. The twins stop analyzing him like some strange foreign specimen and start treating him like a competitor, someone worth their time.

They play for hours, their competitive streaks fueling each other, and by the time they finally call it quits, Lando almost forgets that, technically, he’s supposed to be suffering on this trip.

Almost.

The next afternoon, Lottie and her parents sit outside, having tea at a shaded table on the terrace. The estate stretches out before them—rolling fields, neatly kept gardens, and, at the far end of the property, a large, open field.

It’s there that the twins have dragged Lando, a football at their feet.

“He’s definitely better than them,” Lottie remarks, watching as Lando effortlessly weaves through her brothers, making them look ridiculous in the process.

Her father hums, sipping his tea. “They need to be humbled from time to time.”

Her mother sighs. “I am starting to like him.”

Lottie grins, eyes fixed on the game. She can hear them shouting at each other—frustrated, determined, cursing when Lando scores yet again.

And then, something unexpected happens.

Lando looks up from the field, his eyes searching. And when they find her—when he finds her—he grins. Wide, smug, bright with victory and mischief.

Lottie rolls her eyes, pretending not to care.

But she feels it.

That warmth creeping in, that quiet, dangerous thought—maybe this isn't fake at all.

And then, it starts subtly.

Lottie notices it in small gestures, little shifts in body language that would go unnoticed by anyone who wasn’t her.

Her mother, for example, stops looking at Lando like he’s a particularly loud guest overstaying his welcome. Instead, she starts noticing things.

The way he always greets her politely in the morning, even when he’s barely awake. The way he thanks the staff every time they serve a meal. The way he lets Caesar jump onto his lap, even though he’s wearing one of his expensive hoodies and will absolutely leave covered in dog hair.

But the real moment of change comes one evening when they’re all gathered in the sitting room. It’s been a long day—Lottie had spent the afternoon training, Lando had been dragged into yet another ridiculous scheme by her brothers, and now, finally, there’s a lull in the chaos.

Lottie’s mother is knitting, a quiet habit of hers that keeps her hands busy while she listens to the conversation around her.

And then—without a word—she sets down her knitting, stands up, and disappears into the hallway.

Lottie barely notices, until she returns a moment later with a folded blanket in her hands.

She walks straight over to where Lando is slumped in an armchair, clearly exhausted but still trying to follow the conversation. He blinks up at her, confused, as she unfolds the blanket and drapes it over his shoulders.

"There," she says, smoothing it down as if he’s one of her children. "You looked cold."

Lando just stares at her. Lottie stares at her.

Her mother doesn’t say anything else—just pats his shoulder lightly and goes back to her seat, picking up her knitting again like nothing happened.

Lottie’s brothers immediately start teasing him for it.

Lando, dazed, just pulls the blanket tighter around himself.

He’s in.

Her father takes longer.

Not because he’s particularly cold—Lottie’s father isn’t unkind, just reserved. Measured. He was never one for overly warm welcomes, always preferring to keep his distance until someone proved themselves worth the effort.

But he watches Lando.

Watches him joke with the twins, watches the way Caesar follows him around, watches how he doesn’t complain about any of it—the formality, the expectation, the centuries-old family traditions he clearly doesn’t understand but still respects.

And then, one evening, as they’re all gathered in the sitting room after dinner, he finally speaks directly to him.

"You’re a racing driver, but are you into cars?"

Lando, caught mid-sip of his drink, swallows quickly. "Uh—yeah."

Her father hums, thoughtful. "I rebuilt an old Aston Martin years ago. Did it myself. Took months."

Lottie stares.

Her father never talks about that.

Lando, however, lights up. "No way. What model?"

And just like that, they’re talking. Really talking—about engines, about restoration work, about classic cars versus modern builds. Lottie watches as her father, the same man who barely tolerated Lando’s existence a few days ago, nods along, asking questions, engaging in a way that he rarely does with people outside their world.

It’s… unexpected.

And then—

"You should stay for the hunting weekend," her father says casually, sipping his brandy.

Lando blinks. "The what now?"

Lottie groans, dragging a hand over her face. "Oh, God. Don’t encourage him."

Her father just chuckles. "It’s tradition."

And that? That’s acceptance.

Lottie sees all of it.

Sees her mother treating Lando with the same quiet care she gives her own children. Sees her father warming to him in his own quiet, begrudging way. Sees the twins, who were dead set on making his life miserable, inviting him to play, to join, to be part of it.

She watches as Lando stops acting like he’s just tolerating it, and starts enjoying it.

And worst of all?

She watches herself let it happen.

It starts with curiosity.

Lando had never paid much attention to horses before—never needed to. His world had always been fast cars, roaring engines, and sleek designs built for speed. The idea of an animal being an athlete in its own right was… foreign.

But then there’s Lottie.

And Lottie is magic on a horse.

He watches her every morning, perched on the edge of the fence as she takes Vermento through his paces, guiding him through intricate dressage routines, moving as if they share the same mind. He watches her during jumping sessions, the sound of hooves hitting the ground in rhythmic beats, her focus razor-sharp, her body a study in control and precision.

Some days, she disappears into the cross-country course—a winding, forested path with water jumps, fallen logs, and sharp turns that demand both trust and instinct.

That’s when Lando gets bored. And a bored Lando is a reckless Lando.

Which is how he ends up on a bike.

The twins had found it for him, laughing their asses off as they presented the ancient, half-rusted bicycle that had probably been sitting in one of the estate’s storage sheds for decades.

But Lando? Lando sees a challenge.

So the next morning, when Lottie heads toward the cross-country course, he grabs the bike and pedals after her.

She doesn’t notice at first, too focused on guiding Vermento over the jumps, but when she finally turns her head and sees him—legs pumping furiously, struggling to keep up—she nearly falls off her horse from laughing.

“What the hell are you doing?” she calls over her shoulder.

“Winning,” he shouts back, even though he’s absolutely not.

He lasts about ten minutes before his legs burn like hell and he nearly crashes into a bush. Lottie watches, still laughing, as he slows to a stop, hands on his knees, gasping for breath.

Vermento trots back toward him, ears flicking curiously. Lottie, still grinning, leans forward in the saddle. “Not as easy as it looks, huh?”

Lando glares up at her. “Shut up.”

But the next morning, he does it again.

And the next.

And the next.

Then there are the photos.

It’s part of the reason they’re here, after all—damage control, reassurance for the fans. So they take pictures together, post casual stories of their “vacation” online.

A blurry shot of Caesar flopped on Lando’s lap, captioned: Officially Lando’s dog now. Sorry, Lottie.

A picture of Lottie sitting on the fence, sipping coffee, watching Lando struggle to clean Vermento’s hooves under the supervision of one of the grooms.

A short video of Lando trying—and failing—to keep up with her on the bike, her laughter in the background as she zooms past him on horseback.

They’re easy, effortless.

And the internet eats them up.

Fans flood the comments—he’s obsessed with her, they look so happy, look at the way he looks at her.

And Lando doesn’t read them.

Not because he doesn’t care, but because he doesn’t need to.

Because he knows how he looks at her.

He knows that he’s spent hours watching her train, noticing things he shouldn’t—like the way her expression softens when she talks to Vermento, or the way her hair slips loose from its tie when she’s too focused to fix it, or the way she bites her lip when she’s planning her next move.

He knows that the way he feels when she smiles at him, really smiles, is different from how he’s ever felt before.

He knows.

And that?

That’s terrifying.

The house is empty.

Lottie doesn’t notice at first—too busy going through her post-training routine, stretching out muscles that burn from the morning’s work. She assumes the usual background noise of the estate will fill the space soon enough—her brothers causing chaos, her mother calling for dinner, her father reading in his study. But the house stays quiet.

No staff. No family.

Just her.

And Lando.

She finds him in the sitting room, sprawled out on one of the massive couches, flipping absently through a book he definitely isn’t reading. His McLaren hoodie looks ridiculous in the setting—old paintings, antique furniture, crystal chandeliers—but he doesn’t seem to care.

He glances up when she walks in.

“You realize we’re alone?” he asks.

Lottie arches an eyebrow. “What, scared?”

Lando scoffs. “Terrified.”

She smirks, crossing the room to sit with him, curling her legs up beneath her. For a moment, there’s silence—calm, easy. But then Lando shifts, sets the book down, and his expression changes.

It’s subtle—the way his jaw tightens, the way his hands curl slightly against his knees.

Lottie knows that look. He’s about to say something.

And then he does.

“I’m sorry.”

Lottie stills. “…For what?”

“For Miami.”

The weight of his words settles between them, heavier than she expects. Lando leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s been holding this in for too long.

“I fucked up,” he continues. “I didn’t think. I—” He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “I was stupid, and I didn’t think about you. About how it would look, about the contract, about—everything.” His eyes flick up to hers, and something about the way he looks at her now makes her throat tighten. “And I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I was pissed, but that’s not an excuse.”

Lottie watches him, heartbeat steady but heavy.

She swallows.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

Lando exhales, nodding.

And then—

“I was angry,” she admits, voice softer now. “But… it wasn’t just about you. I mean, it was, obviously, but—” She stops, pressing her lips together for a second before continuing. “It felt like him again.”

Lando doesn’t need to ask who.

He already knows.

“My ex—” She exhales sharply, shaking her head. “He was always in the papers. Not for good reasons. And I was always in them with him, whether I wanted to be or not. The drinking, the fighting, the—” She cuts herself off, biting the inside of her cheek.

Lando stays silent, waiting.

Lottie glances at him, then away.

“I was stupid,” she mutters. “I thought I could make it work. I thought I could fix it. But it just kept getting worse, and worse, and worse, and suddenly I wasn’t just Charlotte Hayes, the equestrian—I was Charlotte Hayes, the girlfriend of the asshole footballer who can’t keep himself out of trouble.”

Lando’s expression hardens.

“I hated it,” she continues. “I hated him, by the end of it. Hated how he made me feel—like I was just an accessory, something he could drag into whatever shit he got himself into. I hated waking up and not knowing what headline would be waiting for me that day.”

She exhales.

“And then Miami happened.”

Lando rubs his hands together, gaze never leaving her.

“I get it now,” he murmurs. “Why you reacted the way you did.”

She nods. “Yeah.”

There’s another silence—longer, deeper.

And then—

“The kiss.”

Lottie’s breath catches.

Lando watches her closely.

“After the race,” he clarifies. “That was… real, right?”

She doesn’t answer immediately.

Doesn’t know how to.

But then she remembers the way it felt—the rush of it, the warmth, the absolute lack of hesitation.

“Yes,” she says.

A beat.

Lando’s gaze flicks down—to her lips, to the slight shift of her hands against her lap—then back up.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I thought so.”

Lando doesn’t move back.

And neither does Lottie.

They're close—closer than they’ve ever been without an audience watching, without a script to follow. It should be strange, unsettling even, to have the space between them collapse like this. But it’s not.

It feels inevitable.

Lottie’s heart beats steadily beneath her ribs, not frantic or panicked but slow, deep—aware.

She doesn’t drop his gaze.

Lando swallows. “I think about it.”

Her fingers twitch against her lap. “Think about what?”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair before letting it drop. “You. Us. The kiss. That stupid fucking contract.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “I tell myself it’s fake. That it’s just job. That none of this should mean anything.”

Lottie listens, hands still, spine straight.

Lando lets out a breath.

“But it does.”

It’s quiet. Honest.

Her pulse trips.

He leans back slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, shaking his head as if he’s just said something completely ridiculous.

“I don’t even know when it stopped being fake,” he mutters, like he’s trying to figure it out himself. “Maybe it was Miami. Maybe it was before that. Maybe it was that fucking dog of yours sitting on me like he owns me.” He chuckles softly. “I don’t know. But I stopped pretending a while ago.”

Lottie feels like the air has been knocked out of her lungs.

Lando Norris—the boy who fought this arrangement like it was the worst possible punishment, the boy who complained and sulked and refused to even try in the beginning—is looking at her now like she’s the only thing in the world that makes sense.

And maybe she’s been fooling herself.

Maybe she’s been pretending, too—pretending that she doesn’t notice the way her chest gets warm when he looks at her, the way his voice settles in her stomach, the way her body always seems to find him, whether it’s a shoulder bump, a hand on his arm, a touch that lingers too long.

Her throat is dry.

“Lando—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “I just—” He sighs, glancing up at her. “I just needed you to know.”

Lottie swallows, fingers tightening in the fabric of her leggings.

And then she hears herself say—

“I think about it, too.”

Lando goes completely still.

Her voice is quieter than his, softer, but just as steady. “I don’t know when it stopped being fake either. I just know that… it doesn’t feel fake now. It didn’t feel fake when I saw those photos of you and that woman, when all I felt was jealousy.”

He looks at her.

She looks at him.

And suddenly, the space between them feels laughable.

Lando moves first.

Or maybe she does.

It’s impossible to tell, because one second they’re sitting across from each other, and the next, his hand is cupping her jaw, his thumb brushing over her cheek, her fingers grasping at the fabric of his hoodie, pulling—

And then his lips are on hers.

It’s not hesitant.

It’s not careful.

It’s certain.

It’s the kind of kiss that makes her forget where they are, the kind that makes her stomach tighten and her hands pull him closer, the kind that answers every unspoken question between them.

Lando breathes her in, deep and slow, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, to feel her, to lose himself in the way she tastes.

And Lottie lets him.

Lets herself.

Because this? This isn’t for anyone else.

It’s not for cameras, not for headlines, not for the PR team that bound them together in the first place.

This is real.

And neither of them want to stop.

The room feels different when they break apart. Not in a bad way.

Just—different.

Like something invisible has shifted. Like the air is thicker, charged with something unsaid but understood.

Lando stays close, forehead nearly brushing hers, breath warm against her skin. His hand is still on her jaw, his thumb ghosting over the curve of her cheek like he can’t quite bring himself to let go.

Lottie doesn’t move either. Because she doesn’t want to.

Her heart isn’t pounding, her breath isn’t shaky—there’s no frantic rush of adrenaline, no sudden panic. Just a slow, deep certainty settling in her bones.

Lando swallows, his eyes flickering over her face, searching for something.

Lottie already knows what he’s looking for.

And she gives it to him. She smiles.

Small, at first—barely there. But then it grows, stretching across her lips, warm and real.

And Lando—Lando laughs.

Not a nervous laugh. Not an awkward one. A relieved one.

A breathless, head-tilted-back, holy-shit-I-can’t-believe-we-just-did-that laugh.

Lottie shakes her head, biting her lip to keep from laughing too.

It doesn’t work.

He leans back, resting his weight on his hands, running his tongue over his bottom lip like he’s still tasting her.

“You’re smiling,” he points out, smug.

“So are you,” she retorts.

Lando shrugs. “Well, yeah. You are a pretty great kisser.”

Lottie rolls her eyes, shoving at his shoulder. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet—” He gestures vaguely between them. “You kissed me back.”

She huffs, shaking her head, but her face is warm, and she knows she’s not fooling anyone.

Lando watches her in silence for a moment, as if he’s still processing everything. Then, he tilts his head slightly.

“So what now?”

Lottie blinks.

The question should make her panic. It should make her overthink, replay every clause of their contract, think about the press, the consequences.

But it doesn’t. Because this—him—feels easy.

And when has anything in her life ever been easy?

Lottie exhales, tilting her head. “Well, I was planning on going riding before dinner.”

Lando lets out a scoff. “That’s not what I meant.”

She smirks. “I know.”

A beat of silence.

Then, Lottie drops her gaze to her lap, tracing the seam of her leggings with her fingers. When she speaks, her voice is softer but just as firm.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “But I know I don’t want to keep pretending.”

Lando watches her, and something in his expression shifts.

He nods, slowly, thoughtfully.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

That’s it.

No dramatic speeches. No complicated plans.

Just—okay.

And somehow, it’s exactly what she needs.

Lottie exhales, a small, satisfied sigh, and pushes herself up, stretching her arms over her head. Lando’s eyes follow the movement, dropping instinctively when her shirt lifts just slightly. And Lottie knows he’s thinking about the kiss again.

She grins, playful. “You coming?”

Lando blinks. “What?”

“To ride.”

“Oh.” Lando clears his throat, straightening. “For a second, I thought—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

Lottie raises an eyebrow. “Thought what?”

Lando presses his lips together, crossing his arms. “Thought you meant something else,” he finally admits, his tone casual, but his eyes—his eyes are something else.

Lottie blinks once.

Twice.

And then she laughs.

A real, genuine, completely entertained laugh. Lando watches her with mock indignation, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his gaze.

“Come on, city boy,” Lottie says, patting his shoulder before heading for the door. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”

Lando groans, but he follows anyway, muttering something about how much he’s going to regret this.

But when she smiles over her shoulder at him and he feels the warmth still lingering in his chest—

He knows he won’t.

At first, nothing changes. Not really.

Lando still races every weekend, still chases milliseconds and podiums, still stands under bright lights answering the same questions over and over again. Lottie still spends long days in the saddle, pushing herself harder, training for the biggest moment of her career. They still show up where they’re supposed to, still play their roles, still exist under the constant hum of cameras flashing, fans speculating.

But something shifts. Slowly. Almost imperceptibly.

Maybe it’s the way Lottie reaches for his hand without thinking, fingers slipping between his like it’s second nature. Maybe it’s the way Lando starts looking for her in the crowd, his eyes finding her before they find the checkered flag. Maybe it’s the way the obligations don’t feel like obligations anymore, the way their time together no longer feels like something arranged but something inevitable.

One night, after a race—after a victory—Lottie is driving them back to their hotel. Lando is slumped in the passenger seat, his body loose with exhaustion and alcohol, the adrenaline of the night finally fading. He’s still wearing his team polo, though it’s wrinkled now, untucked, the top buttons undone. There’s a stupid little grin on his face, one that hasn’t left since the champagne was sprayed.

Lottie glances at him briefly. “You good over there?”

Lando hums, his head lolling against the seat as he turns to look at her. His pupils are a little blown, his cheeks flushed. “Mhm,” he says. Then, after a beat, his voice a little quieter, a little sleepier: “I think I like you.”

Lottie’s hands tighten slightly around the wheel. She flicks her eyes toward him again, taking in the way he’s watching her—not searching for a reaction, not trying to gauge her expression. Just saying it, like it’s a passing thought that slipped past the filter in his brain.

She exhales a quiet laugh. “You sure it’s not the tequila talking?”

Lando’s grin widens, lazy and content. “Maybe. Maybe not.” His head tilts slightly. “But I do think I like you.”

Lottie rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling now. “That’s nice, Lando.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, keeping her eyes on the road. “I think I like you too.”

Lando hums again, as if he’s just won another race, and lets his eyes slip shut.

Maybe it’s not about a single moment, not about some grand realization or dramatic confession. Maybe it’s about all the little things, the ones no one else sees.

Like the way Lando always waits for her after an event, even when he doesn’t have to, even when it would be easier to slip away unnoticed. Or the way Lottie starts spending more and more weekends at his races, standing in the back of the garage, her presence as steady as the roar of the engines.

Like the morning after a race when Lottie wakes up to find Lando cooking breakfast in her kitchen, hair still a mess from hours of travel, moving around like he’s been doing it forever.

“You’re in my kitchen,” she says, still half-asleep, leaning against the doorway.

Lando smirks, flipping a pancake. “And?”

“And I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That’s because I have a key,” he says simply, glancing at her over his shoulder. “You gave it to me, remember?”

She blinks, a memory flickering in the back of her mind—of tossing her spare key at him in a rush one day when she was late for an event, barely thinking about it. She hadn’t even realized he’d kept it.

Lando plates a pancake and sets it in front of her. “If you want it back, you’ll have to fight me for it.”

Lottie looks at him, at the way he’s standing there like he belongs, and she smiles.

“I think you can keep it.”

By the time the Olympics arrive, the lines between real and pretend are long gone. They don’t talk about it—not directly—but it’s there, in every shared look and every quiet moment. In the way Lando texts her good luck before every qualifier. In the way Lottie wears his hoodie on cold mornings at the stables.

What they have is no longer just a story for the media. It’s theirs.

Still, she doesn’t expect him to be there. Not really.

But when she rides into the arena for her final round, when she hears the crowd roar and the unmistakable, ridiculous sound of a vuvuzela echoing through the stadium, she looks up—and there he is.

Lando, standing at the front of the crowd, wearing a Union Jack bucket hat and sunglasses far too large for his face. He is surrounded by his childhood friends and a couple of other drivers she recognizes even from this distance. Russell is wearing a stupid shirt with Great Britain’s colours and her face all over it. She doesn’t want to ask who convinced Verstappen and Piastri—none of them british—to paint his face with the Union Jack. Still, they are all chanting for her.

There’s a banner the size of a small country with her face on it—two, actually. One reads "GO LOTTIE GO" in massive glitter letters. The other has a blown-up photo of her from her most awkward teenage competition, helmet askew, braces on full display. Classic Lando.

And just behind them, regal as ever, are her parents—elegant, composed, but unmistakably proud. Her mother has tears in her eyes. Her father’s clapping like a man possessed.

Lottie doesn’t have time to react. Because the bell rings, and the round begins. She breathes, just once, and lets instinct take over.

But for Lando, everything slows down.

The moment she takes the first jump, the world tilts. It’s like watching a memory unfold in real time—except it’s happening right now, and it’s everything.

He sees her laughing in the hotel corridor, towel around her neck, cheeks flushed from a workout. He sees her pressed against him in the rain after a paparazzi ambush, their hands linked tight. He remembers the smell of her shampoo, the scratch of her voice when she’s tired, the way she whispers his name like it’s a secret only they share.

He thinks about mornings in her kitchen, the stupid key he never gave back, the hoodie she stole and never returned. He thinks about how she cheers louder than anyone when he races, how she knows exactly when to squeeze his hand before a big day, how she never pretends to be anything she’s not.

And in that moment, Lando realizes he’s completely, utterly gone for her.

He is so, so in love that it's ridiculous. It’s not even a feeling anymore—it’s just a fact, steady and true, like gravity.

And when she clears the final jump, when the scoreboard flashes GOLD FOR GREAT BRITAIN, it snaps him back to reality.

He’s already moving. Vaulting the barrier without a second thought, weaving through the chaos. He barely hears the cheers, the announcers, the pounding in his own chest.

Lottie reins her horse, Vermento, to a slow trot, trying to breathe, trying to believe what just happened.

And then she sees him.

Lando, running toward the arena. The horse sees him too—ears flicking forward, recognizing him in an instant. To everyone’s amazement, the horse trots toward him, calm and curious. Lando lifts a hand instinctively, and without hesitation, reaches for the reins as if he's done it a hundred times.

He steadies the horse, eyes never leaving Lottie. She’s still catching her breath, still wide-eyed with adrenaline and disbelief. He lifts one hand, silently offering to help her down.

She doesn’t speak—doesn’t need to. She takes his hand, and he helps her dismount, his other hand still gently on the reins.

It’s a stupid little gesture. A small, quiet thing. But it says everything.

“You absolute maniac,” she breathes, barely standing still, laughing as she lands on solid ground. “You came.”

“Of course I came,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at her. His eyes are bright, full of something bigger than pride. “You really thought I’d miss this?”

“You didn’t even tell me,” she says, half-laughing, half-crying.

“Wanted to surprise you. And, you know,”—he gestures toward the ridiculous crowd of friends behind him—“make a scene.”

“You definitely did that.”

Lando grins, but then his expression softens.

He leans in, voice low and steady. "You know, I used to think winning was the best feeling in the world."

Lottie raises an eyebrow, breath still catching.

"But then you started showing up. And suddenly... the best part was who I got to share it with." He pauses, smile tugging at his lips. "Even if you do keep stealing my hoodies."

She looks at him, really looks at him—at the mess of curls under the stupid hat, the stupid sunglasses pushed onto his forehead, the softness in his eyes.

“I know,” she whispers.

“I mean it, Lottie. I’m in this. For real. I want—God, I want all of it. The chaos and the quiet and the early mornings in your kitchen and even the horses that kind of scare me.”

Her laugh breaks on a sob.

“I want you,” he says simply.

And this time, she doesn’t hesitate.

She kisses him, right there in front of everyone—in front of the cameras, the crowd, her parents, the entire world.

It’s messy and joyful and a little breathless. And it feels, finally, like the start of something real.

Their friends erupt into cheers. Someone sets off a confetti cannon. Lottie’s dad starts filming, and her mum is openly weeping.

But all she can feel is Lando’s arms around her, grounding her, anchoring her to this exact moment.

Home, she thinks.

He feels like home.

@smoooothoperator @freyathehuntress @gold66loveblog @hadesnumber1daughter

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[elumish]

Hello friends!

I know it's only August, but I thought I'd start early:

If you have the legal right to vote in the United States, there is no benefit to you in not voting. All that not voting does to you is remove your most powerful legal ability to impact the identity of those who represent you in the government.

By the time you reach the election, by the time ballots are printed and you are filling in a bubble or pressing a button or flipping a lever, your only meaningful choice for who to vote for are the people who are listed on the ballot.

Because we live in a two-party system, in the vast majority of jurisdictions*, you are choosing between members of two parties. If you vote for someone who is not a member of one of those parties, you are throwing away your ability to meaningfully impact who wins that election. It sucks. it's shitty. It's unfortunate. But if you want a third party candidate to have a chance in a major race, it starts years before the election, not when you are standing in front of your ballot in November.

And if you think, they're both the same as each other--they're not. For literally any policy that you care about, there will be differences. Pick the policies you care most about, find the one who sits closer to you and vote for them. That is the only way that laws will move in the direction you want, by electing people who vote for policies that are closer to what you want.

I studied game theory in college, and from my standpoint it was one of the most useful and educational classes I took during my entire academic career, because of this key idea: If you want 10, and your options are 0 or 5, 5 is a better option for you. Something gives you more than nothing, even if you want a lot.

You will not get a politician who agrees with everything you want, unless you run for office yourself. Pick what you care the most about, and vote based on that. See voting as harm reduction. See voting as public transportation. See voting as whatever gets you out to vote.

But vote.

*There are a few independents in office. An independent or third party candidate will not win the Presidency in 2024.

[randomly--accessed--memories]

RAM Plot Summary

So, now that we're coming up on the one-year anniversary of the start of RAM, I finally decided to write up a relatively short summary of the main plot of this AU. Vox whump, Vee angst, one-sided Radiostatic await below.

RAM (Randomly Accessed Memories) is a collaborative Hazbin Hotel AU based on the theory that Niffty is a former overlord that Alastor drove insane, and asks the question: What if he did the same to Vox?

Animation commissioned from @/__shmoki__ over on Twitter

Seven years ago, Alastor and Vox had their final battle. After fifty years of rivalry, Vox finally gained the upper hand; in a moment of desperation, he used his hypnosis against Alastor… and it worked. Briefly. Terrified of what Vox might do if he managed to gain power over him, Alastor lashed out and knocked Vox unconscious. He knew he had to neutralize Vox somehow, but he found himself hesitant to finally kill his old friend. Instead, he chose a different tactic.

Alastor took Vox to the basement of V Tower and began a broadcast, torturing him live on the air for all the city to hear. Valentino and Velvette, believing that the two were most likely at Alastor’s radio tower, rushed off to rescue Vox, unknowingly leaving him to his fate. After hours of torture, once Vox’s physical and mental defenses were lowered, Alastor was finally ready to enact his true goal: using his powers to reach into Vox’s mind and remold him into something more palatable.

Once the broadcast was finished, Alastor dumped Vox’s dismembered body in the lobby of V Tower and then vanished for the next seven years. Valentino and Velvette were initially relieved when they discovered Vox was still alive, albeit comatose, but once his body was repaired and they finally turned Vox back on, they immediately knew something was wrong. Vox had no recollection of the past fifty years; his memories of his life after his falling out with Alastor were simply gone. Worse than that, he appeared to be trapped in a perpetual state of channel surfing, unable to stay focused on anything for more than a minute and forgetting new information soon after learning it. On top of it all, Alastor was now the center of his world; Vox asked for him constantly, wouldn’t hear a word against him, and his only goal seemed to be to reunite with him.

Valentino and Velvette, unwilling to kill Vox but knowing that if anyone discovered his condition, it would put a massive target on all three of their backs, confined Vox to a private suite in the tower and told the public that he had died. Vox spent seven agonizing years locked away in the tower with only Vark for company. Valentino and Velvette visited frequently, trying to coax non-existent memories out of him or at least trying to build a new relationship with him, but Vox’s memory always reset after every interaction with them. Valentino fell into a self-destructive spiral upon losing his lover, taking out his grief and frustration on everyone in the vicinity. Velvette had no choice but to take on Vox’s role as CEO of VoxTek (renamed VTek) and spent the next seven years trying to project invulnerability to the public, even as she was overwhelmed with her new responsibilities, trying to ensure Vox was safe and taken care of, and dealing with Valentino’s destructive outbursts.

After seven long, miserable years, Alastor finally returned. Eager to see if his plan worked, he slipped into V Tower and, at long last, reunited with Vox. Vox was ecstatic to see Alastor again and begged him to rescue him from his “prison,” andAlastor happily obliged. Alastor was thrilled with his handiwork; Vox was once again the man he had known all those years ago. He finally had his friend back… right?

Alastor brought Vox along with him to the hotel, ready to begin a new era of their afterlives— one where Vox would never change and always do as he was told. Charlie and Vaggie didn’t recognize Vox, so saw no issue with accepting him into the hotel. Angel Dust and Husk, on the other hand, were fully aware of who Vox used to be and what Alastor had done to him but were forced to keep quiet by their respective contracts. Alastor assigned Vox the role of hotel handyman, and he and the other staff members settled into their new lives at the hotel.

Valentino and Velvette were horrified when they discovered that Vox had gone missing; they were livid when they learned that it was Alastor who took him and brought him to the princess’ new hotel. However, fearing that if they made a move to attack Alastor/the hotel he would simply take Vox and vanish into the ether again, they were forced to bide their time, waiting for an opportunity to rescue their friend.

Vox spent the next six months at the hotel, participating in the canonical plot of the show. His frantic, high-energy behavior, volatile memory, and habit of frying the electronics he was meant to be fixing often made things difficult, but hesoon found his place among the Hazbins. He became very close with Niffty due to their shared decade of death and the fact that they were the only people who understood how the other’s mind worked. Vox also ended up forming a friendship with Sir Pentious, who had been sent by the Vees to keep an eye on Vox and spy on the hotel. However, as time went on, things between Vox and Alastor became more strained. Alastor gradually came to realize that his plan hadn’t worked quite as well as he’d hoped. Vox was stuck in the past and saw him as his closest friend, but he wasn’t the person Alastor had once known. Vox’s erratic behavior began to grate on him, and Alastor eventually realized that he had liked the way Vox used to challenge him— now, he was little more than a sycophant or a needy pet. However, Alastor could not admit he had made a mistake; he was in too deep now, and there was no undoing what had been done.

This AU has multiple endings, but the one I consider “canon” consists of Vox participating in the hotel’s battle with Heaven and getting noticed by some reporters once the dust has settled. All of Hell now knows that Vox, the former Television Overlord, is alive and at the Hazbin Hotel. Charlie, horrified to learn what Alastor did to Vox and Niffty, kicks him out of the hotel. She contacts the Vees and starts trying to negotiate with them for Vox’s return on the condition that Valentino break his contract with Angel Dust. The details about what happens next are a bit murky, but in the end, Alastor disappears once again, and Charlie’s deal with the Vees goes through. Vox is returned to V Tower, although with far more freedom than he had before— all of Hell knows he’s alive, so why bother keeping him locked up? The mental block Vox has regarding retaining information about Val and Velvette lifts in Alastor’s absence, and the Vees are finally able to start rebuilding their relationship. It's different from how it was before– always will be– but that doesn't make it any less valuable. Change is inevitable, after all.