#SWAM Flute

[maisonnushi]

DAW MIX research in progress!ーEWI too difficult problemー

My EWI(electronic wind instrument)✨Difficult😂

自由を求めて［Seeking Freedom］(2015)

Other music are available on Apple Music, etc!→ https://www.tunecore.co.jp/artists/maison-nushi

[kiss-me-muchoo]

𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧 || 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐮𝐬 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐮𝐬 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary_ Hanno, the man you loved, was getting married, you left Numidia and when he found you again, you were married to one of the emperors of Rome.

warnings_ historical inaccuracy, vague semi public sex, angst, sexism and misogyny, fluff but angst, a lot of canon divergence bc I said so, FLUFF, no proofread.

notes_ pls listen to mermaids and queen of peace from Florence + The Machine, there’s so many Paul Mescal type of vibe songs

✰ Index (+ fics here)

𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ 𓆇𓆸⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ 𓆇𓆸⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ 𓆇𓆸

The sun burned your skin, often leaving carmine splotches across your shoulders, arms, and neck. But you loved collecting shells and finding pearls to sell. The water was warm as well but soothed the heat of the sun.

Loneliness wasn’t a stranger. Being a kid in the sandy streets all alone, with no family made you judgmental.

It was a fluke that you knew how to speak in Masri, Etruscan, and Latin. With an uncertain origin, you could only guess that you might have come from Egypt or Etruria Padana.

As a teenager, you arrived in Numidia, where you found a job that made you a pioneer in the waters.

Everyone let their hands get wet to fish. But barely, they took the time to dig deeper and for a longer period to collect shells, oysters, and fascinating underwater treasures.

Over the years, you earned the names of “siren” or “sea foam woman”. The children enjoyed your stories of mermaids and sailors in mysterious waters, making you a trustworthy friend to almost everyone in Numidia.

“Imagine the sunset as if someone had splotched pink, orange, and purple over the aquamarine sea,” you say pointing at the shore. “That’s when all of the mermaids swam to the surface and played”

The children giggle and you chuckle, feeling that you shake as doing so, you quickly look down at the sleeping baby in your arms, wondering if you have woken him up. False alarm. Her mother, Nessarea, was a good friend of yours and she trusted you enough to leave her kid as she worked trimming satin in the market.

“But when they looked around, they found a big ship full of sailors. The mermaids got scared and hid…”

“Did the sailors hurt them?” A little girl with braids asked.

“No, dear. The sailors proposed a deal. They would visit the mermaids once a year and take one of them. In exchange, treasures would be given”

“And that’s why you’re here, y/n! You’re a mermaid and the sailors took you!” Soon an adult masculine laugh was mixed with yours, making you frown and look around. Only to find an unmistakable pair of blue eyes looking at you. That makes your smile grow and your heart to warmth.

“I’m not certain about that, little one” The boy makes a pout and at a certain distance you hear a bamboo flute. The sign of mothers calling their children to go home.

“No, y/n. You have to tell us who was the first mermaid to go with the sailors. Or else we’ll assume it was you “

“I’ll keep it a secret for tonight” you finalize, standing up and saying goodbye to each child. You watch them run away, to the village. And it’s only you and the baby in your arms, who started squirming and stretching.

And your dear Hanno.

“Parents will come and complain to you…” he says, remaining seated on a big rock and looking in awe at you.

“Let the children believe in fantasy while they can” you answer, tending the baby and smiling at his tiny hands forming fists. “Soon they’ll understand I am no mermaid”

“Hardly. Every day there’s a sea foam woman on the shore…” you glare at him with disdain, only to laugh again. He made space for you to sit beside him. And for some minutes he would only look at you taking care of the baby.

“How did you know I was here?” You ask eyeing him. Subtly he blushes.

“It isn’t a secret you gather all the children to tell them tells” you chuckle.

“Like a star chases the sun…” you say resting your head on his shoulder. Which he finds lovely. “You always find me, Hanno”

“And I will always will…”

Hanno was a reserved man. You met him years ago when he also arrived in Numidia. He was lonely like you, rarely spoke about his past, and claimed to be centered in the present.

“Here… I brought you something” he said, digging his hand under the pocket of his tunic. He took out a necklace. Made with shells you had collected.

“Hanno… this is beautiful. It must have costed a lot. You shouldn’t…” you almost whisper, holding the piece of art with one hand and looking at it in love.

Just like you were with him.

“It’s a present, y/n. No inquires in the cost”

“Thanks. I truly love it…” he nods, urging you to lift your hair so he can place the necklace around your neck.

You look at the shore again, now almost in complete darkness. But soon you get lost as you feel his calloused fingers in your exposed skin. He was a farmer, with tanned skin, burnt blonde hair, and a beard that made him look like a Roman prince.

It was a mystery the day you fell in love with him. As well as when you would confess it.

“What is he doing?” Hanno asks after putting the necklace around you. You frown confused but soon you understand. The baby in your arms wanted to grab his beard. “Ajay likes you, Hanno”

The man looks carefully at the baby. He wasn’t around children very often. But he enjoyed how well you handled them. It made him want a family. And he often wondered if you wanted the same. With him…

Little Ajay wrapped his tiny hand around Hanno’s finger and it made your heart swell.

“I’m getting a piece of the land where we have the green sprouts” he announces and it makes you squeal in happiness. “Hanno, that’s the most exciting news!”

“I’m having a home” he realized as you were ushering to hug him, slightly sandwiching Ajay.

Hanno bit his tongue, almost saying what he dreamed. Asking if you wanted to be part of his home.

…

When rain fell upon the dry and arid land of Numidia, you felt superstitious, feeling it was a bad omen.

You hadn’t seen Hanno in a couple of days. The last time you saw him he said he would come and visit you. The spring nights you spent together made you realize how in love you were. It was uncertain if Hanno loved you back but you thought it might have been mutual. Because of the way his eyes locked on yours, the way his hands carefully traced some spots on your body, the smiles that felt very personal to you.

Hanno made you feel special. He was your best friend. The person you would sacrifice for and the one who could take out your heart as dramatic as it sounded.

“You’ve waited for him for days, y/n,” Nessarea said, rocking Ajay in her arms as she patted your shoulder. “Are you gonna tell him about the matron?”

“It depends…” you answer, sighing, looking at the valley in front of you. The clothes hanging, waiting to get dry swayed with the warm air.

“On what?”

“I’m telling him I love him. If Hanno loves me back, I will forget about the matron” The old woman from the elite saw you dancing and asked if you knew how to write and read. You knew the minimum because Hanno taught you, but you needed more. She claimed she could educate you, but not in Numidia. She didn’t tell you where.

“You really love him that much?” Nessarea asked.

“So much that I would remain in ignorance just to be with him”

“I would’ve done the same for Calisto” Your friend had lost his husband before Ajay was born. You felt terrible for her, as she had also been in love.

“You can love again, Nessarea. Calisto will always be yours. But you can be happy again, Ajay too…” you say kissing the baby’s head.

When you turn around, you see Hanno walking through the hanging clothes and a smile appears.

“He’s here!” You announce, literally running outside the little hut, straight to his arms.

He accepts your embrace and you hear him chuckling.

“You worried me, Hanno!” you say after breaking the hug, giving him a little punch on his strong chest. “You took so long to come over”

“I’m sorry” he didn’t look as happy as he was when he first saw you. You sensed he even looked nervous. “I’ve been busy”

“Let’s go inside, it’s raining” You take his hand but he doesn’t follow you. Which makes you turn around and look again at him, expectantly.

“I’m getting married to Arishat” the oxygen drained from your lungs. Your smile disappeared and Hanno noticed it. “Her father made the offer last night and I couldn’t say no”

Arishat was a couple of years older than you, the same age as Hanno. Her father was a warrior and they were native from Numidia but they were away for some time. They arrived back a couple of months ago and Hanno started working with his father, where he met the woman.

“You couldn’t say no? Hanno, you can’t marry someone you don’t love”

“I guess I’ll learn to love her. Because it is-….” he was so close to saying that the one he loved was you.

“A matron saw me dancing a couple of days ago. We met and she wants to educate me” The decision was taken, Hanno had decided. Rage filled you, taking a step back, marking the distance between you and the man.

“A matron? Likely a filthy Roman scum” you frown at his words, crossing your arms.

“You’re not happy that I’m getting educated? That I’ll stop being just a woman that gets wet to put a damn piece of bread on that creaky table?” You spat out, pointing at the table that could be seen inside the hut.

“You know it’s not like that, y/n…” Hanno sighed, brushing his hair in exasperation. “You’re perfect just like you are, with the things you do…”

“Well, I want more” Hanno could feel the venom in your voice, he could see the coldness growing in your eyes and the distance you had placed.

You sigh, knowing it’s over. He’s getting married to a strong woman, one that everyone loved and praised along her family, and he would be happy as time passed. If he agreed to marry someone he barely knew was because he didn’t love you as you thought. Just as a friend…

“Congratulations on the engagement,” you say leaning to grab your empty basket, ready to go and collect shells, even in the pouring rain. “I truly hope you’re very happy with her”

“Come back, y/n…” you hear him calling you as your steps grow further. Tears swell in your eyes and you grab the basket even harder, hoping it would dissipate your need to scream in agony. “Please, y/n…”

Your figure slowly disappeared through the meadows, no longer a picture in the valley.

He screamed that he loved you. Hoping you would come back.

But you didn’t.

And hopefully this time he wouldn’t find you.

That night Hanno came back, willing to break the proposal and stay with you, but Nessarea opened the door with teary eyes, revealing you were gone. You promised to keep her and Ajay safe. Hanno found your basket of shells, all of them cracked, and only one of them remained untouched.

He wanted to cry out in desperation. If he would’ve said it when he had you in front of him, if he had chosen better words, if he had run faster, but he kept that cream iridescent shell under his tunic. Promising to hold on to your memory.

…

Promicia was the name of the matron that took you under her wing. After a month by her side, your hair was trimmed, and your skin felt like silk, unburnt. Your body was covered in fine fabrics, and she even arranged to get you a pair of earrings made of gold.

Promicia was cold, even heartless. But she was willing to make you shine just to make her name go even up higher leagues.

And she did it.

She made you forget everything you knew about Numidia. The siren everyone claimed to know actually turned into sea foam, to never be seen again. She washed away, melting away, to overseas.

“Keep your chin up and shoulders straight, girl,” Promicia said coldly. “I want you to look perfect when we arrive at the palace”

“Yes, dominus”

Even when you forgot who you were before arriving in Rome, you constantly remembered Nessarea as well as Ajay.

And Hanno. But as soon as you were reminded that he married, that he already had a home. Your blood boiled, to then succumb into sadness. Hence why you preferred to avoid his memory. Only resulting in pain.

And when Promicia announced that one of the emperors of Rome was interested in you, you had no time to go back to the past.

Your steps were confident as you ascended through the stairs of the most exotic and ostentatious place you’ve ever been to. The guards had luxurious uniforms, the carpets were perfectly handmade and when you reached the top, two red-haired men were standing there.

One was taller, with fine makeup around his eyes and cheekbones. The other had messy hair, a crown with leaves, and a little monkey resting on his shoulder. Their names are Geta and Caracalla.

You wondered which of the two twins was the one that wanted you.

Promicia ushered you to wait behind. She walked towards the twins and knelt, talking in Latin with them. You understood she was saying you came from Egypt, that you could read, write, sing, play the lyre, and dance as well as speak three languages.

You had no desire to fall in love again but if Promicia could secure you would have a shiny future, with power and security, you would give in.

“Come closer, girl…” the old woman called you and you obeyed. “Kneel down in respect of our emperors…”

You do as she says, your cream dress pooling on the floor. You look down, completely nervous but eager to know what will happen.

The fabric with dark blue and embroidered golden details appear in your view. You understand it’s Geta the one that is interested in you.

“Look at me, says” You raise your head slowly, matching his brown eyes. “What do you want?” Emperor Geta asked, his fingers resting on your chin, with his cold rings sending shivers down your spine.

“Mercy I implore…” he smiles at you and it’s evil, but loving at the same time. Like he has found something he could win over his twin brother.

And to you, it meant leaving the sea foam woman behind. A mermaid was taken away from the island, her teeth sharpening, ready to sink in whoever’s men tried to defy her. Even when it was the Roman Empire.

…

The count was lost after the third fig you ate. It was hot and dry and it made you feel irritated.

One day ago Acacius returned to Rome after conquering Numidia. Which led to having a doting husband that was beyond happy.

“Today we’ll see the new gladiators in the celebration and tomorrow the games will begin” Geta announced stepping behind the chair you were sitting at. Your eyes wandered into the mausoleum that was visible from the terrace of the palace, but soon you were distracted by the lips of your husband, leaving a trail of kisses. From your cheek to your neck.

“You’re excited, vita mea,” you say, tilting your head, giving him more space to wander. He pretends to innocently stop his kisses near your cleavage. Making you huff.

“You seem excited too…” he said chuckling, oblivious that you cared for him, but what you enjoyed with him was far from being devoted. “We’re leaving early today, y/n. Just after the entertainment…”

You hated Roman entertainment. You couldn’t feel nor see the thrill of witnessing death, violence, and chaos. But your husband loved it.

It wasn’t perfect, both of you often argued. But you always find a way to make up: with sex.

“Sure, my dear,” you say, turning around to kiss him on the lips. He soon leaves with a giant smile on his face.

Geta was head over heels for you. Sometimes he would use you to show off, especially to his brother.

But he stopped getting involved in orgies or requesting whores just because of you. He was extremely possessive but tender. Always make time for yourself and value your opinion. Which you took advantage of.

Weeks ago, when you learned Geta and Caracalla would send their army to Numidia. You had to beg General Acacius to take a longer route. Only that way your message to Nessarea would arrive in time for her to escape. The General was hesitant but as soon you got naked he changed his mind.

Upon his return, you cherished him with a hot and steamy welcome, sneaking out of the strong grip of your husband.

You wondered if Hanno made it alive. He was always good at self-defense, but if he tried to go against the Roman Empire, he would lose. You even prayed for General Acacius to survive the attack, above your once dear Hanno.

And you had grown fond of Geta. A weak emperor like his brother. Often clueless about what to do with the power they had. Making them a naïve pair. But he was nice to you, treating you like an empress.

You barely looked at the gladiators fighting and tearing the fancy tables filled with food. You hated looking at violence with no point, no reason to be. So you moved away, sneaking through the people to get the side of your husband.

Geta praised the anger of the gladiators. And he was very interested in one brought from Numidia. You heard he was insatiable, biting animals and killing without mercy.

So hearing Geta applauding to the spectacle said man had done, made you roll your eyes as you passed through people that mostly made reverences to you.

You had no desire to look up and see who was the man that had half of Rome intrigued.

Until he started reciting poetry. It made your steps slower, it made you feel cautious and spied on.

“Smooth is the descent, and easy is the way…”

“Psyche followed a path to prove her love to Eros. Like a star chases the sun…” you suddenly gasp. Turning to where the voice came from. You look terrified when you meet the eyes of the gladiator speaking. Saying the story you always loved.

Hanno is there, breathing for air, sweating, with blood dripping. He looks hurt, tired, enraged. But he had eyed you before you did, transmitting some hope and shock to you.

And it didn’t go unnoticed by your husband.

“What nonsense is this poet saying?” Geta asks with anger well hidden, possessively hurrying to grab you by the waist.

“He bit a monkey, he might have caught a disease, Amica mea” you whisper, acting stupid, pretending to be careless and clueless, like you don’t know the bloody man steps away from you was never important to you.

Hanno looks disappointed by your reaction. He stepped back, looking lost.

“Hmm…” Geta is not convinced, but you calm him well enough to let the matter die.

But you are in shambles. As soon as the celebration is over, you send Geta to wait for you in the palace. But you go straight to Macrinus, who was almost gone.

“I would like to talk to your gladiator” he turns around and smiles proudly.

“He put on a show today. How did you like it?” you have to force a smile and pretend to be excited.

“Oh, it was marvelous. I can’t wait to see what he’s doing tomorrow on the first day of the games. Because you’re bringing him, right?” Macrinus nods. “Of course, your highness”

“Good. I wish to see him. The poetry he recited was very touching. I must know where it comes to that charm” Macrinus believes your lie and nods again.

“Of course, follow me…”

…

You ended up in a bathhouse. Macrinus said Hanno was given a private room since he won the fight. Also said he was having a meeting and then would come back for his gladiators. So you didn’t have enough time.

And with four guards that had the order of not letting anyone inside until you came out, you reunited every strength you had to step inside.

A door creaked and soon you heard the sound of water splashing. When you looked up, you pulled your cloak down and finally met the man who had you in crisis.

“Y/n…” his voice echoed, sounding deeper and hypnotizing.

“Why are you here?” Your clumsy steps made you look nervous, which Hanno quickly noticed. “Who sent you to Macrinus?”

“Numidia was conquered” he simply replied, eyeing at you. Realizing how much you had changed. Your once-free hair was trapped in a weird hairstyle and a crown of leaves and flowers. Your dress looked expensive and your skin was in perfect condition. Certainly looks like royalty.

“I know that”

“Perhaps because you formed part of the decision” that makes you frown.

“I’m not involved in the military issues of Rome” you coldly answer.

“You married the emperor?” He asks, mocking you. But you could also play the same game. Even if it didn’t have an effect on him. Or so you thought.

“Where’s your lady?” He looks down, visibly pissed off.

“She didn’t make it...” you cannot feel anything. “Your beloved General commanded her death under the call of your husband and his brother”

“I’m sorry” you lie.

“No, you don’t. You’ve joined their cause. You became empress of an empire that is ruled by violence and blood” You roll your eyes.

“You know who was in my head when the opportunity presented?” You ask sharply, causing Hanno to remain quiet. “Nessarea and Ajay”

Your statement makes the place turn into eternal silence. He is thinking and it makes you anxious.

“I would do anything to go back to that day and say what I actually wanted…” he doesn’t add more details because is not necessary. “And stop you from leaving”

“I wouldn’t be alive” you answer quickly, opting to not pry about what he wanted to say the day you left. You were unable to fight, and if Rome had attacked with you there, you would’ve died or ended up as a whore, servant or slave. “And my friend with her baby neither”

“Where is she?” Hanno asks with curiosity.

“She settled to the north. Where snow falls in the winter and foreign widows are welcome” With honesty, Hanno felt happiness for the woman and his kid. And that made him feel guilty. Because maybe, deep down, under the ostentatious look you carried, there was the sea foam woman he met. Forced to forget who she was.

“I never asked why you knew all that poetry…” Hanno smirks, ending with a sad smile. “You just know half the truth, y/n”

“That’s why you wanted my attention back at the celebration?” Your voice holds a lot of resentment towards him. Hanno can’t say he doesn’t understand why. But he was also mad at you for becoming a full Roman woman.

“I made you a promise. To always find you no matter what” You walk closer, but as soon as you realize he’s naked underwater, you stop and look away, to the stone wall.

“What’s the point? You’re basically a slave and even if you buy your freedom, I married an emperor” his blood boils. His visible hand forms a fist and it makes you question if he was jealous.

“He doesn’t love you” you chuckle, ignoring your previous shame and taking a seat on the edge of the pool. You would see if you could push some of his buttons.

“Oh, he does love me. He treats me like a queen and always asks for my opinion. He kisses me with adoration and fucks me with devotion…” his jaw tenses at your words and you have to hide your grin.

Both of you are killing each other with your looks. He taps his index finger against the warm edge of the pool, angered. And when you least expect it, his arms come out and drag you down into the water, making you gasp in shock.

“You foolish idiot!” He possessively grabs you by the waist and makes you straddle him, colliding with his chest.

Your dress and hair are drenched, you feel heavy but you don’t miss the way he was holding you. And you know it’s sudden but you have to know something.

“Tell me the truth. You’re the missing prince? The son of Lucilla?” you whisper in his lips, he nods, holding your hips in place. “Hanno is not your real name”

“No. My name is Lucius Verus Aurelius” The shock is great, taking you in the curve. “You have to be very careful”

“I don’t care. But I can’t stand looking at you by the arm of that witless man. I don’t want the General touching you, I don’t want that emperor claiming you his” you smirk.

“But I’m not yours…” he leans forward, eyeing you with a deep gaze that makes you shiver.

“You were mine since the day we met” and he kissed you. “I was a fool for not saying how much I loved you”

“What?” You ask, freezing. “What are you saying?”

“That I love you. I always did” he admits proudly, but also slightly shy. “I wanted to make you part of the home I built. Every time I saw you with Ajay and the other kids, I thought of a family with you. I came back after we argued, willing to break my engagement because I wanted to be with you. But you were gone”

It’s too much. You feel the tears rolling down and before you can clean them, Lucius does it.

“Don’t cry, satis. Now I realize it’s all my fault” his broken smile tears your heart, suddenly making you feel disgusted with what you have become. “But is the truth, my dear y/n”

“Damn you, Lucius Verus Aurelius” you curse between sobs, leaning to kiss him again. His hand softly traced your cheek and the other caressed the skin of your hips.

You let him throw the dress to the floor, the heavy wet sound drenching the carpet.

And as Lucius makes love to you, you realize you’ll never let him go. And you’ll hardly see him dying in the arena.

“I’ll come up with something. But we won’t die separated, love” you say before moaning, midway through his deep thrusts.

You realize no one felt the same way he did. No one filled you well enough, no one worshiped you like him.

He rests his forehead against yours, loving the way you looked on top of him, like an actual siren that gave him the luck of a passionate encounter.

Lucius is sure he will win his freedom. He will kill whoever he needs to make you free as well. He has no hopes of seeing you again but he realizes he had you saying his real name like a mantra. And he kisses you, swallowing your loud moan as you came on his cock.

“Gods, I love you, Lucius” you admit sighing, catching your breath and feeling how he spilled his seed deep within your walls.

“I love you too” he admits, kissing your lips with passion, and love and making a mess of saliva. He would’ve wanted to take you under different circumstances. In a bed, in peace, being free…

Soon a guard pokes his head and looks at the floor, keeping his loyal and respectful status clean.

“Your majesty, we must leave now before Emperor Geta suspects…” you sigh, looking back at Lucius.

“Hold on, Bellator meus” Grabbing his chin, trembling at the itchy feeling of his beard, he nods “Promise me to survive”

“Like a star chases the sun. I will always find my way to you, dear y/n” Giving him a quick peck, you get out of the pool. You put on the dress that was almost completely dry again.

“We’ll be together, Lucius” he nods leaning into the edge of the pool. “I know…”

“I’ll come back to see you tomorrow after the games” and with a last look, you reciprocate the smile he gave you and quickly leave the bathhouse.

That night, in his filthy cell, Lucius pleasantly sleeps, with his hand clutching the shell he kept from you. Knowing all of those nights thinking of you and praying to see you again without hope, were worth it.

_________________________________________________________

I need friends who love Paul and Pedro and Gladiator II in general. Specifically on twitter because no one appreciates the shitpost I post there

[comatosebunny09]

defense(less) zone | sylus

— summary: it wasn’t until your friend returned with a third glass that he noticed something was…off. the woman—tara, he believes her name was—pat him on the shoulder as she strode past. “have a good night, mr. skye,” she drawled, leaving sylus to ponder what the hell that meant. — cw: aphrodisiacs, written with female reader in mind, awkward boners, stupid humor, alcohol consumption, accidental intentional drugging, profanity, sylus in-heat, sexual content, mdni — notes: here's half of what you asked for. once i finish up with my other wips, i'll revisit this one. thank you so much for reading! — tags: @leighsartworks216 @world-of-hearts @queenofstresss @cheshireworld @beewilko

Sylus knew better.

He knew after the third time you warned him not to touch the grog that it was imperative he listen.

Sure, he teased you about it. “I assure you, sweetheart. I know how to hold my liquor.”

The sharp look in your eye held a warning. “That’s not the problem.”

He chuckled with his hands thrown up in mock surrender. You were being a killjoy, sure. But he heeded you, avoiding the table that held the concoction of spirits like the plague.

Until…

Well, your friends—they were so lovely. Equally as insistent, shoving drinks and hors d'oeuvres into his hands while you were off socializing.

It was your fault for leaving him alone. You were the talk of the ball since you’d stepped foot in the venue with Mister Tall, Dark, and Devastating. Naturally, when you left his side, your friends swept in, buzzing about like hoverflies.

They bombarded him with questions, swooned over him, complimented him. He was used to the limelight. This level of attention. But it hit differently when people weren’t kissing his ass because he was a kingpin.

He found his defenses melting into the floor the more they talked to him, and it was easy for Sylus to understand why you acquainted yourself with them. They were lively. Disarming. Dangerous.

One of your lady friends sidled up to him with a glass of something ominous. Light pink in color, and it swirled and glittered like a nebula. Its acrid scent should’ve been enough of a ward. But he didn’t want to be rude. And he wasn’t a bitch, so he drank it, ignoring its harsh edge. He needed to blend in. Show you he could drink like a sailor and still carry you home by the night’s end.

And…maybe he was being a little impressionable.

It wasn’t until your friend returned with a third glass that he noticed something was…off.

“Thank you,” Sylus said, the glass poised at his lips.

Your friend watched with mischief painting her features. That didn’t bode well. Sylus threw back the last drink, placing his glass on a waiter’s tray passing by.

The pair stood in uncomfortable silence—Sylus smiling warily with a hand stuffed in his pocket and the young lady refusing to look away as a Chesire grin split her face in twain.

The woman—Tara, he believes her name was—pat him on the shoulder as she strode past. “Have a good night, Mr. Skye,” she drawled, leaving Sylus to ponder what the hell that meant.

The rest of your coworkers followed suit, slowly trickling away to the dancefloor. As Sylus said his goodbyes to the last of them, the room started to teeter, and his chest grew heavy as if weighed down by lead.

Sylus massaged his temple, trying to blink away the sudden bleariness. There was no way in hell he was drunk. Not this early in the evening, and not after a handful of watered-down cocktails.

He scanned the room. Caught your eye amongst the sea of revelers. You raised your champagne flute to him in greeting, a quiet smile rounding your lips. This ball was important to you—an opportunity to create a lasting impression on your new superiors. Sylus would kick himself if he spoiled it. So, he nodded.

But he learned to regret that simple gesture soon enough.

He stumbled forward a step or two, and the marbled floors below swam. What the fu—

Shaking his head, Sylus’ eyes flit to you to see your brows pinching with concern. You looked like you wanted to tear through the crowd to get to him. He smiled to lay your worries to rest, mouthing, ‘I’m alright.’

Seemingly satisfied, you spared him another apprehensive look before returning your attention to the woman before you who’d ensnared you in conversation.

Sylus wasn’t exactly sure what was amiss with his body. Just knew he was growing hot beneath the fibers of his tux, and the hairs at his nape were pasted to his skin by sweat.

He wended through the crowd, taking long strides towards the restroom. Maybe a splash of cold water would draw him back to sobriety.

On his journey, he caught sight of the punchbowl you’d steered him away from all night.

He swallowed past a lump of barbs in his throat, quickening his pace as a familiar swirl of pale pink gleamed condescendingly at him from within.

—

Thankfully, the bathroom was empty.

He inspected himself in the mirror, his large hands on either side of the sink bowl to keep him upright.

He’d broken out with a fine sheen of sweat. It was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. Why the fuck was it so hot? And why was his chest burning like that, the sensation slowly puddling in his stomach?

Sylus turned on the faucet. Cupped his palms beneath its languid spray, splashing water onto his face. He slapped his cheeks, willing himself to get his shit together. Despite his efforts, the lights of the men’s room continued to spin and blur, and he struggled to keep himself afloat.

He winced at his reflection. Took a deep breath, mouth hanging open when he exhaled. He looked flushed. Unkempt. The veins of his neck visibly throbbed, and he felt the beginnings of a headache seeping in. Could he really not hold his liquor?

“Hey, man!” called a boisterous voice from behind. It was followed by a clap on Sylus’ shoulder, and had he been anyone but himself, he would’ve barreled into the wall. A growl roiled in his chest, and he cut his eyes at the intruder.

The guy in question—one of your coworkers whom Sylus spoke with earlier—draped an arm about his shoulders, studying both their visages with a drunken cant to his lips.

“Great party, huh?”

Sylus could only grunt, his throat slowly constricting, and his wits scattered about.

“You alright, man?” he queried. “Not lookin’ so hot there.” He studied Sylus’ side profile a moment longer before a knowing foxlike grin crept over his lips. “Aw, dude! You get a hold of the grog, too?”

Sylus felt the color drain from his face.

“Yeah, man. That shit’s lethal. Don’t know what they put in it this time, but I’m harder than a rock!” The room erupted with his raucous laughter directly into Sylus’ ear. He proceeded to palm himself, playfully wiggling his hips.

Sylus wondered how long you’d give him the silent treatment if he committed murder tonight.

“Take care, man,” the obnoxious asshole bellowed, patting Sylus a little too roughly between his shoulder blades. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

Sylus tracked his movements to the door until it swung closed behind him, blotting out the swell of noise beyond. He bowed forward, his forehead colliding with the glacial surface of the mirror—a welcomed contrast to his inflamed skin.

“Fuck,” he rasped, hanging on by a thread.

They spiked the grog. They spiked the fucking grog. He’d had three glasses of it, and whatever was in there disrupted his senses and made his pants grow unbearably tight. That would explain why everyone was so nauseatingly happy.

Your visage flashed in his mind. Made his body pulse, and he crumbled with grit teeth.

He knew you’d be up his ass when you found out.

In his defense, you left him to the wolves. To those jackals you called friends.

—

He finds you in no time. Sniffs you out like a bloodhound after he gave himself a lengthy pep talk in the bathroom.

“Sweetie,” Sylus calls from behind. Eases a hand down the curve of your spine. You shiver. Damn your dress for having such a devastating plunge. For boasting your pretty skin like that.

You’re so soft here, he thinks, dragging the backs of his fingers up and down the ripples of your vertebrae. The scent you carry is lethal. Floral and sweet. His eyes nearly pitch into the back of his skull when he gets a whiff, toes scrunching in his dress shoes.

You peer at him over your shoulder, a soft smile to your lips. Toy with your necklace. Very demure, very docile.

“There you are,” you purr with that thousand-watt smile, your voice honey-smooth. He feels it pooling in his lower belly. Bites his lip against a pathetic sound threatening to make itself known.

Over your shoulder, he gives your company a curt, dismissive smile. Perches a hand on your hip, drawing you back towards him to spin you around. He then leads you to a spot devoid of people, away from the strobing lights. His palms clasp around your arms, thumbs cruising over supple skin.

“What’s up?” you whisper, pressing a concerned hand between his pectorals. His Achilles Heel. His heart beats a war cadence against you. He might just take you here if you’ll let him. Split you nice and open.

Alarm meddles with your features at his silence. At the violent tremor of his heart. Your brows furrow, and your lips quiver. “What’s wrong, Sy?”

God, you’re beautiful, even when you look all concerned. He traces a languid triangle between your bowed lashes and lips. Wants to kiss you so fucking bad. Smudge that pretty lipstick down your chin. Slide his hand between your thighs and make you sigh his name in front of all these people.

His dick throbs.

Fuck. Focus. Stay focused.

“Sweetie,” he tries again, swallowing thickly. His eyes are at half-mast. He’s trying his best not to sway—not to look like a bumbling idiot, but whatever’s in his system has him seeing double.

You jet into mom mode. Gently grab his wrists, the feel of your digits branding his skin, wrenching a needy sound from his throat. “Sylus, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

He debates on telling you the truth. Turns it over like a record in his mind, weighing the pros and cons. Feels silly, like a child admitting to rifling through the cookie jar.

A wave of vertigo hurtles into him, reminding him of his plight. He teeters forward, catching himself at the last minute. Angles closer, his breath stirring your baby hairs.

“I…might’ve indulged a little.”

“Huh?” you ask, rubbing up and down his arms. You smooth his hair away from his forehead, behind his ears. Gather his cheeks into your palms, and he burns like an inferno. “The hell does that even mean?”

He tries his best to roll his eyes. For someone so gorgeous, you can be incredibly daft.

“The grog, sweetie.”

“The grog…” There’s a faraway look in your eyes.

He watches the gears turn in your head before realization descends on your shoulders. Whatever concern you held for him sloughs off, replaced by mortification. The world eases by in a Gaussian blur, every sound a muddled mess to his ears.

Suddenly, you’re shoving at him. Pelting his chest with half-hearted jabs, and he stumbles back. Bad idea. He catches your hands, holding on tight to keep himself afloat.

“You drank—you drank the fu—”

Glancing around, you haul him towards an alcove. Push him up against the wall none-too-gently, forcing a grunt from his lungs.

“You drank the fucking grog?”

Uh-oh. You’re whisper-yelling. He’s in for it now.

“Yep.”

“After I told you, like, thirty times not to?!”

“Yep.”

“What the fuck, man!”

He’s swaying again. Plasters on a silly grin. It’s comical, watching you quietly panic.

“To be fair, your friend fed it to me.” He motions to something off to the side with a tilt of his head.

You pick up on his cue. Tara’s not too far off, waggling her fingers in a way that bleeds mischief.

“Unbelievable!” you sigh, scrubbing a frustrated hand down your face. “I can’t leave you by yourself for two seconds.”

You’re clearly upset. He doesn’t mind catching strays. Couldn’t dodge them even if he tried. So, instead, he takes hold of your hands to calm them. Tugs you closer, eyes a bleary shade of burgundy. 

“What’s done is done, sweetheart. How we next choose to handle this is what matters now.”

You give him a look. A once-over, painting a sharp line down the slope of his body. It is then that you catch sight of him—hot and turgid against the stitching of his trousers. A knit forms between your brows. You look like you want to scream-slash-cry.

“That bad?” you ask. Your disappointment from before abates, replaced by something of concern. He chuckles, and it’s an effort on its own. 

Sluggishly, he directs your hand to the cusp of him. Groans something filthy and bitten-off, eyes screwing shut. He bows into you, a bead of sweat trailing down the ridge of his Adam’s apple. 

“That bad.”

[fear-is-truth]

stepbrother!rafe x reader | contains : substance abuse ⋆ mutual pining ⋆ pseudocest⋆ masturbation ⸝⸝ MDNI 18+

SUN BLEACHED JUNE, your mother married ward cameron beneath a silk-draped archway facing the water, her veil lifting in the salt-laden breeze. white hydrangeas bloomed in cut-crystal vases, silver trays of oysters gleamed under string lights, and peach bellinis bled condensation down the stems of their flutes. to you, it looked more like a lana del rey music video than the wedding between two real people—undeniably decadent, but with a thin, aching vein of melancholy running through its beauty. you stood near the back, watching her laugh behind that veil and thinking only: please let him treat her with kindness.

wheezie took to you instantly, and you adored her right back. loved her, even. it was that easy. sarah, ever a diplomatic creature, treated you with polite cordiality. she’d include you in beach bonfires with her kook friends but never asked much beyond what civility required.

rafe, though—he loathed you on sight. he’d already spent too much of his life clawing for his father’s attention only to be outshone by sarah, and now here you were: wheezie’s new favourite: that was the final insult to injury. he made a whole production of sneering “stepsis” and “brat” whenever he had to address you. but eventually, the novelty wore off and he decided you weren’t worth the effort. now it’s just your name, pronounced with the same, naked contempt.

once, you passed him in the hallway. you’d just come in from a swim, a towel clutched loosely around your body, the sea clinging to your hair in briny strands. his gaze sweeped over you in a lecherous once-over, pausing deliberately at your chest, where it lingered without shame.

“so. you’re the little stray my dad picked up?”

“and you’re the little purebred that he forgot to discipline.” you smiled sweetly, and promptly slammed your bedroom door in his face.

you didn’t speak for days. or rather—he didn’t. you caught the occasional glare over breakfast, the muttered insult under his breath and the audible exhale of annoyance whenever ward referred to you as “a good influence.”

and then—that inevitable pivot, where the axis between the two of you tilted beyond repair.

sometime past three, you startled awake to the unmistakable sound of something (or rather, someone) colliding with the edge of your vanity.

shadows swam across the room, furniture rendered unfamiliar in the slivered blue moonlight. muscles seizing, your body locked up completely. thought eclipsed by one sharp, biological imperative: threat.

burglar. home invasion. someone in your room.

and then your eyes adjusted to the darkness.

there he was.

rafe, slumped beside the wall. his shirt clung to him, dark at the collar. strands of hair stuck wet to his forehead, lending him a strange boyishness—if not for the way his pupils eclipsed almost all colour, black disks swollen wide within that glacial iris.

you didn’t need a test kit to know that he was coked out of his fucking mind.

a darker part of you—maybe the part rafe had cultivated himself—considered letting him drop and convulse on your carpet. he’d earned it, hadn’t he? every small cruelty he’d lobbed your way, this was its natural end. you were still contemplating the pros and cons but then he managed to croak out your name before sliding down the wall, knees buckling beneath him.

that was all it took.

in the morning, neither of you mentioned the encounter. if his eyes hadn’t lingered on your hands—the same ones that cradled him like a fevered child, that wiped his brow with a damp towel—you might’ve convinced yourself it never happened. a fever dream.

rafe never thanked you. that simply went against his nature. but he started leaving the bathroom door cracked when he got himself off. subtle, with just enough plausible deniability. you heard everything: the breathy cadence, the wet slap of his palm. sometimes—even your name. or maybe not. maybe your brain twisted syllables to match its own perversions.

either way, you lay there panting and sick, hand pressed between your thighs as if pressure alone could substitute for penetration. in painful clarity, you remembered the sharp lines of his hips, the arrowing v of muscle beneath his boxer briefs. you’d seen it all. once—“by accident.” you knew, instinctively, how he’d feel inside you: thick and punishing. a stretch that would sting before it satisfied.

it became something of a pattern.

he had those lows. episodes of collapse after the high burned out. adrenaline and cocaine vacillated, then abandoned him entirely. sometimes you found him collapsed in the hallway, or sprawled at the foot of the stairs. other nights—‘better’ ones—he barged into your room himself, barely lucid.

you helped him into bed, where he slept curled behind you, an arm slung over your waist. sometimes he groaned in his sleep. hips jerked forward, slotted tight against you. and what else could you do but lie there paralyzed, torn between revulsion and something far more incendiary? hating him a little for making you feel dirty. hating yourself more.

in daylight, he’s cruel again. cold as the tide.

but at night, he finds his way back. always back.

[captainmalewriter]

Hair on Hair

Twas the night before Christmas Day at Paul Martin’s house. Paul had just finished preparing all the necessary ingredients for the big Christmas dinner he’d be making tomorrow. His family would be flying in sometime in the early afternoon. He couldn’t wait for his little nephews and nieces to come bursting through the door to greet their Uncle Paul. Paul smiled at the warm thought. 

With his work in the kitchen complete, Paul retired to his bedroom. As he walked down the hallway, Paul couldn’t help but notice the loud snoring coming out of one of the guest rooms. It was his cousin-in-law Mark sleeping in there. Paul scowled. He and Mark didn’t see eye-to-eye. But despite their tense relationship, Paul was still willing to offer up his home for Mark when he said he needed a place to crash at for a few days before Christmas. He was still family after all, in-law or not. Paul simply couldn’t say no! That said, Paul would’ve appreciated some help getting everything ready for when their family came… Mark was no help at all. He just stayed out all-day and only returned at night to sleep while Paul did everything. 

“Whatever. That asshole will be gone after Christmas anyway,” Paul told himself. He went to his room, got ready for bed, and fell asleep soon after tucking himself in. 

As Paul and Mark slept soundly that night, a mischievous spirit had entered the house. The magic spirit giggled as it ran around the property, only stopping when it stumbled across the two sleeping men. An idea struck the spirit at the sight of them. With a cheeky grin, the spirit pulled out a flute and played a strange tune. The spirit’s melody echoed throughout the house. Both Paul and Mark began tossing and turning feverishly in their beds.

After a few minutes of the spirit’s music playing, a strange light began coming out of their solar plexuses. A long, ethereal serpent made of glowing light erupted out of them. Paul and Mark went limp once it left their bodies. The serpents swam around the air, dancing to the rhythm of the spirit’s flute. 

“Go, my brethren! Inhabit your new bodies!!”

The serpents did as they were told. Paul’s spirit swam over to Mark’s room and dove straight into his chest. Mark’s eyes shot wide open from the impact. Paul’s spirit was as big as he was. Mark squirmed as the hefty spirit stuffed itself inside his thin frame by force. His hands and legs trembled as the invading spirit took up more and more space inside of him. Every corner of his body was filled with Paul’s essence.  

“Uuugghhhh!!” Mark groaned loudly.  It felt like his body was being stretched from the inside out! Even without Mark’s own spirit present, his body was too tight of a fit for Paul’s big spirit. With Mark’s body already filled up, the spirit had no choice but to make space. In doing so, Mark's body underwent significant changes.

Mark's flat stomach blew up in size. Within seconds, his gut bloated out until he had the same beer belly as Paul. His firm pectorals grew in size, giving Mark a massive chest with plenty to grab and squeeze. Mark let out a heavy sigh as the transformation wave moved down to below the belt. His long dick grew shorter yet thicker until he had a beer can for a cock. His balls hung lower from their weight of being filled to the brim with warm spunk. His cute, little butt ballooned in size too. His glutes grew larger and larger until he had a massive peach. Mark had a real man's ass now— big, jiggly, and covered in hair, to the point that even his crack was obscured from how hairy it had become.

His long locks of wavy hair fell off in clumps until he had a cleanly buzzed head. The spattering of facial hair Mark had from not shaving in a while began growing at unnatural speeds. Mark threw his head back in pleasure as his mustache and beard grew longer and longer with thick, curly black hair. By the time Mark's new beard finished growing, it was long enough to touch the top of his chest. Before the transformation, Mark had only a few lines of hair on his chest and armpits. His bushy pit hair curled from how long they had grown and with a fine, musky scent to boot. His chest was covered with a healthy layer of hair. Every inch of Mark's newly beefy was covered in hair— completing his transformation to his uncle-in-law Paul.

Meanwhile, Mark's soul flew over to Paul's room. It slithered towards Paul's limp body and burrowed inside of him through his chest.

"Nnn... Ooohhhh!!"

Paul let out a loud moan as Mark's soul filled his body causing his senses to flare back to life. However, while Mark's body had to grow to accommodate its new owner, Paul's body had to do the opposite.

Paul had much more body space than Mark's soul needed. All the extra body mass melted away like magic within minutes. Paul's massive gut deflated until he had visible ab lines and a V line waist. His chest firmed up to a set of firm pectorals. The short stubble on the top of his head grew out until he had a messy, unkept mullet that matched his cousin's hairstyle. The massive amount of body hair Paul possessed fell off in droves, leaving behind a furry treasure tail on his stomach and slight dusting of hair on chest.

The only place Paul remained hairy was his groin. If anything, his bush had to grow longer to match Mark's unshaven forest of messy pubic hair. Paul had no idea his cousin outclassed his body hair in that regard. The feeling of his fingers getting caught in the curls of his bush as he rubbed down his newly slim body made him harder than anything else he could remember. Even his girthy cock was much too thick for Mark's dick to slip into. It fit him like an oversized condom! Deep, sensual groans escaped Paul's lips as he grabbed and groped his transforming junk. His cock lost some of its width but more than made up for it with its new length. By the end of it, he had an impressive 8 inches. He had become both a shower and a grower with his new endowment! Just like Mark, Paul had been completely transformed until his appearance matched his cousin's.

Bear had become otter. Otter had become bear.

Now that it had completed its trick, the spirit let out a naughty giggle and disappeared into the night. Meanwhile, Paul and Mark were now wide awake in bed. Their bodies had just under total transformations, but their minds were too fried from the dopamine of a sudden soul swap to fully process what had just happened. There was only one thing on both their minds— to get off with each other.

Paul ran like a track star to Mark's room. He busted through the door, where Mark was waiting for him a smirk and a hand wrapped firmly around his hard as a rock, thick member.

"Heh, you want this big dick, don't you? Come sit that ass on this beard while you service my cock, pretty boy," Mark sneered with his new baritone voice. Paul did as he was told without hesitation. He wasn't sure what came over him. A total top like him wouldn't be caught dead begging for dick the way he was, but Paul didn't care in that moment. All he cared about in that moment was getting Mark's dick all the way down his throat until his nose was buried deep into his pubes.

"Oooo... Yeahh just like that, show me what you can do with that tongue...!"

Sensual sounds filled the room as Paul sucked Mark off. He positioned himself so that his ass was right up to Mark's face. Mark grinned with delight as he grabbed and played with handfuls of perky, man ass, occasionally smacking it hard to remind Paul who that ass belonged to. He licked his middle finger and slipped it inside Paul's tight hole. It resisted penetration at first, but slowly gave way as Mark eased his finger in.

"Mmm!! Nnnghh..." Paul moaned with delight. His noises only grew louder as Mark replaced his finger with his tongue. The bitter taste of Mark's pre filled his mouth. It turned Paul on even more than before. He pushed his butt back against Mark's face. The feeling of his thick, full beard rustling against his bare ass and Mark's tongue wiggling deep inside his hole sent him straight into heaven, causing to drip his own pre all over Mark's furry belly.

They kept this position for a good while— Paul deepthroating Mark while he licked his ass in every direction possible. They eventually realized this position wasn't gonna be enough to satisfy their cravings and decided to take turns fucking each other— raw.

Paul buried his lengthy member deep inside Mark's obscenely hairy hole. The feeling of his sensitive cock sliding in and out through all that hair sent waves of pleasure rolling throughout his mind and groin. Coupled with the sight of his own burly, bear body jiggling and groaning with every thrust he gave Mark, Paul loving every second of topping a man who was twice as big and hairy as he was now.

As for Mark, he quickly learned just how much fun topping could be. Just seeing the tip of his cock slowly disappear into Paul's ass was insanely erotic, unlike anything he had experienced before. Just the feeling of his old hole enveloping his girthy member with a tight, warm embrace was almost enough to make Mark shoot out hus load right then and there. Thankfully, he was able to hold on and start pounding away at Paul. The sounds of a whiny bottom begging for him to go harder and deeper coupled with Paul pawing at his hairy chest... It drove Mark insane. He was grunting like a madman driven by fiery lust!

The room became drenched in the loud sounds and musky smells of two men fucking like wild animals. Their sweaty, hairy chests pressed against one another as they fucked for a solid hour— flipping whenever one got too close to finishing. Only once they couldn't take the building pressure in their balls did they finally stop.

Paul and Mark laid next to each other in bed. Each man with a firm grasp on their new cocks, jerking faster and faster with bated breath. Their mouths were mere inches away from each other. Unable to resist temptation, they leaned in each other and locked lips. Lips smacking loudly and tongues wrestling for dominance until finally they both shot out their heavy loads at the same time. Load after load came rushing out of them like a glorious white eruption. They each let out a long sigh of relief as they became drenched in each other's fluids.

Fully satisfied, Paul and Mark kissed once more before embracing each other, wrapped in the warmth of sexual satisfaction. They dozed off in each other's arms— unaware that a mischievous spirit had swapped their bodies, and that the family would be knocking at Paul's door in less than 12 hours for Christmas dinner.

Now how's that for holiday hijinks?

[mrsfancyferrari]

Marriage of Convenience PT2

Summary: Lewis has to get married to you for a year for his engagement in Ferrari. Who knew how much he would get sucked into your life…. pt 2

Song: Heartless · The Weeknd

Taglist: @barcelonaloverf1life, @totallynotluluu, @rageshots, @greedyjudge2

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

Part 1 - Part 3

Word count: 22.1k

MASTERLIST - F1

@lewishamilton

liked by yourusername, scuderiaferrari, georgerussell63 and 2,026,295 others

lewishamilton

Finding the right words feels impossible, but here goes. Today, I married the woman of my dreams. Five years ago, I met someone who challenged me, inspired me, and loved me in a way I never thought possible. Today, that whirlwind turned into forever with Y/N.

Looking back, those five years feel like a blink, a beautiful blur of laughter, late-night talks, and building a life together. Looking forward, I see a future even brighter, filled with adventures, shared dreams, and a whole lot of love.

We're so excited to start this new chapter. We also ask for a little privacy as we enjoy our honeymoon. We'll be back soon, ready to share all our fashion with the world. For now, just know my heart is overflowing with happiness. ❤️ #JustMarried #HusbandAndWife

Comments on this post have been restricted

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

21st January 2025

You stirred beneath the heavy veil of consciousness, the weight of the world—or perhaps just last night's drinks—pressing down on your eyelids. The room spun in a lazy waltz, the kind that only a hangover could compose.

The scent of champagne and roses lingered in the air, a bouquet that seemed both hauntingly familiar and eerily out of place. Your mouth was a desert, parched and sticky with the residue of a night that seemed to have occurred in a distant realm, a realm where you didn't belong.

You tried to swallow, but it was as if your throat had been coated in the same sticky sweetness that clung to the insides of the champagne flutes that danced before your eyes.

As your vision slowly cleared, you took in the opulent surroundings. The four-poster bed you lay in was draped in velvety fabrics, the color of a moonless night. Your head pounded in rhythm with the unanswered questions that filled your mind.

You were still dressed in the wedding gown from the night before, the silk and lace a stark contrast to the tangled mess of the bed sheets. The dress clung to you like a second skin, a reminder of the vows you had exchanged with a man whose name you couldn't quite place.

Sitting up, the world swam around you as you took in the grandeur of the room. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn back to reveal floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed the early morning light to stream in, painting the polished hardwood floors and antique furniture in a soft, golden glow.

Your gaze fell upon the bedside table, and there it was: a framed picture of you and Lewis kissing at the altar. The sight sent a jolt of recognition through your body.

You were married. Married to Lewis, the man you had known for a few weeks, and married for the most unromantic of reasons—his engagement in Ferrari. The cold reality of the situation was starker than the champagne-induced haze that still clung to your mind.

Looking over to the couch, you found Lewis sleeping peacefully, his baggy clothes hugging his form in a way that suggested he had bothered to change after the reception.

The soft light played with the shadows on his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the gentle slope of his nose.

His eyes were closed, and his breaths were deep and even, the picture of exhaustion. The couch, though plush and inviting, seemed too small to contain his long frame, his legs stretched out and hanging over the edge.

You felt a strange sense of protectiveness as you studied him, a feeling that was as unexpected as the wedding ring that adorned his finger.

The fabric of his shirt pulled taut against the muscles of his chest as he inhaled, and you couldn't help but admire the way his body moved with each breath, the way the shadows played across the contours of his abs and the broad expanse of his shoulders.

His hair was a wild mess, the usual coiffed perfection of a man groomed for the spotlight now a tumble of dark braids that fell onto his forehead.

The silence was a cocoon around you, a gentle hum of the air conditioner the only sound that pierced the quiet. You could almost feel the weight of his weariness, the toll of the past few weeks written in the lines etched into his face.

Yet, there was something about his vulnerability in sleep that was incredibly endearing, a stark contrast to the cool, calculated persona he donned in the public eye.

Moving closer, you whispered his name again, "Lewis," the syllables slipping off your tongue like a secret.

You watched as the muscles in his neck tightened, his head tilting towards the sound, seeking you without fully waking.

He replied, "Y/N," his voice thick with sleep, the use of your name a gentle caress in the early morning air. The pause that followed was like a heartbeat, a brief, tender silence that seemed to hold the weight of his concern.

"Did you sleep well?" he finally asked, his eyes fluttering open to reveal a gaze that searched yours with a warm sincerity. The question hung in the air, a soft inquiry into your well-being, one that seemed to hold more than just curiosity.

You nodded, your voice a croak that you hoped conveyed the truth of your restless slumber.

"I… I did," you murmured, your eyes flickering down to the ring on your finger, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat that began to build in your cheeks.

He sat up, the movement fluid and graceful despite his apparent fatigue. His eyes searched your face, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly in a knowing smile.

"I don't believe you," he said softly, a hint of amusement in his tone.

"But that's alright. I'm sure it'll take some time to get used to this." He gestured to the room, the grandiose space that was now, apparently, your shared domain.

You felt the heat in your cheeks intensify as he stood and stretched, the fabric of his shirt pulling tight across his broad chest. The way his muscles moved beneath the fabric made your own body respond in a way that was both thrilling and unsettling.

He paused, his gaze lingering on the couch, before speaking again. "I didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable," he said, his eyes meeting yours with a gentle warmth. "So, I slept out here."

There was a hint of vulnerability in his voice, a softness that seemed to echo the quiet of the room. "You've never been to my house right?"

You nodded, the haze of last night's events slowly lifting as the reality of your new life began to seep in.

The prospect of living with him, sharing a home, was as overwhelming as the grandeur of the suite. "No," you replied, your voice still a whisper. "I… I haven't."

He studied you for a moment, his gaze lingering on the wedding gown that clung to your body like a second skin. "Well, you have a lot of time to check it out," he said with a knowing smile. "Do you wanna get out of that dress?"

The question was innocent enough, but the way his eyes raked over you sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine.

You nodded, the movement feeling almost foreign in the face of the new intimacy that had been thrust upon you.

He pointed to a set of double doors across the room. "The bathroom is over there," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through your very core. "You can take a shower, and I'll find you something to wear. I'm sure my clothes will be a bit… oversized, but it'll be more comfortable than that gown."

The sound of scratching at the door made him stop mid-sentence, his eyes widening slightly as he looked towards the noise. "One moment," he said, his voice a hushed whisper. "I'll be right back."

He padded across the floor, the soft thud of his bare feet echoing through the vastness of the room. The scratching grew more insistent, and you watched as he opened the door to reveal a large, fluffy dog, tail wagging furiously.

"Roscoe," he sighed, bending down to greet the animal with a gentle pat. "I guess it's time for breakfast."

The sight of Lewis interacting with his pet was oddly comforting. It was a glimpse into a side of him you hadn't seen yet, a side that was more domestic and less… Ferrari-driven.

Once he was out of the room, you took a deep breath and approached the double doors he had indicated. The bathroom was as grand as the rest of the suite, with marble floors and a bathtub that looked like it could comfortably fit four people.

You stepped into the shower, allowing the warm water to cascade over your body, the heat of it soothing your tense muscles and washing away the last vestiges of the wedding night.

The sensation of the water was like a gentle caress, waking your skin to life. You felt your body begin to relax, the tension from the past few weeks draining away.

Your thoughts wandered to Lewis, to the way his eyes had searched yours, the way his voice had been so tender when he offered to help you out of your dress.

Stepping out of the shower, you found a plush robe hanging on the back of the door, the fabric as soft as a whisper.

Wrapping it around yourself, you felt a sense of comfort that was as unexpected as the wedding itself. The mirror revealed your reflection, the glow of your skin standing out against the stark white fabric.

You padded back into the bedroom, the sound of Lewis's voice faint in the distance as he talked to someone—presumably about Roscoe's breakfast. You couldn't help but feel a twinge of curiosity about the conversation, about the life that you were now a part of.

As you approached the bed, the plush rug beneath your bare feet felt like a luxurious embrace. The mattress dipped slightly as you sat down, the memory foam molding to your form as if it had been waiting for you.

You reached for the phone on the nightstand, noticing the time. It was later than you usually woke up, but the events of the last twenty-four hours had thrown any semblance of routine out the window.

You picked up the device, the screen lighting up with a flurry of notifications. Congratulatory messages from friends and colleagues filled the screen, each one a reminder of the surreal turn your life had taken.

Your thumb hovered over the messages, the urge to scroll through them warring with the fear of what you might find. Instead, you set the phone back down, the digital world feeling suddenly intrusive.

Turning your gaze to the wardrobe, you took in the towering mahogany structure that dominated the space. The doors were open slightly, revealing a sea of clothes that were as unfamiliar to you as the man you had married.

You felt a sudden urge to explore, to understand this new life that had been thrust upon you.

With the softness of the robe brushing against your legs, you walked over to the wardrobe, the floor cool against your bare feet. The scent of leather and cologne filled the air, a masculine bouquet that was distinctly Lewis'.

You reached out, your fingers trailing over the fabric of his suits, feeling the luxurious textures beneath your touch. Each garment whispered a story of races won, deals closed, and a life lived in the fast lane.

Your finger stopped at a piece of clothing line +44, hanging neatly amidst the rows of designer labels.

You decided to wear that, the scent of his cologne still lingering on the fabric, a silent invitation to embrace the reality of your union. The shirt was a size too large, the fabric whispering against your skin as you pulled it over your head.

The matching trouser, however, was a different story. They hung low on your hips, the material snug in a way that accentuated the curves of your body.

You stepped into them, feeling the softness of the fabric against your bare legs. As you pulled them up, you had to tug at the waist, the tightness making you aware of every inch of your body.

Looking into the mirror, you saw a reflection that was both strange and fascinating. The oversized shirt swamped you, the sleeves rolled up to your elbows, but the trousers hugged your form in a way that made you feel… powerful.

Before you had a chance to ponder further, you heard a knock at the door. "Come in," you called out, your voice a mix of anticipation and nerves.

The handle turned, and Lewis stepped back into the room, his eyes immediately finding yours in the mirror.

He paused, his gaze lingering on your reflection, his eyes tracing the lines of your body, outlined by his clothes. His expression was inscrutable, but you could feel the heat of his stare, the way it seemed to sear into your very soul.

"You look… surprisingly good," he said finally, his voice thick with something you couldn't quite place—desire, perhaps?

You turned to face him, the oversized shirt brushing against your legs with every step. His eyes followed the movement, the corners of his lips quirking up into a smoldering smile.

"Thank you," you replied, feeling both self-conscious and oddly alluring in his attire.

Lewis walked closer, the intensity of his gaze sending a shiver down your spine. He reached out, his hand sliding along the fabric of the shirt, ghosting over your bare skin.

His touch was light, yet it seemed to leave a trail of fire in its wake, setting your body alight with need. He stopped at the hem, his fingers lingering just above the waistband of the trousers.

"I didn't expect to see you wearing my clothes," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "It's quite a look for you."

You felt the warmth of his palm as it rested on the small of your back, his thumb making small, lazy circles on the bare skin above your waistband.

Your breath hitched in your throat, the air thick with an unspoken tension. You turned to face him fully, the heat of his body mere inches away from yours, the scent of his cologne enveloping you like a warm embrace.

"Thank you," you murmured, the words barely audible as you tried to process the sudden intimacy of the moment.

You didn't speak more as Lewis looked over at you before looked at your hand and it didn't match his. "Where's your ring?" Lewis asked, his voice a velvet caress that seemed to resonate through your very core.

The question hung in the air, thick with the scent of his cologne, and you felt your heart skip a beat as your hand reflexively curled into a fist around the empty space where your wedding band should have been.

The reality of your situation crashed down upon you—his clothes on your body, his scent surrounding you, his hand on your skin—and you realized with a start that you had left your ring on the nightstand.

Lewis' gaze followed yours to the bedside table, where the ring sat, a gleaming symbol of your marriage, of the life you had built together, and of the boundaries you were so precariously close to crossing.

He strode over with purpose, the fabric of his shirt stretching taut over the muscles of his broad back as he moved. Your eyes remained fixed on the ring as he picked it up, the gold band winking in the soft lamplight.

He turned back to you, holding it out between his thumb and forefinger, a silent question in his eyes.

You felt your heart pound in your chest as he approached, the ring glinting in the soft light. With a tremor in your hand, you reached out to take it, but Lewis was quicker. He held your hand before slowly placing it back on your finger, his touch gentle yet firm.

The warmth of his skin against yours sent an electric current up your arm, and you felt the metal of the ring cool against your finger.

For a moment, you both just stood there, the silence stretching out like a tightrope between you. Then, Lewis' thumb brushed over the back of your hand, sending a shiver down your spine, and he leaned in closer, his eyes searching yours.

"I think we both know what we're feeling," he whispered, the warmth of his breath dancing across your skin. "But we don't have to act on it."

Just as he said this, Roscoe, his bulldog, trotted into the room, tail wagging with unbridled enthusiasm. He came over to you, jumping up to place his paws on your thighs, his wet nose nuzzling into the fabric of the shirt, seeking the familiar scent of his owner.

Lewis chuckled, the tension between you momentarily easing. He took a step back, allowing you to bend down and give the dog a gentle pat on the head. "Looks like someone's happy to see you," he said, his eyes never leaving yours.

As you ruffled Roscoe's ears, the dog's enthusiasm washed over you, bringing with it a sense of comfort and familiarity that seemed to ground you in the whirlwind of emotions swirling around the room. The softness of the dog's fur contrasted with the hardness of the ring on your finger, a stark reminder of the line you had drawn.

Lewis watched the interaction with a knowing smile, his eyes warm with affection for his pet, yet tinged with something more. It was as if he could feel the magnetic pull between you, the same pull that had brought you to this point of temptation.

You knelt down to be at eye level with Roscoe, his droopy jowls framing a mouth that looked perpetually ready to give a sloppy kiss. "Hey buddy," you cooed, your voice soft and gentle. The dog's tail wagged harder, his eyes sparkling with happiness.

As you spoke to Roscoe, you felt the tension in your body begin to dissipate, his unconditional love a balm to your frazzled nerves. "You're such a good boy," you murmured, stroking his wrinkled forehead.

Roscoe's eyes closed in contentment, his tail thumping against the floorboards in a steady rhythm. The sound was comforting, a reminder of the simple joys in life that had nothing to do with the complex dance of desire and duty that you and Lewis were performing.

You spoke to Roscoe, your voice filled with genuine affection as you told him what a good boy he was, his panting breaths punctuating your words with a sweet, dog-like laughter.

Lewis watched the interaction with a soft smile, his hand coming to rest on the small of your back as he bent down beside you, his touch a silent declaration of his intentions.

"Are you ready to breakfast?" he asked, his voice a warm caress that seemed to resonate through the room, pulling you back to the present. The question was innocent enough, but the way he looked at you, his eyes dark with desire, told a different story.

You nodded, feeling the heat of his gaze on your skin as you stood, the shirt and trousers swimming around your form.

Roscoe's tail thumped a farewell as you followed Lewis out of the room, his touch lingering on your waist as he guided you through the hallway.

The kitchen was bathed in the soft glow of early morning light, the aroma of cooked breakfast wafting through the air. You felt your stomach growl, the sight of the perfectly plated meal on the counter stealing your attention.

Greek yogurt with a vibrant array of berries and a drizzle of honey sat alongside a steaming plate of scrambled eggs, the vivid green of the spinach peeking through the creamy folds, all atop a bed of nutty brown rice.

Lewis's knowing smile grew as he watched you take in the spread. "I know your taste," he said, a hint of pride in his voice as he gestured to the stool beside the breakfast bar. "It's what you always have."

You couldn't help but be impressed, and a little thrilled, that he had not only remembered but had gone to the trouble of preparing your favorite meal.

It had been your go-to breakfast since college, a balanced blend of sweetness and sustenance that had seen you through countless early mornings. "How did you know?" you asked, your voice a little breathless.

Lewis's smile grew a bit wider as he leaned against the counter. "In your folder," he said, his voice low and seductive, "it tells me everything about you."

You raised an eyebrow, taking a seat and looking up at him through your lashes. "A bit creepy, don't you think?" you teased, your voice a silky purr that belied the racing of your heart.

Lewis chuckled, the sound deep and rich, as he pulled out a chair and sat down beside you. "It's all part of the service," he said, his hand brushing against your thigh, sending a thrill up your spine. "When you marry a man like me, you get the full experience."

He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving yours, as he continued to speak. "Everything you like, everything you hate, all neatly cataloged and ready for me to cater to."

You couldn't help but feel a thrill at the idea of being so thoroughly known, even as a part of you rebelled at the thought of being reduced to a collection of preferences and habits.

But as he sat down in front of you, his legs spread wide, the fabric of his own pants straining against his powerful thighs, you realized that the line between knowing and owning had become increasingly blurred.

"Did you not receive a folder from me as well?" Lewis asked, settling into the chair across from you.

You felt a sudden warmth spread through you at the thought of him researching your preferences, but you couldn't help the playful smirk that curved your lips.

"Maybe I did," you replied coyly, taking a spoonful of the sweet, tart berries. "But I'm not one to read the manual."

Lewis's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Is that so?" he said, leaning forward and taking a piece of toast from the rack. "Well, I suppose I'll just have to show you, then."

He took a bite, the crunch echoing in the quiet room. You watched, transfixed, as he chewed slowly, savoring the flavors. Your gaze drifted from his full lips to the muscles of his throat as he swallowed, and you felt an unexpected jolt of want.

You took a bite of your eggs, the warmth of the food spreading through your body, mingling with the heat that seemed to radiate from Lewis.

As you ate, you couldn't help but let your gaze wander around the room, eventually landing on the oversized calendar hanging on the living room wall.

It was a stark reminder of the passing days, the months laid out in a grid, filled with various appointments and reminders.

"What's that for?" you asked after finishing the eggs, pointing to a mysterious circle drawn in red ink on one of the dates.

Lewis looked up from his plate, his gaze following your finger to the calendar. "It's a calendar that has all of our planned dates," he said, his voice a low murmur that sent a shiver down your spine.

You took another sip of coffee, the warmth of the liquid doing little to quench the growing fire within you. "And how do you know when I'm free?" you repeated, the question hanging in the air like a challenge.

Lewis leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving yours. "Your agency works with mine since we're married," he said simply, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate in your very bones. "They coordinate our schedules to ensure we spend quality time together."

You nodded, understanding the implications of his words. Your heart raced at the thought of the intimate moments that would be shared, the private dinners and the stolen glances in the boardroom.

Your eyes drifted back to the calendar, and you looked at the closest date with the red circle. "A shooting date? Really?" you asked, shocked but excited.

"Yeah," Lewis said with a grin that was as devilish as it was charming. "You said you're quite the sharpshooter, so I figured it was time I saw it for myself."

You felt your cheeks heat up at his teasing, but you couldn't help the smug smile that played on your lips. Growing up with two older brothers had made you a master at holding your own in any kind of competition, especially one that involved firearms.

"Is that so?" you replied, your voice filled with mock challenge.

Lewis's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Oh, you'll see," he said, his voice a dark promise. "But for now, let's focus on the task at hand."

The task at hand was indeed tantalizing. You watched as he took another bite of toast, his strong jaw working as he chewed.

"What are we focusing on?" you asked, your voice a silken thread that seemed to tie the two of you closer together.

Lewis's smile was predatory as he set down his cup. "Our marriage," he said, his eyes darkening with intent. "On our lives for this whole year."

The touch of the cold metal ring on your finger was a constant reminder of the deal you'd made, a symbol of the year of your life that was now irrevocably intertwined with his.

Lewis's eyes followed the movement of your hand as you reached for your coffee, the steam swirling around your fingers like a seductive dance.

"A year," he murmured, his voice a soft echo in the quiet of the kitchen. "It's a long time to pretend."

You took a sip, the liquid warming your throat as you met his gaze. "We're not pretending," you said, setting the cup down with a gentle click. "We're just…exploring."

Lewis leaned in closer, his eyes searching yours. "Is that what you call it?" His voice was a low murmur, the timbre of it sending shivers down your spine.

You swallowed, feeling the heat of his proximity, the way your skin seemed to sing under his gaze. "What would you call it?" you asked, your voice a barely-there whisper.

Lewis's eyes searched yours, a smoldering intensity that made you feel like you were the only woman in the world. "I'd call it…the most exciting year of our lives."

"I'll see you about that," you said, your voice a seductive purr that seemed to wrap itself around him.

The air between you crackled with an unspoken challenge, and Lewis's smile grew wicked. "Oh, I have no doubt," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate in the very marrow of your bones.

After breakfast, it was time to take Roscoe for a walk, and you decided to accompany Lewis. You were already dressed, the shirt and trousers clinging to your curves in a way that had him watching you like a hawk.

The cool air outside was a stark contrast to the heat that had been building in the kitchen, and you both took a moment to appreciate the serene beauty of the morning. The sun had barely crested the horizon, casting long shadows across the dew-kissed lawn as you stepped out onto the porch.

Roscoe bounced around at your feet, his tail wagging in excitement as he recognized the signs of his favorite activity. You laughed, the sound like a melody to Lewis's ears, as you clipped on his leash and stepped off the porch.

The leather of the leash felt cool and smooth in your hand as you led Roscoe down the cobblestone path that wound through the meticulously manicured garden. The sun was still low in the sky, casting long shadows that danced around the two of you as you moved.

Lewis walked alongside you, his long strides easily matching your shorter ones. He was dressed in a pair of gym shorts that hugged his muscular thighs and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, tanned and lightly dusted with fine hairs.

Roscoe led the way, his nose to the ground as he snuffled and explored, tail wagging with the joy of the familiar routine. The gentle tug of the leash was a comforting reminder of the simple joys in life, the kind that didn't come with the complications of marriage contracts and hidden agendas.

Your eyes strayed to Lewis's arms as they moved rhythmically with his stride, the play of muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt an entrancing sight. The cool morning air nipped at your skin, but you felt anything but cold as the heat of his presence seemed to envelop you.

"So, what are your plans for the day?" he asked, breaking the silence that had stretched between you since the moment you stepped outside.

You took a deep breath, filling your lungs with the fresh morning air. "I have a meeting with my design team," you replied, your eyes drifting to the horizon, where the sun was just beginning to paint the sky with streaks of gold and pink. "We're finalizing the collection for Milan Fashion Week."

Lewis nodded, his gaze never leaving your face. "Ah, the glamorous life of a model," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm sure you'll wow them all."

You shot him a sideways glance, the corner of your mouth quirking up in a smile. "It's more work than you think," you replied, your voice filled with a hint of challenge. "But maybe I'll save some of that wow factor for you."

Lewis's eyes lit up with interest. "Is that so?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave. "I'd love a private fashion show."

You felt a thrill at his words, a shiver of excitement that seemed to coil in your belly. "We'll see about that," you replied, the smile playing on your lips growing more pronounced.

The walk with Roscoe was a chance to breathe, to feel the earth beneath your feet and the wind in your hair. Yet, even amidst the tranquility of nature, the tension between you and Lewis was palpable, a living, pulsing entity that seemed to hum in the air.

As you approached the end of the garden path, the sun was fully risen, casting a warm glow over the landscape. The dew on the grass sparkled like a million diamonds scattered by a careless goddess.

"What about you?" you asked, turning to him, the question a soft invitation to delve into the depths of his thoughts.

Lewis's gaze was unreadable for a moment, the shadows playing across his face as the sun climbed higher. "I have a meeting with the board," he said finally. "They want to discuss the future of the Ferrari partnership."

Your heart skipped a beat at the mention of Ferrari, the very reason for the arrangement that had brought you both together. You felt a strange sense of pride at the thought of him fighting for your future together, even if it was based on a lie.

"And what about us?" you asked, your voice a soft caress that seemed to hang in the air between you. "What does the future hold for us?"

Lewis stopped, his hand coming to rest on the small of your back as he turned to face you fully. "Us?" he echoed, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through the early morning silence.

You nodded, unable to tear your gaze from his, the question hanging in the air like a delicate web of unspoken desires. "Our marriage," you clarified, your voice a soft whisper that seemed to carry on the gentle breeze.

Lewis's eyes searched yours, his hand on your back a brand that seemed to burn through the fabric of the shirt. "The future of our marriage," he began, his voice a velvet promise that seemed to wrap itself around your very soul, "is…complicated."

You felt the warmth of his palm through the thin cotton, the heat of his touch a stark contrast to the cool morning air. His thumb traced a lazy pattern against your skin, sending shivers of anticipation through your body.

"Complicated?" you echoed, your voice a soft, questioning murmur.

Lewis nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "We're both ambitious, driven people," he said, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate through the early morning air. "But we're also married now, and that comes with expectations and responsibilities."

You felt the weight of his words, the gravity of the situation settling like a warm blanket over your shoulders. "I know," you murmured, your voice barely a breath. "But we can make it work."

Lewis's hand slid up to your waist, his grip firm yet gentle. "Can we?" he asked, his eyes searching yours, a challenge and a question all rolled into one.

You stepped closer, the warmth of his body pressing against yours, the scent of him enveloping you. "We have to," you murmured, the words a declaration of intent that seemed to hang in the air like a promise.

Lewis's hand tightened around your waist, his gaze dropping to your mouth as if he were considering kissing you. "Do we?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that seemed to shake the very ground beneath you.

You stepped closer still, the heat of his body enveloping you like a warm embrace. "We can," you said, your voice a firm declaration that seemed to resonate in the air. "We'll make it work."

Lewis's eyes searched yours for a long moment, the tension between you tightening like a bowstring pulled to the breaking point.

But just as you thought you could lean in and capture his lips, Roscoe decided he had had enough of the seriousness. With a sudden burst of energy, the bulldog jumped up between you, knocking the air from your lungs as his paws thudded against your chest. You stumbled back with a surprised laugh, the spell of the moment broken.

Roscoe's tongue lolled out as he looked up at you both with innocent, expectant eyes. His tail wagged so hard it was a wonder it didn't come off.

"I guess he doesn't like us getting too serious," you said, your voice a little shaky with repressed desire.

Lewis chuckled, the sound a warm rumble that seemed to wrap around you like a blanket. He ruffled the dog's ears, his touch gentle despite the passion that had just been simmering between the two of you.

"Looks like he's not ready to share his humans just yet," he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement.

The sudden interruption was a welcome one, a reminder of the life you shared beyond the confines of your agreement. You couldn't help but laugh as you regained your balance, the feel of the cool air on your flushed cheeks a refreshing contrast to the heat that had been building in the kitchen.

Lewis chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked at the dog. "I guess we'll have to save our serious discussions for another time," he said, his voice a velvet rumble that seemed to echo the frustration of your thwarted kiss.

Roscoe's interruption had brought with it a burst of laughter, the tension of the moment dissipating like mist in the sun. You couldn't help but lean down to give the dog a grateful pat, his fur a soft cushion under your hand. "You always know how to lighten the mood," you said, your voice filled with affection.

Lewis's smile was a thing of beauty, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watched you with the dog. "He's got good timing," he said, his voice still thick with desire despite the sudden shift in dynamics.

You nodded, unable to disagree as you ruffled Roscoe's ears. "Maybe he's smarter than we give him credit for," you said with a chuckle, the sound doing little to hide the longing that still hummed in the air between you.

Lewis's eyes searched yours for a moment longer, the promise of what almost happened still lingering in the air. "Maybe," he conceded, his hand dropping to give Roscoe a firm pat on the back. "But for now, let's get you ready for your big day."

The walk back to the house was a little more subdued than the one out, the weight of your conversation a palpable presence between you. The sun had fully risen now, casting its golden fingers through the leaves of the trees that lined the path, painting the world in a warm glow.

As you reached the back door, Lewis leaned down to unclip the leash from Roscoe's collar, the dog bounding inside with a happy grumble. You stepped in after him, the coolness of the marble floor a stark contrast to the heat outside.

The scent of your combined cologne and the lingering aroma of breakfast filled the air, a heady mix that seemed to cling to your skin. . . .

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

26th January 2025

The crack of the gunshot echoed through the cavernous shooting range, a symphony of power and precision that seemed to resonate with every beat of your heart.

Lewis, his eyes wide with a mix of surprise and admiration, watched as the bullet you had just fired tore through the center of the target, leaving nothing but a gaping, flawless hole.

The smell of gunpowder and the metallic tang of fear filled the air, an intoxicating blend that made your blood pulse with excitement. It was your first date and it was a shooting range. America had gone through a strange way of bringing out the primal instincts in a girl, and you were eager to show Lewis just how wild you could be.

"You're a natural," he murmured, his British accent thick and alluring. His hand was tentatively placed on your lower back, guiding you to the next target.

His touch was a gentle whisper against your skin, a stark contrast to the deafening roar of the firearm in your hand. You smirked, taking a moment to appreciate the irony before turning to face him.

"It's all about control," you said, the words rolling off your tongue as smoothly as the trigger beneath your finger. "You have to know exactly when to let go, when to give in to the power."

Your eyes flickered down to his hand, and for a brief moment, the air between you was charged with something more than just the static of spent bullets.

You stepped away, loading another round. "My past, it's complicated. But shooting, it was something I picked up when I was in the military."

You took aim again, the gun feeling like an extension of your body. "I was in the special forces. We had to be ready for anything, anywhere." You spoke calmly, but the words were like bombs, dropping between you and shaking the foundation of what Lewis thought he knew about you.

The clang of the metal as the target flipped back to reveal the perfect shot was like a cymbal crash in the silence. You turned to him, the smoky haze of the range framing your face like a portrait of a warrior queen. "There's something about the concentration it takes, the way your entire being focuses on that one moment of truth. It's… liberating."

Lewis swallowed hard, the heat of desire burning a trail from his throat to his groin. He had never met anyone quite like you before, a blend of steel and silk that left him utterly captivated.

"It's like a dance," he murmured, stepping closer, his hand reaching for yours. "A dangerous one, but a dance nonetheless."

You grinned, the challenge in your eyes sparkling like the diamond ring on your finger, a stark reminder of the unorthodox arrangement that had brought you two together. "Why don't you try?"

You handed him the gun, your fingers lingering on his for a moment longer than necessary, watching as he took a deep breath and wrapped his hand around the grip. His palms were sweaty, his heart racing, and the smell of his cologne was a heady mix of sandalwood and something that was uniquely him.

Lewis took a step forward, his shoulders squared and his eyes focused on the target. He had never been one for violence, but there was something about the way you handled the weapon that made him want to try, to feel that same sense of power and control that you so clearly wielded.

He raised the gun, his arms steady as you whispered instructions into his ear, your breath tickling the sensitive skin at the base of his neck. The heat of your body against his back was a stark contrast to the cold steel of the firearm.

"Breathe," you coached, your voice low and soothing. "Find your center."

He missed. The bullet thudded into the wall beside the target, sending a shiver through the concrete. You stepped closer, your hand finding his as you corrected his grip.

Your body pressed against his, your curves fitting against his lines as if you were two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that had finally found their place.

"It's okay," you whispered, your breath a gentle caress against his cheek. "Let me show you."

You guided his arms, placing your hands over his so that the gun was steady. Your fingers intertwined with his, and you felt the tremble of his pulse against your palm.

His chest was a wall of warmth against your back, and his breathing grew deeper, more erratic.

You leaned into him, your eyes locked onto the target. "Now," you instructed, your voice a siren's call, "just let it happen."

As you guided his hands, the world around you seemed to fall away. There were only the two of you, the gun, and the target that represented the obstacles in your lives.

Lewis took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of your body envelop him, the scent of your perfume an intoxicating cocktail of jasmine and danger.

He squeezed the trigger, and this time the shot rang true, the bullet tearing through the target's edge with a precision that left him dizzy. He turned to you, his eyes alight with a newfound excitement.

"Better?" you teased, your smile a knowing curve that made his stomach flip.

Lewis nodded, unable to find his voice. The feel of you against him was a heady rush, the heat of your body searing through the fabric of his shirt, making him acutely aware of every inch of skin that wasn't touching yours.

"Much," he managed to murmur, his voice a gravelly echo of its usual self-assured tone.

You stepped away, giving him a playful shove. "You're a quick learner," you said, the smoky allure of your voice making his knees feel weak.

Lewis stumbled slightly, his grip on the gun tightening, his eyes never leaving yours. He had never felt this alive, this… primal before. "It's all thanks to you," he replied, his voice a rumble that seemed to resonate in the very core of your being.

You took the gun from him, placing it back into the holster with a practiced ease that made his stomach clench. "Let's go," you said, your tone a soft command that sent a thrill down his spine. "We've got other things to shoot."

The next range was a clay pigeon shoot, the discs flying through the air like doomed birds. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the field.

You handed Lewis a shotgun, the weight of it surprising him. "It's all about timing and instinct," you explained, your eyes gleaming with a predatory light that made his pulse race.

He watched as you stepped up to the firing line, the grace in your movements belying the deadly weapon in your hands. The clay disc shot upwards, a blur against the deepening blue, and with a swift, fluid motion, you brought the gun up to your shoulder and fired.

The explosion of the disc into a million pieces was a silent symphony, and Lewis couldn't tear his eyes away from the fiery passion in your eyes as you did it again and again.

Finally, it was his turn. The adrenaline was pumping through his veins, a wild, untamed beast demanding to be unleashed. You stood beside him, your hand on his shoulder as you whispered sweet nothings of guidance into his ear.

He took aim, the weight of the shotgun heavy but reassuring in his hands. The disc took flight, and he focused on the moment, the way you had taught him. The world around them slowed down to a crawl, and he pulled the trigger.

The disc shattered, and a roar of victory tore from his throat. You turned to him, your smile wide and genuine, and he could see the fire in your eyes.

The third range was a tactical simulation, a maze of walls and barriers with pop-up targets. The air was thick with anticipation, the scent of adrenaline mixing with the metallic tang of the gunpowder.

You were in your element, moving through the maze with the grace of a panther stalking its prey.

Lewis followed you, his heart hammering in his chest. You were a force of nature, a tempest that he was desperate to be swept up in.

As you rounded a corner, you paused, your hand signaling for him to wait. Your eyes locked on a target, you took a deep breath, and the gun in your hand spat fire.

The target fell, and you turned to him, your eyes gleaming with excitement. "Your turn," you whispered, a hint of challenge in your voice.

Lewis stepped into the maze, his eyes scanning the horizon for his prey. His heart was racing, but he felt a strange calm settle over him.

The target popped up, and he reacted on instinct, his body moving with a precision that surprised him. The gun roared, and the target fell. You were there, at his side, your hand on his arm, your eyes alight with something that was more than just pride.

You led him through the maze, your bodies moving in a silent dance of power and passion. Each shot he took brought him closer to you, until the last target fell and the world around them was still, save for the pounding of their hearts.

You turned to him, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "You did it," you murmured, your voice a seductive caress. "You're a natural."

Lewis couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment at the praise, his chest puffing out slightly.

"Thank you," he breathed, his eyes never leaving yours. "But it's all thanks to you, really." His hand reached out, tentatively brushing a strand of hair from your face. "You're the one who's been guiding me through this… wild ride."

The small restaurant by the shooting range was a cozy little retreat, the perfect place to let the adrenaline of the day melt away into something more intimate.

The dim lights and the soft murmur of the other diners created an ambiance that was both intimate and electrifying. As you sat down at a corner booth, Lewis's hand found its way to your waist, his fingers ghosting over the soft fabric of your trousers.

You didn't mind his touch; in fact, it was surprisingly comforting. The thrill of the day had left you both on edge, and the gentle pressure of his hand was a reminder that despite the chaos of your new lives, you had found something real in the midst of the façade.

You leaned into him, a small smile playing on your lips as you picked up the menu.

The paparazzi outside the restaurant didn't bother you. They had caught you both leaving the range, Lewis's arm wrapped protectively around your shoulders, the gun in your hand still smoking.

It was a picture that would be on every tabloid cover the next day, but for now, you were just two people enjoying a meal together.

As you peruse the menu, his thumb traced lazy circles on your waist, sending shivers down your spine.

The waiter approached, a knowing smile playing on his lips as he took your orders. He was used to serving high-profile clients, and the sight of Lewis's hand casually resting on your waist was not lost on him.

He nodded discreetly and retreated, leaving the two of you in the warm embrace of the dimly lit booth.

You reached for your wine glass, the coolness of the crystal a stark contrast to the heat of your skin. Lewis's eyes never left you. You took a sip, the rich notes of the Merlot dancing on your tongue as you watched him over the rim.

His fingers tightened slightly, pulling you closer, and you felt the warmth of his breath on your neck. "You're amazing," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent a thrill down your spine. "I had no idea you could shoot like that."

You set the glass down, your hand brushing against his as you did so. "It's all about control," you repeated, your voice a soft purr that sent his pulse racing.

Lewis didn't care anymore. He had a woman beside him, an angel at most. The restaurant's dim lighting cast a warm glow on your faces as you leaned in closer, the whispers of your conversation lost in the gentle clinking of silverware and the soft murmur of other diners.

His hand, which had been tentatively placed on your waist, grew bolder, sliding around to the small of your back, pulling you in until your thighs brushed against his.

You were the only one holding back.

"I didn't know you were such a good actor," you whispered into his ear, your breath hot and sweet with the scent of wine.

"I have my moments," he whispered back, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he leaned closer, the scent of his cologne swirling around you like a seductive mist.

As you sipped at your wine, your mind wandered to the Ferrari team. It was a topic that had been a constant in your conversations since the wedding happened.

Lewis's excitement was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to vibrate in the air between you. He talked about the future races, the cars, the camaraderie of the team with such passion that you couldn't help but be drawn into his world.

You nodded along, your eyes never leaving his face as he spoke of the thrill of speed, the roar of the engines, and the adrenaline rush that came with pushing the limits.

Your nods grew more enthusiastic as he described the sleek lines of the Ferraris, the way the sun kissed the red paint, making it gleam like the most tempting of fruits.

You could see the yearning in his eyes, the desperation to be a part of that elite group of drivers who ruled the asphalt with a fiery passion that consumed them.

"It's like nothing else," he said, his voice filled with a reverence that was almost religious. "The wind in your hair, the engine roaring beneath you… it's pure freedom."

You leaned closer, the warmth of his words wrapping around you like a blanket. "I can see it in your eyes," you murmured, your voice thick with a desire that had nothing to do with the speed of the cars and everything to do with the passion that fueled his every word.

Lewis took a deep breath, his hand sliding up your back to cradle the nape of your neck. "I'd hope so," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to resonate through your very soul.

You set your fork down, the clink of silver against porcelain seeming to echo through the restaurant. The rest of the world faded away, leaving only the two of you in the warm embrace of the candlelit booth.

You felt his breath on your skin, his scent mingling with the aroma of the food and wine, creating a heady cocktail that made you lightheaded with desire.

"Should we go home now?" you asked, your voice a soft, sultry purr that seemed to caress his very soul.

"Yes," he murmured, the word thick with need. "Let's go home."

The drive back to your shared secluded house was silent, punctuated only by the roar of Lewis’s Ferrari. He navigated the winding roads with practiced ease, the headlights cutting through the darkness, mirroring the way he had skillfully navigated your defenses.

You glanced at him, his profile sharp against the passing streetlights. He looked every inch the Formula 1 superstar, but you knew there was more to him than the public persona.

The drive back to your secluded hilltop villa was silent, punctuated only by the roar of Lewis’s Ferrari. He navigated the winding roads with practiced ease, the headlights cutting through the darkness, mirroring the way he had skillfully navigated your defenses.

You glanced at him, his profile sharp against the passing streetlights. He looked every inch the Formula 1 superstar, but you knew there was more to him than the public persona.

As you pulled into the driveway, you felt the familiar knot of anxiety tighten in your chest. The charade was one thing in the public eye, but back within these walls, the line between reality and performance blurred.

He turned to you, his eyes searching. "You okay?"

You offered a small, tight smile. "Just tired."

Inside, the villa was cool and quiet. You both moved with a practiced dance, the choreography of shared space and unspoken rules. You went to the kitchen to pour yourself a glass of water, the clinking of the glass echoing in the stillness. Lewis leaned against the doorway, watching you.

"They really went crazy with the photos tonight," he said, his voice low. "Think it'll be a problem?"

You shrugged, taking a sip. "Doubt it. It's good publicity for Ferrari. Keeps the sponsors happy."

He pushed off the doorframe and walked towards you, his movements fluid and graceful. "Is that all this is to you, then? Publicity?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions. You set down your glass, turning to face him. "What else would it be, Lewis? It's a contract. An agreement."

He stepped closer, invading your personal space. "Is it?" His voice was a soft challenge, his eyes locked on yours.

You swallowed, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Yes. It has to be."

But the look in his eyes, the way he stepped closer, the heat of his body against yours, made you question everything. You had promised yourself that you would keep this arrangement strictly professional, but the way he made you feel was anything but.

"If that's what you want," Lewis said softly, his gaze dropping to your mouth.

You felt your resolve wavering like a candle flame in the wind. Roscoe, his bulldog, lay sprawled on the floor.

The glass of water in your hand trembled slightly, the condensation slipping down the side and onto your fingertips.

The coolness of the glass was a stark contrast to the heat of your palm, a reminder of the passion that had been building between you and Lewis all evening.

You didn't answer. You couldn't. The words were trapped in your throat. You took another sip, the water a refreshing balm to your dry mouth, and you tried to ignore the way his eyes had darkened, the way his breathing had changed.

Lewis reached out, brushing a droplet of water from your chin with the pad of his thumb. "We don't have to pretend here," he whispered.

Your eyes searched his, looking for any hint of the playboy persona you had been warned about, but all you saw was sincerity and something that looked suspiciously like affection.

It had only been a few days since the wedding, a whirlwind of flashing cameras and forced smiles, but somehow, in this quiet kitchen, it felt like a lifetime.

You knew this year was going to be hard. A year of playing the part of the loving wife, of smiling for the cameras, of sharing a house with a man you had only just met.

You had to stand your ground, keep the emotions at bay. This was a marriage of convenience, nothing more. . . .

1st February 2025

The roar of your hairdryer fills the opulent bathroom of your Monaco apartment, a stark contrast to the nervous flutter in your stomach.

"Are you sure I have to come?" you ask, your voice slightly muffled by the roaring appliance. You stare at your reflection, meticulously smoothing a stray strand of burgundy hair.

The life of a top model is often glamorous, filled with photoshoots in exotic locations and VIP parties.

But this… this is different. This is Ferrari and this is with Lewis.

A familiar face pops around the doorframe, a mischievous glint in his brown eyes. "Yes, you have to," Lewis replies, leaning against the doorjamb.

He watches you with an amused expression, clearly enjoying your apprehension. "Think of it as a field trip. Besides," he adds with a wink, "they're dying to meet the infamous 'you'."

You roll your eyes, switching off the hairdryer. "Infamous how, exactly?" you retort, turning to face him.

He chuckles, pushing himself off the doorframe and walking towards you. "Infamously beautiful. Infamously talented. And, let's be honest, infamously… married to me."

"Don't remind me," you murmur, but there's a playful smile on your lips.

"Come on," he says, pulling away slightly. "We need to leave. The Prancing Horse awaits."

You take one last look in the mirror, adjusting the straps of your scarlet red dress. It's a bold choice, a deliberate nod to Ferrari's iconic color.

Lewis is wearing a red top and black trousers, a coordinated effort that makes you feel almost… like a real couple.

The drive to Maranello is a blur of rolling hills and picturesque Italian villages. As you approach the Ferrari factory, the air crackles with anticipation. This is hallowed ground for racing enthusiasts, a place where legends are born.

As you step out of the car, you are immediately engulfed by a wave of excitement. The air hums with the sounds of engines revving and the scent of gasoline and burning rubber.

You walk alongside Lewis, your heels clicking on the pristine asphalt. He holds your hand, his touch a reassuring anchor in the sea of unfamiliar faces.

The staff greet Lewis with enthusiasm, their faces lighting up as he shakes their hands and exchanges words of appreciation.

You try your best to smile and nod, feeling a bit like an imposter in this world of high-octane adrenaline and finely tuned machinery.

"And this is my wife, Y/N," Lewis announces with a pride that makes your heart flutter. "She's a model, and a very talented one at that."

The staff members turn their attention to you, their eyes widening with curiosity. You offer a polite smile, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries. You can feel their scrutiny, their silent assessment.

You are an outsider in their world, a glamorous anomaly in a culture obsessed with speed and precision.

The highlight of the tour is undoubtedly the unveiling of Lewis's new F1 car. It's a magnificent machine, a symphony of carbon fiber and aerodynamic curves. The vibrant red paint gleams under the bright lights, and the Ferrari logo stands proudly on its nose.

"Wow," you breathe, genuinely impressed. "It's… incredible."

"Want to see what it feels like?" Lewis asks with a grin.

Before you can answer, he's already gesturing for one of the mechanics to help you get in. You hesitate for a moment, unsure if you're really cut out for this. But the excitement in Lewis's eyes is infectious, and you find yourself climbing into the cockpit.

It's surprisingly cramped, the seat molded perfectly to the driver's body. You adjust the steering wheel, marveling at the array of buttons and switches. For a moment, you feel like you're about to launch into orbit.

"Careful now," Lewis says, chuckling as he watches you. "Don't press any of the wrong buttons."

You laugh, trying to imagine yourself racing around a track at 200 miles per hour. It's a far cry from your usual world of fashion shows and photo shoots.

But then, disaster strikes. You try to get out of the car, but your leg gets stuck. You wiggle and squirm, but to no avail. You're completely wedged in, unable to move.

"Having a little trouble?" Lewis teases, but you can see the concern in his eyes.

He steps closer, reaching into the cockpit to help you. His hands brush against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. He pulls gently, and with a final tug, you're free.

"Thanks," you murmur, trying to ignore the heat that has flooded your cheeks.

"Well, that was certainly… interesting," you say, trying to laugh it off.

"Don't worry," Lewis says, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. "It happens to the best of us. Besides," he whispers in your ear, "it was quite entertaining to watch."

You elbow him playfully, and he laughs, the sound rich and warm. You can feel his chest vibrate against your arm, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

The rest of the evening is a whirlwind of handshakes and photo ops, but through it all, Lewis keeps you close. His hand is a constant presence on the small of your back, guiding you through the throngs of people, his thumb tracing small, comforting circles.

You manage to sneak away during a lull in the festivities, slipping into the team's merchandise store. The walls are adorned with the Ferrari emblem, red and yellow, the color of passion and fire. You scan the racks, looking for something that will truly surprise him.

Your eyes fall on a sleek Ferrari shirt, tailored to perfection, and a matching hat with the iconic prancing horse logo. The fabric feels like a second skin, and you can't resist the urge to try it on. The shirt hugs your curves in all the right places.

You make your purchase, the thrill of the secret hiding behind your innocent smile. As you slip the shirt over your dress, the fabric clings to your curves. The hat sits atop your head, the perfect finishing touch to your impromptu disguise.

"Lewis," you call out, your voice a siren's call through the bustling crowd. "I found something."

He turns, his eyes scanning the room before landing on you. The sight of you in the Ferrari shirt and hat makes his heart stumble. You look like a forbidden fruit, a temptress in the heart of his empire.

"What do you think?" you ask, spinning in a playful circle, the fabric of the shirt gliding against your skin like a lover's caress.

Lewis's eyes darken, his smile growing more predatory. "I think," he muttered, stepping closer, "that you look absolutely stunning."

His hand slides down your arm, his fingers brushing the bare skin above the shirt's sleeve. The sensation sends a jolt of electricity through you, a current that lights up your entire body.

"Let's take a picture," a staff member says, a camera already in hand.

Lewis's gaze lingers on you, his eyes tracing the contours of your body in the tight Ferrari shirt.

He knows the picture will be for the press, but the idea of capturing this moment, this intimacy, feels more personal. He nods, his hand sliding down to yours, our fingers entwining.

The flash from the camera pierces the dim light of the merchandise store, freezing the moment in time. You lean into him, his arm snaking around your waist as you pose for the shot, the fabric of your dress riding up slightly. His hand feels like a brand, leaving a trail of heat on your skin.

"Perfect," the staff member says, lowering the camera with a knowing smile. You both look at each other, the energy between you palpable.

You look at the picture that the staff member has just taken. In the frame, Lewis' hand is resting against the side of your butt, a gesture that seems innocent to anyone else but is loaded with a tension that makes your stomach flip.

The way his fingers curve slightly, as if he's holding onto something precious, sends a wave of heat through your body.

You force a laugh, hoping to diffuse the situation, but the way his thumb is ghosting small circles over your hip bone tells you that he's as aware of the intimacy as you are. The fabric of your dress clings to your skin, the heat of his hand branding you from the inside out.

"Well, that's definitely going to make the front page," you murmur, trying to keep your voice light. But your heart is racing, the anticipation of what's to come a delicious cocktail of excitement and nerves.

Lewis leans in, his breath warm against your ear. "Let's make sure it's not the only thing they're talking about tomorrow," he whispers, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.

The evening wears on, the air growing thick with the scent of ambition and desire. You find yourself drawn into conversations about engine specs and racing strategies, your interest piqued by the passion in the voices of those around you.

But it's Lewis's passion that truly captivates you. As he talks shop with the Ferrari engineers, you can't help but stare at his animated expressions, the way his eyes light up when he discusses his love for the sport. His enthusiasm is contagious, and you feel your own excitement building.

Later, you find yourself in a more private setting, meeting with Fred Vasseur, Ferrari's team principal. You've met him before, at various racing events to discuss the marriage, but this feels different. This is Ferrari territory, and you're here as Lewis's wife.

Fred greets you with a warm smile, shaking your hand and offering a compliment on your dress. "It's good to see you both," he says, his eyes twinkling. "You make a lovely couple."

You exchange glances with Lewis, a silent understanding passing between you. It's a game, a performance that Fred had set the two of you to do.

But sometimes, it's hard to tell where the performance ends and reality begins.

Fred leads you to his office, a spacious room filled with racing memorabilia and photographs of Ferrari legends. He offers you a glass of champagne, and you all sit down to chat.

The conversation revolves around racing, of course. Fred is clearly passionate about the sport, and he talks with enthusiasm about Lewis's potential with Ferrari. You listen politely, interjecting with the occasional question or comment.

But as the conversation progresses, you notice Fred's gaze lingering on you. He seems genuinely interested in you, not just as the woman he picked to be Lewis's wife, but as an individual.

"So, Y/N," he says, leaning forward slightly. "What do you think of all this? Are you enjoying the world of Formula 1 so far?"

You pause, considering your answer. "It's certainly… different," you say with a smile. "It's a lot more intense than I expected."

"It is," Fred agrees. "But it's also incredibly rewarding. It's a world of passion, dedication, and teamwork. And of course," he adds with a wink, "a little bit of glamour."

You laugh, feeling a sense of connection with Fred. He seems to understand the unique position you're in, the challenges and opportunities that come with being married to a Formula 1 superstar.

As the meeting draws to a close, Fred stands up and shakes your hand again. "It was a pleasure seeing you, Y/N," he says sincerely. "I hope you enjoy your time with us here at Ferrari."

"Thank you," you reply, returning his smile. "I'm sure I will."

As you leave the office, Lewis's hand finds yours, threading through your fingers. The connection feels natural, the warmth of his skin sending a comforting thrum through your body.

"You handled that well," he says, his voice a low murmur that sends a shiver down your spine. "Fred can be a bit intense."

You nod, sipping your champagne. "I'm getting used to it."

Lewis squeezes your hand, and the warmth of his touch sends a jolt through you, making you acutely aware of the delicate balance of power between you. "Good," he says, his voice a gentle rumble. "Because there's a lot more to come."

You say goodbye to the crew with a mix of relief and apprehension. The evening had been a whirlwind of new experiences, and you can't help but feel a little overwhelmed.

The crew, a tight-knit group of mechanics and engineers, had treated you with respect, but you know that their loyalty was first and foremost to Lewis.

As you walk away from the bustling garage, the roar of engines fading into the background, you turn to him, your heart racing.

"Thank you for bringing me here," you say, your voice low and earnest. "It's not every day I get to be a part of something so… exhilarating."

Lewis's smile widens, his eyes gleaming with something that looks suspiciously like pride. "It's nothing," he says, playing it cool. "Just a little taste of the world I live in."

Lewis flashed a cheeky wink while opening the door of his stunning Ferrari for you, saying, "I look forward to seeing you shine on the runway."

You slid into the car, the leather seats hugging your body as he settled in beside you. The engine purred to life, the vibration resonating through you, a silent promise of the speed and power waiting to be unleashed.

As he drove, you felt his eyes on you, his gaze lingering on your legs, exposed by the slit in your dress.

"You know," he began, his voice a velvet caress, "you look absolutely stunning in that Ferrari gear."

The car's engine hummed beneath you, a symphony of power and precision, mirroring the way your heart was racing at his words. The leather seats seemed to mold to your body, holding you in a seductive embrace.

Lewis's hand was steady on the steering wheel, his knuckles white with the effort of not reaching out to touch you again. The tension in the air was palpable, a living, breathing entity that seemed to pulse with every beat of your heart.

You leaned back into the luxurious leather seat, the hum of the engine a constant reminder of the power beneath you. The fabric of the Ferrari shirt was a second skin, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of liberation, as if you had shed the layers of your old life and were being reborn into something new, something thrilling.

Lewis's gaze was a constant presence, his eyes devouring the way the shirt hugged your curves. You felt his desire like a physical force, a magnetic pull that was impossible to ignore. The car was a cocoon of heat and passion, the very essence of your arrangement distilled into this single moment.

Eleven more months. The thought sent a shiver down your spine. It was a prison sentence and a promise of freedom all rolled into one. You had signed up for this, for the glamour and the thrills, but what you hadn't counted on was the man beneath the racing suit. . . .

3rd Februrary 2025

The sun had barely kissed the horizon as you stirred from your slumber, the insistent buzz of your alarm clock piercing the quietude of your Italian house.

You groaned, rolling over to silence it, your hand brushing against the cool, empty space beside you.

Throwing off the silk sheets, you slid out of bed and padded over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a breathtaking view of the Mediterranean.

The early morning light painted the waves in shades of pink and gold, casting a warm glow over the city that never sleeps. But for you, the day had started hours ago, your internal clock set to the rigorous schedule of a top model.

You walked through the sprawling apartment, the marble floors cool under your bare feet, heading towards the sound of gentle snoring. Roscoe, Lewis's bulldog, was sprawled out on a plush doggy bed in the corner of the room, his broad chest rising and falling in time with his deep, contented breaths.

You couldn't help but smile as you leaned down to pet his velvety ears. His eyes flickered open, and he greeted you with a sleepy yawn before nuzzling into your hand.

Leaving the dog to his slumber, you tiptoed into the master suite, the sanctum where the man you were married to, for all intents and purposes, lay in peaceful repose.

You felt a strange thrill at the sight of him, his features relaxed and boyish in sleep. The reality of your arrangement had not diminished the allure of this elusive, enigmatic figure who had stumbled into your life.

Lewis lay on his back, one arm thrown above his head, showcasing the tapestry of tattoos that adorned his bicep. The sheets had slipped down, revealing the contours of his chiseled chest, a sculpture of muscle and sinew that spoke of his dedication to his sport.

You felt a sudden urge to crawl back into bed with him but this was his space, his sanctuary, and you were merely an interloper in his world.

Instead, you retreated to the en suite bathroom where you began your meticulous skincare routine, the soft murmur of the faucet as you washed your face a comforting lullaby.

The feel of the cool water was a gentle caress against your skin, waking you up fully. You applied your serums and creams with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker, each movement calculated to maintain the flawless complexion that had made you a household name.

The gym called next, the allure of the treadmill and the weights beckoning with the promise of endurance and strength. You pushed your body, the burn in your muscles a reminder of the discipline required to stay at the top of your game.

As you worked out, you couldn't help but think of Lewis, his own rigorous routine that would start in a few hours.

The day stretched before you, a canvas of potential and uncertainty. You were here, in the heart of Ferrari's world, a world that was as foreign to you as a catwalk was to him.

Yet, there was an undeniable thrill in the challenge of navigating the uncharted waters of Formula 1.

After your workout, you slipped into your robe, the soft terry cloth a gentle embrace against your damp skin. You paused in front of the mirror, taking stock of your reflection.

The hairdryer's roar filled the bathroom as you aimed it at your curly hair, the hot air a comforting warmth that danced through the damp strands.

You applied a generous amount of volumizing mousse, working it into the roots with your fingertips, feeling the cool gel sizzle against your scalp.

Each twirl of the dryer's nozzle brought your curls to life, a wild halo of fiery passion that framed your face.

You heard a knock, the sound echoing through the tiles. "Y/N? Are you in there?" Lewis' voice was muffled by the barrier of the door, but the anticipation in his tone was unmistakable.

You turned off the hairdryer, the sudden silence deafening. "Just a minute," you called out, your heart skipping a beat.

You took a deep breath, letting the warmth of the robe envelop you as you tied the belt securely around your waist. Your hair cascaded over your shoulders in a fiery waterfall, each curl perfectly in place.

You felt a flutter of nervousness in your stomach as you prepared to face the day ahead, to face Lewis in his element, his world of speed and power.

With a final spritz of hairspray to hold the masterpiece in place, you stepped out of the bathroom, the plush rug underfoot a stark contrast to the cold marble.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon wafted through the air, a domestic bliss that seemed almost incongruous with the adrenaline-fueled life you knew he led.

Lewis looked up from the stove, a spatula in hand, and your breath hitched at the sight of him. He was shirtless, his abs rippling with each movement, a testament to the countless hours he spent in the gym.

His eyes traveled up and down your body, a smoldering look that seemed to strip away the layers of the robe, leaving you feeling exposed and wanton.

"I'm making breakfast," he said, his voice a low purr that seemed to resonate through your very bones. "Did you want the same, or anything different?"

You felt a flush creep up your neck as his eyes roved over you, taking in the way the robe clung to your body. The question hung in the air, heavy with innuendo.

"Surprise me," you murmured, trying to keep your voice steady. The air in the kitchen seemed to crackle with tension as he set the spatula down and approached you.

Lewis stepped closer, the scent of him mixing with the tantalizing smells of breakfast. His hand reached for your chin, tilting it up to meet his gaze.

The touch was featherlight, a stark contrast to the power you knew he wielded on the racetrack. His thumb traced your bottom lip, sending a shiver through your core.

"You're going to love it," he promised, the corners of his mouth tipping up in a wicked smile.

You nodded, taking a step backward. "I'll get changed," you said, walking past Roscoe who was half-asleep on the plush carpet, his snores a gentle reminder of the quiet moments you two shared amidst the chaos of Lewis' world.

In the bedroom, you slipped off the robe, the cool air kissing your flushed skin. You reached into the closet, the hangers whispering as you searched for the perfect outfit to face the day.

Your clothes arrived the day after your wedding. You fingered the garments, each one a carefully chosen piece of the puzzle that would shape your new identity as a Ferrari wife.

The dresses were bold and elegant, the fabrics whispering of wealth and prestige, and the lingerie, a tantalizing promise of the intimate moments you'd share with Lewis.

But today, there was no need for the grandeur of haute couture. You chose a simple white tank top and a pair of distressed jeans, the fabric kissing your skin.

A pair of black sneakers completed the ensemble, their laces untied and loose, inviting the casual ease that the day demanded.

As you descended the stairs, the aroma of fresh coffee grew stronger, the rich scent wrapping around you like a warm embrace. You found Lewis in the kitchen, his muscular back to you as he moved with an easy grace that seemed almost unreal for someone who pushed the limits of physics for a living.

He wore a pair of black sweatpants that clung to his thighs, leaving little to the imagination.

The breakfast spread on the table was a feast fit for a king, or perhaps a Formula 1 champion. The sun streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm glow on the plates of crispy bacon, fluffy eggs, and golden toast.

There was a bowl of fresh berries, their vibrant colors popping against the pristine white of the porcelain, and a small mountain of whipped cream that looked like it had been piped there by an angel.

The sight of the food made your stomach rumble with hunger, and you couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt for the calories you were about to indulge in.

But then again, you'd earned it, with the grueling workout and the emotional tightrope you'd been walking since you woke up.

Lewis turned to you, a plate of food in hand, the muscles in his arms flexing as he offered it with a flourish. "Here you go, gorgeous," he said, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Fuel for the day ahead."

You took the plate, the warmth of his hand lingering on yours. You took a seat at the breakfast nook, watching as he served himself and joined you. The way he moved, the confidence in every gesture, was intoxicating. You felt a sudden urge to reach out, to trace the taut muscles of his forearm, but you resisted.

The first bite of eggs was heavenly, the yolk running like liquid gold over the toast. You chewed thoughtfully, watching Lewis as he devoured his breakfast with a focus that was almost feral.

He looked up, catching you staring. "What?" he asked, a smear of ketchup on his bottom lip.

You leaned over, wiping it away with your thumb, your gaze lingering on his mouth. "Nothing," you said, your voice a soft purr.

"For someone who wants to keep it professional, you're very seductive," Lewis murmured, his eyes darkening.

You felt a blush creep up your neck as you sat across from him, the intimate setting of the breakfast nook suddenly feeling much smaller.

You took a sip of coffee, the heat of the liquid doing little to quell the fire that his words had ignited. "I'm just being me," you said with a shrug, trying to keep your voice light.

Lewis leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving yours. "And that's the problem," he said, a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You make it very difficult for me to focus on anything else."

The room grew warm, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife. You took a bite of toast, the crunch echoing in the silence. The butter melted on your tongue, a rich and decadent treat that seemed to mirror the situation unfolding before you.

Lewis' eyes remained locked on yours, the playful smirk on his face hinting at the thrill of the chase.

"You're only supposed to focus on me, you cheater," you teased, slapping his bare shoulder playfully.

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made your stomach flip. "And here I thought we were just having breakfast," he said, raising an eyebrow.

You felt your cheeks flush, the heat spreading down to your chest.

The way he said it, with that hint of challenge, made you want to prove him wrong. To show him that you were more than just a pretty face, that you could handle this world of fast cars and faster men.

"Is that so?" You replied, taking another sip of your coffee, feeling the liquid warmth slide down your throat. "Well, I suppose I'll have to be on my best behavior, then."

Lewis's smile grew wider, a playful spark in his eyes. "Best behavior doesn't suit you," he murmured, reaching across the table to take your hand.

You felt a sudden urge to lean in, to kiss the smugness from his lips, but you held back. This was a dance, a delicate ballet of power and passion, and you were determined not to trip over your own feet.

Roscoe's snores grew louder, the bass line to the symphony of your racing hearts. You watched as Lewis' thumb traced lazy circles on the back of your hand, the movement sending a cascade of sensations up your arm.

With a sudden jolt, Roscoe's eyes shot open, his sleepy gaze locking onto the two of you. He stretched, his stubby legs pushing against the plush rug, and let out a low, questioning whine.

The sound was like a pinprick to the balloon of intimacy that had filled the room, and you both laughed, the moment broken.

Lewis leaned down to rub Roscoe's belly, his muscles rippling with the movement. "Looks like someone's ready for breakfast," he said, his eyes never leaving yours.

You couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment as the spell was broken. But as you watched the dog wag his tail with excitement, you realized that maybe, just maybe, the interruption was for the best.

You had a day of pretending ahead of you, a day of smiles and nods and playing the part of the adoring wife. The last thing you needed was to get lost in the seductive pull of Lewis' gaze and forget where you stood.

Breakfast turned into a lesson in the art of flirting without crossing lines. You exchanged barbs and stories, each one a little more personal than the last.

The banter was easy, natural, and you found yourself laughing more than you had in weeks. It was a dance you hadn't practiced, but one that you were surprisingly good at.

As you watched Lewis feed Roscoe a piece of bacon, you couldn't help but feel a strange kinship with the dog. He took the food from your hand with a gentle nip, his eyes never leaving yours, as if to say, 'You're part of this now.'

You leaned back in your chair, your eyes on the dog as he gobbled up the treat. "I think he likes you more than me," you said with a laugh.

Lewis grinned, his eyes never leaving yours. "Well, I am the one feeding him the good stuff," he replied, popping a piece of toast into his mouth.

The conversation turned to the day ahead, the upcoming event of you going to the USA while Lewis was doing intense training. You felt your stomach tighten with nerves.

But Lewis seemed unfazed. He talked about the new car, the team, the strategy for the season, his words a symphony of passion and knowledge.

As you finished your coffee, you took a deep breath, the caffeine jolting you into action. "I should go call Sarah," you said, standing up. "Make sure she's not too upset I couldn't be at her event today."

Lewis nodded, his eyes darkening with understanding. "I'll take Roscoe for a walk," he said, scooping the dog into his arms. "We'll be back before you know it."

You watched them leave, the sight of Lewis' strong arms cradling the pup bringing a smile to your lips. The door closed, leaving you in the quiet embrace of the apartment.

You picked up your phone, scrolling through to find Sarah's number. The call connected, and her voice, so familiar and soothing, filled your ear.

"Hey," you said, trying to keep the wobble out of your voice. "I'm so sorry I couldn't be there."

"Don't worry about it," she replied, her tone understanding. "We've got it all under control. How's life with the speed demon?"

You sighed, leaning against the marble countertop. "It's… intense," you admitted. "But he's not all bad."

Sarah's laughter filled the line. "Intense? That's an understatement if I've ever heard one. Of course, I wouldn't be complaining if I had a hubby like him," she joked, her voice teasing.

You couldn't help but smile, thinking of the way Lewis's muscles had flexed as he held Roscoe. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"So, do you like him?" Sarah's question was as direct as a bullet, piercing through the veil of your thoughts.

You paused, the phone pressed to your ear, your gaze drifting over the opulent kitchen, the aroma of Lewis's cologne still lingering. "It's complicated," you said finally, the words sticky on your tongue.

Sarah's laugh was understanding. "Well, when isn't it? But seriously, Y/N, I can tell he's different from the others."

You swallowed, the lump in your throat suddenly large. "It's just… we have to keep it professional," you said, hearing the waver in your voice.

"Professional," she echoed, the word sounding almost foreign in the context of the undeniable chemistry you shared. "But do you like him?"

You stared at the phone, the question hanging in the air like a challenge.

You liked Lewis, of course you did. You liked the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when he laughed, the way his hands felt on your skin, the sound of his voice in the quiet moments when the world fell away.

But it was more than that, deeper than the superficial attraction that had drawn you to your previous flings. You liked the way he talked about his work, the passion that consumed him, the way his entire being seemed to come alive when he was behind the wheel.

You took a deep breath, the scent of Lewis' cologne still lingering in the air. "I do," you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "But it's complicated."

Sarah was silent for a moment, and you could almost hear her mind racing on the other end of the line. "Okay," she said finally. "But remember, you're there for the experience. Don't let anyone tell you how to feel."

Her words echoed in your mind as you hung up the phone. You had agreed to this marriage for a year, a year of playing the role of the devoted wife, a year of navigating the treacherous waters of the Formula 1 world.

But what if the lines between reality and the role became blurred? What if the attraction you felt was more than just a spark, but a flame that threatened to consume you both?

You pushed the thoughts aside as Lewis and Roscoe returned from their walk. The dog was panting, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, and Lewis had a smudge of mud on his cheek.

You couldn't help but laugh, the sight of them a welcome reprieve from the tumult of your thoughts.

"Looks like you two had fun," you said, gesturing to the mud on Lewis's face.

He grinned, a boyish charm lighting up his features. "Roscoe found a puddle," he explained, wiping the smudge away.

But you couldn't resist. You stepped closer, taking the napkin from his hand. "Let me," you murmured, your voice a soft caress.

As you reached up to wipe the remaining smudge of mud, your hand brushed against his cheek, the stubble grazing your skin like sandpaper. His eyes searched yours, the heat in them unmistakable.

You felt your breath hitch in your throat as you gently dabbed at the mud, your heart racing like an engine at full throttle.

When you had finished, you stepped back, the napkin still clutched in your hand. The silence between you was charged, a live wire humming with unspoken desire.

Lewis' gaze dropped to your mouth, his pupils dilating with want. For a moment, you thought he would lean in, claim your lips in a fiery kiss that would set the world ablaze. But he held back, the line between professional and personal blurring like the horizon on a race track.

You took a step away, needing the space to breathe. "I should… get ready," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lewis nodded, the heat in his eyes not dissipating. "I'll be waiting for you," he said, his voice low and thick.

You retreated to the bedroom, your heart pounding in your chest.

The walls of the luxurious suite seemed to close in around you, the weight of the unspoken moment heavy on your shoulders.

You took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of Lewis that lingered in the air, a tantalizing mix of sweat and cologne that seemed to cling to every surface.

The meeting for Milan Fashion Week 2025 was in a few hours, and you had to be prepared. You rummaged through your wardrobe, the fabric of your clothes whispering against your fingertips as you pulled out the outfits you had meticulously chosen.

Each piece was a deliberate statement, a declaration of your intent to conquer the fashion world. You slipped into a sleek black jumpsuit that hugged your body like a second skin, the material whispering sweet nothings of power and seduction as you zipped it up.

The low neckline was a silent challenge, the plunging back a promise of what lay beneath.

Lewis knocked on the door, his voice a gentle reminder of the world outside your cocoon of fabric and ambition. "Ready to go?" he called out, the anticipation in his tone palpable.

You took a deep breath, stepping into a pair of stiletto heels that made you feel like you could walk on air. "As ready as I'll ever be," you replied, your voice steady despite the storm of nerves raging in your chest.

He was waiting in the hallway, looking like a vision in his own right. His black Ferrari-emblazoned jacket and pants were a stark contrast to your all-black ensemble, the vibrant red of the logo standing out like a beacon of passion.

The sight of him made your heart stutter, a reminder of the electricity that sizzled between you.

"You look… wow," he breathed, his eyes drinking you in.

You couldn't help but blush under his scrutiny. "Thank you," you murmured, trying to keep the tremor of desire from your voice. "So do you."

He offered his arm, and you took it, feeling the warmth of his skin against your own. As you descended the stairs, the click of your heels echoed through the hallway, a seductive rhythm that seemed to sync with the pounding of your heart.

The drive to the meeting was a silent one, the tension in the car thick enough to slice through.

You glanced at Lewis, his eyes focused on the road, his jaw set in determination. You wondered if he was thinking about the race or about the way you looked in that jumpsuit.

When you arrived at the sleek Milanese building, a cacophony of flashbulbs and eager whispers greeted you. The paparazzi had caught wind of your presence, and they were like sharks in a feeding frenzy. You took a deep breath, ready to face the storm.

As you stepped out of the car, the cool Italian air kissed your skin, the fabric of your jumpsuit whispering sweet nothings of seduction and power.

You could feel Lewis's eyes on you, his gaze a warm embrace that made you feel invincible. You turned to him, a smile playing on your lips, ready to face the world together.

But as you leaned in to whisper a quick goodbye, his hand shot out, capturing your chin and tilting your face up to meet his. His eyes searched yours, a silent question hanging between you. And for a moment, you considered it.

But reality crashed in like a wave, and you stepped back, smoothing your hair with trembling hands. "I'll see you later," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lewis's hand fell away, his eyes lingering on your mouth before he nodded. "Good luck," he murmured, his voice husky with unspoken promise.

You turned away, the click of your heels echoing through the marble lobby as you made your way to the elevator. The doors slid open, and you stepped inside, the scent of his cologne still clinging to you.

As the elevator ascended, you couldn't help but think of the heat in his eyes, the way his hand had felt on your skin. You were married to him, but it was a marriage of convenience, a business deal with a very handsome and very tempting bonus.

The doors opened with a ding, and you stepped into the bustling office space, a stark contrast to the quiet tension of the car. The room was a flurry of activity, models and designers rushing to and fro, their voices a symphony of Italian and English.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the day ahead. You had a role to play, a performance to give. But as you walked into the conference room, the reality of the situation hit you like a sledgehammer.

You weren't just playing the part of the devoted wife; you were falling for the man who had bought you.

The meeting was a blur of fabric swatches and runway talk, but you couldn't focus. Your mind was a tumult of thoughts, racing like the engines of Lewis's beloved cars.

You nodded and smiled in all the right places, but your heart was elsewhere, tangled in the web of desire that had been spun between the two of you.

As the hours ticked by, you found yourself checking your phone, hoping for a message from him. Each time it buzzed, your pulse quickened, only to be dashed by another email about the upcoming fashion week.

"Y/N? Y/N!" A voice pierced through the din of the bustling office, and you looked up to find one of the staff members standing in front of you, his eyes wide and his hands slightly trembling. "Your husband is Sir Lewis Hamilton, am I correct?"

You nodded, still in a daze from the morning's events. The words seemed to echo in your head, a strange mantra that you hadn't quite come to terms with. "Yes, that's right," you finally managed to say.

The staff member's face lit up with excitement. "Oh, wow, I'm so sorry!" He exclaimed. "I didn't realize! I'm a huge fan!" He extended a hand for you to shake, and you couldn't help but feel a little thrill at the recognition.

It was strange, being married to someone so revered, so adored.

"Is it possible that Mr. Hamilton can attend Milan Fashion Week 2025?" He asked, his voice hopeful. "It would be such an honor for us to have him here."

You looked at the man, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "I'll have to check with his schedule," you said, your mind racing. The thought of Lewis in Milan, surrounded by the glitz and glamour of the fashion world, was an intriguing one. "But I'm sure he'd love to support me."

The room grew quieter as the implications of your words sank in. A whisper of excitement rippled through the air, and suddenly, the fashion week meeting had taken on a whole new dimension.

The idea of Lewis attending, not as a tag-along, but as a legitimate guest, a man of style and substance in his own right, was tantalizing.

The rest of the afternoon was a whirlwind of fittings and discussions about the upcoming show. The designers were eager to dress you, their eyes lighting up at the prospect of having a Ferrari-affiliated superstar in their lineup.

But it was the thought of Lewis by your side that truly electrified the atmosphere.

The whispers grew louder as the rumors spread. The models, usually so self-absorbed, couldn't help but throw glances your way, their curiosity piqued by the potential presence of the Formula 1 legend.

You felt a strange thrill at being the center of attention, a thrill that was only magnified by the knowledge that it was all because of him.

"Are you almost done darling?" The message from Lewis appeared on your phone, jolting you out of your reverie. You looked down at the screen, his words a gentle caress amidst the chaos.

The endearment was simple, but it sent a warm shiver down your spine, a stark reminder of the intimate moment you had shared earlier.

You typed back a quick response, your thumbs hovering over the keys as you debated how much of your tumultuous emotions to reveal.

"Almost," you replied, your voice in your mind echoing with the same heat that had been in his gaze.

After what felt like an eternity, the last fitting was done, and the final fabric swatches were tucked away. The room cleared out, leaving you standing in the empty space, the echo of stilettos on marble a distant memory.

You took a deep breath, the scent of fresh coffee wafting in from the adjoining lounge area, and made your way to the balcony. The city of Milan spread out before you, a tapestry of rooftops and cobblestone streets.

As you leaned against the railing, the cool metal pressing into your skin, your thoughts drifted back to Lewis. You had told him you were finished from work, the words slipping from your lips with a casualness that belied the racing of your heart.

But when his car appeared, a sleek Ferrari, the sun glinting off its metallic paint, your resolve crumbled like a cookie under the pressure of a vise.

You watched as the engine purr grew louder, the sound resonating through your very soul, and then there he was, emerging from the driver's seat with the grace of a panther.

His eyes scanned the area, searching for you, and when they finally found you, the intensity of his gaze was like a physical touch.

Your stomach did a little flip as he approached, his strides long and confident. He was dressed in a tailored suit, the fabric hugging his athletic frame in a way that made your mouth go dry.

As he drew closer, you felt a breeze that seemed to carry his scent with it, the intoxicating blend of his cologne and the faint hint of engine oil that clung to him like a second skin.

It was a scent that had grown surprisingly familiar, a scent that was becoming increasingly hard to ignore.

When he was a few feet away, he looked up, meeting your eyes with a smile that was both welcoming and challenging. The sight of him made you feel both vulnerable and powerful, like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to jump.

You stepped forward, your heels clacking against the marble, each step bringing you closer to the man who had turned your world upside down.

His eyes raked over you, his gaze lingering on the neckline of your jumpsuit, the fabric clinging to your curves like a second skin. You felt his eyes like a physical caress, a silent promise of what was to come.

The moment between you was charged, the air thick with unspoken words and unanswered questions. You wanted to lean into him, to let the heat of his body envelop you, to kiss him until the world fell away. But you held back, the professional facade still clinging to you like a second skin.

"Ready to go?" he asked, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to vibrate through your very bones.

You nodded, trying to ignore the way your heart stuttered in your chest. "Yes," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

He offered his hand, and you took it, the warmth of his skin sending a shiver down your spine. As he led you to the car, you couldn't help but feel like you were being swept away by a tornado of passion and power.

Lewis opened the door for you with a flourish, his eyes never leaving yours as you slid into the low-slung seat. The smell of leather and luxury enveloped you, and you felt a strange sense of belonging.

You watched as he walked around the car, his movements fluid and precise, like a dance.

As he slid into the driver's seat, you noticed the way his fingers caressed the leather-wrapped steering wheel, a silent testament to his love for speed and power. The engine roared to life, the sound vibrating through you like a bass note from a symphony of desire.

"How was the meeting?" he asked, his voice a gentle rumble in the quiet cabin.

You took a deep breath, trying to gather your thoughts. "It was… interesting," you finally managed. "They're all eager to have you at Milan Fashion Week."

He shot you a look, one eyebrow quirking. "Me?"

"Yes, you," you said with a small smile. "They want the full package."

The corner of his mouth turned up in a knowing smile, and you felt your stomach flip. The car pulled away from the curb, the engine purring like a contented cat as it ate up the asphalt.

As you sat there, the leather seats molding to your body, you felt the tension from earlier slowly dissipate. The city flew by in a blur of lights and sounds, but all you could focus on was the warmth of his hand resting on the gear stick, so close to yours.

You couldn't help but glance over at him, his focus on the road unwavering as he navigated the twisting streets of Milan with ease. The setting sun cast a golden halo around him, his profile sharp and defined. The muscles in his forearm flexed with each gear change, a silent symphony of power and control.

Your hand itched to touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin again, but you resisted, unsure of the game you were playing.

When you both got home, you two went inside to see Roscoe still awake, his bulldog's eyes blinking lazily as he watched you enter. He thumped his tail on the floor, his plush bed a testament to the comforts of your Italian house.

Lewis chuckled, reaching down to ruffle the dog's fur. "Someone's been waiting up for us," he said, his voice a gentle caress.

You couldn't help the smile that bloomed on your lips at the sight of your husband interacting with the animal. It was moments like these that made you question the nature of your arrangement. The domesticity of it all was a stark contrast to the glitz and glamour of your respective careers.

Roscoe stretched, his joints popping as he climbed to his feet and ambled over to you, his nails clicking against the marble floor. You bent down to pet him, his warm breath and soft fur a balm to your frazzled nerves.

"Looks like he's happy to see you," Lewis said, his hand resting on the small of your back.

You straightened up, your eyes meeting his, and in that moment, the air between you crackled with tension.

The apartment was quiet, the only sounds the distant hum of the city and the occasional rumble of Roscoe's contented sighs.

Lewis stepped closer, his hand sliding around your waist. "You know," he murmured, "I've never done this before."

Your heart raced, his words a confession that took you by surprise. "What do you mean?" you asked, your voice a mere whisper.

"Married life," he said, his eyes searching yours. "The whole pretending to be in love."

You swallowed hard, his honesty a knife that sliced through the armor you had so carefully constructed around your heart. "Neither have I," you admitted, your voice barely audible.

Lewis's grin grew wider, a proud glint in his eye that sent your heart racing. "Well, I think we're doing a pretty good job of it, don't you?"

You couldn't argue with that. The way he looked at you, the way he touched you, the way he made you feel—it all seemed so genuine. Was it possible that the lines between pretend and reality had blurred?

"Maybe we're just really good actors," you said, trying to keep your voice light, but the tremor in your words gave you away.

Lewis's grin grew, the proud tilt of his head making your heart flutter. "Or maybe," he said, his voice dropping an octave, "we're just really good at being in love."

With a boldness that surprised even yourself, you reached up and cupped his bearded cheek, feeling the coarse hair against your palm. "Or maybe," you murmured, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw, "you're just a good flirt."

Lewis's grin grew even wider, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Only for you," he whispered, and before you could respond, he leaned in and kissed you.

The kiss was gentle at first, a soft brush of his lips against yours, as if testing the waters. But when you didn't pull away, his grip on your waist tightened, and the kiss deepened.

His tongue slipped into your mouth, the taste of him a heady mix of coffee and something uniquely Lewis—a flavor that was becoming as addictive as the adrenaline rush of a race. . . .

6th February 2025

"Have a good flight, okay? Text me when you land," Lewis murmured into your hair, his arms tightening around you in a fierce embrace.

The airport was a cacophony of sounds—announcements, the hum of engines, the clatter of luggage wheels—but all you heard was the steady beat of his heart against your chest.

You nodded, unable to find the words to express the tumult of emotions swirling within you. "Yeah, I will. Make sure to train hard," you replied, trying to keep your voice light.

Lewis leaned back, his eyes searching yours, a hint of something unreadable flickering in their depths. "You know I always do," he said, his voice low and serious. "But I'll miss you."

The words hung in the air, a silent confession that seemed to resonate through every fiber of your being. You felt a sudden warmth in your chest, a strange mix of comfort and excitement.

"I'll miss Roscoe," you replied, the mention of his bulldog a gentle reminder of the domestic bliss that had become your reality.

"But you too as well," you grinned, the words slipping from your lips with surprising ease. The smile tugged at the corners of your mouth, a silent admission that the lines between friendship and something more were blurring.

The kiss you shared was swift and fiery, a silent promise of the passion that awaited you both when you'd reunite. The taste of him lingered on your lips as you made your way to the gate, the memory of his touch a warm brand against your skin. It was a kiss that had started as a playful gesture, a simple goodbye before the cameras could capture the intimate moment.

As you pulled away, you felt the chilly air of the terminal replace the warmth of his embrace, leaving you with an unexpected sense of loss. But there was no time for melancholy—you had a plane to catch.

Your heart raced as you handed your boarding pass to the attendant, the butterflies in your stomach doing somersaults. The kiss had been unexpected, a spark that had ignited a flame you hadn't known was there.

You found your seat on the first-class flight, the plush leather a stark contrast to the turmoil in your thoughts.

As the aircraft taxied down the runway, you couldn't help but steal glances out the window, watching as the world grew smaller and smaller, until it was just the two of you, a fleeting memory against the vastness of the sky.

The flight to New York was a blur of movies and overpriced champagne, your thoughts never straying far from the man you had left behind.

You played the kiss over and over in your mind, the feel of his lips against yours, the way his hand had cradled your cheek, the warmth of his breath on your skin.

As the plane touched down, the reality of your old life began to sink in. The bustling streets of Milan had been replaced by the towering skyscrapers and honking taxis of the Big Apple.

You felt a pang of longing for the quiet elegance of Italy, but also an excitement at the prospect of reconquering an old city.

You had hoped that your auntie was still alive and still living in the place as 20 years ago. It had been that long since you'd last seen her, a time when you were just a wide-eyed girl with dreams of modeling stardom.

The apartment was a tiny oasis in the concrete jungle, a place where you could escape to when the world felt too big and too scary. Now, as you hailed a taxi, you couldn't help but wonder if it had changed as much as you had.

The cab wove through the traffic, the neon lights of Times Square flashing by in a blur of color and sound. You watched the city pass by with a mix of nostalgia and detachment, the memories of your past like a distant echo.

When the taxi pulled up in front of the familiar brownstone, you felt a lump form in your throat. The building looked exactly the same—the ivy-covered bricks, the wrought-iron balconies, the scent of fresh baked bread from the bakery below.

You climbed out of the taxi, your legs feeling like jelly as you made your way to the front door. You hadn't told her you were coming, hadn't wanted to spoil the surprise.

The stairs creaked under your heels, each step taking you closer to a part of your life that had been buried under the glamour of Milan.

The door swung open at your knock, revealing the warm embrace of your auntie's living room, exactly as you remembered it. The floral wallpaper was a little more faded, the couch a bit more worn, but the love that filled the space remained unchanged.

A gasp escaped your auntie's lips as she took in your presence, her hand flying to her chest as she stumbled backward.

"Y/N, is that really you?" she exclaimed, her eyes wide with shock. Time had etched lines around her eyes and mouth, but the warmth in her gaze was as potent as ever.

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound echoing through the apartment like a song from your childhood. "It's me, Auntie," you said, stepping into the room and wrapping your arms around her. Her scent of lavender and vanilla was as familiar as your own heartbeat.

The embrace was tight, a silent acknowledgment of the years that had passed, the moments shared and lost.

Her body felt fragile against yours, a stark contrast to the robust figure who had once held you when you cried and cheered you on as you strutted down the runway of life.

You stepped back, holding her at arm's length, taking in the woman who had been your rock, your confidante, your escape.

Her hair had turned from a vibrant auburn to a soft silver, but her eyes remained a fiery amber, the same color as your own. "You're so beautiful," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.

The words brought a warmth to your cheeks as you looked around the room, the memories flooding back like a tidal wave.

The piano where you had played your first notes, the bookshelves lined with the stories that had shaped your imagination, the dining table where you had shared countless meals and confessions.

You followed her into the kitchen, the walls lined with photographs of your modeling career, each frame a testament to the life you had built.

You felt a strange sense of pride and guilt as you studied the images, a stark reminder of the world you had left behind when you agreed to marry Lewis.

A pot of tea appeared on the table, the china cups clinking gently as she filled them. "So tell me, how's married life?" she asked, her voice light, but the question held a weight that made your stomach flutter.

You took a sip, letting the warmth of the tea chase away the chill of the city outside. "It's… different," you said, choosing your words carefully. "But good. Lewis is…" You paused, searching for the right word. "Interesting."

Your auntie's eyes twinkled with mischief as she leaned in closer. "And the bedroom, dear? Is that interesting too?"

You felt the heat creep up your neck as you set your cup down with a clatter. "Auntie," you chastised, but the smile on her face was infectious, and you couldn't help but laugh.

"I'm an old woman, not dead," she said with a wink. "Now, tell me about this kiss."

The memory of Lewis's lips against yours, the feel of his hands on your body, washed over you in a wave of desire. You felt your cheeks flush as you recounted the story, the words spilling out in a rush.

Her eyes lit up with excitement. "Oh, my sweet girl," she said, patting your hand. "I knew you had it in you. You just needed the right person to bring it out."

"Your brother, though," she said solemnly, the mood in the room shifting like a cloud passing over the sun.

You stiffened, not wanting to hear about him today. The thought of your brother was a sour note in an otherwise sweet symphony. "What about him?" you asked, trying to keep the irritation out of your voice.

"Well, he's been asking about you," she said, her voice filled with an unspoken concern. "He's worried about you, with everything that's been happening."

"Everything that's been happening?" you repeated, feeling the tension coil in your stomach. "What does he know?"

Your auntie squeezed your hand, her eyes filled with a sadness that mirrored your own.

"Your brother's been in some trouble," she began, her voice heavy with the weight of unspoken words. "He's gotten himself into debt with some unsavory characters. They're not the kind of people who accept 'no' for an answer."

You felt your chest tighten, the tea in your cup suddenly tasting bitter. "How bad is it?"

She sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Very. They've been to the house, asking for him. It's not safe for him here anymore."

You felt a coldness seep into your bones, the reality of the situation settling like a lead weight. "What do they want?"

Her eyes searched yours, a silent plea for understanding. "They want their money, and they're willing to do anything to get it."

You nodded, the gravity of the situation sinking in. Your brother had always been the reckless one, living life on the edge without a care for the consequences. And now, it seemed, those consequences had come calling.

You kept quiet, the words sticking in your throat like a mouthful of sand. You hated him for it, for being the reason your father and older brother weren't here to share in your success, weren't here to see the woman you'd become.

Their deaths had been a tragic accident, one that had been laid at your brother's feet. His need for speed, his arrogance behind the wheel, had cost them their lives. The guilt had driven him to the bottle, leaving you to pick up the pieces.

The anger you had held onto for so long bubbled to the surface, a molten river of rage that threatened to consume you. You had worked so hard to escape the shadow of your past, to build a life that was yours alone. And now he was threatening to bring it all crashing down.

You took a deep breath, the scent of your auntie's kitchen—floral and comforting—helping to center you. "I'll talk to him," you said finally, the words leaving a metallic taste in your mouth.

The look of relief on her face was worth the lie. You had no intention of getting involved with him again. You had moved on, had built a new life, and you weren't going to let him drag you back into his mess.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of forced smiles and small talk, the weight of the conversation hanging over you like a storm cloud.

As you lay in the guest room that night, the creaks of the old house echoing through the darkness, you couldn't help but think of Lewis.

His touch, his kiss, the way he had looked at you as if you were the only woman in the world—it was a stark contrast to the cold, empty bed you found yourself in now. You hated that you missed him, that you craved the warmth of his arms.

But you knew you couldn't let your guard down. Your brother had a way of worming his way into people's hearts, of making them believe in the best of him, even when the evidence pointed to the worst. You had been down that path before, had seen firsthand the destruction he could cause.

And so, as you drifted off to sleep, you made a promise to yourself. You would keep your distance, would protect the life you had built with Lewis, even if it meant keeping your true feelings hidden behind a mask of indifference.

The next morning, you woke to the sound of rain tapping against the window, the scent of the city mingling with the sweetness of your auntie's perfume.

You stretched, the silk sheets a decadent luxury after the roughness of the last few days.

The shower washed away the last traces of sleep, the hot water a balm against the tension that had taken up residence in your muscles. As you dressed, you felt the weight of the ring on your finger, a reminder of the world you had left behind.

You took a deep breath, pushing the thoughts away. You had a job to do, a performance to give. And you were a pro at pretending. You had been doing it your whole life.

As you descended the stairs, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee greeted you, along with the sight of your auntie bustling around the kitchen. She looked up, her eyes filled with hope. "How about some breakfast before you go?"

You nodded, unable to find the words to tell her the truth. You were going to have to keep your distance from your brother, no matter how much she hoped for reconciliation.

You sat at the table, the chill of the marble countertop sending shivers up your spine as you sipped your coffee. The rain outside painted a picture of your emotions, a tumultuous dance of joy and fear, hope and regret.

You felt a strange sense of peace in the chaos, a reminder that no matter how much you tried to escape your past, it was always there, ready to pounce when you least expected it.

With a heavy heart, you said your goodbyes to your auntie, the weight of her words and the unspoken fear in her eyes following you like a shadow as you stepped out into the rain-soaked street.

The cemetery was a short cab ride away, the journey a silent pilgrimage through the city that had borne witness to so much of your pain. The rain had eased to a gentle mist by the time you arrived, the cobblestones of the pathway glistening under the soft light of the street lamps.

You found their graves easily, the twin headstones standing sentinel in the quiet of the night. Your father's name was etched in strong, proud letters, while your brother's was a stark reminder of a life cut too short.

The flowers you had brought with you, a bouquet of your father's favorite roses and your brother's beloved lilies, seemed almost vulgar in the face of the cold, unforgiving stone.

You knelt beside their graves, the damp earth seeping into the knees of your pants as you arranged the bouquet with trembling hands. The rain had stopped, leaving behind a soft mist that clung to your skin and hair like a whispered secret.

"I've done it," you murmured, the words carrying on the wind. "I've made it in Milan. I've become someone." You felt the coolness of the stone against your forehead as you leaned in, the scent of the damp earth a stark contrast to the sweetness of the roses.

The silence was absolute, the only sound the distant hum of the city and the rustle of leaves. It was a cocoon of solitude, a place where you could be honest without fear of judgment.

"I'm married, but it's not what you'd think," you whispered, the confession a release of the pent-up tension that had coiled in your chest since the moment you'd stepped off the plane.

As you talked, the words flowed from you like a river breaking through a dam, the story of your whirlwind romance and the arrangement that had brought you to this point. The way Lewis's eyes had sparkled when he'd seen you, the thrill of the racetrack, the kiss that had set your world on fire.

You felt the warmth of a hand on your shoulder, and you jerked upright, spinning around to find your younger brother standing behind you. His hair was wet with rain, his clothes rumpled, and his eyes were filled with a sadness that mirrored your own.

For a moment, you just stared at each other, the years of anger and hurt hanging in the air like a thick fog. "What are you doing here?" you finally managed to ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

He looked down at his feet, his gaze shifting from the headstones to the flowers you had brought. "I heard you were back," he said softly. "I had to see for myself."

The sight of him, the reality of his presence, was like a slap in the face. You had hoped that the distance of time and the grandeur of Milan would have made you immune to his charms, but the pull was still there, a magnetic force that you hadn't anticipated.

"How did you find me?" you demanded, your voice shaking with a mix of anger and fear.

He shrugged, the movement of his shoulders sending a shiver down your spine. "It's not hard when you're a Ferrari wife," he said, the bitterness in his tone cutting deeper than any knife.

You stood, the earth sticking to your skin as you turned to face him fully. "What do you want from me?" you asked, your voice steady despite the tumult of emotions raging inside.

He looked up, his eyes meeting yours with a plea that you hadn't seen since you were children. "I need your help," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "They're after me, and they won't stop until they get what they want."

The gravity of his words hit you like a ton of bricks. You had come to the cemetery seeking peace, hoping to find closure in the one place where you had always felt safe. But instead, you were faced with the chaos of your past, the demons you had thought you had buried with your father and brother.

You felt the ring on your finger, the coldness of the metal a stark contrast to the warmth of your brother's hand. "What have you done?" you breathed, the question heavy with accusation.

He swallowed, the muscles in his throat bobbing with the effort. "I borrowed money," he admitted, his eyes never leaving yours. "A lot of money. And I can't pay it back."

The world around you grew still, the sound of your heartbeat echoing in your ears. You knew the kind of people he was talking about, had heard the whispers and the threats that had haunted the edges of your childhood.

"How much?" you asked, your voice cold, the warmth of the kitchen and your auntie's words forgotten in the face of this new reality.

"Enough to get us both killed," he said, his eyes haunted.

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You had worked so hard to leave this world behind, to build a life that didn't involve the danger and the darkness that had claimed your family.

And now, here you were, knee-deep in it again.

You took a step back, the headstones at your back offering no comfort as the chilly mist of the night seeped into your bones. "Why are you telling me this now?" you demanded, your voice trembling.

Your brother's eyes searched yours, a desperate plea swimming in their depths. "Because I heard you married Lewis Hamilton for money," he said, the words hitting you like a sucker punch. "And I thought, maybe, just maybe, you could help me."

You felt the blood drain from your face, the coldness of the stone seeping through your clothes, through your skin, into your very soul.

The whispers of the cemetery seemed to amplify, a cacophony of judgment and accusation. "You don't get to visit Father and Gabriel," you screamed, your voice echoing through the quiet night, "without paying respect to them after what you did to them!"

The words hung in the air, a shrill rebuke that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth.

Your chest heaved with the effort of keeping the tears at bay, the anger a living, breathing entity that threatened to consume you whole.

Elijah took a step back, the reality of his transgressions etched into the lines of his face. "I know," he said, his voice hoarse. "But I'm desperate, sis. They're going to kill me if I don't come up with the cash."

"Don't you dare drag Lewis into this," you spat, the words bitter on your tongue. "He has nothing to do with your mess."

Your brother's eyes widened, the desperation in them replaced with something akin to fear. "I just thought," he began, his voice trailing off as you advanced on him, the damp earth sticking to your shoes with each step.

"Thought what?" you demanded, your fists clenched at your sides. "That I would just hand over the life I've built for you to throw away?"

Elijah's eyes fell to the ground, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I didn't mean it like that," he mumbled, the sound of his voice barely audible over the dampness of the night.

You stepped closer, the anger in your voice unwavering. "What part of 'you don't get to visit them' don't you understand?" you seethed, the words a hot knife slicing through the tension between you. "You think you can just waltz back into our lives and expect everything to be okay?"

He looked up, the rain mixing with the tears in his eyes. "I know I fucked up," he choked out, the weight of his confession hanging in the air like the mist that clung to the cemetery stones. "But I'm trying to make it right."

You felt the rage in your chest, a fiery beast that demanded to be heard. "By bringing that kind of shit into my marriage?" you shouted, your voice echoing through the quiet night. "Lewis is not a part of this, and you will not involve him."

The wind picked up, sending a shiver down your spine as the mist turned to a light rain. The droplets clung to your lashes, blurring your vision as the emotions of the past and present collided.

You took a deep breath, the scent of the rain and the fresh blooming lilies from your brother's grave grounding you in the moment. "I won't have you endangering Lewis," you said, your voice firm despite the tremble in your chest. "But I can't let you die."

With those words, you made a decision that would change the trajectory of your life once more. You reached into your bag, pulling out the envelope of cash that had been weighing heavily on your mind since your auntie had handed it to you.

You thrust it into his trembling hand. "Take it," you said, the finality in your tone leaving no room for argument. "But you promise me, on our father's and Gabriel's graves, that you will not go near Lewis."

Elijah's eyes widened, the desperation in them momentarily replaced with gratitude. He took the envelope, his hand clutching it as if it were a lifeline. "I promise," he murmured, the words a solemn oath that hung in the air.

The rain grew heavier, the drops now stinging your skin as you watched your brother turn and walk away, the envelope clutched to his chest.

You felt a strange sense of relief, the burden of his debt transferred from him to you, but the fear of what might happen if he broke his promise never leaving you.

As you turned to leave, the coldness of the night seeping into your bones, you couldn't help but feel the weight of your actions. You had made a deal with the devil, one that could cost you everything.

But you had also bought time, time to figure out how to keep Lewis safe from the storm that was your brother's life. . . .

[fandom4]

Greek gods x Mortal child! GN! Y/N (Parents platonic love) Part 1

characters: Athena, Hermes, Apollo, Zeus, Poseidon, Ares

tags: fluff, comfort, gods, child reader

Hermes

• He met you when you were sitting in a tree and watching the celebration in honor of Prince Telemachus.

• He immediately started bragging about who he was, scaring you terribly and you almost fell out of the tree, but he caught you. After that, you became inseparable.

• Together you like to make fun of people and arrange practical jokes.

• He taught you how to deceive your parents well.

• Is there something your parents don't allow you to do? It doesn 't matter ! You have Dad Hermes who will let you do whatever you want.

• Teaches you how to steal.

• He burst into tears when you called him Dad for the first time.

• He's very jealous of other people, even your parents.

Apollo

• met when you were trying to learn how to play the harp. He heard it and decided to help.

• You've gone through a bunch of musical instruments and decided to choose a flute.

• You often play together.

• You play the flute and Apollo plays the harp.

• Mermaids love it when you play together.

• He calls you his north star and muse.

• Love dancing to music with you.

• Draw drawings about you.

• A proud father.

• He's not jealous of your parents, because he knows that you love him more.

Zeus

• When you were just born to your parents, he immediately realized that you would be his child.

• So what if you have parents? He doesn't care about that.

• He loves you to the point of horror and considers you perfect children.

• He've spoiled you too much.

• You have a lot of toys.

• You don't love your parents. Why love them if you have a daddy Zeus?

• You often visit Olympus.

• Once you told the neighborhood kids about it and they cut your hair, but don't worry!!! The next day, they were struck by lightning.

• You are the only person who is allowed to shout and tell Zeus what to do without any consequences.

Poseidon

• Met you when you fell into the water and couldn't get out. But thank the gods Poseidon saved you.

• You often sit on the grass and chat with him.

• He is very attached to you and considers you his child, but he will never tell you about it.

• Fish often come to you and you like it. Once you tried to feed them sweets, but they swam away from you.

• You love swimming in the pond next to your house and hate getting out of the water.

• You often ask him stupid questions, but he endures for you:

"No, child, fish don't eat lollipops. Stop send it into the water, they won't swim up to you

• He's jealous of everyone. Even your dog.

• He worries about you more than he cares about his life.

Ares

• You were just practicing and you met him.

• Love to train together.

• You're more like friends or younger siblings to him than children.

• Are you being bullied? He doesn't worry because he knows that you can always stand up for yourself.

• He's not jealous of your parents.

• He likes to walk with you in the meadow.

• He loves it when you make him a wreath of flowers.

• He's wearing the friendship bracelet you made for him.

• He's in a huge panic when you get mad at him or cry. Once you cried because you fell and got a bruise on your knee. He ran around you and then he started crying too, not knowing what to do.

• Only you know about this little secret. And no one else, otherwise Ares will kill you. It sounded exactly like this:

"I don't really care when I lose people, but you.... I can't lose you. You know too much. So it's either friendship or death."

Athena

• No one knows how you met. Even you don't remember anymore.

• Helps you do your homework.

• In fact, you've started to understand some subjects. No one understands why you're so smart because you live in a poor family.

• You like to hunt with her.

• You've been calling her your mom since you were 3 years old.

• She loves it when you call her mom, but she thinks it's wrong.

• You're her favorite.

• Your family started hunting well, even though they were never good at it. A boar is literally running towards them now.

• You like to go camping with her, but only for a day or two.

• She kissed the top of your head once when you were sleeping, but you'll never know about it.

[musouie]

── .✦ 𝐀 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑

précis: suguru, a servant of your household, wrestles with the complex feelings of loving a noblewoman.

contents: pining, suguru!pov, implied classism, internal classism, envy, forbidden longing, resentment vs yearninggggg, historical romance, 1900s au, fem!reader, 1.0k wc

It was easy to despise beautiful things. 

The things that shone, that flowed, that bloomed amongst the bleak — that made artists falter and poets weep — bound the miserable together.

Perhaps, that was why Suguru despised you.

He despised your lips, stained with the blush of cherries, and the sweet, fleeting scent that lingered on your skin.

He despised your hands — slender, warm, and impossibly delicate — hands that seemed to belong to a world gentler than his own.

He despised your voice, lilting like a bird’s song, soft as the breeze that warms the bitter cold.

Most of all, he despised that even if you had nothing, like he, your beauty would still be enough. 

(This was a lie and he knew it. What he despised most of all was that his loathing was built atop a craving — a palpable thing that made his teeth ache and his bones tremble; he could hardly bear it, this furious tenderness.)

He watched you dance, bathed in candlelight, and he wondered what life might have been like with a face and hands like yours (or your face in his hands, or your hands on his face.

To embrace your light, or to shadow it. How could anyone not wish to do one, or both?)

An ugly thing, deep in his soul, festered — feeding off the shame he felt for simply existing in your general direction, for loathing you yet longing for you the way he did.

And like all beautiful things — you felt it. Faltered in step as your eyes flitted to his, wide and probing, searching for a way to right the wrong of someone yearning for you in such a twisted, impure way.

Your twirling slowed — then ceased, and you waltzed over to where he stood, a smile curving your rose-hued lips.

“Enjoying the ball, Suguru?” You reached towards the silver platter that balanced in his hold, retreating with a glass of wine, fingers grazing against his ever so slightly as they slipped around its stem.

He watched you take a sip; daintily, with your head ever-so-slightly craned and throat bared to him. “Please,” he chided, voice a measured strain, “do not address me so casually. Mr. Geto will suffice, Miss.”

“Oh, Suguru, what need have we for such formalities among friends?” you cooed, placing down your now empty wine flute upon the tray. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

(How typical of a spoiled noble to misunderstand their lack of courtesy; how typical of a blazing star to not realise she burned her surroundings.)

He withheld a scowl, replaced it with a tight-lipped smile instead. “Except I, a mere butler, am most certainly not your friend, Miss.”

“Sugur—” His gaze narrowed. “Mr. Geto. Would you not like to be my friend?”

“It would be most improper.”

The orchestra played a new tune — a lively thing, that people joyously gathered and scattered for on the wooden floor. You continued to hold his gaze with your own, brows raised as you murmured:

“That was not my question, Mr. Geto.”

Your tongue glided across your bottom lip, caught a stray drop of wine, and Suguru’s mouth watered. He’d only had a single glass and yet, his head swam. Or perhaps, it was something else that was catching him off-kilter, disorientating him in the way that you did.

(Because it was no accident, he noticed — the way the pads of your fingers slid away from the glass and glided against his; no accident, the subtle curve of your hip that pressed against his waist when you drew near. The way the velvet of your dress trapped his shadow, like a moth grasped between fingers.)

He took a chance to step away — tried not to notice the way the plush curve of your bosom swelled, as if taking a sharp breath, though your face betrayed nothing of the kind.

He allowed his gaze to trail you, like a guilty voyeur, a starved man eyeing a delicacy, a secret he had always wanted but was forbidden to taste. Just like you wanted him to. (Beautiful things survive off attention, after all. Be it perverse or pure, as a rose blooms on a dead man’s tomb.)

“I suggest we not tarry here further, Miss,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “People may speak.”

“Hah. If I was worried about ‘people’, Mr. Geto, I would not have asked.”

(How typical of a spoiled noble to misunderstand their lack of courtesy; how typical of a blazing star to not realise she burned her surroundings.)

A sharp intake of air tore his lips apart, like a sudden storm ripping off the last of an autumn leaf, and a cold rush flooded his nostrils. “I must see to the other guests now, Miss,” he replied tersely. “Please excuse me.”

He bowed, clasping the silver tray to his chest as if clutching for his heart — to staunch the flow, before it could spring forth and ruin him. You followed his form as he stepped back, the fabric of your dress dipping at the apex of your thighs with the movement; a brief promise of the hidden warmth below, a glimpse of bare skin just within the threshold of shameful.

“A pity, Mr. Geto. It appears there is not a glass empty enough for our conversation to come to its end,” you murmured, as people spilled around you, flitting back and forth across the ballroom in a breathless flurry.

“Unfortunate,” he agreed.

Your lips thinned. He watched them purse. Saw the slight rounding of your eyes that usually preceded a flash of mischief, a flame that threatened the darkness, that sought to pry it open and swallow.

“The wind, Mr. Geto. You are as elusive as the wind.”

And even the words that spewed from your lips were beautiful. His legs nearly bucked.

To despise a beautiful thing would be his tragedy.

𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐢𝐞 © 2024 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝. it is prohibited to reproduce, distribute, or transmit my works in any form or by any means! ﾉ masterlist

[stargildedskies]

Cw: aphrodisiac style intox (sex pollen) 18+ MDNI

I need y’all to picture this with me: a lavish IPC party with all the glitz and glamour the Corporation has to offer. Of course, a party like this would only attract the galactic elite from every corner of the system. The IPC executives make sure no detail is overlooked for these soirées, so the beverage selection has extensively curated with different tastes in mind. After all, not everyone shares the same vice. Along with the finest syrupy spirits and mind-tingling liquors lays a potent aphrodisiac nearly tucked away for the willing partygoers…. but what about the mildly unlucky ones?

This is to say that, please imagine you’ve already had one drink to numb the senses. The lights were too loud—too much chatter swam around you—and the sweet haze of liquor seemed to settle your anxious thoughts, so you grabbed another flute from the nearest waitstaff. Except- in your mildly tipsy state, you’ve managed to grab the wrong glass.

You’ve downed all but a drop before the difference in taste registers in your mind. Earlier, your drink had been refreshing and tart, but this one? This was thick and sweet, burning pleasantly as it trailed down your throat, driving a trail of glimmering warmth down to coil pleasantly in the bottom of your stomach.

The warmth spreads further, caressing your very core, causing your cheeks to flush and your body to tingle pleasantly. Your breath catches as you feel a familiar sweet throb between the apex of your thighs, and you almost drop the glass.

Wait- what?

Suddenly, you become very aware that your nipples have pebbled sharply, pressing insistently against the gauzy fabrics of your dress. Your breath comes in soft gasps, and you only dimly remember there’s a conversation going on around you. An arm reaches for you- a concerned coworker? No, it’s even worse…. The man you’ve been crushing on for months has his large, warm hand resting on your wrist in concern.

You can vaguely hear him excusing the two of you from the party. He ushers you away from the soirée to a balcony overlooking the garden, murmuring that you could use some air. The cool night breeze brushes your face like a lover’s caress, and like a true gentleman, your crush leads you over to a bench.

However, the last thing either of you expected was for you to stumble. You brace yourself- but the painful crash never comes. Bodies collide in the air as he reaches out to grab you, pulling you close against his warm chest to shield your fall. He falls backward, and you land on his lap, skirts pushed up and plush thighs draped over his muscular legs.

The two of you sit in stunned silence, blinking at each other owlishly as you realize your current positions. He opens his mouth to apologize, and you start to wonder why until you realize- you can feel the heft of his erection straining desperately against his pants.

You gasp softly at the feeling as he begins to stammer apologies- he didn't intend this… it’s an unhelpful physical reaction he'd make go away if he could-

But all of his protests are silenced as you desperately slot your lips against his.

[ursuburbanmother]

I’m On Fire, But I’m Trying Not to Show It || Chapter One

Pairing: Angus Tully x fem!Reader

Summary: You and Angus have been best friends since you were little children. Now in high school the only thing that separates you is a lake between both your schools. Due to what was describe by your headmaster as "Unfortunate circumstances due to chance, and poor planning on our part," you are forced to stay at the Barton Academy for the holidays with the company of your best friend or maybe more.

a/n: hi guys! I’m new so try to be kind to me lol. Anyways this is probably not very good. It’s slow paced cause I wanted to establish their friendship. Not sure where this is going so if you have any suggestions let me know! Also not grammar or beta read so…

Word Count: 3k

Find: Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Enjoy!

December 17th, 1970

You hadn’t spoken to your parents in months. You figured they would call or write a letter or something. In October they wished you a speedy little, “Happy Halloween,” before hanging up. You could hear the loud party in the background. Always the socialites, they were probably eager to get back to enjoying themselves by downing flutes of champagne and appetizers. Now it was December, and you had not received a peep from either. When the holiday plans form was passed out to the girls of your boarding school at the end of November, you ignored it. Then the deadline came, and you hastily checked off the box that said, ‘Plan to stay on campus.’

Your parents hadn’t called to dispute it and now you’re stuck at mass, sitting in a pew, watching other happy families and their daughters anxiously waiting to leave. You wondered if there was still a way for you to get away. Your friend, really only friend, Angus Tully was headed to St. Kitts and with him gone, your only true escape was gone. If he knew you were stuck holding over, he would beg his parents to take you, but you knew it would be too much of an imposition, so you kept that fact secret.

Life had always seemed to throw you two together. Even at the age where cooties were still a very legitimate fear. Born in the same snobby Boston neighborhood you two were often the only kids at your parent's parties. You remember that humid night on the Fourth of July when you had met the lanky boy with a mess of brown curls. The fireworks had begun to go off and everyone wore white dresses and suits. You had become restless and started to wander the halls of your home aimlessly. Streamers of blue, red and white hung from the ceiling and servers walked around passing out sparklers.

You found him on the patio. He tugged, annoyed, at his tie. Your own dress was stifling in the heat and for a pair of seven-year-olds, you found the best solution to your ailment was to jump into the shallow end of the pool.

“I’ll do it, if you do it,” you had promised under the hum of cicadas and floating fireflies.

“Deal,” you shook hands.

The water was cold and clear. You swam around for a while, splashing each other and playing Marco Polo. It was at the same time your mother had decided to move the party outside so people could watch the lights in the sky a bit better. You two were pulled out of the pool and shook like wet dogs.

Livid, your parents fed you the line all parents wait to say to their troublesome child, “If your friend jumped off a bridge, would you?” You decided at that moment that yes, you would.

After that you two were inseparable. Because when you're a kid all you need is one single act of solidarity to devote your life to someone. Throughout elementary school you were practically fused to one another. You’d exclude people from your game of hopscotch and eat lunch in secret nooks. When you two were headed to high school your parents enrolled you in a posh all-girl boarding school and Angus to some prep school in another rural part of Massachusetts. Phone calls rang long. You remember the groans you would get from other girls who would give up trying to use the payphone. At some point you had run out of quarters and so to save money you had begun writing letters. Angus being Angus, he’d write as if he was off at war and the letters were the last things keeping him sane.

You knew he never enjoyed school but after he was kicked out from his first preparatory, then his second and third, you had turned into a scolding mother.

“What are you going to do now?”

“Die if I’m lucky, shave my head at Fork Union if not.”

“I want to go to college with you Angus. If not college then I at least want to be able to be an adult with you. One with a diploma so we can get easy jobs as regional salespeople or something,” you mumbled, twirling the phone cord around with your finger.

“You really thought this out,” he laughed.

“I’m serious, Augie.” You heard him sigh across the line.

“Okay. I’ll do better. No screw ups next time.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

When he was sent to Barton, your sister school, you couldn’t have been more excited. It was a short walk away; you could see it from across the lake that separated you. Your mom had been the one to call you about the change. She said his mother thought having him near you would make him less fussy. Something about you being the good influence he needs. You doubted that yet bit your tongue, knowing it would create more trouble than anything. Now it had been over a year and Angus had kept his word. When the opportunity arose for you to meet up, you would take it. Football games or talent shows, you were there. To anyone outside, it would have appeared as though you two just held a lot of school spirit. Like that beach boy's song.

“Be true to your school now,” you’d sing into Angus' ear.

He’d roll his eyes but always join in, “just like you would to your girl or guy.”

“Rah-rah-rah-rah sis boom bah! I love that part!” You’d giggle.

He’d try to hide his smile, but you could always tell. He’d put his arm around your shoulder and say, “Yeah okay.”

…

Once you were dismissed from mass you sighed and trudged all the way back through the snow to your dorm building. Having it so empty was eerie, you could hear your own footsteps echoing down the halls. You made your way into the common room to wait for Ms. Orchard.

She was meant to be your babysitter for the next few weeks. She was your Renaissance literature teacher. Ms. Orchard was nice but on the older side, which meant she was traditional. You often thought she would be better suited to be a Home Economics teacher if she was so invested in being ladylike.

You sat in the corner of the couch and opened a book. Minutes passed and it seemed obvious no one was coming to join you. Not even Mrs. Orchard. She probably broke a hip trying to make her way back in the snow.

“Ms. Orchard has broken a hip while walking in the snow,” the door suddenly bursts open hitting the side of the wall so hard it shakes the room.

“What?” Your mouth drops at the news. Shit, had you jinxed it?

Your Dean, Mr. Jameson says as he walks in, covered in snowflakes. “Yup. She slipped on ice on the way here. By the parking lot. Didn’t you hear the ambulance?”

“Uh… no?”

“Hmm,” he hummed, looking around the room, “where are the other girls?”

“I think it’s just me sir.”

“Ah, right. Well that makes this easier. You’ll be spending your Christmas break at Barton. Now, it’s awfully last minute so we hope they take you. Why don’t you go get your bag ready and-,”

“Hold on. Barton the boys' school?” You could almost gag at the idea. No offense to Angus, but you could remember the endless horror stories he would tell you of life in a boys' school. The air always smelled weird, and cleanliness was the least of their worries. “Isn’t there somebody to replace Ms. Orchard?”

“This place cleared out thirty minutes ago, Ms. L/n,” he said, “And I have a family to get back to.”

“But-, I just-, isn't there a rule against this or something?”

“I have no doubt that the teacher supervisor there will ensure you have a safe, jolly time Ms. L/n.”

“But I-,”

“That’s enough. I understand this is an unprecedented situation, but the only alternative would be to leave you here alone and that just is not going to happen. Please Ms. L/n, make this easy for everyone.” With his hand he motioned towards the door.

“Fine,” you gritted out. You got off the couch and went to your room. You half-heartedly crammed anything you could into your suitcase. Some shirts, sweaters and pants. You ran out of space and resorted to carrying your books in your hands along with your potted plant. You felt bad leaving your lavender to just sit and wilt, so you took her with you.

“I made a few calls. Everything should work out. You all settled then?” Mr. Jameson said once you had made your way back to the common room. Nodding with a tight-lipped smile you headed out. You two could have walked but apparently, he was in a hurry to catch a six o’clock flight and you ended up taking his car.

It was a short drive and with reluctance you made your way inside the school. “Come on. Put a pep in your step,” Mr. Jameson clapped.

He navigated you around. You had only been in the main building, never the dorms. Blindly you let him guide you until you found yourself in a room with four other boys and Angus. Angus who was supposed to be half-way to the airport by now. His sulky face shifted into one of shock. You took a step towards him only to be stopped by your dean's arm in front of you. The other guys were looking at you with mouths wide open. It was like their eyes were about to fall out of their sockets. You grumbled, not knowing what else to do.

Mr. Jameson took the lead, “Mr. Hunham? Correct?” He outstretched his hand for him to shake. Hesitantly the older man took it.

“What’s the meaning of this,” he pointed between Mr. Jameson and you.

“Unfortunate circumstances due to chance, and poor planning on our part. This is Ms. Y/n L/n. Come introduce yourself.”

“I’m Y/n L/n,” you shrugged, looking at Angus for guidance. In unison they all say hello.

“Can we speak in private,” Mr. Jameson asked.

“Alright,” Mr. Hunham says, “no funny business,” he gives a pointed look to the boys.

The two teachers leave, and you quickly move to Angus to encapsulate him in a quick hug.

“What the hell? What are you doing here?”

“Funny, I was going to ask the same thing.”

“What the hell Angus. You have a girlfriend?” A blonde boy with a red tie says as his eyes scan your figure. You shift uncomfortably at the action. “A smoking one too…”

���Shut it Kountze, you’re catching flies,” Angus scoffs.

The door creaks open as both gentlemen return from their brief chat. You and Angus move away from each other like you were caught doing something wrong.

“It seems we will be extending you an invitation to Ms. L/n,” Mr. Hunham says, “you okayed this with Woodrup?” He verifies again with Dean Jameson.

“Yes, it’s all settled. We at Janie Patrick’s School thank you. We owe you one,” he turns to you, “goodbye L/n, you’re in good hands.”

He was halfway through the door when Mr. Hunham cleared his throat obnoxiously loudly. “As I was saying, we will be following a standard school schedule.”

“Uh, sir? We’re on vacation.” Kountze points out.

“Which means we’ll be taking our meals together. And you will observe regular hours of study.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“The Peloponnesian War awaits, Mr. Kountze, you and Mr. Tully. The rest of you can get a jump on next semester. It’ll pay off. You’ll see.”

“We’re already holding over, and now we’re being punished for it?” Angus says bitterly and on fast reflex you rub his arm comfortingly. Mr. Hunham is just as fast to notice.

“Oh no, no, no. Do not tell me this is your girlfriend Mr. Tully.”

“Wh-what. No! We’re just friends.”

“Yeah, we were born on the same street!”

“I do not intend to break apart your romantic escapades all break long.”

“We. Are. Just. Friends,” Angus reaffirms, venom on his tongue. You could see the blush rising on his pale cheeks. You could feel your own as well.

“Mhm,” Hunham hums skeptically, his gaze lingers on you two for a second before glancing back at his clipboard, “Alright… You will be afforded limited windows for recreation and supervised physical activity.”

“The gyms are not even open yet.”

“Yeah, they only lacquered half the floor,” another boy points out, this one has long blonde hair that reaches his shoulders.

“Fresh air will do you good,” says Hunham.

“It’s like 15 degrees outside.”

“And the Romans bathed naked in the freezing Tiber. Adversity builds character Mr. Tully. Uh, speaking of which, the school will be cutting heat to dormitories and faculty housing and so we’ll all be bunking in the infirmary. With separate accommodations for Ms. L/n of course.”

They all groan. You're just upset. You had thought you would spend the next two weeks avoiding Ms. Orchard and lying to Angus about your whereabouts while he admiringly described the beaches of St. Kitts to you over postcards. Although you supposed it wasn’t all bad. You could spend more time with him, under the watchful glare of Angus' teacher of course.

Together you all get ready to haul your things to the infirmary before being stopped by Mr. Hunhams tsking in disapproval.

“You philistines are just going to let the lady carry her own things? I’m sorry to see Barton has failed in ingraining a sense of chivalry into you.”

“Oh no, it’s alright really, I can do it,” you protest but they all scramble to help you anyway. “Can I carry your suitcase Y/n?” Kountze says, in an odd way, that was meant to be suggestive.

“Okay Kountze, piss off,” Tully pushes him away, leaning down slightly to get your things, “let’s go.” He walks quickly out the door, leaving the rest of you to follow him.

As you are slapped in the face by the harsh winds you curse the idiots at your school who refused to let you wear pants. You were forced to put on double the tights and your warmest coat. It did not do anything to aid you and your shivering made that clear. It was like they wanted to torture you when the boys stopped halfway down the quad and in front of a truck. You're still holding your books so it's not like you can rub your arms to help you out a little. They were complaining about Hunham, who they so endearingly nicknamed “Walleye.”

“Hey, guys, hold up for a second,” Angus tells the young kids in front of you. He sets his, and your things, down on the grimy paved road. He searched through his pockets and lit a cigarette. “Want one?” he asks you and Kountze.

“No. I got something else. Give me that,” he grabs the lighter from him and sparks a joint.

“Hey, don’t smoke that out here. I don't want to get busted by Walleye.”

“Don’t be such a pussy,”

“I’m not a pussy, I just don't want to end up at Fork Union paying for your mistake.”

He ignores Angus and instead turns his attention to you instead, “You're not like a total priss right?”

You shake your head. At least you didn’t think you were.

“Alright,” he smirks and stretches his hand out for you to shake, “Teddy Kountze.”

“Nice to meet you,” you say. The other unnamed boy is the next to greet you.

“Jason Smith.”

“We know who you are. You want to hit this,” Teddy offers the jock the joint.

Jason scans his surroundings before agreeing, “Uh, yeah.”

“You got a great arm man,” he compliments,

“Yeah, well, it’s just football.”

“How’d you get stuck holding over?”

“I’m supposed to be skiing with my folks up at Haystack, but my dad put his foot down. Said I can’t come home unless I cut my hair.”

“So why don’t you cut your hair?

“Civil disobedience, man.”

“I dig that,” you comment. “You know that when they tried to cut that tree between our schools, I organized the tree-sitting.”

“Holy shit that was you? Figured it was some hippies from Boston,” Teddy snickers.

“Nope. I sat in that tree for hours, drinking from water bottles that Angus tossed up to us.”

“Did it work?” Jason wonders.

“For now, yeah.”

“Awesome…. But no, he’s cool. It’s just a battle of wills. Still, I was hoping he’d cave first, because the powder up at Haystack is so sweet right now.”

“What about you, Mr. Moto? Why are you here?” Teddy asks one of the first-year boys.

He appears embarrassed to be singled out, “No, my name is Ye-Joon. My family is in Korea, and they think it’s too far for me to travel alone.”

“I figured it was because your rickshaw was broken,” Teddy laughs to himself. Angus didn’t exaggerate when she said this guy was a jerk.

“What a rickshaw?”

Angus intervenes, “You’re an asshole, Kountze. Your mind’s a cesspool and a shallow one at that.”

“Who’s the asshole Tully? You’re the one who blew up history.” Jason notices the tension and brings the group's conversation back to the freshman.

“What’s your story man?”

“Alex Ollerman. I’m here because my parents are on a mission in Paraguay. We’re LDS. “Mormons, right?” Alex nods yes.

“Don’t you guys wear some kind of magic underwear?” It's like Teddy loves to hear himself talk, you think.

“Common misconception. Actually, it’s called a temple garment, and we’re only supposed to wear it when-.”

“Hey, what's with the townies?” Kountze spots two men emerging from the chapel with a large, heavy green tree in their grasp.

“Hey, what are you doing with our Christmas tree?” Angus shouts, tapping you on the shoulder in a way that says can you believe this?

“The school sold it back to us. Scotch pine, still fresh.” The stranger shouts back.

“Yeah, we’re going to put it back on the lot. We do it every year.”

“This is the most bullshit ever.”

The boys put out their separate smokes much to the relief of Alex and Ye-Joon. You fall behind the rest of them and Angus naturally finds his place next to yours. You stroll in silence until he decides to break the ice.

“You going to tell me what happened?”

“You tell me first. You were so excited to go on vacation.”

“One word. Stanley.”

You grimace, knowing what that means. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“It’s whatever. They want to spend their honeymoon forgetting my existence then they can do just that. I’m almost an adult anyway. Then I can go anywhere I want anytime.”

“Is that what Judy said?”

“That was the bullshit excuse, yes.”

“Hey, you got me though. We’ll make this fun.”

“We have no tree, Hunham will be breathing down our back, and Kountze hasn’t stopped ogling at you since you arrived. Does that sound like the perfect Christmas to you?”

You laugh softly, “Ignore Hunham and Kountze. As for the tree, we could always Charlie Brown it. What do you think the lavender is here for?” You shake your plant a little. The purple bush sways in the wind.

He smiles, “Yeah… It’s not a bad little tree,” he begins to quote.

“Maybe it just needs a little love,” you say together and break into a fit of giggles.

[sixofcrowdaydreams]

I know that Wylan ...

survived being strangled

jumped off a boat

swam up a canal and crawled out to safety

ALL while wearing a coat and heavy waterlogged satchel

and managed to find a safe boarding house to hide

But honestly, the most impressive part of Wylan surviving his father's murder attempt was his waterproof flute case. It wasn't just dunked in the canal. It was was submerged.

I had full confidence Wylan would survive. I did not expect the flute would also.

[stoneagedevil]

Idiot | Eddie Munson x f!Reader

TW/CW: loneliness.

———

You’d been feeling down about yourself for some time now. You weren’t a cheerleader, but lately you’d been considering attending the tryouts for the semester. You’d even heard that girls in the band’s flute section were getting action from the brass section. Maybe you could pick up another instrument…?

No. No no no.

Christ, when did you become so desperate? Maybe it was all the twitterpated faces floating up and down the halls, what with the dance approaching and all.

But it’s not even like you wanted to go. You weren’t much of a dancer, but rather a person to get rowdy on stage at the Hideout when you played. That led to other thoughts…

You’d met Eddie Munson at the beginning of summer a few years ago. You were enthralled with his performance in his band Corroded Coffin, and he was just as lovestruck when he saw you go up with one of the most badass electric guitars he’d ever seen. After your set, you’d both gotten to talking at the bar - him buying you each a soda since you both had to drive home. That was the start of a wonderful friendship.

And unfortunately for your poor little heart, that’s all it was.

You sighed, taking a drag off a cig you found in your jeans you didn’t remember washing. Thank god for that. You looked over at the cheerleaders on the field practicing their routine from where you sat on the outside bleachers; trying to picture yourself in a cheer outfit mingling with them.

Suddenly you were startled by a loud, thundering metal sound coming from your right, nearly pulling your neck at the speed you looked over. It was Eddie - who just jumped onto the metal bleachers to illicit a reaction from his favorite person.

“Shit yourself?” He laughed, smile making his eye crinkle.

“Har har Munson.” You blew smoke at his face smirking slightly. He waved it away playfully.

“Watcha doin’ up here? Thought I’d find you in the art room, but you weren’t there.” He sat closely beside you.

You flicked the dead ash from the end of your cigarette. “Feelin’ melancholy I ‘spose…” you trailed off, leaning back on the seat behind you and looking up at the sky. Eddie quickly joined you.

“Why’re you sad? Need something stronger than that ciggy?” He reached into his inside pocket on his jacket and dug out a joint.

You eyed it for a second. “Nah. I’d better not.”

Eddie frowned. It wasn’t like you to turn down his premo stuff. It wasn’t like you to isolate yourself - especially away from him. He got nervous.

“Hey, what’s going on? You know you can talk to me, right?” He placed a hand on your knee, causing those stupid butterflies to flutter around in your stomach.

You debated a lot of things in that moment. You debated telling him you were in love with him. You debated shooting up from your position on the bleachers and pulling his face towards yours and kissing him. You debated running away, never to be seen or heard from again.

You took none of these options.

“I’m lonely, I guess. It’s hard seeing people get asked out to dances all of the time knowing that’s never coming to me. I wouldn’t even wanna go, but maybe if someone asked…I would? I don’t know. It’s stupid.” You sat up and looked down at your shoes.

Eddie looked at the side of your face. Maybe if he was brave enough he’d ask. Maybe if he was wealthy enough and you’d said yes, he’d get a suit and get you a corsage. Maybe if he wasn’t the town freak. Maybe in another life.

Maybe.

“Hey, it’s not dumb. I know how you feel. I’ve only really ever been asked out as a joke. But someone will come around and see how absolutely amazing and badass you are. Seriously.” He said this instead, even though it made his throat tighten at the tail end of his sentence.

You looked at him, and he let go of a breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding captive. Your eyes swam with doubt, slightly damp.

“Eddie. I’m the freakette. Anyone who would ask me out is probably an idiot.” You said, somberly.

Suddenly, Eddie’s hand disappeared from its place on your knee, Eddie himself bolting up from the bleachers. “Hey! I know I’m a repeat but I’m not an idiot!” He said, sounding genuinely upset.

You paused, realization smacking you both upside the head. “You…you what?”

The color of Eddie’s face would make traffic stop. Fuck. Maybe he is an idiot. “I said that…that uh-“ his hands flew over his eyes, “that I’m not an idiot but now I’m thinkin’ I am because I’m pretty sure I just ruined the best thing to ever happen to me.”

Your heart sped up in your chest, your face blushing. “You…like me?”

Eddie, hands still covering his embarrassment, sighed. “I mean, like you? No. I’m pretty sure I fell in love with you when we met. Christ. Look-“ he removed his hands from his face, instead wringing them together, “if you give me time then maybe I could get over it. We can pretend this never happened, I just- I just need you in my life, whatever way that looks like.” His eyes looked down at his shoes now.

You shook your head, mouth agape at what you were hearing. You debated a lot of things in that moment. Then, you went with the best option.

You stood, walking calmly towards him, taking his burning face in your cold hands and lifted it. He looked down at you, shocked, and slightly scared. Definitely nervous.

You leaned in and kissed him then, him returning the favor. Once separated, you backed up, “Eddie, I don’t want you to get over me.”

His smile looked like it’d break his face in half, “Good. Because I was totally lying about my ability to get over you. I’m pretty sure it’s impossible.” You laughed and he joined, happy to have made you smile. “I know it isn’t a big dance proposal, but, would you wanna go out? With me?” He had to specify. He just had to.

“Id love to go out with my favorite idiot.” You smiled cheekily. Eddie burst out into laughter, picking you up and hugging you tightly.

“If I can be your idiot, then an idiot I’ll be.” He declared, kissing you once more.

———

Thanks for reading, I’ve been in a slump lately, so I hope this was good.

[cosmosogler]

i'm really excited about getting to the lead-up toward the climax of my fic, so here's a short excerpt from chapter one!

-

Cliff climbed back down to the Nomai statue and found Gabbro across the island, sitting near their ship in the sand and playing their flute in deep thought. They dove into the water and swam back over, staying afloat and navigating with their jetpack. “Gabbro,” they started. “Did you know there’s a secret entrance to the workshop?”

Without pausing, Gabbro shook their head. Cliff shuffled in the sand and put their elbows on their knees, examining the stone wall above. They nodded their head to the flute’s tune, humming.

Eventually, they spoke up again. “What do you think about… about the idea of living the same day twice?”

Gabbro lowered the flute. “It definitely sounds like time is doing a foldy kind of thing. Or a loop, maybe? Or, I guess, a little presumptuous of me to call it a loop, if you’re not sure it’ll happen again. A time spiral?”

“You believe me?”

Gabbro shrugged. “I don’t see why not. I mean, the statue’s eyes opened, and they were made for storing information?”

“Memories. They’re called memory statues.”

“See? Maybe you’re finding out what that’s all about.”

“I plan on it. The translator’s already helped. If I could just get into the workshop…” Cliff tapped at their helmet, keeping an eye on the location of their Little Scout on the HUD. They wondered… They took a few pictures, noting the water flooding the bottom of the workshop.

Meanwhile, Gabbro had tilted their head back. “Maybe the whole universe is in a time loop, from beginning to end, and we’re just living the same lives within it over and over. Though, I guess that says some pretty unsavory things about free will, and about there being a point to learning from your mistakes. Encourages you to be pretty passive, I’d think. Maybe it’s more quantum than that.”

“Oh no,” Cliff said, baring their teeth. “I am not getting dragged into a quantum discussion with you.”

Gabbro’s grin colored their voice. “I’m serious! I think the existence of our quantum buddies implies something a little more uncertain than a perfect loop. The universe is made up of too many of those uncertainties. It’s a chaotic system.”

“I’m leaving,” Cliff sighed with a dramatic flair. “Any ideas on how to get into the workshop? I saw water at the bottom.”

[airu27-rkgk]

6tian Merfolk AU 🐟🪶

Once upon a time, a Miemeng bird descended from his home up in the mountains. He wondered, what's down there?

Down, where water was most abundant.

He perched on a floating bark of tree, basking in the scent of salt, of the ocean, and the sun shining above him.

A pair of blue eyes met his. They belonged to a creature he had never seen before. A scaly tail swished lazily as the blond mer (?) swam closer.

"Hello," the merman greeted him, voice scratchy and teeth a row of jagged sharpness. "What's that thing you're carrying?"

"This?" Getian pulled out a scroll that he had brought alongside his flute and bone wand. "It is a story of my people."

"Interesting," the merman said. "Tell me more."

For obvious reasons, there was no paper on the underwater domain. They carved on rocks and used geometric shapes to tell their tales. The merman — 6, he was called — was fascinated by how stories above water were written with ink on paper.

Getian often visited 6 with new scrolls and he would read to him, because 6 loved hearing the lilt of his voice when he spoke in melodic verses.

[generalluxun]

Miraculous Ladybug Secret Santa!

hey @queenhoneybee-exe ! I'm delighted to be your backup Secret Santa for @mlsecretsanta I was also delighted to write a lukloé fic! It's been too long.

I hope you enjoy this one. It was fun to work one in set just before the start of S6. (we can make good things happen anywhere in the timeline!)

Full story below the cut, or you can read it on AO3 Here if you prefer.

Paris was at peace, Luka was not. He knew he should be. Monarch was gone. Marinette and Adrien -Ladybug and Cat Noir- were a couple. Mayor Bustier had implemented a swath of new initiatives to better the city. By all accounts he should be happy. Yet, something lurked.

He lay on his back in the lush green grass of a park. The sky was a playful blue dotted with puffs of harmless clouds. The sounds of the city burbled and overlapped like a brook scattering over smooth stones; and that was just on the level of regular hearing.

Luka tried again to center himself. He closed his eyes. He let his breathing slow. He tuned out the surface sounds and instead listened to the harmonies within. 

Here was a woman trying to wrangle a toddler and an excitable puppy. Someone might call the whole affair noisy. To Luka it was the tittering of a flute, bouncing up and down the scales. There two men argued about the price of a souvenir shirt. Their voices sawed the strings of a humble cello. Others and more, people’s melodies normally wrapped him warmly and brought solace to his heart. This time he could feel them instead laying like a blanket, pooling above him but floating above a mystery he could not unravel. The mystery was inside himself, a place he seldom had cause or time to explore.

Drifting, seeking a peace that would not come, he missed the change in sound at first. By the time he came back to himself the pool of melodies swam with ripples. Luka reached for them but could not grasp their meaning, or even their origin. They matched no sound his ears took in. He opened his eyes and sat up. He scanned his surroundings. 

That’s how he found… her.

She stood at the curb like a Song Thrush, nervous of predators. Her head turned this way and that. Her motions were quick, jerky, unpredictable, and full of tics. He found himself expecting her to hop, and half afraid it would be into the sparse traffic. What overwhelmed him though, was her melody. Or rather, the promise of her melody.  

She was noisy in a way he had never heard before. She had not one instrument, but an entire orchestra pit. The instruments warred with each other, passing in and out of being. It was as if a great symphony was waiting to be played, only the musicians were all trapped in a loop of warming up. The portent poured itself into that space that had plagued him, filling it up.

I have to know what this means.

He was on his feet and jogging across the street before his conscious mind caught up with his body. Her head snapped around, the wide-brimmed sun hat she wore revealed her face. Deep blue eyes sized him up in an instant as only prey animals could. It dawned on him he had seen her before. The gold of her hair, the sharp line of her jaw; this was Chloé Bourgeois.

Her eyes widened. The instruments flared. Brass bludgeoned the strings. Luka tripped on the curb, stopping beside her. He knew these next words were important. They had to be good. “You’re Chloé Bourgeois.”

Not his best work.

She recoiled. One hand came up, fingers moving as if to flick… a ponytail that was no longer there. Instead they brushed the ends of a new ear-length bob that had taken its place. “Who’s asking?”

Tympani rumbled a threat too high-pitched to hold weight. Still, Luka knew he had to get this back on track. Over eagerness would cost him. He took a calming breath and straightened up to the peak of his summer-growth-spurt height. “The name’s Luka,” he murmured against the backdrop of the city, “Pleasure to meet you.”

There was a hint of near-recognition before her eyes skittered and her head turned, only to come back to him. There were notes among the jumble, but not enough yet for a full bar. A smile tugged the corners of her lips for less than the space of a blink before a frown strangled it. “That makes one of us. What do you want?”

“Well, I uh-” Confrontation was not his forté.

The venom in her tone was neutered by the defensive turn of her shoulders. Luka tried again.

“You looked… upset! I couldn’t let that stand, so I thought I’d come over and see what the problem was.”

She looked him down and up, measuring. A judgement was in the works. The uncertainty of the outcome reached inside of him and tickled. Good sense was telling him to leave. Curiosity was demanding he stay. He had always listened to good sense before. Ignoring it now, felt powerful. The symphony settled, but just as he expected it to play, her voice cut through his perception.

“Well, you’re right. You’ve got eyes at least. It’s this stupid Uber thing. They don’t let limos in the city anymore -how lame is that?- So I had to call an -ugh- cab, but it’s not here, so I’m stuck out here where just anyone can walk up and blather on at me.”

A tittering of flutes, coy and mocking, fluttered up out of the sea of protean music. They dropped back into the mix as quickly as they rose though. To match their fall pain ghosted across those bronzed features. Chloé’s head turned sharply again, looking up the street.

Luka fell back to a classic, “A ride is all you need? I’ve got my bike chained at the park across the street. I can get you anywhere in Paris, free of charge.”

He gestured and it drew her eyes back to him before they followed his direction. Instead of acceptance or the more likely rejection he got a raised eyebrow, “A bike? Really? I wouldn’t want you killing yourself trying to chauffeur me and my luggage.”

The flutes returned with a background of strings. The two played around each other in a spiral of humor. She laid her hand on the handle of the single rolling bag she had with her. It was gold, embossed, and it could only have faded into the background beside a creature such as this.

That thought was unexpected, yet the thrill of having managed to draw a few bars of the same melody out twice turned apprehension into excitement. Luka pressed, with what he hoped was a smirk savvy enough to match her energy, “Just the one bag? I could carry that and you to England if I needed to. In all honesty, with what I’ve heard, I expected more.”

Bowstrings squealed across strings in a discordant shriek. Her eyes widened. Luka mentally scrambled, trying to restore the music.

He blurted out, “I mean, you’re just going to the hotel right? That’s not far at all.”

The shriek became a single tone; the high pitched whine of a flatlining heart. That musical tension translated into a physical one as well, the muscles across her face tensed into severity. A red flush came and went, leaving her bone-pale beneath the foundation. A hand, raised in playful gesture a moment before, curled into a white knuckled fist. The whine seeped through her whole body, a resonance that would shake her to pieces.

He’d done this.

He panicked.

He kissed her.

A kiss to restore life, a kiss to stave off death. That’s how it went right? Those were supposed to be romantic though, not a rough collision of lips on lips. Not one party frozen while the other holds them desperately by the shoulders, willing life into them. They all end with fluttering eyelashes and smiles, not one person flinching so intensely they headbutt the other.

“What on earth!” She wiped her lips with the hand so recently a fist.

Luka was holding his nose, blinking away tears. It hurt, but the whine had bloomed again. Drums rallied, brass blared. It was a cacophony but it was music. He smiled through the pain, “Sorry, I had to.”

“Had too?” She shoved him, but his keyed up senses felt the way her fingertips curled just before the contact would be broken. Her nails dug in and snagged in his sweatshirt, not letting him escape.

 “Mouth to mouth, the only way to save you from dying.”

He heard himself saying the words. He heard the little smarmy lilt filtering into his tone. He knew of these kinds of things, the same way he knew you could write music in C-sharp Major. He had never had occasion for either.

C-sharp Major. Seven Sharps. What use did he have for sharps? What use did the man of the house have for sharps? What use did a dutiful big brother have for sharps? What use did his mother’s conscience have for sharps? What use did Marinette’s stress relief have for sharps? What use did Adrien’s wingman have for sharps? What use did a middle school band’s manager have for sharps? What use did the level headed intuition hero have for sharps?

The girl before him was made of sharps, and Luka had been hoarding his for an entire lifetime. In response to his quip there was the rattle of snare drums. There was shock and recognition upon those painted features. The volume swelled in retaliation but the notes hung at the last second.

Luka sliced through the pause. He caught her still outstretched hand. “Now that I’ve saved you, I have to see you to where you are going. I won’t take no for an answer.”

Who was this Luka? He was the other side of every smile. He was the paymaster of every concession. He was so many self-denials that they had become a whole person. That person stared into deep blue eyes more fraught with emotion than he had ever seen. Some had precluded him, but some he had caused. That truth excited him.

“Really?” she hissed, hand slipping like a daydream from his grasp. She turned and tilted her head, the brim of her hat hiding her face. “No is the answer anyone who knew me would expect, and be grateful for.”

A slight tilt of her head back. The curve of her cheek peeked out from under her hat, and a sliver of deep blue cut by the onyx of an intrigued pupil.

Luka ducked his head and craned around into that invitation. He chased her gaze but when he caught it he found challenge not fear, and a lifted chin. The trumpets found their voice, pressing him back but his own repressed melody answered. Strained harsh chords from an electric guitar flowed through his veins.

Pricked from within he countered, “Well, then you’ll have to give me the chance to get to know you first, how else will I understand?”

She stepped closer, the symphony seemed to have found its footing. The Sonata-Allegro was in the offing. Her blue eyes narrowed up from under her brim, “You’ll embarrass yourself. I’ll laugh.”

Luka folded his arms, wearing that smarmy smile again. He leaned down closer, close enough to recall a foolhardy kiss moments past. The guitar riffs rippled up through him, licking like flames from the tips of his hair, “Then I’ll get to hear what that laugh sounds like.”

“Fine!” she pushed him again. “Go! Go on. -Ridiculous- You’d better not let me fall!”

She was shoving him as she spoke, turning him around back towards the park and pulling her suitcase in his wake. Luka stumbled forward under the prodding, giddy. His mind was racing, trying to keep up with these unexpected impulses. The electric guitar was thrumming out a tune he had never heard before. It wasn’t love, no. It was anticipation. It was hunger.

“This thing?” she derided when he stopped to unchain.

In response he snagged her bag and lashed it to the Pannier rack with two deft motions. He raised a challenging brow. The symphony had subsided. He had a deep need to revive it.

He mounted up.

“Where am I supposed to sit?” she groused. Her arms were folded, her shoulders hunched. Her bottom lip threatened a pout. Luka was silent for several more long seconds. Her right hand drifted up to flick back long hair that was still not there. Strings rose in tense quarter notes. He was learning.

“Hop on top of your luggage, sidesaddle. Isn’t that how all rich girls ride?”

The strings threatened a screech and Luka’s instincts warned even this new uncontrolled side. He extended a hand palm up at the end of his taunt, to assist her in taking her perch. She kept surprisingly good balance. One hand gripped his shoulder tightly. Nails dug in. It stung and revitalized in equal measure.

“Where to?” Luka asked.

She rattled off an address distractedly, then stretched out her other arm to point across the green.  “Oh, looks like my ride finally showed up.”

The throaty laugh that bubbled up behind him broke the symphony free again. The parts were disjointed, playing from different sheet music, but for a moment they were strident and enveloping.

All sharps.

Luka laughed too, without looking, and started to pedal. “He can’t take what I’ve rightfully stolen.” -----------------------------------------------------------

The address was close- too close. Luka had won the game. He had this new music in hand. He wanted more time with it, more time to experience it. What to do though? His normal routine would be to let it go. He had offered to do a thing, he would do it and damn his own desires.

The sharps prodded him. He took a risk. He took a wrong turn.

He took another, then another.

She doesn’t know where she’s going.

The thought was selfish, and brought elation. He rationalized- He was taking her there; the long way.

“So where am I taking you?” he called back over his shoulder to prompt her. The symphony had subsided into a burbling precursor again.

She leaned forward, the grip on his shoulder tightening. Sweatshirt and t-shirt combined were nothing before that manicure. The scent of her came with the motion. Not even the wind could keep it at bay. Musky, with a metallic aftertaste, like a chemical reaction tickling the roof of his mouth.

“To my home of course. What, do you think I take my luggage for little outings?”

The strings were peaking through the rush of air. Luka probed, “Where is home?”

Deadpan, “Where you are supposed to be taking me.”

A flight of flutes darted out of the chaos to circle their heads -amusement. Drawing them out felt like winning a prize.

Luka chuckled, “Yes, but what is where I am taking you, my precarious passenger?”

She withdrew, taking her scent and the flutes with her. Woodwinds could be faintly heard, in flats not sharps. No answer was forthcoming. It didn’t feel the same as before. His mind went into overdrive trying to puzzle it out. He nearly ran into a car that had been signaling its turn.

His sudden course correction earned a squawk from behind him and two sets of nails clawed into his shoulders while her hat brim smashed itself to the back of his neck. The pain brought clarity though. Clarity- the opposite of-

“Sorry,” Luka turned down a second stretch of the Seine, he felt the urge to risk passing his home. Would anyone see? What would they think?

He banished that tangential thought. Clarity the opposite of-

Confusion, “What I meant was, what is home like?”

He’d nearly missed the tympani amid trying to not die. It was surpassed by strings that belied her breezy words, “Oh you know, a house. A place with rooms; a bed I suppose.”

“You don’t know what your own home looks like?”

Strings and more strings. They screeched towards a crescendo. Before Luka could defuse it though, Chloe did so herself. “Are we going to be there soon? Can’t this silly little bike go any faster?”

He was technically caught and in the wrong. The urge to placate was overwhelming. It wasn’t placating that made the orchestra play though…

“Faster?” he called back, “Hold on.”

Luka leaned forward and upped his pace. The nails on his shoulders had to shift to his waist. He pedaled hard, his target was already close at hand; Le Boulevard Peripherique.

No bikes allowed on the Northwestern leg. He wasn’t concerned about that.

“What are you-?” didn’t stop him. The sharps were calling; not hers, his. What Luka would never dream of doing- no that was wrong. He had dreamed, in so many quiet nights. He had buried those dreams under other people’s needs.

He rode out into the fast moving traffic. Horns blared. He pedaled harder, his chest heaving. “Going fast! Isn’t this what you wanted? Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

A car rushed by on one side. Then on another. Luka was pushing, but the metal herd thundered around him faster. “Scared?!” Trumpets and brass backed by snares. She shook him from behind,”Go faster!”

“Faster!” he called back.

A truck rumbled by on the right, horn blaring. By the time it passed he was laughing, giddy. Luka stood on his pedals, those nails scrambled to keep hold on him. Upright,  he added his weight to the mix. His legs burned. His spokes were less than a blur. The bike rocked precariously back and forth with every downward thrust of the pedals. 

“Faster!” he shouted again, panting too hard to laugh.

He had raced ahead of planning, raced ahead of responsibility. It was exhilarating. It was freeing. He had no idea what would happen next.

What did happen was beyond even the unexpected though.

Clinging to him, hand over hand, his passenger pulled herself up his back. She hooked two fingers into the back of his collar. From the angle she was… standing?

”Faster!” she yelled.

Luka risked a glance up, and was treated to that wide brimmed hat being ripped from her head, lost to the wind wake. She was perched atop the rocking luggage rack, riding like the equestrian vault. Her sapphires shone, locked on the horizon. Her skin glowed bronze in the late summer sun. The symphony bloomed in full harmony. Luka forgot to pedal.

She turned that adrenaline-mad gaze down on him. He forgot to breathe.

“Faster!” she yelled again, yanking his collar like reins.

Luka snapped his eyes back to the road. The burning in his limbs and lungs was gone. He growled, hungry. He went faster.

They were a sight. They were a menace. They swerved in their lane. Horns and curses serenaded them. They laughed amid it all. The near misses added up though, a warning of payment due.

Luka took the next off ramp, coasting down from breakneck speed. Laughter turned to wordless giggles from both of them. Luka was on autopilot, waiting for his heart to catch up. The bike juddered once as she sat down heavily behind him, leaning sprawled across his back with her head on his shoulder with her music in his ears.

Too late Luka realized his error. They were too close to the destination. In his haze he’d taken them the rest of the way, and his foot dropped as they came to a stop before he could work up another excuse to continue.

The end of motion reminded them both that the world still existed beyond their fingertips. She pushed off him -not roughly this time- and slid from the back of his bike. Luka was still reeling, trying to realign a lifetime around the last few minutes.

She took a step towards the house, white sides ensconced within an old stone wall. Her head tilted just enough for her fringe to brush her cardigan. “It looks… nice?”

It sounded more like she was evaluating his home than her own. When she looked back at him it registered, she was asking for confirmation. Luka nodded, “It does. Neat, charming, affluent, but not excessive.”

She turned back fully and clasped her hands in front of her. The symphony had gone wandering again, but this time the instruments were not at war. They were simply… uncertain?  She stepped back towards him. Words formed behind her gaze but never made it to her lips. Luka felt like an entire novel was cowering under his tongue as well.

She gestured awkwardly. “My bag…”

“Oh!” Luka almost fell, getting off his bike. His feet weren’t cooperating and his legs were charging interest on exhaustion. He unstrapped her bag as deftly as he had loaded it, took it down and wheeled it within her reach.

He knew he had to think of something… A sharp glinted within his chest.

She reached for it, but he held on over that cocky grin, “You owe me.”

She startled. The way her eyes widened he could fall in. “What?”

Luka rolled it a few cm closer to her and let go. “You owe me. You made it so I had no choice but to kiss you. You’ve got to give me a chance to get you to kiss me.”

Shock melted into a tangle of expressions he couldn't quite unwind. The symphony played on though; inexpertly, as if unsure of the various parts. The whole was cut silent without warning though. Those painted lips turned into a thoughtful frown.

“You’ve no reason to hang around someone like me, and I can’t be seen anywhere with someone like you. Th-thank you, for the ride… all of it.”

Another novel went unspoken. Unrestrained Luka was a newborn creature, he was tired out and could not push further. Insightful Luka wasn't even sure he should. The sharpness about her now felt like glass, not steel. In the end he just nodded wordlessly.

He got on his bike.

She turned.

He dithered with his gears.

She began to walk, taking out a key from her pocket.

He lifted his helmet -forgotten in its bracket all this time- and put it on.

She reached the narrow iron gate in the stone wall.

Luka breathed out regret and flipped up his kickstand.

“I- A Chauffeur!”

His eyes snapped to the sound of her voice. She held her key in one hand, gesturing as she spoke in a rush. “I will need a chauffeur, and… someone to run errands! I have to buy food… somewhere… I can’t be expected to do it all on my own.”

Luka knew to grab a lifeline when one was thrown. He smiled. “Deliveries are my specialty.”

She came back at a trot, her bob bouncing. She stuffed a business card into his hand. “Text my number, so I have yours. I-”

She seemed to remember herself, or perhaps remember the world. She straightened.

Her tone turned cool, “I will contact you if I have needs.”

He didn’t chuckle, didn’t laugh, didn’t punch the sky and shout for joy. He kept his smile small, deniable. “It will be my pleasure, Miss Bourgeois.”

She turned crisply around, but with her back to him, “Chloé.”

“Chloé.”

The klang of the iron gate closing was the next thing Luka was aware of. He blinked. She was gone.

The symphony remained.

[ilminnestrone]

What do you think Genesis' childhood was like?

Genesis' adoptive mother had wanted him for a long time and had awaited his arrival with trepidation. So when the little one was placed in her arms, and she did not immediately feel a surge of unconditional love, she felt her blood run cold. How was that possible? He was her son, the only one she would ever have, and the much-vaunted maternal instinct had not exploded like all the other mothers in Banora had promised. Every night the baby cried for hours, inconsolable, and she cried too, as quietly as he was loud, rocking him without even looking at him. She really (really) tried. But every tiny scream was a knife through her chest, reminding her she wasn’t his actual mother.

Genesis showed signs of great intelligence early on, learning to speak and read before his peers. But he was smart enough to realise that he could only show it in ways his parents liked: in front of guests he was encouraged to express himself and show his maturity, but after every important dinner he was asked why he said that sentence or how he came up with that story. He soon learned that it was better to smile, ask permission to get up and go to his room to read. He could not make a fool of himself, for that would be his parents fault.

Speaking of dinners: he was accustomed to fine foods from an early age, and he developed an excellent palate for his age. That came with a nice share of diet culture too, of course, with his mother telling him to eat less not to get fat and his father telling him to eat more because he was too small. Junk food was strictly forbidden in his home, so much so that on his first night in Midgar he literally dragged Angeal to the filthiest burger place in town. The first bite was like being born again, and Geal had to tell him to stop moaning.

He never lacked for material things. Every toy or fashionable dress was bought on the day it was released. As soon as Genesis was old enough to have his own tastes, he was given any gadget that interested him. By the time he was fourteen, he owned practically the entire Silver Elite merchandising department. Anything was fine as long as it was heavily gendered: Genesis' father was very particular about colours and themes. Blue, black, brown and grey were masculine colours. Period. So when he was twelve, he stole a lipstick from his mother for the sole reason that it was red: he wore it just once, in front of the mirror, in the middle of the night, and it felt like a revolution. That night he decided to let his hair grow.

When he got old enough to hang around by himself, Angeal became his whole world. They climbed every single tree in Banora and swam every inch of the river together. They spied on girls bathing, and that’s when Genesis realised their opinions on the matter probably diverged.

One day he came home with a flute. He had already learnt some simple tunes by practising down by the river. His father took it away and asked him where he had got such an object, and he answered honestly: "Gillian Hewley gave it to me”. It was the only time his father ever slapped him, calling him a homophobic slur. When he tried to drag him by his hair, telling something about its length, Genesis laughed. He laughed for hours, hysterically. His father never dared to touch him again. He was thirteen.