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chococolte · 1 year

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☼ — pietas maris

♱ : my take on sagau childe

including ☆! — him as a worshiper, and his reaction to being your lover ⛧

word count. 5.6k

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, religious + cult themes, cult au, g/n reader. i do not condone yanderes irl. ୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. now time for me to disappear back into the aether for another 6 months

The abyss is cold.

It is unfeeling, lacking warmth and passion. It is relentless, cruel, and unkind. It corrupts, ruins, and does so freely, without remorse or thought. It leaves you clinging to the hot blood in your veins, curled up and hidden in the dark reaches of its void.

Childe had always been versatile; quick to adapt, even at such a young age. He grew used to the emptiness, the swelling numbness, and the eventual gnawing loneliness left in his abdomen. They became a part of him as his lungs, as integral as air; to be without felt odd, foreign.

The glimmer of your existence kept Childe company. He did not know who you were, or how lucky he was— only that you brought him comfort, like an old lullaby, or a blanket worn from overuse. He reached for you when the darkness grew too much, too heavy a burden on his small shoulders.

He came to you with little offerings; small trinkets, tomes of unreadable text. Useless to him, but perhaps you would take pity on him in exchange, and let him take comfort in your presence for another day. Childe came to you with rubble shaped in hearts, the gentle breath of his voice as he spoke of his anxieties. He did not think of them as offerings then, merely gifts— pleadings for you to stay a little longer.

His hands, then unruined and soft, made you a makeshift altar crafted out of whatever he could find. He made sure to build it where he felt your whispers were strongest, where your light entirely overwhelmed the darkness overhead. Childe didn't think of it as an altar then, just a place to settle his findings, where he could pretend his sad, little effigy made of you was actually you.

The idol didn't look much like a person at all, and at the time, he didn't think of his behavior as odd. He desperately clung to you for survival, and with no other warm body besides his own, you were the only one he could talk too.

At times, he thought he was going insane. There was a pleasant buzzing in his ears whenever he neared your doll, as if it were calling him. Despite the fact that he had made it, proven by the tiny scars on his palms, he still felt as if it was yours.

In the darkness, Childe whispered to you. He said everything his mind could think, childishly exaggerated tales in hopes of impressing you. A foolish endeavor, considering you were a God— but he still hoped that maybe you'd think of him kindly, and let him bask in your protective glow for just one more moment.

He couldn't hear your words, but he could feel them. The twinkle of your laughter was like a soft whistle in his ears. When you were pleased, the air would lightly ruffle his hair. Despite how agonizing his loneliness was, at least he had you by his side.

Childe's innocence, as all things do, eventually withered away in that malevolent black.

He thought of you as his teacher; a guiding hand that trained him, molded him to fit against your palm. When he struggled against the abyssal beasts, he could feel you— a soft brush against his hand, a firm hold on his back, keeping him focused. You taught him when to still his blade and when to strike.

In the arches of his sword and polearm, in the taut and tense pull of his bow, in the whirlwind of his catalyst— you were there, shining from beyond the thin veil separating you.

When Childe was ripped out of the abyss, so was his connection to you. Like a thread snapping, he could no longer feel you; not in the darkness overhead, not in the grip of his blade, of the depths of his soul. You were gone, and he was once again nothing but a boy, lost and alone. Friends and family surround him, thankful for his return, but his mind is still reeling, still stuck in the abyss and the sudden emptiness left in your wake.

Despite himself, Childe had hoped you would have stayed, even once he was out. He thought he was done with being naïve, but that clearly wasn't the case.

He can’t feel you anymore. Where did you go? Why did you leave? What did he do wrong? Questions swirl in his head like whirlpools of thought. Childe feels like he's drowning, suffocating in the mess of his mind. His breaths come out short, quick and sharp. His throat squeezes, constricting his airways, as he realizes what's unfolded.

You left him.

He should've known better. On that first day, all you had done was take pity on him by letting him linger in your light. It was his fault for ever believing that he would never have to be alone again. That even if he had no one else, at least he had you.

This was the result of his own failure. If only he had proven himself worthy.

When his family found him, they found him gripping a small, rudimentary doll. Even when they reached their home, Childe was still clutching the thing as if possessed. When they tried tugging it out of his hands, saying it would help him eat better, he ripped it from their grasp, holding it to his chest.

Childe couldn't accept that you had left him so easily. At night, back in his warm bed, Childe tries to whisper to you again. The familiar warmth sinks into his pores, but it's nothing like yours. He nuzzles closer to the doll, ignoring how it tears into his skin.

"I'm here," he whispers.

Maybe you got confused. He knows you're a God, but even the Seven are not omniscient. When he was torn from the abyss, it was possible you hadn't meant to so cruelly cut the connection between you. Maybe you couldn't find him, and so he just has to tell you where he is.

So he whispers to you in the dark, just as he has so many times before.

Only this time, he's met with silence.

In the years that pass, you linger at the forefront of his mind, haunting him like a wraith. Childe can't bring himself to be rid of you, despite how it hurts every time he thinks about you for a little too long. He's still stuck, perpetually waiting for your return, despite how he knows you've long given him up.

Childe becomes Tartaglia, the 11th Harbinger under the Tsaritsa. He takes a new name, a new mask— he executes her orders dutifully, and he does his role perfectly. He acts as if she's you, despite how desperately he wants to believe otherwise. If he closes his eyes for long enough, he can pretend that the cold that seeps into his bones in her presence is yours.

But no matter how many names and identities he takes, he'll always just be your Ajax; the boy who still misses you, despite how short your time together was. And that fact is what burns him the most.

Maybe he should be angry. He knows he has every right to be. Angry that you left him, that you discarded him as if he was nothing. Maybe he should hate you— hate you for leaving him alone, as if you weren't the only thing keeping him sane. Hate you for leaving as if his love didn't matter to you.

He comforts himself by thinking of the time dilation he experienced in the abyss. You cared for him so much that you spun three days into three months. He likes to believe he meant something to you; he must've, because why else would you lengthen your time spent together?

Childe knows it isn't true. He didn't matter enough for you to stay, after all.

At night, Childe finds himself listlessly thinking of you. It's a silent mourning. Quiet tears fall down his cheeks, soaking the pillow beneath his head. He chokes down every heaving sob that threatens to break from his throat; clenches his jaw when they claw too close to his lips. He slaps a hand over his mouth when he's too loud, biting his fingers until they're bloody and marred by his teeth. What would you think if you saw him this weak? Saw the boy you built up crumble, all because he can't feel even the softest traces of your presence anymore?

You would find him pathetic. All he's done is prove that you were right in abandoning him.

When the memory of you is too much to bear, he clutches the effigy in his arms, squeezing it against his chest until it's sharp edges dig into his skin. Even after all these years, he's still kept it close. He tries to feel the visage of you that was once attached to its bearings, whispering for you under the night sky, hoping it'll remind you of your time in the abyss— hoping that tonight he will feel you again, ruffling his hair with tendrils of wind.

He never does.

Childe barely sleeps, but when he does, he dreams of you. You have no body, no face— he can't even begin to imagine what you look like, and he doesn't dare too, even when he knows he has nothing to lose.

He's back in the dark, but you're still there with him, providing him light and comfort. If he knew that leaving would entail being without you, he never would have left at all. Better to be with you than to die without.

Sometimes, he dreams of you staying with him even after he escapes. Your warmth is ever-present. He gifts you riches, now. You have a voice in his dreams, and he can hear you speaking to him. You're kind, and gentle, and he wants for nothing. He has you, and there is nothing more to want.

He dreams he never lost you at all. It makes reality all the more painful.

In a way he knows is pathetic, Childe hopes you at least found him fun. He hopes you found him entertaining, despite how the thought twists his heart and guts into little knots, until he feels vaguely nauseous at the notion. At least then you would have reason to remember him. At least he could say he meant something to you.

In a hidden corner of his room, there sits an altar for you. His wealth as a Harbinger means he has no lack of resources, and so he bejewels the altar until it glimmers even without light. It's obnoxious and opulent to the point of vanity, but he figures that if you like it, he'll earn another whisper of warmth from you— in the vain hope that you hear him at all anymore.

With his hands, now calloused and worn, he carves sigils into whalebone. He doesn't know what they mean, but they were numerous in the abyss; and so he etches them into bone, hoping that whatever they mean, it reaches you.

Childe pushes himself more than he should. His back aches from all the weight he carries on his shoulders, but he trudges forward despite how it hurts. He is more fervent in conflicts, and spectacular scenes of blood and viscera follow him every time he walks onto a battlefield.

His tongue forms words of devotion for the Tsaritsa as he slays another enemy, blood staining his fingers, but in his heart, he only ever speaks of you.

When he fights, Childe can lose himself. He can focus entirely on the movement of his feet, the precision of his blade. He can ignore how badly he misses you, and how in the back of his mind, he desperately hopes that the more blood he sheds with your teachings, you'll find him satisfactory.

Adrenaline rushes through his veins, and once again he lets himself be drowned by the rush, letting himself forget all of his pain.

Childe is proud of the way that no one can recognize his style of fighting. It is exact and sharp— every strike hitting its target with ease, filled with vigor and intensity. He enjoys the gazes of jealousy, but remains silent when asked. My teacher taught me, he says. He sheds no further light on the matter, and any instance someone shows interest in learning from him, he instantly refuses. Childe wishes to keep you close to his chest, a guarded secret known only to him.

Childish, perhaps. He knows it is. But if he can't have you, then he will have the knowledge of you. He will keep it to himself, and there it will stay, safe in his tight grip.

It drives him insane, the way sees you in everything. When night falls, covering the sky in a blanket of stars, he wonders if you're staring at him from above. When the tides of the sea brush against the shore, he finds himself thinking of you as the moon— you are what anchors him, despite the fact that he hasn't felt you in so long. In his eyes, there is nothing you could not be, and with every breath, he only ever misses you more.

It's during his mission in Liyue that he feels you again. Childe is unable to breathe when he meets the Traveler, sensing you watching from their eyes. His heart thunders in his chest, tempestuous as a storm over the sea.

For a moment, he's happy. You're finally back. He wants nothing more than to run to you, to ask you why you left for so long, to ask how he can make you stay, but then he feels you— a familiar pressure bearing down on him, forcing him to say anything but what he wants to.

Childe watches the Traveler's back fade as it finally clicks for him.

You abandoned him for someone else. You left him... for this. The thought sends him reeling. You left him, just to go spend time with someone else— to give them the same company you gave him, to give them the same guidance you gave him— was he merely replaceable to you?

Was he just a test for you?

He should be angry. And he is, but the heartbreak overwhelms him. He's left choking, battling for air. The agony of having been tossed to the side, of having it be affirmed in front of his eyes. He wants to scream and cry, beg for you to return; but his throat squeezes every time he meets the Traveler, and the words die on his tongue.

You don't want him to speak. He's meant to play along.

Childe had waited for you for so long. Even after all this time, he couldn't get rid of the painful hope that you'd return. He had done his best to bottle his emotions, to keep them shut and locked inside, so that you wouldn't be disappointed in him upon your arrival. Proud that he never doubted you for a moment.

But he had. He had doubted you, cried at the lack of your comfort. Afraid of what it meant to be without you. Fearful of living, never getting to gleam your existence for a second time— and now you want him to pretend as if he never knew you.

As if he can't see the slight smugness in the Traveler's eyes.

His fight with the Traveler is personal. He bares his teeth, snarling like a rabid dog. His every strike is fast, precise with the intent to kill and maim. Childe hopes his emotions reach you, that you know of his bitterness and acrimony. That you know of how long he wished for you, how long he yearned for you to come back— how his frustration has twisted into pure rage, turned into a fine point.

He just has to simply show you how he's better. He has to show you that he's superior in every way to your choice. That you should've chosen him over them.

They are undeserving; watch how he rips through them like they are nothing, slicing through them like they are mist over sea. They are unworthy; see how easily he beats them into submission, how easily they crumble at his feet. The matter of the Gnosis is nothing to him, now— only whether you see how he should be the one you prefer.

It's then that he feels it. Your rage. Your anger at having been battered and bruised. The Traveler stands back up, but something is different now. Their strikes are fluid, prowess and skill increased by an outside force.

You.

Do you hate him that badly? Detest him so much, to go so far as to bless another with your strength so they can prove themselves to be his better? Even in his Foul Legacy form, Childe is forced to retreat; forced to bow his head in defeat, weakened by the burden of his transformation.

The realization leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He's done the exact opposite of what he set out to do. All he's proven is that your right.

Childe feels your crushing weight bearing down on him. He spits the words out, calls them 'friend' through clenched teeth. He dances to your whims, just as he had previously. Unnatural, stiff movements and words that speak the opposite of what he means.

And then you're gone, left along with them. He stares at their fading back. He can almost imagine you beside them, walking by their side just as you once did his.

It hurts.

The next time he feels you, there is no sign of the Traveler. Only a tight pulling in his chest.

He doesn't know what it means, or what it entails. But he follows, sensing you at the end, waiting for him. Childe doesn't allow himself to hope; that maybe, you have come around. That maybe you do care. That maybe, you never hated him— not truly. That you missed him just as he missed you.

Maybe he meant something, after all.

When he reaches you, he feels it. You're happy. You're happy with him. He feels you reaching out, tickling him with strands of your will. You brush against his skin, burrow deep inside. Childe lets you, still unable to breathe.

He wonders if this is really happening. Have you come back to him, truly? Have you finally realized how much better he is? He feels you graze his soul, reaching deep within. Childe feels you envelop him, swathing him in warmth and comfort.

You're home, you whisper.

He only hears the ghost of your voice, a chime in the wind; but he hears the intent, the meaning behind your unintelligible words, even though he can't understand them.

Childe breaks.

SANGUINE NATUS ; first meeting/as a worshiper

If even just your breath could leave him weak, then seeing you for the first time makes his knees give out underneath him.

It's a foolishly embarrassing display, but Childe can't find it in himself to care. He falls to his knees quicker than his mind can catch up, unconsciously posturing himself to make himself seem as small and harmless as possible— anything to make you stay, even if it means sabotaging his image.

He tucks his shoulders inward, struggling between looking at you until his eyes burn and your image is seared into the back of his eyelids, or averting his gaze because just touching you with them feels like he's sullying you somehow.

His breath comes out short and sharp, his entire chest heaving with each shuddering, raspy exhale. Before he can even manage a sound, he's sobbing, crumpling to the floor— there's no care taken to your perception of him now, only the wailful cries of one lost in the weight of your eyes. Childe knows he's being pathetic, a mess of airy desperation and red eyes; everything he was when he felt the ghost of you leave him, and everything he wished you'd never see. But it's you, and for the first time, he can truly feel your eyes on him.

It's all too much to bear.

"I-It's you, it's you—!" Childe manages to choke, wet tears caking the apples of his face. His eyes strain, burning to see the visage of you through the blur of his vision. Nausea bites at him, his abdomen a sudden storm from the tears that lick at his cheeks.

Childe has always been austere in his worship; strict, solemn in how he acts out every religious rite. There is an icy silence unlike him as he moves, particularly whenever your sanctity is involved. His fingers still tremble despite his stiffness, the desperation loud in every twitch of his limbs. The desire to see you, after all is said and done.

Seeing you for the first time feels as though a wave has overtaken him, drowning him in brine and the cerulean of muddy waters. There is no hiding what he could barely contain before— jerky movements filled with need and the dolor of one disappointed before.

Childe no longer finds himself able to veil it by lies and rushing fights of adrenaline; now, it lies bare, and there's no burning ache to keep it hidden.

His fervor is relentless; a feverish desire to please you coalescing until it's unbearable for his skin. Your reaction to his cries could have been cruel or kind, and it wouldn't have bothered him; all that matters is whether he has finally proven himself worthy of standing by your side.

His worship is eager words spilling from his lips at night, the echo of your name a murmur from his mouth like the sigh of the ocean's waves-- his blades stained red, limp at his sides-- the burning in the back of his throat that comes from years of pleading.

You're here now, even if he can't be with you at all times; and that knowledge leaves him whispering to you, uttering every thought without a moment of reconsideration. It is a ceaseless endeavor, as every word is listless praise and endless adoration. There isn't a moment where he isn't thinking of you in some way, and the mere thought of the opposite leaves him feeling vaguely sick.

He wants to think of you all the time. Though it's such a small thing, in his mind, he has you all to himself— in the sense that there is no one else to take your eyes off of him— there, he can make you happy; there, he can make you proud of him. In that world, you have no reason to be rid of him.

Childe's always kept his habit of crafting you makeshift gifts. They're rugged, imperfect things, but laden with his fingerprints and the palms of his hands. Before, he could only set them still on his altar for you, and hope that it pleased you somehow. He was only ever met with silence, but he could pretend you were happy with him, and the idea alone was enough.

When he catches sight of a sea conch, its pale marks swirled across its smooth surface, he can only think of handing it to you. It's a beautiful thing, and so simple and crude a gift; but maybe you will find worth in such a thing, the simplicity of its nature, and praise him for it.

He gives them to you physically now, unable to shake the urge to do so. His hands always tremble when he hands them over, his knees threatening to buckle underneath him whenever your fingers brush against his. He will never fail to drown in the sensation, allowing everything that he is to become thoughts of you.

Childe has always worshiped you in bloodshed. In the past, he hoped it would leave you satisfied enough to come back; now, it's to prove how much better he is than everyone else. His fear runs deep, like cracks in the earth far below the water's surface, and the sickening feeling of dread whenever you praise someone else suffocates him.

It's unreasonable, he knows, and he has no reason to fear, not anymore— but his heart still quickens at the thought, and his stomach still twists.

It's an all too familiar feeling. When he was first torn from you, he felt as though his heart had been ripped right out of him; and the panic he feels only reminds him of it.

When he's inevitably forced away from you on another mission, he deals with it as quickly as possible, no matter how bloodied or bruised he leaves it. He is brutally unkind in his workings, his words always terse and clipped; a slight edge that never really seems to go away until he knows you're somewhere nearby.

It's when he's forced to stay away from you for a longer period of time that he breaks completely. Upon his return, he is instantly back at your side, heaving sobs and ugly tears running down his face. He can barely think, and a flurry of slurred words leaves his lips— begging to never leave your side again.

Childe knows better than to think he is deserving of your kindness, but he’s desperate to at least stay in your shadow. There, he could stay near you, even if he was swathed in black— even if his only glimpse of you was your back, he would be in bliss. To be near you in some form is all he could ever ask of you.

For all of the power you have granted him, it's only right that he use it for you. A mere word from anyone that isn't pure praise has his grip on his weapon tightening, the tendons on his hand taut and his knuckles pale. He remains entirely oblivious to any moral ambiguity in your actions— whatever you do is right and just; as you are the only one worthy of judging yourself, he does not dare too.

Instead, Childe draws his blade in judgement of others— he will act as your hand and executioner, the arbiter of your faith; it's with only vigor that he hands out punishment, a ferocity bold and true.

AMANS IN SPINIS IACET ; as your lover

Childe's dreams have begun to take a sudden turn.

It's not anything he can control, despite how hard he tries too. They pleased him at first, even though he still couldn't help the way his heart tightened at the idea of you somehow knowing. At that time, they weren't occurring enough for him to be worried, and the content themselves were innocent enough for him to think nothing of it.

You held him close to you, pressing benign kisses across his freckled cheeks, playing with his hair with soft fingers; little things that he could believe meant nothing at all, just a desire to feel your affection in the only way his mortal heart knew how.

The dreams turn nightly, and Childe finally realizes it's much more than that.

It begins at signs of your favoritism. Glances that last more than they should, summoning him to your chambers more frequently; Childe does not deny you, and he can't help the faint giddiness that clouds his mind every time he feels your gaze linger on him. It's a euphoric sensation to know that he is the one you are looking at; no one else. Only barely does he manage to rein in his emotions every time.

You speak much softer to him, and your touch is more affectionate. He turns drunk on your approval, willingly dancing to your whims if it meant having your fingers coiled in his hair for another moment. Before he can stop himself for even daring to think it, Childe lets himself believe he's special to you— and that is where the problem arises.

The thoughts don't stop. Even if he screams to drown out the noise, they still manage to be so loud. The dreams are relentless, more loving, more vivid. He can feel the warmth of your palms as you caress his cheeks, the weight of your breath when you draw your head near; they feel so real, that for a moment, he thinks you're the one sending them to him.

He feels as though he's dirtying you in some form, as if he is the one committing an unforgivable sin against you; somehow managing to desecrate you with just his thoughts alone. The idea sends him into a panic-induced frenzy, kneeling before his altar with rushed, unintelligible apologies on his lips.

Despite his self-hatred, whenever he wakes from one, Childe is left blissfully dazed, nuzzling into his pillow with hazy clarity— pretending that it's you, instead. He wonders what it would be like if his dreams were real, if he could really be so special to you in such a way; entirely irreplaceable, entirely yours.

It doesn't take long for his will to be eroded by his desperation. His desire to resist was already hanging by a thread, and as the dreams persist, any resistance on his end is lost. He falls ever deeper into an abyss of his own making, allowing himself to be undone by his own creation.

Childe has always been needy, but as his feelings rear their ugly head, it only grows worse. He has always loved you— and he had been struggling to choke his own feelings down for as long as he could, fooling himself into believing that they didn't exist in the first place. In his eyes, it's only right that you be the one to shake the foundation he lay; making him crumble until every dark part of himself is laid bare in front of you, only for your eyes.

There's a drastic increase in his desperation to be near you, and any lack of refusal on your part only exacerbates it. He neglects his duties entirely in favor of staying by you in some way or another, be it either by your side, or following you from a distance like a lost puppy.

Your admittance of feelings only makes Childe more fervent. He can barely hear himself speak, his heart fluttering against his ribcage like a caged canary. He can barely believe anything you're saying, and for a moment, he wonders if he's lost in another dream of his.

At your assurance, Childe doesn't dare to doubt you any longer. He falls entirely into you, allowing you to consume his every thought. He doesn't think to fight back, letting you envelop him until his every breath is coated in your name. He is yours, and he has no desire for anything more.

His desire for your approval now emboldens him. Childe's always acted out of an interest in garnering your attention, and though he now knows of your feelings, it does nothing to satiate him; instead, it leaves him hungrier, greedy with an eagerness to please.

He doesn't take from you without asking, but he asks enough for it to be a nuisance. Your affection is everything to him, and he can't bear to go a moment without it. He asks to lay his head in your lap, for you to play with his hair— the loss of your touch is the loss of himself, and sends him reeling back to memories of when he was without you.

The first time you kiss him, his legs instantly give out underneath him, a small groan leaving his lips. Childe doesn't bother to dull his reactions; you deserve to know how easily weakened he is by your touch, with even a brush of your fingers enough to leave him breathless and wanting.

As your favorite, Childe is quick to be rid of any competition. Whether or not you see them as possible suitors doesn't even cross his mind— the fear that snakes around his heart is ever-present, and if they're better than him in some form, it only grows in persistence. He doesn't hurt them, because surely that would upset you, and any devotee of you is worthy of respect— but he is quick to showcase his superiority, and to do so broadly without shame.

Childe grows used to his new status, and uses it to stay by your side constantly. Any attention you give to others is met with instant jealousy, seething glares sent to whoever stole your gaze, even if they only preoccupied a second of your mind.

He could never be mad at you, as clearly the fault lies within himself.

Any signs of your likes and dislikes are instantly noted. If you compliment someone for their behavior, he begins to emulate it, or at least he tries too. If you like Zhongli for how well he executes your orders, then Childe will be the same; only he will do it better, quicker, and prove himself still deserving of your love.

If he were perfect, then you would have no need for anyone else. If he were perfect, he would never have to worry about whether you'll grow bored of him the moment he stops being entertaining enough.

The thought of you with another leaves Childe sick without fail. He knows he has no control over you, and that if you wished to be rid of him, he would willingly walk into whatever punishment awaited him— but now that he has tasted what it feels like to be so utterly yours, he can't bear to imagine another sharing the same treatment.

You kissing another, holding another, letting someone else lay against you; all of it only serves to further blur his vision. Even if it is sinful of him to feel, he can't stop the emotions from swirling in his chest.

You are everything; the earth laid beneath his feet, the foundation of which he relies on. To be without you is to fall, to be without you means death; and if he must carve his skin and bone to fit the picture you want him to be, then he shall.

#[🦇] — my writing #genshin impact #yandere genshin #sagau #yandere male #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #genshin x reader #self aware genshin #yandere childe #sagau childe #self aware childe #genshin cult au #cult au childe

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emjayewrites · 1 month

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Private Landing (Lewis Hamilton Fanfic)(7/15)

SUMMARY: In the high-speed world of Formula One, Lewis Hamilton subtly introduces a mysterious partner via Instagram after a slight mishap during an interview. Sparking media intrigue, everyone wants to know: who is the enigmatic figure that calls herself Mrs. Hamilton?

INSPO: this post

PAIRINGS: Sir Lewis Hamilton x Aurora "Rorie" Phillips-Hamilton (faceclaim is Justine Skye)

WARNINGS: drama, angst, sexual content, formula one b.s., pre-established relationship (with flashbacks). RATED M (18+)

TAGLIST: @queenshikongo3 @cocobutterqwueen @mauvecherie-writes @a-moment-captured @yeea-nah @lovebittenbyevans @alika-4466 @saintslewis @cherry2stems @liamundi @trinitoldyouso @scorpiobleue @certifiedlesbianbaddie @omgsuperstarg @httpsserene @peyiswriting @motheroffae @eugene-emt-roe @perfecttrashface @xoscar03 @saturnville @trentswrld @weetjy @pinkcatcus @lewlewlemon44 @cranberryjulce @chaoticcoffeequeen @vile-harlot @periodjosh @melanin-queen369 @destinyg237

A/N: Please let me know if you want to be added/removed from the taglist. The headers/dividers are by @inklore

CHAPTER 7: Who Want Smoke?

As the Qatar Grand Prix weekend kicked into high gear, Rorie and Lyric strolled the paddock, with fans waving excitedly. Lewis's popularity was stratospheric, but his family's place in the hearts of his supporters was undeniable.

They pushed through the throngs of fans and paparazzi, and Rorie was touched by the outpouring of support directed to them.

"You're an inspiration, Mrs. Hamilton!" "We love your little one!" "Hang in there, you've got this!"

One woman tentatively approached, a gentle smile on her face. "I just wanted to say, as someone who also struggled with infertility, your story gives me so much hope."

Rorie felt her throat tighten with grateful tears as she pulled the stranger into a fierce hug. "Thank you, that means so much to me."

The pit lane was abuzz with pre-race excitement as the teams made their final preparations. Rorie settled into the garage, handing a squirming Lyric over to Rosa's waiting arms. Their son, who proudly wore his custom Mercedes team romper, smiled happily at the woman.

"You're on auntie duty today," Rorie winked at Lewis's communications personnel.

Rosa grinned, cuddling the giggly toddler close on her lap. "My favorite job! We're going to have so much fun, aren't we, my little prince?"

Lyric gurgled happily, grabbing at Rosa's headset with grabby hands. With a chuckle, she gently redirected him to a Mercedes toy car instead.

"He's already a natural in front of the cameras," Rorie chuckled to herself, watching Lyric babble animatedly at the Netflix camera crew capturing footage of him playing with Rosa.

Her smile faded slightly as she scrolled through the latest flurry of emails from her legal team. Despite their relentless efforts, Julian's messages held little in the way of substantive updates on tracking down the anonymous sender of those malicious texts.

"Still digging," his latest read. "But this assailant knows how to cover their tracks."

Rorie worried her lower lip, her mind flashing back to the threats of those messages. But then Lyric's tinkling laughter drifted over, dragging her back to the present. She watched her son squirm excitedly in Rosa's lap, all smiles and unbridled joy.

As the race began, the tension in the garage was palpable. Rorie's heart pounded as she watched Lewis take his place on the starting grid, however, just seconds into the formation lap, her breath caught in her throat as she witnessed Lewis get knocked into the gravel by his teammate George, the front wing of his car destroyed.

"What the fuck is he doing?" she gasped, watching in horror as Lewis unbuckled himself and began walking along the far side of the active track back towards the pit lane.

A collective cry rose from the crew as Lewis narrowly avoided being struck by another passing car. Rorie's heart dropped to her stomach, panic gripping her.

Finally, he returned to the pit lane, jaw clenched and fists flexing agitatedly.

"What the fuck, man!!" he screamed, his fingers hurrying to take off his helmet. Rorie rushed to him, pulling his tense frame into a fierce embrace just as Lyric let out a wail of distress from Rosa's lap.

Lewis's fiery eyes softened instantly at the sound of his son's cries. He reached for the distraught toddler, cradling him close and pressing kisses to his head.

"Shhh, hey, it's okay…" he murmured soothingly. "Daddy's right here. I've got you."

Rorie wrapped her arms tightly around them both, grounding her two men with her steady, reassuring presence. Lewis melted into her embrace, the adrenaline and anger slowly seeping out of his body.

"It's okay, I'm right here," she whispered roughly into his neck, and Lewis breathed in her scent to calm his racing heart.

Rorie wrapped her arms tightly around them both, grounding her two men with her steady, reassuring presence. Lewis melted into her embrace, the adrenaline and anger slowly seeping out of his body.

"Lewis…" Bono's voice cut in tentatively. "The FIA stewards are issuing a non-driving reprimand and a 50,000 pound fine for the track incursion."

Lewis tensed, his jaw clenching as the anger flared again. "I don't give a fuck," he bit out harshly.

"Lewis!" Rorie admonished, slapping his arm chidingly before turning an apologetic look to Bono. "He doesn't mean that. We'll discuss it and work through it properly."

Once Bono had retreated, she fixed her husband with a stern look. "You don't mean that 'I don't give a fuck' nonsense."

To her surprise, Lewis simply chuckled, guiding them to a quiet corner of the garage. He set Lyric down to play with his toy car on the floor. "I mean, Toto looks pissed," he sang in a joking lilt, nodding towards his team principal's stormy expression.

Rorie rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched with amusement. "Of course you'll joke at a time like this."

"It's a better alternative than letting the anger consume me," Lewis said simply. "Now distract me with something, beautiful."

His wife's brow furrowed in thought before her eyes lit up. "Well, Julian did text some updates earlier…"

Lewis kissed his teeth dismissively. "Something better than that mess, love."

A sly grin played across Rorie's lips. "How about…I'm a week late?"

Lewis's eyes widened comically before crinkling with unfiltered joy. "You mean…?"

"We might be having another baby," she confirmed, beaming.

Sweeping her into his arms, Lewis kissed her deeply, reverently. "That's amazing. You know we've been trying…"

Rorie nodded, still glowing. "And, Lil Yachty reached out. He wants me to join him onstage in Austin to perform our song 'The Zone' together."

Lewis's eyes widened with delight before crinkling into a broad grin. "Now that's what I'm talking about! My superstar wife, sharing the spotlight." Pulling her into an embrace, he nuzzled her neck affectionately. "You're definitely doing it. I can't wait to watch you shine, love."

"You really think so?" Rorie bit her lip, a touch of apprehension creeping into her expression. "In front of all those people..."

On a whim, she recorded her parts of the song late last year and was lucky that no one had figured out that it was her singing.

"Of course!" Lewis cupped her face adoringly. "This is your moment. You're going to be incredible, I just know it." He pressed his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling. "And after? Well, I've got a few ideas on how we can celebrate..."

Rorie's cheeks flushed hotly, but her eyes danced with anticipation. Giggling, she swatted him playfully. "Down boy. One thing at a time."

Laughing, Rorie pulled him close, reveling in the way their latest challenges had already transformed into cherished memories in the face of potential new beginnings.

The warm Malibu evening was made for intimate gatherings among friends. Rorie surveyed their patio, smiling as she watched KiKi dance provocatively against Miles, grinding to the pulsing beat of the music.

In the kitchen, Lewis observed the scene with a slight frown. "Does she have to be so…extra?"

Rorie rolled her eyes good-naturedly at her husband's protectiveness over his best friend. "Leave them be, babe. KiKi's just having fun." Abandoning the Mediterranean salad she was prepping, she wound her arms around Lewis's waist from behind. "Speaking of fun…have you checked on your wife lately?"

He turned in her embrace, eyes twinkling as his hands skimmed over her curves. "And how is my gorgeous girl feeling?"

"Mmm, can't complain," Rorie hummed. "But I still haven't taken that test yet."

"Rorie," Lewis groaned exaggeratedly. "The suspense is killing me! You gotta take that test." He stole a slice of cucumber from the salad bowl, grinning unrepentantly when she swatted his hand.

Their gazes drifted to the patio, where Andrew now held a giggling Lyric, the toddler's babbling laughter drifting through the open doors.

"Yeah, yeah...." Rorie murmured wistfully. "I hope he's going to be a good big brother."

Lewis brushed a kiss to her temple. "He might be a bit jealous at first, but he'll grow into it, you'll see."

"I had a good rehearsal with Lil Yachty yesterday for Austin," Rorie said, changing the subject. "Though I'll probably just keep it simple with the choreography."

"That's my wise wife," Lewis chuckled. "Oh, speaking of…I've got that tequila tasting in Mexico the day after tomorrow for Almave."

Rorie clicked her tongue in playful disapproval. "So you'll miss date night with the Biebers?"

"I'll make it up to you." Lewis backed her against the counter, his voice dropping an octave. "I promise…"

The searing trail of his kisses along her neck was interrupted by Spinz's pointed clearing of his throat from the doorway.

"The food's ready, you two. Save it for later, yeah?"

Grinning unabashedly, they reluctantly disentangled and headed outside, Rorie carrying the salad while Lewis grabbed plates and utensils.

As the group settled around the patio table, Lewis raised his glass. "To new adventures - hopefully with a little one on the way…"

He was met with hoots and hollers from their crew. Rorie beamed, shaking her head in mock annoyance at his antics.

"And to smoking out whoever's been playing games," she added, eyes narrowing slightly. "Because I'll personally beat their ass when we find them."

The group erupted into raucous laughter and dug into the spread of grilled meats and vegetables. Whatever storms awaited, they would weather them together - an unbreakable crew fortified by years of love, laughter, and unwavering loyalty.

__________________________________________

The morning light filtered through the gauzy curtains, rousing Rorie from her peaceful slumber. Before she could fully awaken, strong arms encircled her waist, pulling her back against Lewis's solid chest.

"Mmm, where do you think you're going?" he rumbled, voice still husky with sleep as his lips found the sensitive spot behind her ear.

Rorie couldn't stifle a breathy giggle. "Insatiable, aren't we?"

She turned in his embrace, pressing a tender kiss to his lips, but Lewis deepened the kiss hungrily, his eyebrows waggling with suggestive promise.

"Always for you."

A tiny cry from the nursery broke the heated moment. Rorie regretfully unlatched herself from her husband's roaming hands.

"Duty calls," she murmured apologetically, sliding out of bed.

"Tease…" Lewis whined playfully, whipping the covers off to reveal his morning wood with a roguish grin. "Come back to Daddy once you're finished."

Rorie chuckled, shaking her head in fond exasperation. "You're awful."

"Sometimes," was his nonchalant response. "Gotta make sure I put that baby in you."

"Boy, bye," she said as she rolled her eyes. Shrugging into a silk robe, she padded down the hall to Lyric's nursery. The toddler babbled excitedly as she lifted him from the crib, nuzzling his chubby cheeks.

"Good morning, little man."

"Hi Mama!" Lyric chirped, all bright-eyed innocence.

Downstairs, the faint sound of murmurs caught Rorie's ear as she settled Lyric into his high chair with a bottle. Peering out onto the patio, she spotted KiKi in an intense conversation on her phone.

"No…I'm not doing that anymore," KiKi hissed, her back stiff with tension. "I've had enough. Goodbye!"

Rorie's eyebrows shot up incredulously as KiKi spun around, nearly dropping her phone at the sight of her friend. A sickly sweet smile pasted itself across her face.

"Hey girl! Just dealing with some work drama…" KiKi blustered, waving a dismissive hand as she breezed back inside.

Rorie's brow furrowed skeptically. "Everything okay?"

"Oh yeah, totally!" KiKi replied a little too brightly. "Just a difficult customer, you know how it goes."

An uneasy prickle danced along Rorie's spine as recent events swirled in her mind. Shaking it off, she continued assembling a breakfast feast - mounds of fresh fruit, whole grain waffles, and tofu scramble for herself alongside Lyric's preferred avocado toast strips.

KiKi cleared her throat, clearly aiming to change the subject. "So…any thoughts on that test yet?"

Rorie paused, gripping the counter's edge tensely. "I don't know, Ki. Part of me wants to stay in blissful ignorance for now."

Her friend's eyes danced with both mirth and understanding. "Girl, you know that's not how it works. You gotta rip off that band-aid!"

Heaving a reluctant sigh, Rorie nodded. KiKi was right, as usual. She couldn't keep avoiding it. Just then, her phone began trilling shrilly from the other room. Rorie frowned, crossing the living area to retrieve it. The display showed Yael's name and headshot.

Answering with trepidation, she listened in growing disbelief as her image manager's anxious voice tumbled through the line.

"Rorie, you need to call your lawyer. The Sun is threatening to run another disgusting article - this time about your biological father's identity."

A bitter chuckle escaped Rorie's lips. So the rag was digging into her past yet again. She'd known the truth about her deadbeat sperm donor's identity since age twelve, his name the only paltry scrap of information her mother had given her.

"I'll look over the documents you forwarded," she assured Yael neutrally. "But I'm not concerned about that low-life's identity being made public. I've never known the man."

"I still think you should—"

A raucous clatter sounded from the kitchen, followed by Lyric's shrill giggles. Rorie's chest flooded with warmth, their call abruptly forgotten.

"Sorry, Yael but Mommy's messy boy needs me," she chuckled ruefully, hurrying back to the chaos and hanging up.

"He's such a messy eater," KiKi said with a half-smile, wiping at Lyric's face with a wet cloth. KiKi had Lyric halfway out of his high chair, his chubby limbs and cherubic face smeared with mashed avocado and fruit puree. Mother and friend shared an exasperated look as the toddler gurgled happily.

Rorie chuckled and scooped Lyric, peppering his sticky cheeks with kisses. "Oh yes, you are! Mommy's messy boy!" she cooed, causing Lyric to giggle and squirm. But then, reality intruded as Rorie glanced down at her son's soiled clothes. "Can you get him a change of clothes? I have to wipe him down," she asked KiKi.

"Of course, darling," KiKi replied, heading to the nursery. The air in Lyric’s nursery was thick with tension as KiKi entered, trying to maintain her composure despite the discomfort. Lewis was already there, his arms crossed and his expression guarded, as he paused unpacking his son's suitcase.

"Lewis," KiKi said, her voice clipped and formal.

"KiKi," Lewis replied, his tone just as cool.

They stood there for a moment, each sizing the other up, until KiKi finally broke the silence.

"Lyric had an accident so I need to get some clothes."

Lewis let out a long exhale as he walked to the chest of drawers and grabbed a onesie and a pair of shorts. He gave them to KiKi but kept his grasp on the clothes. "You've been acting weird since you got here. What's up?"

"I’m acting weird?" KiKi said, eyebrows furrowing. "Are you high or something?"

Lewis's expression hardened slightly as he released his grip on the clothes. "Just calling it as I’m seeing it."

KiKi felt a wave of anger wash over her at Lewis's accusation. She took a deep breath, trying to keep her cool.

"What exactly do you mean by that?" she asked, her voice laced with frustration.

"I mean, ever since you got here, you've been acting like you're on edge," Lewis replied, his own tone sharp. "So I just want to know what’s going on."

KiKi's jaw tightened as she processed his words. "I don’t know if crashing too many times got your head permanently fucked up, but Aurora’s my best friend, okay? I know that we don’t see eye-to-eye and y’all are knee-deep in an impending lawsuit but I’m loyal to a fault. I would NEVER do anything to mess up Rorie or Lyric."

Upon hearing his wife and son’s names, Lewis's face relaxed. "Fine," he conceded, moving out of KiKi's way. "But I’m watching you. And if I find out you’re doing anything, best believe I’ll take everything from you and have your ass deep in lawsuits you’ll never get out of."

KiKi felt a mixture of anger and hurt at Lewis's words. She knew she had made mistakes in the past, but she had never intentionally tried to hurt anyone. And for him to accuse her of such malicious intentions felt like a low blow.

"Trust me, I don't need your threats to stay in line," she retorted, her voice trembling with emotion. "I'm here to help my friend, not cause any trouble."

Lewis gave her a cold look before leaving the nursery. KiKi took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down before she did or said something that she would regret. She left the nursery and returned downstairs, uneasy about her encounter with Lewis. Returning to the kitchen, she spotted Rorie wiping off an unclothed Lyric in the sink. Rorie’s face lit up as soon as she saw KiKi.

"Thanks, sweetie," she said to her friend as KiKi handed her the new clothes.

KiKi nodded, returning Rorie's smile. "No problem, I'm just glad I could help." She glanced around the kitchen, noticing that it was a bit chaotic with dishes in the sink and food left out on the counter. "Do you want me to help clean up?"

Rorie shook her head. "No need, we have a maid who should be coming now, but thanks for offering." She turned her attention back to Lyric and gently dried him off before putting on his new onesie and shorts.

KiKi watched the exchange between mother and son, feeling a pang of envy in her heart. She had always dreamed of having a child of her own one day, but with her career constantly taking priority, she wasn't sure if that would ever happen.

As if sensing her thoughts, Rorie looked up at KiKi and gave her a sympathetic smile. "You'll find someone who loves you enough to start a family with," she said softly.

KiKi managed a small smile in return. She wasn't ready to open up about her struggles with relationships yet, especially since Rorie already had a lot going on. "Thanks, girl."

Two days later, the Crypto.com Arena buzzed with anticipation as the Lakers faced off against the Warriors in a preseason matchup. Rorie settled into her courtside seat next to Hailey Bieber, both women drawing appreciative glances from nearby fans.

"God, I needed this," Rorie sighed, sinking into the plush seat. "A night out without any mama duties."

Hailey grinned, nudging her friend playfully. "And how's that test situation going?"

Rorie groaned, rolling her eyes. "Not you too. I swear, between Lewis and KiKi, I'm about ready to scream."

"Hey, no judgment here," Hailey said, holding up her hands in mock surrender. "But you know we're all rooting for you, right?" Hailey squeezed her friend's hand supportively.

Rorie groaned. "I know I should take that test, but… I don't know. Part of me is scared to know for sure."

"Because of how hard it was before Lyric?" Hailey guessed.

Rorie nodded. "Yeah. And I've been feeling off lately, but it could be anything, you know? Stress, my crazy schedule, whatever. I guess I'm in denial."

The roar of the crowd swelled as LeBron executed a flawless alley-oop, momentarily drowning out their conversation. Rorie found herself swept up in the excitement, her worries fading to the background as she cheered along with the rest of the arena.

As the game progressed, Rorie's phone buzzed insistently in her purse. She ignored it, determined to enjoy this rare night of freedom. But a nagging voice in the back of her mind wondered if it might be Nina, calling about Lyric.

During a timeout, Hailey leaned in close, her voice low. "So, what's the latest with that lawsuit against The Sun? Justin mentioned you guys were dealing with some heavy stuff."

Rorie's brow furrowed, a familiar unease settling in her stomach. "It's a mess, girl. They're digging into my past now, threatening to publish stuff about my biological father. As if I give a damn about that deadbeat."

"That's awful," Hailey sympathized. "How are you holding up?"

Rorie shrugged, her eyes fixed on the court. "I'm managing. It's just… exhausting, you know? And with everything else going on…"

She trailed off as the timeout ended, the thunderous applause once again filling the arena. Rorie's gaze drifted to the jumbotron, where she caught sight of herself and Hailey on the celebrity cam. They both laughed, striking exaggerated poses for the camera.

As the game entered its final quarter, Rorie found her mind wandering. The constant scrutiny of her personal life, the pressure of her career, the looming possibility of another child – it all swirled together in a dizzying whirlpool of emotion.

"Earth to Rorie," Hailey's voice cut through her reverie. "You good?"

Rorie said nothing, her silence speaking volumes.

Hailey raised an eyebrow, clearly concerned. "Okay, spill. What's really going on?"

Rorie hesitated, then sighed. "It's just… everything. The lawsuit, the baby stuff, and now KiKi's been acting weird. I don't know, maybe I'm just paranoid."

"Weird how?" Hailey pressed gently.

"I overheard her on the phone the other day, sounding all secretive. And Lewis swears something's up with her." Rorie shook her head. "I want to believe she'd never do anything to hurt us, but…"

The final buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the preseason game. As they stood to leave, Rorie's phone buzzed again. This time, she fished it out, her heart skipping a beat as she saw Yael's name on the screen.

"Everything okay?" Hailey asked, concern evident in her voice.

Rorie hesitated, then shook her head. "It's fine. Just some work stuff. Nothing that can't wait until tomorrow."

As they made their way through the throng of departing fans, Rorie couldn't shake the feeling that something was brewing on the horizon. Whether it was the potential pregnancy, KiKi's strange behavior, or this latest message from Yael, she couldn't be sure. But one thing was certain – the calm before the storm was coming to an end.

"Hey," Hailey said softly, linking her arm through Rorie's. "Whatever's going on, you know you've got us, right? Me, Justin, your whole crew – we've got your back."

Rorie managed a genuine smile, feeling a rush of gratitude for her friend. "I know. Thanks, babe."

____________________________________________________

As Rorie drove home, her mind drifted to her upcoming show with Lil Yachty. She dialed his number, a smile spreading across her face as he picked up.

"Lil' Boat!" she exclaimed cheerfully.

Yachty's laughter filled the car. "Hey there, Ror-Ror! How's my sis?"

They chatted animatedly about their upcoming performance, bouncing ideas off each other and sharing their excitement. When Rorie turned onto her street, however, her good mood evaporated. A swarm of paparazzi clogged the road, their cameras flashing incessantly.

At first, she assumed they were there for one of her celebrity neighbors. But as she inched closer to her house, her stomach dropped. The mob was camped out in front of her own property.

"Oh hell no!" she shouted, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

"What's the matter?" Yachty's concerned voice came through the speakers.

"I'll call you back," Rorie said tersely, ending the call.

Police officers were struggling to keep the paparazzi at bay. As soon as they spotted Rorie's car, the crowd surged forward, shouting questions and snapping photos.

"Rorie! How do you feel about The Sun's article on your mother's affair?" "Did you know about your father before this?" "What's your reaction to your father wanting a relationship?"

The cacophony was overwhelming. Rorie kept her eyes straight ahead as the police cleared a path for her to reach her garage. She parked quickly and practically ran into the house, her heart pounding.

She found Yael, Penni, and Lewis deep in conversation in the living room. They all looked up as she entered, their faces grim.

"What's going on?" Rorie demanded, her voice shaky.

Yael stepped forward. "Did you see my texts?"

"No," Rorie replied, looking to Lewis. "What's happening?"

Lewis sighed heavily before speaking. "The Sun published an article about your biological father."

Rorie shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "So what? I don't care if they know who he is. He was never part of my life anyway."

The others exchanged uneasy glances, which didn't escape Rorie's notice.

"What?" she pressed. "Why is it such a big deal?"

Lewis took a deep breath. "Your biological father… he did an interview with Piers Morgan. He's claiming your mother kept you away from him, and now he wants a relationship with you."

"That's bullshit!" Rorie exploded.

Yael jumped in. "That might be true, but the public doesn't know that. Worse, his wife was in the interview too. She said they were separated when he had the affair with your mom, and now she wants to meet you and Lyric. They're portraying themselves as victims and… well, they're putting all the blame on your mother."

Rorie felt like she'd been punched in the gut. "Has anyone talked to my mom?"

"We all have," Lewis said softly. "I just got off the phone with her before you arrived."

Rorie reached for her phone. "I need to call her."

Yael and Penni stepped forward, gently restraining her. "Wait," Penni said. "We're putting together a statement with evidence to counter their claims."

"We're also preparing another cease and desist letter for The Sun," Yael added. "And we're working on getting a gag order for your father and his family."

"My father," Rorie spat the word like it was poison, laughing bitterly. "And now he wants to play daddy? After all these years?"

Deemed the Black Bill Gates, Martin Edwards III is a real estate magnate and investor who cared only for himself. He never loved her mother - she was just a poor maid who got caught up in his web of lies. Of course, her mother should've never gotten involved with a married man, but Martin failed to claim Rorie as one of his children. He even had the gall to demand her mother get an abortion.

The room fell silent, the weight of the situation hanging heavily in the air. Rorie felt a mix of anger, confusion, and hurt swirling inside her. She'd spent her whole life not caring about her poor excuse of a sperm donor, and now he was threatening to upend everything.

"What do we do now?" she asked, her voice small and uncertain.

Lewis wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. "We fight back, babe. We protect our family and we tell our truth. That's all we can do."

Rorie nodded against his chest, drawing strength from his embrace. Whatever storm was coming, she knew she had her real family – the ones who'd always been there – by her side. And that, she realized, was worth more than any long-lost father's claims could ever be.

The oppressive Texas heat shimmered off the tarmac as Lewis Hamilton's sleek Mercedes-AMG pulled into the Circuit of the Americas. The sprawling track, with its iconic observation tower in the distance, buzzed with the frenetic energy of Formula 1 media day. Pit crews scurried about, the air filled with the cacophony of revving engines and the chatter of eager fans and journalists.

Lewis took a deep breath, steeling himself for the day ahead. He glanced in the rearview mirror, catching sight of Lyric's cherubic face in the car seat behind him. The toddler was blissfully unaware of the chaos around their family, his tiny fingers playing with a toy race car.

As Lewis opened the car door, the wall of heat hit him in full force. He rounded the vehicle, opening the back door to unbuckle Lyric from his car seat. "Come on, little man," he murmured, lifting his son and perching him securely on his hip. Lewis hiked the diaper bag higher on his other shoulder, adjusting his designer sunglasses as he surveyed the paddock area.

His bodyguard moved ahead, creating a path through the throng of people. "Some space, please," the guard requested firmly but politely. Fans pressed forward, waving items for autographs, while photographers' cameras clicked in rapid succession.

Lewis approached the paddock entrance, shifting Lyric slightly to free up a hand. He fished out his ID card, swiping it through the turnstile with practiced ease. The familiar beep and click signaled his official arrival for the day.

As he made his way through the paddock to the Mercedes garage, Lewis nodded to his crew members, his mind racing with thoughts of Rorie. She'd been so sick lately – more than just the usual pre-performance jitters. The constant nausea, her heightened sense of smell, the fatigue that seemed to cling to her... All signs pointed to pregnancy, but Rorie steadfastly refused to take a test. Lewis understood her hesitation, remembering the heartache they'd endured before Lyric, but he couldn't help the glimmer of hope that sparked in his chest. The upcoming Austin City Limits festival loomed large in his mind. Despite everything, Rorie was still determined to perform. He felt a surge of pride thinking about her resilience, her talent; and wanted nothing more than to see her conquer the world stage, to watch her dreams unfold even as they navigated this storm together.

His phone buzzed with a notification - the flowers he'd sent to Rorie's mother had been delivered. A small gesture, but one he hoped would bring some comfort. The media circus surrounding Rorie's biological father had been relentless. He'd done everything he could to shield his family – hiring additional security, considering legal action against some of the more aggressive paparazzi, and even arranging for Rorie's mother, stepfather, and sister to be relocated temporarily to their home in Denver.

Lewis's jaw set with determination. The Sun's underhanded tactics, and the sudden appearance of Rorie's biological father - it all fueled a fire within him. He was committed to bringing down the tabloid, to make them pay for the pain they'd caused his family. The lawsuit proceedings were set to begin next month, and Lewis was ready for battle. The support from their friends had been overwhelming. Just that morning, he'd received messages of encouragement from the Biebers, Beyoncé and Jay-Z, and Rihanna. Their united front against the media onslaught was a testament to the bonds they'd forged over the years.

Lewis spotted Nina, their nanny, making her way through the garage. He felt a mix of relief and reluctance as he prepared to hand Lyric over. Part of him wanted to keep his son close, a tangible reminder of what truly mattered amidst the craziness of race day and ongoing personal drama.

"Lewis," Rosa approached. "The press conference is in ten minutes."

Lewis nodded, giving Lyric a final squeeze before passing him to Nina. "Be good for Nina, okay?" he murmured, pressing a kiss to his son's forehead.

Lewis made his way towards the press conference area, his mind racing with thoughts of Rorie and the impending media onslaught. He knew the questions wouldn't just be about the upcoming race or his strategies for the circuit. The recent revelations about Rorie's biological father had become fodder for gossip columns and social media speculation.

As he walked, he nodded to a few fellow drivers - Valterri gave him a supportive pat on the back, while Charles offered a quiet "All's good?" Lewis appreciated their discretion and support, a stark contrast to the rabid curiosity of the waiting press.

_____________________________________________

Once the press conference was finished, which thankfully focused more on the upcoming race than personal matters, Lewis found himself surrounded by his fellow drivers.

"Hey, Lewis," Pierre called out, a grin on his face. "Is it true Rorie's performing at Austin City Limits tonight?"

Lewis nodded, a hint of pride in his voice. "Yeah, she is. You guys planning to come?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Pierre replied enthusiastically. Several other drivers chimed in with their interest as well.

Lewis spent the next hour with Lyric, cherishing the quiet moments with his son, and when he was about to head to get lunch, Toto approached.

"Lewis, can you come to my office for a moment?" Toto's expression was unreadable.

Handing Lyric back to Nina and Rosa, Lewis followed Toto, an uneasy feeling settling in his stomach. As they entered the office, Lewis froze. Sitting there, looking far too comfortable, was Martin Edwards - Rorie's biological father.

Lewis's jaw clenched. "What the fuck is he doing here?"

Toto held up his hands. "He requested to speak with you. I thought it best to provide a neutral and private space."

Reluctantly, Lewis took a seat across from Martin, his posture rigid.

Martin leaned forward, a smile plastered on his face. "That boy of yours, Lyric - he's the spitting image of you. That's really your seed. Can't deny that baby even if you wanted to," he chuckled as if he'd said something hilarious.

Lewis remained stoic, his eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed. "What do you want, Martin? Haven't you fucked up enough?"

Martin's smile faded slightly. "I want to make things right. I've missed out on so much of Aurora's life—"

"Rorie," Lewis corrected sharply. "She goes by Rorie."

Martin nodded, continuing, "Rorie, then. I want to be a part of her life, of my grandson's life."

Lewis's voice was low and controlled. "You had years to be a part of Rorie's life. You chose not to be. And now, what? You think you can just waltz in because it's convenient for you?"

"I made mistakes," Martin admitted. "But I want to fix them. Surely you can understand that, as a father yourself?"

Lewis felt a surge of anger. "As a father, I understand being there for your child, no matter what. Something you know nothing about."

The tension in the room was palpable. Toto shifted uncomfortably, clearly regretting his decision to facilitate this meeting.

"Look," Martin said, his tone changing to one of barely concealed frustration, "I have rights. I'm her father—"

"No," Lewis cut him off, standing up. "You're the man who contributed DNA. I'm her family. We're her family. And we'll do whatever it takes to protect her and Lyric from this circus you've created."

With that, Lewis turned to leave. As he reached the door, he paused, looking back at Martin. "If you really care about Rorie, you'll respect her wishes. And right now, she doesn't want anything to do with you."

Leaving Martin and a stunned Toto behind, Lewis strode out of the office, his mind already racing with plans to further shield his family from whatever Martin Edwards seemed determined to bring.

That motherfucker had another thing coming if he thought he was getting close to my family. Nigga going to end up meeting nothing more than the barrel of my gun if he keeps fucking around.

For the rest of the day, Lewis shifted his focus away from what occurred in Toto's office, ultimately deciding against mentioning the impromptu meeting with Martin. Rorie was already stressed for a myriad of reasons, and Lewis would be damned if he brought more bad news to her. His wife needed to focus on her performance - nothing more, nothing less. He'd handle everything else.

That was what a husband and father did - properly lead his family and protect them, which wasn't something Martin knew anything about. An intrusive thought wondered how Martin could just weasel his way into speaking with Toto and demanding a meeting with him, but then Lewis remembered how having obscene amounts of money could always provide access to certain people.

His phone rang and Rorie's smiling face lit up the screen.

"Hey, babe," he answered.

"Hey," Rorie replied. There was a pause before she continued, "Is everything okay? You sound... off."

Lewis hesitated for a moment before responding, "Just race stuff, you know how it is. Nothing to worry about."

"Mm-hmm," Rorie hummed, not entirely convinced. "Can you bring home something sweet and salty when you're done?"

Lewis let out a laugh, the tension from earlier melting away.

"What's so funny?" Rorie asked, a hint of defensiveness in her voice.

"Nothing, nothing," Lewis chuckled. "It's just... the last time you asked for this exact combination, you were pregnant with Lyric. Still in denial, are we?"

Rorie huffed. "I just want that, okay? Don't make it a big deal."

"Alright, alright," Lewis conceded, grinning. "I'll bring something back for you. And you know what? I'll grab a pregnancy test too, so we can stop fucking around and know for sure."

"Whatever," Rorie grumbled, but Lewis could hear the smile in her voice.

"Love you too, babe," Lewis said, his tone softening. "I'll see you soon."

As the call ended, Lewis pocketed his phone, a mix of emotions swirling within him. The day's events - from the press conference to the unexpected encounter with Martin - seemed to fade into the background. What mattered now was Rorie, their family, and the possibilities that lay ahead.

Lewis glanced at his watch, mentally calculating how long it would take to wrap up his duties at the track, find Rorie's requested snacks, and make it back to the hotel. He had a pregnant wife to take care of - whether she was ready to admit it or not.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over Zilker Park, Rorie stood backstage at Austin City Limits, her heart racing. The air was thick with anticipation, the distant roar of the crowd washing over her like waves. Lil Yachty's energetic performance was coming to a close, his last song echoing through the night.

Rorie closed her eyes, taking deep breaths to calm her churning stomach. She'd barely kept down her dinner, a combination of nerves and what she stubbornly refused to acknowledge might be morning sickness. The thought of pregnancy flitted through her mind again, reminding her that she had a test to take after the show, but she pushed it aside.

Focus, she told herself. The show comes first.

She silently thanked the universe for the unwavering support of her husband, friends, and family. Their love had been her anchor in the stormy seas of recent events.

The crowd's cheers swelled as Lil Yachty addressed them, his voice booming through the speakers. "Y'all ready for something special?" The response was deafening. "DJ, hit it!"

The opening beats of "The Zone" began to pulse through the air. Lil Yachty started his verse, the crowd singing along. Then, he paused, his voice filled with excitement. "Now, give a warm Austin welcome to the one, the only… Rorie!"

Taking a final deep breath, Rorie stepped out from behind the curtain. The sea of faces before her erupted in screams and applause. The energy was electric, palpable.

As she began to sing, her rich voice filling the night air, Rorie's eyes scanned the crowd. In the VIP section, she immediately spotted Lewis, his proud smile visible even from a distance. Beside him were Yael, Pierre, Charles, Valtteri, and Susie, all cheering her on.

"I never meant to make you feel alone," she sang, her voice carrying emotion with every word. "A non-chivalrous tone you've used since I got home. I feel wrong, deep down inside, I'm stoned. I feel cold and alone."

The lyrics seemed to take on a new meaning, reflecting the turmoil of recent weeks. But as she continued, Rorie felt a surge of strength.

"But now I know that you love me (Love me). Will you put anyone above me? Let me know, is this home?"

As she sang the last line, her eyes locked with Lewis's. In that moment, despite the thousands of people surrounding them, it felt like they were the only two people in the world. This was home, she realized. Not a place, but the people who stood by her through everything.

The music swelled, and Rorie threw herself fully into the performance, letting the rhythm and the energy of the crowd wash away her worries, if only for this magical moment under the Austin stars.

As the last notes of "The Zone" faded, the crowd's enthusiasm remained at fever pitch. Lil Yachty engaged with the audience, asking if they wanted to hear more. The resounding cheers and screams made the answer clear.

Rorie glanced back at the VIP section, catching Lewis's eye as he recorded the entire performance on his phone. The crowd began chanting her name, the sound washing over her in waves of adoration and support. Overwhelmed with emotion, Rorie felt tears prick at her eyes.

"You hearing this, Ror? They love you!" he shouted over the noise.

Rorie nodded, visibly moved. "This is incredible," she managed to say.

Lil Yachty addressed the audience. "Y'all want more from Rorie?" The answering roar was deafening. "Alright, alright!" Lil Yachty laughed. "Let's give them what they want, big sis!"

The opening chords of "Running Out of Time" began to play, eliciting another round of cheers from the audience. Rorie and Lil Yachty's voices blended beautifully, the lyrics touching on themes of time, connection, and staying together. The audience swayed and sang along, clearly familiar with the song.

When the performance ended, Rorie took a deep bow, her heart pounding with adrenaline and emotion. She lingered for a moment offstage, basking in the continued chants of her name from the adoring crowd.

Later, as she relaxed with Lewis and their group, enjoying the rest of the festival, everyone showered her with hugs and praise.

"That was incredible, Rorie!" Pierre exclaimed, giving her a warm hug.

Lewis pulled her close, kissing her with an intensity that made their friends playfully protest.

"Get a room, you two!" Charles laughed, shaking his head.

Lewis grinned, his eyes never leaving Rorie's face. "I'm just incredibly proud of my wife," he said, his voice full of love and admiration.

As the night wound down, Lewis and Rorie found themselves in the back of a car, heading back to their hotel. Lewis's hand rested on Rorie's thigh, his brown eyes fixed on her face.

"What?" Rorie asked, noticing his intense gaze. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

"Because I love you, baby," Lewis replied softly. "I love you so much."

Rorie smiled, her heart swelling. "I love you too, Pookie."

Lewis leaned in closer, his voice low. "And knowing that you might be carrying another seed…fuck Rorie, you don't even know what's in store when we get back."

Rorie giggled at his enthusiasm. He could be such a dirty freak at times. "Lewis, we don't know if I'm—"

"You are," he interrupted gently. "I can smell it."

"Oh? And what does that smell like, Lewis?"

His eyes sparkled with mischief and love. "Smells like a woman strengthening my bloodline."

"Goodness, you sound like such a caveman," she teased, but his words only heightened her arousal.

"But you like that shit," he murmured, pulling her closer for a deep, loving kiss.

And do.

Lewis wasted no time in carrying Rorie inside the bedroom once they arrived at their hotel. He set her down on the bed and began undressing her slowly, taking in every inch of her body.

His lips trailed down her neck and onto her chest, Rorie let out a soft moan and arched into him, craving more of his touch. He knew every sensitive spot on her body, and it drove her wild with desire. Lewis moved lower, planting kisses on her stomach until he reached the apex of her thighs. His hands firmly held onto her hips as he teased her with delicate licks and flicks of his tongue.

Rorie's breath hitched as she felt herself becoming wetter with each passing moment. She reached down to tangle her fingers in Lewis's braids, urging him on. "Oooh baby, don't stop."

With a wicked gleam in his eye, Lewis obliged and began sucking on Rorie's clit, sending waves of pleasure through her entire body. Her moans grew louder as she neared climax, and she couldn't hold back any longer.

"Fuck!" Lewis’s tongue soon brought Rorie to an explosive orgasm that left her panting and trembling beneath him.

"Mmm, you taste so good," he murmured.

Rorie came down from her high, and Lewis crawled up her body to kiss her deeply. She could taste herself on his lips, and it only turned her on even more.

"I want you inside me," she whispered against his lips.

Lewis groaned and quickly positioned himself between her legs. Rorie wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer as he slid into her in one smooth thrust.

They moved together in perfect rhythm. It wasn't just about the physical pleasure for them; it was about the deep connection they shared. With each movement, they were both expressing their love and desire for each other.

Rorie ran her hands over Lewis's back, feeling the muscles flex beneath her touch. She loved how strong and powerful he was, yet how gentle and attentive he could be with her.

Their lovemaking became more intense as they both approached their release. Rorie cried out Lewis's name as she came once again, and he followed soon after with a deep grunt of satisfaction.

They collapsed onto the bed in a tangled mess of limbs and sweaty skin. Lewis rolled onto his side to face Rorie, pulling her close to him. As they cuddled in each other's arms, Rorie couldn't help but think about the possibility of being pregnant again. She knew Lewis would be overjoyed at the news, but she couldn't shake off the slight fear and anxiety that crept into her mind.

"Are you okay?" Lewis asked softly, sensing something was bothering her.

"I…I'm just thinking about what might happen if I am pregnant," Rorie admitted hesitantly.

Lewis's expression softened as he cupped her face in his hands. "Hey, whatever happens, we'll handle it together. We've been through so much already and have come out stronger."

Rorie's heart swelled with love for this man who always knew exactly what to say to comfort her. "I know…I just don't want to disappoint you if I'm not pregnant."

Lewis shook his head and pressed a gentle kiss on Rorie's forehead. "You could never disappoint me, baby. Our love is so much more than having another child."

She wrapped her arms around him tightly, feeling grateful for their love. "We should just take the test," she said firmly.

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, let's just get it over with." Rorie stood up abruptly and walked to the bathroom. The pregnancy test was sitting on the counter, and with trembling hands, she unwrapped it and followed the instructions carefully.

She then nervously paced around the bathroom as Lewis watched intently, waiting anxiously for the results. As the timer beeped, Rorie's heart raced in anticipation. She closed her eyes and prayed for a positive result.

Slowly opening her eyes, she looked down at the test and saw two distinct lines. A wave of emotions washed over her as she realized that she was indeed pregnant.

Tears of joy streamed down Rorie's face as she stepped out of the bathroom to show Lewis. He immediately wrapped her in his arms, knowing without words what the result was.

"We're going to have another baby," he whispered, his voice filled with awe and happiness.

Rorie nodded, unable to speak through her tears. They held each other in silence for a few moments before Lewis pulled back to look at Rorie's face.

"Are you okay?" he asked, wiping away her tears with his thumb.

"I'm just so happy," she managed to say before kissing him passionately.

The California sun hung low in the sky as the woman drove toward a discreet restaurant nestled off the Malibu coast. The sleek, modern lines of the Hamilton's mansion were barely visible from the road, obscured by sprawling trees and winding driveways. The ocean’s rhythmic crash played in the background, but all that resonated in the woman’s mind was the bitter truth she clutched like a weapon.

The restaurant’s parking lot was mostly empty, save for a lone car parked in a shadowed corner. The woman’s heeled boots crunched over loose gravel as she approached. The maid, nondescript and dressed in plain clothes, glanced up from where she leaned against the car’s door. Her eyes were wary, darting around as though expecting to see someone lurking.

"You’re late," the maid muttered, shifting nervously.

"Traffic," the woman replied, dismissively. "Do you have what I need?"

The maid hesitated before producing a small USB drive. She handed it over with trembling fingers. "I can’t be seen doing this. If Rorie finds out…"

"She won’t," the woman interjected sharply. "You just keep your head down and play your role. If she suspects anything, you’re done. But right now, I’m your best bet for protection."

The maid swallowed hard, clearly torn. "Why are you even doing this? Rorie has been good to me...she treats my kids like her own."

The woman’s expression darkened. "You think kindness and loyalty matter to people like her? She uses them as currency to keep you close until you’re no longer valuable. Believe me, I know better than anyone. And if you want any fucking help getting your husband to Los Angeles, you shut your goddamn mouth, okay?"

Silence fell between them as the reality of their situation settled in. Eventually, the maid nodded, wiping her palms nervously against her jeans. "Okay, but be careful. This game you’re playing—people get hurt."

The woman tucked the USB into her jacket pocket and turned on her heel. "People always get hurt. It’s just a question of who gets hurt first."

As she walked away, the wind picked up, rustling through the palm trees and carrying the distant hum of approaching cars. The maid stayed put, watching the woman disappear into her car before driving off like a bat out of hell.

TO BE CONTINUED.....

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