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kxsagi · 2 months ago

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heyyy u should most definetely write abt reader taking the bllk boys shopping with them against their will and forcing them to watch their fashion show and they try on a bunch of outfits (pls include Nagi and and rin if u could) love u pookie 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

“𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐨𝐧”

a/n: love you too bae, i just know your fashion style would melt hearts 🙈

ft. nagi seishiro, itoshi rin, isagi yoichi, itoshi sae, mikage reo, kaiser michael, shidou ryusei, chigiri hyoma, bachira meguru, ness alexis, aiku oliver

nagi seishiro

the audacity of this man. he brought a neck pillow and an energy drink to the mall.

he tried to lay down on the plushy display bench in the middle of the boutique. a worker politely asked him to move.

he now sits on the floor, hoodie up, watching tik toks at 2% volume.

you peek out of the curtain. “seishiro. look alive.”

he grunts. “looking.”

“i’m wearing the short dress you liked last time.”

he looks up and immediately sits straighter. “whoa.”

“see? worth it.”

he hums. “you should just wear that every day. like, all the time. never take it off.”

you smirk. “so now you’re paying attention?”

“it’s not my fault you look like a final boss.”

you go back in to change. he lies back down.

“tell me when you’re hot again,” he calls.

“you mean when i come out again?”

“same thing.”

itoshi rin

he walked in already scowling. you tried to hold his hand, but his aura said no thoughts, only suffering.

"you promised me ochazuke," he muttered.

"after this!" you said, smiling sweetly, dragging him toward your fashion playground like a human doll.

now he’s slumped in a golden chair, surrounded by glitter and pastel and mannequins with sassier waistlines than him.

you pop your head out. “rin! this one’s red. you’ll like it.”

he sighs. “does it mean we can go home?”

“nope!”

you come out in a lacy mini-dress and he visibly short-circuits.

he coughs. “that’s… short.”

“too short?”

“… not if you never leave the house in it.”

you laugh and twirl. he watches, ears pink.

“rin, should i try the sparkly jumpsuit next or the angelic white one?”

“do you have one that comes with a built-in invisibility cloak?”

“nope. just a built-in hotness overload.”

he covers his face. “kill me.”

but when you turn to change again, he sneaks a picture on his phone. caption: the love of my life, even if she shops for five hours straight.

isagi yoichi

you told him it was "just a quick run to the mall." he naively thought you meant, like... for socks. or toothpaste.

now he's sitting in the barbie dream chair of your favorite boutique, surrounded by velvet, frills, and three other boyfriends who all look equally dead inside.

he's holding your purse. your water bottle. and a half-eaten pretzel. he looks like a medieval servant waiting for the queen to reemerge from her dressing chamber.

“yoichi,” you call sweetly from behind the curtain, “this next one is dangerous. try not to faint.”

he straightens up like he's about to see god.

you strut out in a sleek black dress, one leg exposed.

his eyes go wide. “oh.”

“just oh?”

he opens his mouth to say more but accidentally drops the pretzel.

“babe, i need you to breathe.”

he fans himself with a coupon. “okay. um. that one’s not even fashion anymore. that’s… illegal.”

you wink and go back in. he blinks at the curtain like it wronged him.

every time you come out, he claps a little harder. by outfit #6, he's on the verge of proposing.

"i can't take this much slay. i'm just a man."

itoshi sae

he swore up and down he wasn't coming. he even fake-coughed and said he was sick.

you literally dragged him by the sleeve into the store while he sighed like he was being marched into battle.

"you know i hate malls," he said.

"and i hate when you leave your socks all over the house, but here we are."

he sits like royalty – legs crossed, phone out, face bored.

but when you walk out in a silky green dress, he lifts his eyes and stares.

“well?”

he exhales slowly. “you look like you’d ruin someone’s life in that.”

“yours?”

“depends. are you buying it?”

“maybe. rate it out of ten.”

“i’m not rating your looks,” he scoffs. “i’m just trying to survive.”

but five outfits in, he’s mysteriously invested. “that one’s too much. that one’s not enough. wear the blazer again. with the boots.”

you blink. “sae… are you styling me?”

he shrugs. “if i’m gonna suffer, at least suffer in high fashion.”

also, he takes you out to dinner right after, since “you're already dressed to kill."

mikage reo

you asked for a ride to the mall. he showed up in a chauffeur suit and opened the door like a whole butler. you laughed. he wasn’t joking.

he took your hand and said, “today, i am your royal assistant of fashion.” he meant it.

he holds your bags, gives outfit scores, compliments you like he’s on project runway. "this one screams 'wealthy heiress who poisoned her husband but got away with it.' i love it."

you snort. “what about the pink one?”

“coastal granddaughter who owns a bookstore and flirts in french. also love it.”

by outfit #7, he’s got your sunglasses on and is fake-interviewing you.

“mrs. mikage, how does it feel to have no fashion flops?”

“pretty powerful,” you say.

he bows dramatically. “as your humble stylist, i shall now escort you to boba.”

he’s too good. 10/10. would shop with again.

kaiser michael

you promised it’d be “just one store.” liar. he’s been here 47 minutes and 13 seconds.

you come out in a leather corset dress. he adjusts his sunglasses like he’s seeing a hallucination.

“what the hell is that?”

“you hate it?”

“i didn’t say that. i just… do you want to kill me? is that what this is?”

you twirl and he literally puts a hand over his heart. “i feel unsafe.”

you grin. “good.”

he leans back and starts rating each look out loud in full german. “NEUN! ACHT! ZEHN!”

you don’t know what it means, but his tone is passionate.

when you try something soft and dreamy, he gets quiet. “you look like a fairytale.”

“you okay?”

“no. i think i’m in love again. and again. and again.”

shidou ryusei

this man is banned from three stores in this mall. so you made him promise to behave. he lasts ten seconds.

you walk out in a backless dress. he gasps so loud a toddler cries.

“DAMN, BABY, IS THAT LEG?!?”

“ryu–”

“IS THAT A KNEECAP?! I’M IN LOVE.”

he starts clapping every time you step out. “walk it, strut it, turn around– YESSSSSS.”

the sales lady tries to kick him out. you beg for one more outfit.

he whispers, “do the one with glitter. i’m gonna pass out when i see it.”

you do. he pretends to faint on the floor. “i’ve died. bury me in this dressing room.”

you step over him to go change again.

“do a slutty one next!”

“you’re the worst.”

“you love me.”

chigiri hyoma

he says he hates shopping. says it’s a waste of time.

but then you try on one soft pink outfit and he goes, “wait... that’s really cute.”

then another one and he goes, “holy sh– okay, yeah, that’s cute, too.”

next thing you know he’s zipping up dresses for you and analyzing necklines. “you need heels with this one. and earrings.”

“are you having fun?”

he pauses. “… no?”

you arch an eyebrow.

“okay yes. shut up.”

he starts taking selfies with you in the mirror.

sends them to his sister like, “look at her. look at my girl. we win.”

bachira meguru

he turns the shopping trip into a musical. starts singing “she’s beauty, she’s grace” every time you exit the changing room.

he claps, dances, even spins around himself like he’s your backup dancer.

“how do i look?”

“like you walked out of my dreams and into a magazine.”

he finds a hat and puts it on sideways. “i’m your fashion manager now. try the sparkles.”

you oblige. he gasps so loud it echoes.

“OH MY GOSH SHE SPARKLES IRL.”

you two almost get kicked out for laughing too hard.

he buys you a silly hat to match his. “now we’re a couple. but stylish.”

ness alexis

he wasn’t even mad about going. in fact, he brought his own fashion sunglasses.

“don’t worry, love,” he said with a dramatic hand on your shoulder, “i’ll make sure you don’t commit any fashion crimes.”

you thought he was joking. he wasn’t. he has a tiny notebook and rates your outfits with actual commentary.

“hmm, this one is giving ‘sweetheart on the outside, dangerous in court.’” “ooh, i like the cut on this. very revenge at your ex’s wedding.” “no, no, that one’s a no. it’s giving 2012 mall goth. and not in the cute way.”

he sits with one leg crossed over the other, sipping a matcha latte and judging every passerby.

you come out in a red dress and he gasp-claps. “GIRL, IS THAT BLOOD RED? YOU’RE KILLING THE ENTIRE MALE SPECIES.”

he then follows you into the accessory section like a personal stylist. “gold hoops with that. trust me. i was born with taste.”

one of the workers asks if he works there. he smiles politely. “no, but if i did, our stock would be ten times hotter.”

at the end he whispers: “you looked so good, i almost fell in love with you all over again.”

“almost?”

“shhh, baby. don’t ruin the drama.”

aiku oliver

you told him it’d be fun. he raised a brow like, define fun. twenty minutes later, he’s sitting like a mafia boss on a couch that’s way too small for his ego. arms spread, legs open, surrounded by your shopping bags and glaring at every guy that so much as blinks at your changing room curtain.

“what’s taking so long?” he grumbles.

you call out, “patience! i’m making an entrance.”

he rolls his eyes. “you better be walking out in a full oscar gown with fireworks and backup dancers.”

you come out in a backless jumpsuit. he goes silent. visibly exhales through his nose.

leans forward, elbows on knees. “damn.”

you smirk. “that’s it? no commentary?”

he gestures vaguely. “i mean. how am i supposed to comment when my brain’s melted?”

every time you go back to change, he leans back again like he’s at a fashion show but too cool to clap.

he does start lowkey live texting sendou though: bro. she’s hot. like criminally hot. she tried on a leather skirt. i blacked out. i’m buying her the whole store. she’s not stopping me. help.

you come out in a dress with a slit and he just stands up. “okay. that’s it. we’re going straight to dinner. you’re not wasting that outfit on the food court.”

“but i’m not done shopping.”

“we are. i’ve been defeated. the hotness bar is shattered. let’s go.”

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strayingawayy · 3 months ago

Text

series: love me two times

businessman minho! x former one night stand reader (and soon to be spouse)

chapter 1: whiskey, regret, and other engagement traditions

read introduction here

word count: 3100 words

WARNINGS: strong language, sexual content (maybe eventual smut if i have the strength to), emotional manipulation, toxic family dynamics, power imbalances, alcohol use, eventual gun violence, blood and injury, blackmail, surveillance, themes of control, secrecy, betrayal, emotional repression, unhealthy coping mechanisms, psychological tension under the guise of romance, dubious business dealings, mentions of public scandal and reputation damage, manipulation via arranged marriage, and consistent, unapologetically bad decision making from most, if not all, characters involved. british humour. in case you all pussy out from that.

A/N: oh my god she's here. chapter 1 is here. i have no clue as to how this is going to end but i put my whole soul, heart, brain and dick into this fic. (which is a lot, mind you) thank you for the support on a whimsical little intro i wrote at my grandparents' house while my dog slept on my feet. thank you thank you thank you. chapter 2 coming next weekend. hopefully. also omg sho's first non lower caps fic

playlist. (coming soon)

─── Lee Minho had always been a man who thrived in chaos. Corporate wars, high-stakes meetings, and PR disasters were his playground. But even he couldn’t have predicted the one nightmare he’d spent years running from would land right back in front of him, wrapped in a perfectly tailored suit, flashing a smile that had ruined him once before.

He could handle anything…

Except the one person who had, through one night alone, known exactly how to bring him to his knees.

Lee Minho liked to think of himself as a man who could handle anything.

Corporate warfare? Child’s play. High stakes negotiations? His playground. He could charm billionaires over black coffee and through a simple peak of his collarbone, crush competitors with a smile, and walk out of a scandal cleaner than he went in, usually with a headline the press couldn’t stop foaming over.

Adaptability was his superpower. Precision, his trademark. Control? Non fucking negotiable.

At least, it had been, until you happened.

Again.

He stared at you, his supposed fiancé(e), the ghost of one of his most notable past mistakes, and thought—briefly, desperately—that maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe he had worked himself into a stress-induced psychotic episode, and in reality, he was rocking back and forth in his office chair while his assistant frantically called for medical assistance. Would he be embarrassed that this would be the second time this would be happening? Maybe. Would he atleast be overjoyed by the fact that you weren't standing before him, far more gorgeous than all those years ago? Absolutely.

But no. This was real. You were real. This was happening.

You were still standing there, looking just as horrified as he felt, though, annoyingly, still unfairly attractive. Time had been disgustingly kind to you. And you had that same look in your eyes as before, the one that told him you were about seven seconds away from causing him severe emotional distress. And possibly a boner. Although he wasn't drunk enough for that. Not yet, atleast.

His brain short circuited as he watched you approach the table. You, of all people. He had been expecting a stiff, glass-of-champagne, charity-gala kind of person. Not you—the human embodiment of bad decisions and incredible, incredible sex.

Minho could laugh. His parents had unknowingly betrothed him to his favourite one-night stand. Brilliant.

“You have got to be fucking with me,” you finally said, sliding into the chair across from him.

“I wish I was,” Minho muttered, picking up his glass of whiskey and downing half of it in one go.

“So,” you said, resting your elbows on the table. “Long time no see.”

Minho blinked at you. Long time no see? You were acting like you’d bumped into him at Tesco, not like you were about to be married to the man you once absolutely ruined in a hotel room after a night of reckless decisions and expensive cocktails.

You, who had once dragged him into a bathroom stall at some questionably pricey nightclub and ruined him for every person he fucked after. Which he unashamedly agreed, were a lot. And the worst part was perhaps, that he remembered everything. He remembered the way you had looked at him that night, like you knew exactly what you were doing, like you had been born to make him suffer in the best possible way. He remembered your voice, the way you had laughed at him when he’d tried to act cool and ended up tripping over his own shoes, too fancy for him at the time. And he remembered the morning after, waking up alone, the only trace of you being a note scrawled on hotel stationery that simply read:

cheers for that. 10/10. no notes.

Minho had never been so simultaneously offended and impressed in his life.

And now? Now he was supposed to marry you? Spend forever with you...or atleast attempt to?

He took another large sip of whiskey.

“So,” you said, eyes sparkling with amusement. “How’s life been treating you? Still a bit of a man whore, or have you finally learned to keep it in your tailored trousers?”

Minho inhaled sharply through his nose. “I am a legitimate businessman.”

“Ah, so still a man whore,” you mused, nodding sagely.

Minho chose to ignore you.

"This… is a mistake," he muttered, running a hand through his usually well tamed hair. "This has to be a mistake."

"Oh, absolutely. Because otherwise we'll have to tell our parents we can’t get married because we’ve already seen each other naked," you say, leaning back in your chair with an unimpressed look. The very same that had drawn Minho to you that night. Because who did you think you were? Ignoring his wit and charm as he sat in the club's sofa, basking in attention and alcohol? The arrogant lad had decided that night, to prove himself to you. And prove, he did. A decision he didn't otherwise regret...until now.

Minho groaned and tried to reach over to his glass of whiskey, only to realise you were already drinking from it. "I swear to God, this is karma. This is divine punishment for my past sins."

"Well, considering your past sins include half of Central London, yeah, probably," you said with a shrug, swirling the now empty crystal glass.

He glared at you, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of exasperation and disbelief. You, in contrast, beamed at him with the kind of saccharine sweetness that suggested you were enjoying every second of his suffering. Minho noted internally, that you'd make a terrible actor, given that while the smile made it seem as though he was the only one seconds away from throwing up, your bouncing knee gave you away.

Minho, for his part, looked as though his soul had momentarily left his body. He blinked slowly, like someone trying to wake from a very specific, very inconvenient nightmare.

"Right," he said eventually, clapping his hands together in a sharp, business-like motion, as though trying to galvanise himself into action. "Let’s get this over with. How are we going to get out of this engagement?"

You shrugged nonchalantly, as if the matter were no more serious than choosing what to have for lunch. "Run away to Spain? Fake your death? Oh! You could seduce my grandmother so she convinces my father to call it off?"

"I am not seducing your grandmother."

"Coward."

Before Minho could offer a retort—no doubt a scathing one—a waiter, appeared at your table. He was the very picture of refined hospitality: all polite smiles, pressed shirt cuffs, and the faint waft of expensive cologne that trailed behind him like a signature.

"Good evening. May I start you off with a drink?"

"Whiskey. Double. Actually, just bring the bottle," Minho said, without so much as a blink, eyes still on you.

"Make that two," you added, not missing a beat, but still being polite and stable enough to break eye contact with Minho and smile at the waiter.

The attendant gave a courteous nod and retreated, leaving behind a faint trail of bergamot and judgement.

Minho exhaled slowly and dropped his head into his hands for a moment before glancing up at you, utterly defeated.

"This is going to be a disaster," he muttered, as if saying it aloud might somehow lessen the blow.

Minho barely had a moment to wallow in the tragic comedy of his predicament — engaged, against all logic, to a person who had just suggested seducing their own grandmother — before reality doubled down.

It came in the form of a booming, far-too-cheerful voice that could only belong to one man.

“Ah, Minho, you’ve met your fiancé(e)! Wonderful!”

The words rang through the restaurant and Minho flinched so hard he nearly knocked over the cutlery. He didn’t dare turn around. There was no need. He knew that voice. That was the voice of a man who thought forced betrothal was not only acceptable, but downright romantic.

His father.

Minho visibly recoiled, gripping the edge of the table as if bracing for impact. He had to physically resist the very natural urge to bang his forehead repeatedly against the pristine linen tablecloth.

And then, his parents descended upon the table in full force — exuding money, control issues, and the smug satisfaction of people who had just solved a problem by creating three more.

His mother was dressed in a sleek, couture suit that probably required its own bank account, looking every inch the woman who judged people based on the mineral content of their bottled water. His father wore the expression of someone who’d just sealed a lucrative merger and genuinely believed his son should be grateful for it.

And then there was your dad.

Looking every bit like the kind of man who once tried to bribe a headmaster with a case of vintage wine and a framed photo of himself shaking hands with a minor royal. So what if you weren't the best at studies during school? Was it really your fault that your Physics teacher was a bigger bitch than daddy dearest here?

Minho had never met him before, but he looked exactly as one might expect the father of someone like you to look—sharp suit, sharper glare, and the quiet intensity of a man who considered emotional vulnerability a personal failure. He radiated a kind of heavy, generational disappointment, like someone who’d been sighing over your life choices since the moment you learned how to form opinions of your own.

“Hello, sweetheart,” your dad said, planting a quick kiss on your forehead, affectionate in the way a CEO might congratulate a junior employee for not burning the office down. Then he turned to Minho, assessing the man who was supposed to be his future son-in-law with a look that would've made 16 year old Minho audibly whimper.

Your husband-to-be, drawing out every ounce of his professionalism, business acumen, and carefully cultivated adult composure, managed to respond with:

“Hi.”

Brilliant. Smooth. Absolutely nailed it. James Bond could never.

Your dad, unsurprisingly, looked as though he’d just been personally insulted.

Minho’s own parents, however, were beaming across the table, undoubtedly proud of their matchmaking skills.

“This is perfect,” his mother gushed, settling into her seat like she’d orchestrated the entire evening herself (she had). “I knew you two would suit each other.”

Minho let out a laugh that could only be described as emotionally strangled. Suit each other? Yes, absolutely. Because nothing screamed long term compatibility like a one-night stand from his blackout phase that he'd spent the past few years actively repressing, only to now be legally tethered to it in holy matrimony.

“So,” your dad said, leaning back in his chair with all the gravitas of a man about to sign a trade deal. “Shall we discuss the terms of this marriage?”

Terms. Terms. Marriage. Minho wasn’t sure which part of that sentence he found more horrifying — the casual contract language or the undeniable implication that none of this was a joke.

Minho looked at you, searching your face for some kind of solidarity. Instead, he found you sipping your whiskey like it was just another Wednesday, eyes half-lidded, posture relaxed—like this whole thing wasn’t giving you heart palpitations.

But oh, it was.

You weren’t calm. You were resigned. You’d played this game before. You knew exactly how your father operated: charm first, control second, and condescension somewhere in between. This wasn’t a dinner—it was a business meeting. And you were already sick of it.

“Well,” his father said briskly, “the wedding will take place in three months.”

Minho choked violently on his drink. “Three months?!”

“Yes,” his mother replied smoothly, not even blinking. “Any longer and people will start gossiping.”

Gossiping. Of course. Because obviously, public perception was the real villain here.

“Three months is plenty of time,” your dad added, nodding with the calm authority of a man who hadn’t even asked how you felt about any of this.

Minho's brown eyed flickered to you again, looking for help. A hotline number. A hint of rebellion. Something. Anything.

You just smiled at him.

It wasn’t kind.

“Now then,” your dad continued, “what about a prenup?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Minho’s father nodded enthusiastically. “We’ll have our legal teams draft it immediately.”

“Yes, yes, that’s all well and good,” Minho cut in, finally finding the will to form sentences again. “But- do I get a say in this?”

His mother tilted her head in that familiar, patronising way that suggested she thought his input was adorable but entirely unnecessary.

“Minho, darling,” she said, her tone one of pure condescension, “this is for your own good.”

Your dad chimed in, nodding. “If either of you had a reliable romantic track record, we wouldn’t be here. But let’s be honest-” he waved a hand vaguely in your direction “-you don’t, and-” he turned to Minho, gaze sharp and deeply insulting,“-you certainly don’t.”

You smiled tightly, jaw clenched just enough that it hurt.

Minho felt his soul attempt to vacate his body. Right there. In the middle of this overpriced, mood-lit, jazz-playing nightmare of a restaurant. He was going to die. And the only thing good about a death here would be that Art Blakey was playing in the background.

“So it’s settled,” his mother said brightly, with finality in her voice, “Three months from now, we’ll have a wedding.”

Minho turned to you. You turned to him.

You raised your glass in a slow, sarcastic toast.

“To our bright and happy future,” you said, voice honeyed, but eyes suddenly cold.

And your father smiled like he’d just won. Because unbeknownst to the two of you, he had.

•━━━━━━━━━━━•

Minho had made a lot of terrible decisions in his life. A truly impressive number. Enough to warrant a multi-part documentary series, probably titled Lee Minho: A Lifetime of Questionable Choices—with dramatic re-enactments, ominous voiceovers, and a theme song that sounded like a slow motion car crash. His friends could probably star in it too.

But agreeing (not really) to marry you?

Oh, that was shooting straight to the top of the list. Hall of fame. Permanent exhibit in the Museum of Regret.

Because it had been barely twenty four hours since the disaster that was your engagement dinner, and already, he felt his life being ruined, one sarcastic comment at a time.

“So, how long have you two been engaged?” Felix asked innocently, if one could call anything Felix did innocent, while stirring sugar into his overpriced cold brew.

Minho looked up from his coffee, eyes already tired. He’d made the mistake of inviting you to brunch with his friends. In public. With witnesses. Clearly, he’d suffered a blow to the head.

“Oh, it’s been wonderful,” you gushed. You reached over to squeeze Minho’s hand like you actually meant it. Maybe you did. Minho didn't want to bother with the details if it meant another migraine. “We’ve been informally engaged for a whole, what, twelve hours now? It’s been magical. Truly life altering. I can’t wait to be legally bound to this man forever.”

Minho squeezed your hand back. Hard.

“Yes,” he deadpanned. “Overjoyed. Thrilled. Best day of my life.”

Felix, the little gremlin, grinned, his mind already turning your worrying marriage into a soap opera. “Well, it’s about time you settled down, hyung. You’ve been a menace to society for years.”

“First of all, that is highly inappropriate. I am a legitimate businessma-”

“Mate,” Chan, Minho’s business partner, cut in. “You once forgot a woman’s name mid-bloody-date.”

“And she had to remind you,” Hyunjin added, sipping his neon-green liquid. Whatever it was.

“And you still got her number,” Seungmin chimed in, looking vaguely offended on behalf of all women. You'd be sure to send his number to your recently heartbroken friend.

Minho groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. Why had he thought bringing you to brunch was a good idea? Why had he brought you into public? With his friends at that? He had practically announced a 'Bully-Lee-Minho' day himself.

“Oh, don’t worry,” you said brightly. Too brightly. “He’s very devoted now. Wakes up every morning and just stares at me in awe, whispering about how lucky he is.”

Felix gasped, awestruck at the beauty of love at first sight. “Really?”

“Absolutely,” you said, smiling. “He even cries a little.”

Minho nearly inhaled his coffee. “I do not-”

“He does,” you said solemnly, giving his hand another squeeze. “It’s beautiful.”

Chan leaned back in his chair, way too entertained. “Well, I can’t wait for the wedding. Have you set a date?”

“Not yet,” Minho said quickly, cutting you off before you could say something like ‘we’re thinking next week, on a volcano.’ “We’re taking our time.”

“Oh, obviously,” you added, ever helpful. “We have to enjoy the honeymoon phase before I find out all his deep, dark secrets. Like his skincare routine, or lack thereof. Which I'll have to change either way. Or his browser history.”

Hyunjin gagged. “Please. Spare us.”

“No, no,” you mused, eyes alight with mischief. “I think he’s hiding something. Like a secret past. Maybe he was a failed K-pop trainee. Maybe he’s got a tattoo that says ‘Live, Laugh, Love.’ Or he owns a mug that says Boss Babe.”

"I actually gifted him that." Chan added, sipping his protein smoothie.

“Or if he has a pet rock named Gary, considering one of his girlfriends was Australian,” Hyunjin added and Chan nods proudly.

“Or an old TikTok account where he lipsyncs to early 2000s emo hits,” Seungmin said.

“I knew you gave eyeliner energy,” Felix muttered.

Minho buried his face in his hands. “Please. I am begging you all to stop.”

You just leaned in, resting your chin in your hand as you smiled sweetly. “Aww. He’s shy.”

Minho resisted the urge to walk directly into London traffic.

But even as the table erupted into laughter, and your brunch turned into an impromptu roast, something shifted. A cold thread of unease slid down Minho’s spine.

You were laughing, yes. Playing the part perfectly. But beneath the sparkle in your eyes was something else—something guarded. The way your smile didn’t quite reach all the way. The way your shoulders tensed every time someone mentioned the wedding, like the word itself had claws.

He couldn’t put his finger on it, not entirely. Maybe it was the text from your father that he had watched you ignore minutes ago. Maybe it was the transparent pants Hyunjin had worn years earlier making a reappearance in his head for some reason. Or maybe it was just his own overworked brain, spinning a conspiracy out of nerves and too much caffeine.

Whatever it was, Minho decided to shelve it for later. He had reports to review. Contracts to sign. A mountain of paperwork waiting for him and exactly zero emotional bandwidth to spare.

He’d figure it out. Eventually.

For now, he’d go home, finish his paperwork, and go to sleep.

Not knowing that what he’d wake up to would be far more fearsome than your father’s moustache.

Far, far worse.

Because somewhere, in a dimly lit security office, a grainy CCTV recording, dated four years ago, timestamped 2:14 a.m., was being uploaded by hands far too eager and far too vengeful.

A bed. A hotel logo in the corner. Two familiar silhouettes.

And the unmistakable beginning of the scandal that would burn everything to the ground.

...

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ephemeralp1eces · 8 days ago

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You Don’t Have to Choose if No One Makes You - Part I

Summary: you’ve been around the McLaren boys for a while now, and you’ve felt yourself pulled towards not one, but both. What might happen if they decide they feel the same way? And even more, what if they decide that instead of fighting for your attention they would rather just… share?

What to know: Nothing of note here. Introduction to your history with Lando and Oscar, and interactions with both. Fluff for now, but this story will turn smutty.

wc; 4,200

You know how they say not to mix business with pleasure? I think that applies tenfold when the business is Formula One. Especially when you’ve grown up right in the thick of it. When your dad used to race with their dads, when your childhood photos include karting tracks instead of playgrounds, and when half your formative memories involve the screech of tires and the smell of gasoline more than any school dance or summer camp.

I always thought I was immune to it all. Immune to the myth of the paddock, to the fast-paced flirtations, to the high-octane proximity of fame and adrenaline. Until, of course, I wasn’t.

Until it was them.

Lando and Oscar.

McLaren’s golden boys.

I’d known Lando since we were kids. Our families overlapping at races, birthdays, holidays in places no child should be bored in, like Monaco and Abu Dhabi. We were those two bratty kids forced to hang out because our dads were friends, because it was easier for the adults to leave us alone together than have to entertain us separately. He was cheeky, loud, quick with a joke that almost always got him into trouble. I was quieter, a bit sharper, someone who quickly learned how to push his buttons in return. We were chaos and competition, the kind of pseudo-sibling energy that would’ve stayed exactly that if we hadn’t both grown up looking like… well, like we do now.

Oscar came later.

More calculated. More reserved. Like someone who had analyzed the social algorithms of the paddock before ever stepping foot in it. But not in a cold way, just careful. Smart. Australian, but not stereotypically so. Dry and deadpan, like if a stand-up comic had taken a vow of silence. He came into F1 and into my life as the quiet one, the contrast to Lando’s constant storm. And yet he somehow managed to keep up with Lando without ever needing to be louder. That balance, that restraint, it intrigued me from the start.

I met Oscar at McLaren’s 2023 launch in Woking. I’d been brought in to consult on the marketing team for a special project, a career pivot after a few years spent in the F2 media circuit. Lando had rolled his eyes dramatically when he saw me walk into the building, pretending to sigh like I was ruining his day.

“You again?” he groaned, mouth twitching into a grin. “Don’t you have somewhere better to be?”

I’d leaned against the table, smug. “Nope. Just here to haunt you. Lifelong mission.”

Oscar had been beside him, a beat behind the joke but smiling anyway. His eyes flicked between us like he was trying to figure out whether we were cousins, enemies, or exes. I think he decided not to ask.

Lando introduced me with the kind of exaggerated flair that only he could get away with. “This is my oldest frenemy. Don’t listen to anything she says.”

Oscar offered his hand. “So you’re the one who knows all his secrets?”

I shook it. “More than I’d like to, honestly.”

Oscar’s grip was warm. His eyes lingered just a little too long.

That was the beginning of everything unraveling.

—

By 2024, I wasn’t consulting anymore. I was part of the full-time team, tucked somewhere between media strategy and talent relations. Odd, right? Not high-profile enough to warrant cameras, but present enough that no one questioned why I traveled with them, sat in their meetings, helped plan their off-track commitments.

I got good at pretending I wasn’t watching them.

I got even better at pretending they weren’t watching me.

With Lando, the boundary was always fuzzy. He��d flirt, but it was safe, playful, always wrapped in a cushion of history and teasing. He knew how far to push before I’d roll my eyes or shove him off. It was harmless. It had to be harmless.

Because if it wasn’t, and if we let it become something else, then everything between us might shift.

With Oscar, the boundary was cleaner. Sharper. But somehow more dangerous. Because he didn’t flirt, not obviously. He didn’t joke about things he could be caught meaning. Instead, he watched. He noticed. He remembered things I didn’t realize I’d said until he brought them up again, quietly, precisely, like he was filing a case against me in his head.

And maybe it was the quiet ones that always got you.

One night in Singapore, post-race, I caught Oscar watching me from the balcony of the team hotel. Not staring. Just… observing. Everyone else had filtered out to bars, clubs, wherever the usual chaos was. I had stayed behind, claiming I was tired. I think he had too.

We didn’t speak. Not then.

But the tension buzzed between us like something electric.

Lando’s room was three doors down. I’d passed it on the way back to mine earlier, heard his voice through the walls laughing, alive, probably FaceTiming someone or reviewing footage or doing whatever it is he does to wind down.

I couldn’t seem to outrun the way they were beginning to take up space in me.

—

Everyone talks about how close Lando and Oscar are. It’s not performative. There’s a real rhythm to it. The kind that forms when two people are thrown into the same pressure cooker and still find a way to laugh inside it. Lando loosens Oscar up. Oscar keeps Lando grounded.

I’m one of the few people who’s ever seen them argue.

It was during a debrief in Japan. One of those frustrating weekends where nothing quite clicked. The media had been brutal. The setup was off. Lando was pissed. Oscar was trying to stay rational, but his patience snapped when Lando kept interrupting the engineers.

“Mate, let them talk.”

Lando had shot him a look. “I am letting them talk.”

“No, you’re just talking over everyone because you’re annoyed.”

Awkward.

I remember standing in the back of the room, waiting. No one else moved. The silence was loud.

Lando muttered something under his breath. Oscar didn’t flinch. He just stared at him, unblinking, until Lando finally leaned back in his chair and said nothing more.

After the meeting, Oscar passed me in the hall and said, like it was nothing, “He’ll get over it.”

He did. They always do. But it left me wondering what would happen if that tension ever left the meeting room.

Because I was starting to feel like a magnet, pulled in both directions. And the closer I got to either one of them, the more I could feel the current heating up beneath the surface.

—

The moment I knew I was really in trouble came later, in Monaco.

It was a quiet moment, harmless on the surface.

I’d gone to check on Lando before a media call, knocking on his door out of habit. He was half-dressed, towel slung around his waist, hair still dripping from a shower. I rolled my eyes.

“Do you ever learn to be ready on time?”

He grinned lazily. “Come on, you act like you haven’t seen worse.”

I didn’t answer.

Because I had. But not like that. Not like him.

He stepped aside to let me in and I tried not to look too long at the curve of his shoulder, the droplets of water tracing his spine as he turned to grab a shirt.

“Have you seen Oscar today?” I asked, trying to sound neutral.

Lando shrugged. “Think he went for a run earlier. You two getting close or something?”

It was a casual question, the kind friends throw out without thinking.

But his eyes cut sideways when he asked it. Like he was more curious than he let on.

I shrugged, matching his tone. “We talk. He’s easy to be around.”

Lando pulled the shirt over his head and turned to face me fully. “Yeah. He is.”

And for a second, just one, something flickered between us. Something unspoken. Unexplored.

Like maybe he cared about me finding Oscar easy.

Like maybe he was more invested than he pretended to be.

—

I still don’t know when everything started to blur.

There wasn’t a single moment where I crossed a line. No obvious point of no return.

Just a slow build. A glance too long in the motorhome. A shoulder brush in the garage. A late-night message that didn’t need to be sent but was anyway.

One time, after a race in Canada, Oscar texted me to ask if I’d made it back to the hotel okay. Nothing else. Just that. The message sat on my screen, glowing at 1:12 a.m., and I stared at it for a long time before replying.

Yeah. You?

Yeah.

Nothing more.

But it stayed with me. The way he’d asked. The fact that he’d asked at all.

Lando would’ve called. He wouldn’t have hesitated. He’d joke that I owed him dinner for surviving another double-header, then hang up just as quickly.

They were so different.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because I was beginning to want both.

I wasn’t supposed to. I knew better. But desire doesn’t follow rules, especially not in F1.

Especially not when you’ve got two of the most magnetic people on the grid standing five feet away from you every day.

Especially not when one has known you forever and the other is still trying to figure you out.

Especially not when you’re starting to wonder what it might feel like to be more than just friends.

#formula 1 #formula one #formula one x reader #lando norris #lando x reader #lando smut #lando x y/n #lando x you #lando fluff #lando fanfic #lando imagine #landoscar #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri smut #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri x lando norris

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syrecjh · 25 days ago

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──★🥀་ ̟ !! ִֶָ A Rose for Dynamight

(Another request)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x child reader

Part 2 Part 3

It happens on a Tuesday—ordinary, unassuming, the sky painted in shades of gentle dusk as the sun kisses the city goodnight. Katsuki Bakugo walks down the street like a storm in rest mode—brows slightly furrowed, hands deep in his pockets, hero uniform half-zipped from the patrol he just wrapped up. The world shifts around him, people part like water, as they always do. No one dares approach Dynamight unless they have to.

No one... except you.

A little girl, no older than seven, with a bandage on her knee and a rose clutched tight in her small fist.

He notices you too late.

You march up to him like you’ve got a mission blessed by the gods, chin lifted, eyes wide with something dangerously close to admiration. And then, without preamble, without hesitation, you thrust the slightly crumpled rose up toward him and say:

“Hi! I think you’re very handsome. This is for you.”

Bakugo stops in his tracks. Blinks. Stares at you like you’ve just asked him to adopt a dolphin. The city exhales around him, cars humming, people oblivious. But all he can focus on is a tiny human holding out a rose like it’s a medal of honor.

“What the hell…?”

You blink up at him, unfazed. “You can’t say bad words,” you scold, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to lecture a pro hero.

Bakugo’s jaw tics. His ears are going pink.

“I—wasn’t talkin’ to you,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. But when you keep standing there, rose still extended like a sword waiting for a knight’s acceptance, he lets out a breath and—almost awkwardly—takes it.

“Thanks, I guess.”

You beam. Beam.

“And I like your hair,” you add seriously. “It looks like angry cotton candy.”

He chokes. Actually chokes. “Angry—?”

You nod proudly. “Yeah. But in a good way. Like boom! But soft.”

For a moment, Bakugo forgets how to function.

This tiny gremlin just compared his hair to boom-soft cotton candy, and now she’s standing there like she just solved world peace.

And strangely, he doesn’t mind.

He crouches—slowly, carefully—because if there’s one thing he’s learned over time, it’s that kids like you are fragile in ways no villain ever is. “Alright, pipsqueak,” he says, softer now, voice still gruff but not sharp. “Where’s your mom or whoever’s supposed to be watchin’ you?”

You point dramatically toward the tall building across the street. “There! She works there."

Bakugo nods, still crouched there, rose in one hand, brain short-circuiting from being called Boom-Soft Cotton Candy Man, when the tiny menace pipes up again—more casually than should be legal.

“Oh, I snuck out.”

He blinks. “The hell did you just say?”

You shrug, like it's no big deal. “I got bored. They said I could color inside, but I already colored everything. And besides—your hair looked fun.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bakugo mutters, rising to his full height, eyes scanning the building across the street like it’s suddenly grown fangs.

“She told me to wait on the bench,” you add. “But I saw you, and I thought—‘Wow, that guy looks like he eats fire!’ So I brought you the rose. It’s from the flower shop lady, she said to give it to someone who makes you smile.”

Bakugo stares at you, the rose in his hand suddenly feeling heavier than it should. His voice, when it comes, is unusually quiet. “I make you smile?”

You nod. “You looked really grumpy. But now you look better.”

He doesn’t smile—he rarely ever does—but something shifts behind his eyes. Something warm. Like the slow burn of a fuse that doesn’t want to explode. He pats your head—gentle, awkward, but sincere.

“Thanks, brat. You did good.”

You light up again, and for a moment, he wonders what the hell the world did to deserve something as weirdly magical as a kid who gives flowers to scowling heroes.

Then the building doors open, and your mom appears—panic in her eyes until she sees you grinning up at Dynamight like he’s a friend you met on the playground.

Bakugo straightens. You wave.

“Bye, Boom-Soft Cotton Candy Man!”

He nearly combusts.

But the rose stays in his hand, long after you’ve gone.

And that night, for the first time in weeks, it ends up in a glass of water by his windowsill—still blooming. Just like the smile he doesn’t let anyone see.

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pr3ttyphant0m · 17 days ago

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💣 | Katsuki Bakugo as your boyfriend headcanons | 💥

I love him sm omg...

💞 | FLUFF HEADCANONS:

1. Bakugo the Secret Softie™: He acts like cuddling is such a burden. “Tch… get over here already, dumbass” but the way he wraps you in a bear hug and buries his face in your neck?? Babygirl’s obsessed.

2. King of Acts of Service: He’ll pack your bento box like a five-star chef and act like it’s not a big deal. “If you starve and die, who the hell am I gonna kiss? Idiot.”

3. Protective asf: Literally side-eyes strangers who breathe near you. One time you sneezed and he turned to the wind like “WHO THE FUCK DID THAT?!” "That was me.." "Oh."

4. Early Morning Chaos: He wakes up with the worst bedhead and somehow STILL looks fine. Will mumble “Mornin’, dumbass” and kiss your shoulder if you’re still asleep 🥹

5. Blushy Boy: You call him a cute nickname in public ONCE and this man is redder than Kirishima’s hair. He short circuits. “Don’t… call me that… but also don’t stop. Ever.”

6. Matching EVERYTHING: Says it’s “stupid” but owns matching socks, toothbrushes, hoodies, and mugs that say "BOOM 💥" and "BABY 💖"

7. "You're mine" Energy™: Doesn’t like PDA unless HE starts it. Grabs your waist like it’s second nature. Growls if Mineta even thinks about breathing in your direction.

8. Love Notes? But Make it Bakugo: Slips aggressive little notes into your bag like: “Eat something. Or I’ll blow your ass up. 💥❤️”

9. Movie Night Gremlin: Absolutely hogs the blanket but lets you cuddle into his chest. Will hold your hand during horror movies but says “You’re the scared one, not me.”

10. Rivaling Your Pet for Attention (if you have one): Your pet tries to sit in your lap and Bakugo’s like “Back off furball, that’s my spot.”

🔥 | SPICY HEADCANONS:

1. Mr. Hands-On: He doesn’t just touch you—he grabs, pulls, and dominates. Your waist? Claimed. Your neck? Worshipped. Your thighs? His playground.

2. Dirty Talk Champion: Ohhh he talks mad filthy. “That mouth of yours has two options—use it right or I’ll make you.”

3. Aftercare King™: All bark during spicy time, but afterward? He’s brushing your hair back and giving you water. “You good, baby? I didn’t go too far, right?”

4. Public Tease: Slaps your ass in the grocery store aisle and smirks when you squeak. “Oops. Guess my hand slipped.”

5. Jealous Katsu Is Spicy Katsu: If some guy even looks at you too long, Bakugo gets possessive AF later. Like, bed-breaking level possessive. “You’re mine. Say it.”

💀 | CRACK HEADCANONS:

1. Cooks Like Gordon Ramsay on Crack: Will literally yell at your microwave if it dares to overheat leftovers. “STUPID ASS PLASTIC BOX, I’LL BLOW YOU UP!”

2. Stupid Pet Names: He HATES pet names unless he’s the one saying them. He calls you “Boom Babe,” “Sweet-Nitro,” or “My Little Explosion.” (You: 😭 please stop. Bakugo: 😈 no.)

3. Bathroom Concerts: Sings aggressively off-key in the shower. One time you recorded it and he chased you around the house with a shampoo bottle like it was a grenade.

4. Would Die for You but Won’t Say It: “I’d catch a grenade for you, dumbass—but I ain’t saying I love you every five minutes, tf you think this is? A rom-com?!”

5. Gets Roasted by Siri: Tries to set reminders but Siri keeps mishearing him. “HEY SIRI, remind me to—”

Siri: “Reminder set: [Name] is hotter than your temper.”

Bakugo: throws his phone across the room

#tumblr fyp #my hero academia #bakugou katsuki #headcanons #bakugou x reader #Katsuki Bakugo x reader

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slamminslamminmcgill · 11 months ago

Note

please. please i need house to call me a faggot and a tranny while balls deep in me. please.

YES ANONS GLORY TO THE LAW OFFICES OF SLAMMIN SLAMMIN MCGILL 🫡⚖️

warning: transphobia, homophobia, slurs, degradation, humiliation, fucking medical ethics violations i guess, hair-pulling, drug abuse, mentions of pregnancy, misgendering kinda, not to doxx myself but im using my own medical info for ease of writing specifics

anatomical terms: vagina/pussy/cunt

“Okay, current medications. Let’s see what’cha got…”

Clinic duty was never enjoyable for House. It was really just a slew of NPC’s for him to verbally abuse until someone showed something interesting. A weird rash, an inexplicably high fever, or, in your case, a discrepancy in your suspected genital anatomy.

“This… says you have a birth control implant. So either someone fatfingered your actual prescription on the computer, or—“

“It’s… accurate.” You replied sheepishly, lifting your arm to highlight its location. “I actually do have one.”

The doctor looked perplexed, almost angrily so. Like you’d just spat in his face and dared him to call your bluff. He aggressively limped towards you and gripped your arm entirely too hard. With his other hand, his two fingers prodded around for the implant until he got it.

“Well!” He scoffed, rolling the stick underneath your skin, pressing on either edge to seesaw it within you. “Thank god you’re not reproducing. Imagine some poor preschooler having to bring your fruity little ass in for Mother’s Day. Kid would get turbo-bullied on the playground. Good on you for being responsible.”

He hobbled back over to the computer to return to your file, leaving you stunned, speechless, and sputtering. What is this guy’s fucking problem? What in the actual ever-loving fuck did he just say to you? And why was it... kinda hot, in all honesty?

“Ah, there it is. Testosterone cypionate. Jumped the gun on that one. If only I had scrolled down. Alphabetization makes fools of us all…” He continued reading the details of your dosage. “0.6 milliliters biweekly, self-administered intramuscular injections. Ooh, so you’re a masochist too.”

Your reaction was an unfortunate reflex, on par with if he’d tapped your knee with that dinky little hammer, only much more embarrassing. You had no chance of stopping the pathetic whine that escaped your vocal cords. “Mm~!” You gasped, then coughed, hoping to sufficiently cover the sound, and shouted, “What?! N-No, no I’m not!”

“Oh, please, you are not a good liar.” House tapped his cane on the exam table, right between your legs. Not touching you, not even close. He just wanted to imply that he could. “To administer a masculinizing dose of testosterone in patients assigned female at birth, they can either self-inject, or they can rub themselves with what’s essentially lotion. So why would you choose stabbing yourself in the leg unless you want to stab yourself in the leg? And why would you want to stab yourself in the leg? Because you’re a pain slut. Am I wrong?”

No. No, he was not. Well, that isn't why you chose injections, but you were a pain slut. Of course, you didn’t wanna admit that to him. That’d just make you even more pathetic. Oh well, it’s not like you needed to say anything anyway. The mortified look on your face was proof enough.

“So! What brings you in today? Bruised butt-cheeks from your Daddy taking you over his knee too hard?”

You rolled your eyes at his snarky comment, trying to stick up for yourself and what little shreds of dignity you had left. “My STD test results.”

“Oh, sure. Figures you would need to know that. Can’t have Typhoid Mary taking backshots at the circuit party. What types of sex are you having?”

Used to these questions every time you get tested, you rattled them off nonchalantly. “Vaginal, oral, and anal.”

“Not letting anything go to waste, huh? I like it. How many sexual partners do you have currently?”

Wait a minute. You just needed to hear the results. What’s this guy doing? “Uh… didn’t the nurse already ask me these questions?”

“I’m sure someone did. I just want to hear you answer them.”

You crossed your arms and stared straight through him, silently, baring an expression that sufficiently said cut the shit without the need for any verbal assistance.

Dr. House pouted. “You’re no fun.” He opened the folder he had came in with, what he was initially supposed to give you. He had just been dilly-dallying to kill time. “All negative. You’re clean. Well, in this one aspect, you’re clean. Morally, you’re about the furthest thing from it.” Again, he smacked his cane on the table, in between your legs, this time in rhythm. “Just. My. Type.”

You squirmed, trying to shimmy backwards away from his cane. You cast your eyes downward, obscuring the profuse blush on your face. He didn’t need to know that he was getting to you. Still, it was flattering. You cleared your throat. “Uh… Thank you? I guess?”

“You’re welcome. Oh, and one more thing. I saw that your chart lists recreational ketamine usage. Is that true?”

“Yeah, actually. Why do you ask? Are you gonna tell me to quit?”

“Ugh, please. I’m a doctor, not a narc. Here, watch.” Dr. House reached into his pocket and took out a jar of pills. He opened it, poured a ridiculous amount of pills into his palm, and dry swallowed them. “See? Now we’re both junkies! But, you do have a point. It’s my Hippocratic duty to look out for my patients’ well-being. The street supply of ketamine can be mixed with dangerous additives like fentanyl or crack, which would put you at risk for overdosing. You want a scrip for the good shit?”

Oh? On god? Ethics and potential felony charges be damned. The weirdly hot doctor wants to hook you up with substances? Weapons grade ketamine? You’d be an idiot to pass it up. “Oh! Sure, thank you!”

“It does come with a pretty hefty co-pay though.”

“Oh…” Your face dropped. “How much?”

“Bend over.”

—

“Ahhh, modern medicine is amazing, isn’t it?”

Dr. House sighed in pleasure as he rutted into you from behind. Your legs were cramping, held apart in an awkward position. Your arms were cold against the metal slab of the table, and so was your face, buried within them to cover your shame and soundproof your moans. Apparently, that “copay" he mentioned was just a euphemism. Some dumb excuse to get you to trade pussy for premium drugs. And you were dumb enough to do it. Just his lucky day. Keep your face down, keep your mouth shut, and just let him use you. The high will be well worth it.

"Hey, faggot," He spat, and yanked you up out of the darkness by your hair. Your eyes stung, shocked by the fluorescent clinic lighting. "I'm talking to you. Are you always this rude to everyone who fucks you?"

"S-Sor—Sorry! I'm sor—fuck! Fuck!"

"Shut the fuck up, whore," House clamped his hand over your mouth, holding you even tighter against him. You couldn't move, you couldn't speak. Your only function was getting him off. "If we get caught, you don't get your ket. Now, mmm, fuck yeah, tell me... Isn't modern medicine amazing?"

Without the ability to verbally agree, you nodded.

"Do you know why I'm saying it's amazing?"

You shook your head.

He chuckled devilishly before growling in your ear,

"Because I can blow my load in a tight little tranny boy's cunt without worrying about knocking him up."

#jfc i have to tag this don't i #we are Insane #house md #gregory house #gregory house x reader #gregory house smut #gregory house x you #gregory house x ftm reader #gregory house x trans reader #house md x reader #house md x you

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bucketgetter535 · 3 months ago

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No Margin for Error: Chapter Eight

CW: Drinking (ish)

WC: 7k

Notes: 29383828 hours of studying later and here we are. Please leave thoughts/reactions I live for them

They left Colorado on a private flight as the sun was barely stretching over the mountains, soft morning light spilling through the clouds like it didn’t know what kind of weight the next few weeks would carry.

Azzi didn’t sleep much on the plane. Paige did. Or pretended to. Hood up, headphones in, her long legs stretched out with that practiced ease only athletes carried — like she knew her body was a machine and she knew when to shut it down. Azzi didn’t bother pretending. Her mind was too loud.

By the time they touched down in the Netherlands, Paige had reassembled herself.

It was kind of incredible, honestly. Less than twelve hours ago, Azzi had her hands tangled in Paige’s sweatshirt and her name caught in Paige’s throat, all softness and low gasps in the dark. And now here Paige was — hair tied up, sunglasses on, gear bag slung over her shoulder like she was walking into war — completely locked in. A full reset. Like she’d flipped a switch somewhere over the Atlantic and become Ferrari’s golden girl again.

Part of Azzi admired it. The other part… well. The other part watched too closely, wondering if maybe Paige flipped that switch a little too easily sometimes.

They didn’t talk much once they got to the paddock. They didn’t really need to. It was Thursday — track walk, media, data briefings, and updates from the engineers. Azzi dove into her own schedule without hesitation, greeting a few familiar faces, nodding at the camera crew hovering around the hospitality building.

Ferrari’s garage was already humming with activity by the time she stepped in. Mechanics hunched over laptops, engineers wheeling tires into place. She could smell brake dust and rubber. It felt good — sharp and focused — even if the air was heavier than Colorado’s. More humid. The track at Zandvoort was tight and technical, the banks more old-school than she preferred, but she didn’t mind the challenge. She never had.

Mateo found her near the back of the garage, arms folded, eyes scanning the rear wing on the new spec. His ever-present clipboard in hand.

“Welcome back, Champion,” he greeted, voice dry but fond. “How’s the altitude detox?”

Azzi gave him a look, one brow raised. “We were in the mountains, not Mars.”

“Still,” he shrugged, scribbling something onto a tablet. “Glad you survived.”

He said it casually, but his eyes flicked up just a beat slower than usual. The not-so-subtle question was there, right beneath the surface: How was your break? Who were you with?

Azzi didn’t bite. She just lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug and turned back to the car. “Didn’t forget how to drive, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Mateo smirked. “Wouldn’t dare suggest it.”

They walked through the changes together — revised floor, some rear suspension tweaks, and updates to the diffuser they’d been testing in the sim. Small gains, mostly. They weren’t expecting to dominate this weekend, not with Red Bull’s pace at this circuit. Zandvoort had always been their guy’s playground. The orange-clad home crowd would make sure of that.

Ferrari’s real target was Monza. That much was clear from the way everything was framed — “data for next week,” “building confidence in the new package,” “testing race pace over quali speed.”

Fine. Azzi could play the long game. She always had.

She was mid-way through some telemetry comparisons with Mateo when she caught the tail end of movement across the garage — just enough to draw her attention.

Paige.

Standing in the opposite corner, talking to Luka, her posture easy but attentive, one hand gesturing slightly while the other held her drink bottle. The headphones she always wore before debriefs sat loose around her neck, and the red of her Ferrari polo hugged her biceps in that stupid, unfair way that made Azzi glance too long.

There was a faint sheen of heat in the air — maybe from the track, maybe from jet lag — but Azzi felt it anyway. A flicker low in her spine.

She looked good. That was the problem.

Azzi looked away before her stare could become obvious.

Mateo was still talking, oblivious. “We’ll get the baseline this afternoon, and I’ll push the long-run setup to the sim files tonight.”

Azzi nodded, lips pressed together.

And then — because of course — she caught movement again.

Dirk.

Dirk van der Meer — with his annoyingly symmetrical face and stupidly strong jawline and that half-foreign, half-familiar charm that always made the media swoon. He was lingering just outside the Red Bull hospitality tent, talking to someone from Alpine but looking way too comfortable doing it. He spotted her, of course. He always did. Gave her that little two-fingered salute like he thought he was clever.

She didn’t return it.

Instead, she turned back to the car and focused on what actually mattered — the downforce data, the tires they’d be testing in practice, the mounting pressure of being Ferrari’s two-time champion while still having to chase Red Bull every other weekend.

But it still gnawed at her.

Dirk. Paige — with her jaw set like she hadn’t just spent a week letting Azzi drag her back to bed every morning.

It was stupid. She knew it was stupid. Paige wasn’t her girlfriend. Dirk wasn’t Paige’s boyfriend. None of it meant anything. They were all just doing their jobs.

But Azzi couldn’t shake the feeling crawling under her skin — the tightness in her chest, the flare of something ugly and sharp every time Dirk smiled at Paige like that, every time she caught him looking over with that faint, knowing smirk.

They hadn’t even been back a full day and the game face was already back on. Paige was composed, professional, unreadable. Azzi couldn’t decide if it was impressive or just… a little sad.

And maybe that was the thing that bothered her most.

Because under all of it — the jealousy, the tension, the stupid tightness in her jaw — was the knowledge that if Paige looked at her right now, Azzi wouldn’t be able to hide a damn thing.

–

Friday at Zandvoort was unremarkable, which, in Formula One, was almost worse than a disaster.

Practice One and Two came and went in a blur of engine notes, tire graining, and the occasional puff of beachside sand swirling into the corners. The Ferrari was… fine. Balanced enough to keep the rear from sliding, but not punchy. Not aggressive. Not what they’d need to really fight at the front.

It was clear from the first stint that this wasn’t their weekend. At least not yet.

Azzi felt it in every corner — the way she had to fight for grip, the way the rear end drifted just slightly out of sync with her hands. She didn’t complain. Mateo knew. Everyone did. This wasn’t a race car built for Zandvoort. It was a placeholder — a test bed. All eyes were already on Monza.

Which meant this weekend was about staying clean. Stay sharp. Collect data. Don’t crash. She could do that. She had done that, season after season. But it didn’t mean she liked it.

Paige, naturally, said nothing. Not to her, anyway. They’d exchanged a few clipped words in the garage between runs — tire temps, brake feedback, pressure settings. All technical. All safe. Nothing that touched anything real.

Azzi didn’t know if it was the car or the heat or the jet lag, but something felt off in the garage. Disconnected.

Even when Paige was only a few meters away, helmet under one arm, hair damp with sweat at her temples — she still felt too far.

And Azzi didn’t like that.

She didn’t say anything, of course. Not with the team crowding around, not with engineers sticking mics into their faces and media staff ushering them toward interviews. So she kept her head down. She signed the papers. She gave the sound bites. And when it was finally over — when the day had burned itself out and the sun dipped low behind the dunes — Dr. Liao’s assistant found them in the paddock.

Just a routine check. A post-break wellness evaluation. For both of them.

Which was fine. Boring, even. Azzi had nothing to report. She’d gotten sleep, eaten well, even managed a few hikes in Colorado that didn’t leave her knees screaming. Her vitals were perfect. No issues, no fatigue. Dr. Liao nodded, pleased, and made a note on her tablet.

And then it was Paige’s turn.

Dr. Liao was gentle, but thorough. There was history to consider — Paige’s crash before the summer break had almost been enough to warrant concussion protocol (It should have. Paige just ignored the doctors). She’d been cleared for this race, obviously. Otherwise she wouldn’t be in the car. But Liao still asked the questions.

“How’s your head?”

“Fine,” Paige said, without hesitation.

“Any nausea? Sensitivity to light?”

“No.”

“Sleep disruptions?”

“No.”

“Memory issues?”

“No.”

Dr. Liao studied her for a second. Paige’s expression didn’t move.

Azzi did her best not to roll her eyes.

Because Paige was lying. Not about everything — but enough. Enough for Azzi to know she was brushing symptoms under the rug. She’d seen the way Paige blinked harder under the bright lights in the garage. The way she’d rubbed the bridge of her nose after second practice. The tightness in her jaw when she thought no one was looking.

Azzi knew Paige. Knew how good she was at convincing people she was fine even when she wasn’t.

And it pissed her off. Just a little.

But she stayed quiet.

Eventually, Dr. Liao cleared her, if only with a subtle note to monitor and check again after Quali. And just like that, the session was over.

They walked out into the narrow hallway between medical and hospitality, neither of them saying much. The sun was setting fast now, slanting gold through the paddock windows.

Azzi was halfway through reaching for her phone when Paige said quietly, “Can we get food?”

Azzi blinked, a little surprised. Paige didn’t look at her — not directly. Just kept walking, slowly, voice a notch lower than usual.

It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t even really a suggestion. More like a reach.

Azzi studied her for a beat. Paige was tired — she could see it now, beneath the bravado and the sunglasses and the pressed polo. Her shoulders were still tense from the car, and her eyes had that faint glaze that came from staring at telemetry for hours.

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. There’s a restaurant in the hotel.”

“Okay,” Paige said, and something about the way her voice dropped again — quiet, like relief — made Azzi’s chest go warm and tight at the same time.

They didn’t talk as they made their way to the car. They didn’t need to.

But something had shifted — small, subtle. Like a gear had finally clicked back into place.

Azzi didn’t know what Paige would say over dinner. If she’d finally open up. If she’d deflect and pretend like always.

But for the first time all day, she didn’t feel like she was driving alone.

–

They ended up not bothering with the restaurant.

Paige had looked at the elevator buttons like they were a puzzle she didn’t have the energy to solve, and Azzi didn’t feel like pretending to enjoy lukewarm hotel pasta while surrounded by stiff-backed diners and wandering photographers.

Instead, they took the quiet route: room service menus tossed onto the bed, shoes kicked off in opposite corners, and phones left somewhere between the floor and the windowsill.

Azzi’s room was on the twelfth floor. Not penthouse, but close. High enough to see the curve of the sea on clear days. Tonight it was dark, low clouds rolling in over the dunes. The sky looked heavy.

Their food came in less than twenty minutes, wheeled in by a teenager who looked like he was trying not to trip over his own feet at the sight of two Ferrari drivers sharing a hotel room. Paige tipped him before Azzi could move. She didn’t say anything about it.

Dinner was unremarkable — a grilled chicken sandwich for Paige, a salad bowl for Azzi that she only ate half of. Neither of them was particularly hungry. Not really. It was just a thing to do with their hands. Something to fill the space.

Azzi didn’t ask until Paige had finished most of her sandwich. Her head was leaned back against the headboard, one leg bent, hotel slippers on. The sleeves of her polo were rolled just slightly up her arms. It looked natural. Comfortable.

Azzi set her fork down.

“So,” she said, quiet, careful. “Headaches are better, huh?”

Paige blinked. Her jaw shifted like she was debating whether to lie again.

“They’re not gone,” she said finally. “But yeah. A lot better.”

Azzi watched her. “And the light stuff?”

Paige hesitated. “Still happens sometimes.”

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. That one lingers.”

She wasn’t saying it just to say it. She’d had a concussion once — Suzuka, her first year in F1. A tire wall, a misjudged braking point, and three days of brutal nausea and floating vision. She hadn’t admitted it at the time, of course. But she’d remembered the way it felt. The way it stayed.

Paige didn’t say much else. She just pushed her plate a few inches away and leaned back again, letting her phone rest flat on her stomach.

Azzi didn’t push. She could tell Paige was spent — not in the physical way, but that mental burnt-out silence she slipped into when her brain had been on fire all day and needed something stupid to cool it off.

Sure enough, within a few minutes, Paige was on TikTok. Earbuds in. One in, one out. Azzi didn’t even notice at first, until Paige snorted — an actual laugh, low and surprised — and nudged her foot.

Azzi looked over.

“What?”

Paige turned the phone toward her, grinning faintly. “Someone made an edit.”

Azzi squinted at the screen. It was an F1 fancam — clips of the two of them stitched together to some overdramatic song about tension and unsaid feelings. Garage glances. Post-race hugs. Press conference smirks. All edited in glossy, high-contrast color correction and captioned in shaky all-caps.

Azzi leaned closer, chewing the inside of her cheek as she read.

Paige tapped the caption. “Read it.”

Azzi rolled her eyes but obliged, deadpan: “they hate each other so bad that it’s sexy as hell.”

Paige broke into a full laugh then — not loud, but real. Her head tilted back against the headboard, and she smiled like it wasn’t something she had to think about.

Azzi didn’t laugh, but she smiled too.

She didn’t know what this was — them, like this. Quiet. Not fighting. Not faking. Just… here.

It wasn’t complicated. But maybe it was something.

She didn’t need a caption to tell her that.

–

Race day at Zandvoort was uneventful, which, in Formula One terms, was nearly a gift.

No crashes. No surprise rain. No pit stop disasters or last-lap tire blowouts. Just a clean, controlled 72 laps around a twisty Dutch circuit with more orange smoke than actual drama.

Paige finished fourth. Azzi, fifth.

It wasn’t great. But it wasn’t bad either.

The team radios had been calm, almost boring. Fred had come over the line once — just once — with an even-toned directive: Hold positions. No fighting.

Paige had been ahead by a few seconds at that point. Azzi could’ve pushed. Would’ve, maybe, on a different weekend. But her tires weren’t fresh and her car wasn’t magic and she knew when to live to fight another day. So she sat behind her teammate and took the points.

22 total for Ferrari. Solid haul.

But now? Now they were back in the paddock, the post-race haze still clinging to their skin and hair like sweat and champagne residue, and the meeting room smelled like engine oil and air conditioning.

Azzi sat in the middle of a long glass table, hair still damp from her driver’s room shower, Mateo on one side of her, Fred on the other. Across the table sat Paige, elbow on the armrest, eyes half-lidded like she was bored already. Luka leaned in to speak to her every so often, murmuring something Azzi couldn’t hear.

Fred cleared his throat.

“Monza,” he said, which was the only word necessary to command the room’s attention. “We’ve got the car. And we’ve got the drivers.”

The weight of that hung for a second.

Azzi knew what it meant. So did Paige. They’d been in this position before, only not quite like this. Not with the standings as tight as they were. Not with Ferrari actually expecting them to win, not hoping.

Paige had scored more points in the Netherlands. Which meant that now — after months of clawing her way up — she was one single championship point behind Azzi.

One.

Azzi should’ve felt threatened, probably. But she didn’t. Not really. If anything, she felt… awake. Like the season was finally breathing down their necks for real.

Fred continued. “You know how important Monza is. You know what it means to this team. This car was built for the straights — we’ve been saying it all year. You two kept it clean today, and that’s good. But Monza’s not about clean. It’s about finishing first.”

He paused. “And second.”

Azzi felt the burn of it — that Ferrari expectation. It wasn’t new. But it was heavy in a way that always seemed heavier here, in red, under the weight of a tifosi-filled grandstand and every Italian sponsor who fancied themselves a team principal for the weekend.

“There are going to be eyes on us,” Fred said. “From inside and out. We need results.”

Mateo nodded beside her, sliding his tablet around to show some figures — wind tunnel improvements, tweaks to the rear wing, the new engine mapping that would open them up on the DRS straights. Azzi took it in, quiet but sharp-eyed.

Paige didn’t ask questions, but Azzi could see her tapping a pattern against her thigh — a tiny rhythm she only did when she was deep in her own head.

Fred looked at them both now.

“You two have gotten good at toeing the line,” he said. “But Monza’s not about points anymore. Not about strategy. Not this year.”

He looked at Paige. “If you’re ahead, finish ahead.”

Then to Azzi. “If you’re ahead, stay ahead.”

Azzi just nodded. There wasn’t much to say.

When the meeting wrapped, the engineers peeled off first, muttering to each other about sim time and cooling ducts. Fred stood, gave them a final nod, and left without ceremony — the kind of exit that told you he expected them to deliver without needing a damn pep talk.

It was just the two of them now. Azzi and Paige. Left behind in a room that had gone quiet too fast.

Paige pushed her chair back and stood, arms crossed, still looking every bit like the girl who’d just driven an entire race without breaking a sweat.

Azzi raised an eyebrow.

“Fourth place,” she said.

Paige smirked. “You’re welcome for the points.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “I could’ve taken you.”

“Yeah?” Paige tilted her head. “Guess we’ll never know.”

The thing was — Azzi knew she was right.

But Monza was coming. Home turf. Flat-out speed. And only one point between them now.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

–

The air in Monza buzzed different.

Not louder. Not even heavier. Just… sharper. Finer. Like the entire track had been scrubbed down to the grain and polished in Ferrari red, every sound bouncing twice off the barriers and settling in the bones. This wasn’t just another Grand Prix. This was the Grand Prix.

Home race. Temple of Speed. The place where miracles happened and legends were made or broken at the apex of Parabolica.

Azzi knew the pressure before she even landed. Knew it in the pit of her stomach, the way she always knew things she didn’t need to be told. The whispers. The media tension. The sponsors with private suites and fake smiles. The team principals who circled like hawks around each garage.

She handled it. She always did.

So did Paige.

That was the thing — whatever they’d done in the break, whatever they’d said or hadn’t said, they were back to being what they’d always been on track. Razor-edged and separate. Focused. Locked in. Like nothing else existed the second the helmet went on.

And the helmets — God, the helmets. Ferrari had let them pick the colors this weekend, in honor of the near-all-white car that paid tribute to the Scuderia’s earliest years. A throwback. An homage. Whatever you wanted to call it.

Azzi’s helmet was soft pink with white accents, clean and subtle, sharp where it needed to be. She hadn’t told anyone why she’d chosen pink. She didn’t need to.

Paige’s was lilac — almost silver under the Monza sun. Not loud. Just… unexpected. Understated. Cool. Very Paige.

Together, in their white fireproofs and red accents, they looked like two halves of something calculated.

Qualifying day brought with it a heat that shimmered off the asphalt like a dare. Azzi stood at the edge of the garage, engine rumble in her chest, helmet under one arm, watching the clouds hover behind the paddock. They weren’t going to interfere. They were just there to spectate, like everyone else.

The Ferrari was fast.

Shockingly fast.

They’d expected improvements — Monza was the race the car had been built for — but this? This was something else. This was a weapon on wheels. The straight-line speed alone was enough to punch a hole in the air and never look back.

Azzi felt it in Free Practice. So did Paige. The lap times were low. The tire wear was minimal. They weren’t fighting the track — they were floating over it, slicing through turns 6 and 7 like they had grip written into their blood.

But qualifying was a different beast.

First run went well. Clean. Azzi went fastest initially, but she knew it wouldn’t last. Paige hadn’t even gone out yet. Luka always held her back for traffic. Mateo glanced at Azzi after her run and gave her the familiar, unreadable engineer nod. The one that said, “Good, but don’t get comfortable.”

Second run, Q2, they were within two-tenths of each other. Azzi was smoother through turn 10. Paige was faster on the straight. They both knew it, even if no one said anything.

Then came Q3.

The big show.

Azzi went out first, nailed every sector, and took provisional pole.

The lap had felt like silk. Perfect entry into Turn One. No wobble through turns 4 or 5. The rear stuck like glue into turn 7 and opened up like a dream into the straight. It was the kind of lap that made you believe in the car, in the team, in yourself.

She parked it in the pit box and took off her gloves, eyes flicking to the screen.

Purple, purple, purple.

For now.

Then Paige went out.

Azzi didn’t need the timing monitor to know it was a good lap. She could feel it — from the sound of the throttle, the way the garage fell silent, every mechanic and engineer listening with the kind of reverence they usually saved for podiums.

Then the board lit up.

Purple, purple, purple.

Final sector: fastest of anyone. By two-hundredths.

Pole position: Paige Bueckers.

Azzi let out a breath. Didn’t even realize she’d been holding it.

On the other side of the garage, Paige pulled in, visor still down, engine ticking as it cooled. Luka came over the radio and said something only she could hear, but whatever it was made her laugh — quick and short and low.

She climbed out of the car like she’d just walked off a street corner. Calm. Loose. The purple helmet under one arm like it belonged there.

Azzi watched her from the monitor wall. Just for a second.

She wasn’t angry. Not exactly. Pole was pole. It could’ve been either of them. But the way Paige looked right now — like she expected it — made something churn low in her stomach.

Confidence was dangerous.

Paige had it in spades.

And tomorrow, they’d both have clean air.

Front row, Ferrari one-two.

Monza.

Game on.

–

The Monza crowd was electric, and the Ferraris lit the fuse.

It had started clean. Paige on pole. Azzi beside her. Front row. Home race. Red everywhere. Real red — the kind that lived in flags and banners, not just sponsorship decals. The kind of red that vibrated when the engines started and roared like a religion when the lights went out.

The first corner was textbook. Azzi tucked in right behind Paige, both Ferraris making it through the chicane without drama, the McLarens too far back to threaten. From there, it was clear: this wasn’t going to be a race for position. This was a race for pride. For the championship lead. For each other.

Lap after lap, they pushed. Hard. The kind of hard that made your hands sweat inside your gloves. That made your neck ache in the third stint. That made the team radios go quieter, not louder, because the engineers knew they couldn’t really manage them right now. They could only monitor.

“Paige’s pace looks like a one-stop,” Mateo said into Azzi’s ear around lap twelve. “She’s starting to lift through turn 10.”

Azzi didn’t answer at first. She was adjusting a brake bias setting with one hand and flicking her DRS closed with the other. Her eyes were locked on the faint shimmer of red in the distance — Paige, just outside the DRS window. She had been there for five laps. No closer. No farther.

“Copy,” Azzi said eventually. “Tell me when she boxes. I’ll follow.”

A beat. Then Mateo, dry: “You two should probably just get married.”

Azzi snorted. “I’ll propose if I pass her in pit lane.”

They went with the one-stop.

It wasn’t strategic genius — just a necessity. The car was quick on mediums, and track position mattered here more than almost anywhere. The McLarens were falling behind. Ten seconds. Then fifteen. This race was theirs alone.

Azzi finally got close again on lap twenty-four, just before the stops. Paige had been backing her up subtly, taking the corners wider, slowing entry speed to ruin her air. But Azzi knew the tricks. She’d done the same to Paige in Austria.

She ducked around the outside in turn 7 and nearly made it stick. The rear of the car twitched just slightly, the gravel taunting her, and Paige closed the door — not aggressively, just enough to remind Azzi who had track position.

They pitted one lap apart. Paige first. Azzi right after.

The outlaps were chaos — warm tires, heavy fuel still, and just enough wind picking up at Turn Three to make the front wing feel loose.

Azzi came out behind again. Just behind.

And then the race became something else.

It was the kind of fight they hadn’t had in months. Since Miami, before the break. Before hotel rooms and private flights and secrets. Before TikToks made them go viral for sharing water bottles and brushing shoulders in the garage. Before the way Azzi looked at Paige had changed from rivalry to… whatever this was.

They raced clean, but hard. There were no team orders. None would’ve been followed anyway.

Paige left space. Azzi took it. Azzi attacked through turn four and Paige held her off in turn ten. Then Paige defended into Turn One and Azzi nearly dove on her. Inches apart, no contact. Pure trust. Or something close to it.

They swapped positions twice more — once through sheer ERS timing, and once because Azzi went purple in sector two and Mateo told her to “stop playing nice.”

But Paige was holding something back. Always, always holding something back. She’d been nursing her tires for twenty laps and it showed in the final five. Her car came alive again just as Azzi’s started to slip.

The last lap came fast. Too fast.

Azzi was in DRS range but only just. She caught the rear wing coming out of the second Lesmo and knew that if she didn’t go for it in turn 11, she wasn’t going to get the chance again.

She lined it up. Wide entry. Early throttle.

But Paige had launched earlier. Perfect exit. Enough to keep her ahead.

Azzi crossed the finish line three-tenths behind her.

Three-tenths.

Close enough to taste the carbon dust from Paige’s rear wing. Close enough to count the track marbles dotting her diffuser. But not close enough.

Still, the fans loved it.

The whole straight erupted in applause. For Ferrari. For both of them.

And Azzi, hands on the wheel, staring at the cool-down screen in front of her, finally exhaled. The kind of breath you didn’t know you were holding until the checkered flag waved.

Mateo came over the radio.

“2nd. Amazing drive, Az. You gave her hell.”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She just let the silence fill the cockpit.

Then: “She’s the leader now, yeah?”

“Yes,” Mateo said. “We’ll think about that next week.”

Azzi nodded once, not that anyone could see it. “Alright. Next week.”

–

The post-race media was exhausting. It always was at Monza. Flashbulbs, press pens, microphones shoved in every direction. Paige handled it like she always did — calm, smiling, hands on hips in her race suit with the light purple helmet at her feet. She didn’t gloat. Didn’t need to.

Azzi kept it tight. Professional. Said all the right things.

“We raced hard. That’s what people want to see.”

“Yes, I think we can bounce back.”

“I’m proud of the team. The car was incredible.”

And then finally, they were done.

The sun was starting to dip behind the paddock towers when Luka found them in the debrief room and tossed a folded piece of paper onto the table. “There’s a party tonight,” he said. “Private one. Team only. Some important sponsors are coming. You two are expected.”

Paige looked up from her water bottle. “Expected?”

“Celebration,” Luka said, shrugging. “It’s Monza. We won.”

Azzi met Paige’s eyes across the table.

It wasn’t about the race anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.

A party, then.

Jew a few points between them.

One week off.

And a long season left to go.

–

The Monza night was warm, the kind that clung to your skin even after the sun had gone down. Somewhere beyond the Ferrari hospitality suite, fans still lined the fences, hoping for one last glimpse of the red suits, the miracle lap, the miracle finish. But inside the party, it was just team now — team and sponsors, catered food and strong drinks, and a playlist that hadn’t been updated since the 2010s.

Azzi stood near the long bar, sleeves of her Ferrari sweatshirt shoved halfway up her forearms, a pair of black shorts stopping just above her mid thigh. Her hair was still a little damp from the shower she’d taken post-race, and there was something about the hum of the celebration that didn’t quite touch her.

Paige was close. As she always was lately.

Not in a clingy way. Not in a way that screamed anything specific. Just… close enough that Azzi noticed when she stepped away to grab another drink, and close enough that she noticed when Paige came back without one.

Paige didn’t party with coworkers. That was something Azzi was learning. Oh, she could party — she’d seen it firsthand in Colorado. Paige had game when she wanted it. But this? With engineers in polos and sponsors in button-downs and camera phones sneaking in between fake toasts? Paige wasn’t at home here.

So she stayed close.

They made their rounds — smiled for a few pictures, shook hands with people who pretended to know what “tire deg” meant, accepted compliments from VIPs who asked the same questions in slightly different accents. Azzi took a few sips of a spritz she didn’t really want. Paige nursed a bottle of water like she was keeping score.

Their PR director eventually approached, all efficient smiles and phone in hand. “Can I borrow you both for just a minute?” she said, motioning toward a side area where a few higher-ups had gathered.

Azzi knew what that meant.

She didn’t expect Dirk van Asshole to be standing there when they arrived.

But of course he was. Hair pushed back like a 90s teen idol, linen shirt unbuttoned to an offensive degree, watch too big and too gold. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of something that definitely wasn’t water. He smiled too easily, like he thought they were all in on a joke that didn’t exist.

“Azzi,” he said, stepping in with the kind of friendliness that made her want to physically recoil. “What a race.”

“Thanks,” she said, too flat to hide it.

“And Paige,” he added, like he was just remembering her name. “What a finish. I mean — we all thought Azzi had it in the bag.”

Paige’s smile didn’t move. “Guess not.”

Dirk laughed, too loud. “Well. She’s still the people’s champion, yeah? Always a favorite.”

Azzi felt Paige glance her way. One of those side glances that wasn’t really a glance at all. More like a signal.

Get me out of here.

Azzi didn’t hesitate. She blinked slowly, dropped her gaze to the floor like she was trying to focus, then lifted a hand to her forehead.

“Sorry,” she said quietly. “Headache. I think… I think I need to sit down.”

Dirk’s eyes widened — just enough to confirm the trick worked. “Totally fine. You’ve had a long day. I’ll grab you some water.”

“No need,” Paige said quickly, hand already grazing Azzi’s elbow. “I’ll take her to the bathroom. She just needs air.”

Dirk blinked. “I could—”

“You couldn’t,” Paige muttered under her breath, just loud enough that Azzi caught it.

They left the circle with enough polite nods to make it believable, slipping through a small hallway toward the guest bathrooms.

Once the door clicked shut behind them, Paige leaned against the marble counter, exhaled hard, and said, “I’m so done with that man.”

Azzi laughed softly. “No, he sucks.”

“He talks like he’s in a reality show,” Paige muttered, tugging her sleeves over her hands. “And not a good one. One of those ones where everyone ends up engaged after four episodes.”

“He’s not even a sponsor or a driver,” Azzi added. “He’s just, like… related to someone important.”

“So was Napoleon.”

Azzi blinked. “What?”

“Exactly.”

They didn’t get much further. The door creaked open and in stumbled a girl who couldn’t have been older than nineteen, wearing a mini dress that looked stolen from an influencer’s closet and a pair of heels that were definitely not made for standing. She squinted at them, half-recognizing, then muttered something about champagne and disappeared into a stall.

Paige raised her brows.

Azzi nodded once.

Time to go.

They slipped out of the bathroom like nothing had happened, back through the suite with practiced smiles and quiet waves. The party was still going strong, but they walked out unbothered, not making a scene. Just two drivers leaving a team function, still in uniform, still technically on the clock.

They were halfway down the corridor back to the elevators when Azzi’s phone buzzed. She pulled it out, thumbed open her notifications, and froze.

“What?” Paige asked.

Azzi turned the screen so Paige could see.

A photo.

A little grainy, but clear enough. Paige, slightly turned toward Azzi at the bar. Azzi leaning in to say something. Both smiling. Both unguarded. The caption was dumb — something about chemistry and Ferrari fire — but the tweet had gone viral in under ten minutes. Thousands of likes. Hundreds of retweets.

Paige blinked. “Already?”

“We didn’t even make it to the elevator.”

They stared at it for a second longer.

Then Azzi hit the side button, locking her phone.

Paige didn’t say anything else, but she smiled. Real this time.

And Azzi, without realizing, smiled back.

–

It was almost midnight when they finally made it back to Azzi’s room. Her hair was up now, loosely twisted into a bun that had started falling apart the second they left the party. She’d kicked off her sneakers near the hotel door, and now her sweatshirt hung off one shoulder, oversized and a little too warm for the air conditioning she’d turned up as high as it could go.

The TV was on, volume low — something stupid in Italian she wasn’t even pretending to follow. Paige was stretched out on the bed, half under the covers and still in her Ferrari shorts. Her legs were bare and tanned and pulled up at the knee, phone balanced on her stomach, one earbud in, the other dangling.

Azzi flopped down beside her, not quite on top of her, but close. Her legs slid under Paige’s, her bare foot brushing the side of Paige’s calf as she tugged a blanket over them. The room smelled like clean skin and leftover hair product. Not unpleasant. Just lived-in.

She unlocked her phone without thinking. Scrolled to TikTok.

And immediately choked on a laugh.

“Oh my God.”

Paige glanced over with one eye still on her own screen. “What.”

“We have ship edits.”

That got her attention.

Paige lifted her head slightly, frowning, until Azzi turned her phone toward her. Onscreen, the now-viral party photo zoomed slowly toward them with the dramatic flair only TikTok could summon. Some soft indie track played in the background — something with too much reverb and lyrics about fate and stars and “the way she looks at her.” Then came the slow dissolve into clips from the paddock, podium glances, moments where they brushed shoulders walking to the media pen.

The caption read:

“She looks at her like she’s the checkered flag.”

With a string of red heart emojis and a #F1Lesbians tag thrown in for good measure.

Azzi blinked. “I—okay, the effort is wild.”

“There’s music,” Paige said, dry as hell.

Azzi laughed, scrolling to another. This one had a heavier beat, more edits cut to radio calls — Mateo’s voice shouting “Paige is right behind you!” followed by a slow-mo of them walking through the tunnel in Miami. A pause, then a hard cut to the photo from tonight again. It was the final frame.

Azzi snorted. “That one’s a little dramatic.”

“They’re all dramatic,” Paige said, leaning her chin lightly on Azzi’s shoulder now. “We drive cars in circles. This is what people do to make it seem deep.”

Azzi kept scrolling, letting the edits autoplay. They were everywhere. Some were sweet. Others full-on romantic. A few were just reaction videos — fans freaking out, screaming into cameras, holding up their phones with wide eyes. One girl was fully crying. Actual tears. The caption just read: “I KNEW THEY WERE ENDGAME.”

Azzi raised a brow. “Endgame?”

Paige shrugged. “Bold of them to assume I make it to the end.”

Azzi tilted her head toward her. “You planning to DNF this storyline or…?”

Paige made a low sound in her throat. “I don’t know. I think I might be in a multi-season arc.”

Azzi smirked, but the words made her stomach flip a little. Not in a bad way.

They kept watching, switching between TikTok and Twitter now. The comments were a trip. Half were cute — people talking about how they always knew, how the looks in their eyes were “different.” Others were strange. Intense. Too much. A few men had decided to throw in their opinions, which, unsurprisingly, made the vibe go downhill fast.

“Why are there always men in the lesbian edits?” Azzi muttered, flicking past a comment that started with “this is why girls are single these days…”

Paige didn’t respond right away.

Her hand, warm and absent-minded, was tracing circles near Azzi’s knee under the blanket. Nothing too serious. Just… casual. Thoughtless, but not cold. Familiar. Her other hand came up to tug lightly at a piece of Azzi’s hair that had fallen from her bun.

Azzi paused.

Paige wasn’t like this all the time. Not even most of the time. But when she was — when she let her guard drop for even half a night — it felt like gravity shifted. Like Paige wasn’t just near her, but orbiting her. A little too close. A little too much.

But it didn’t feel bad.

Just confusing. In that warm, electric way that made Azzi forget what she was even watching.

“Don’t let Fred see these,” Paige murmured suddenly.

Azzi laughed. “Because?”

Paige sat up a little, propping her head on her fist. Her face was blank, but her eyes weren’t.

“Because he’ll ask if we’re ‘managing our brand well enough,’” she said, but her tone was light — like a joke.

Only it wasn’t really a joke.

Azzi didn’t say anything for a second. She just watched Paige, her face half-lit by the blue glow of the screen, the corner of her mouth turned in that almost-smile that meant she was pretending something wasn’t bothering her.

Azzi broke the silence. “He’d survive.”

Paige didn’t look up. “Would he, though?”

Azzi closed the app.

“Okay. Then we don’t let Fred see them.”

Paige met her eyes finally. Something in her gaze softened — not exactly gratitude, but something close to it. Relief maybe. Or something she wasn’t ready to name.

Azzi pulled the blanket tighter around both of them, settled back into the pillows. Paige adjusted too, falling in line like she always did, head dropping next to hers, arm brushing hers, breath slowing down with the quiet.

The room was still now. The edits were gone. The fans, the tweets, the noise — all of it faded into the low hum of hotel air and the gentle weight of Paige’s arm resting against her own.

Azzi stared at the ceiling for a long time before turning off the lamp.

Whatever they were — whatever people wanted to call it — she didn’t know. But she knew this: Paige had stayed.

And that mattered more than anything the internet could say.

#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi #uconn wbb #uconnwbb #pazzi fics #dallas wings

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lumpy2 · 2 months ago

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took some photos with the gorp cam

#circuit bending #digital camera #artistic photography #photography #low quality #low qual pics #trees #playground #foliage #photo edit #photo effects #video effects #nature #outdoors #technology #video editing #corrupted #glitch #low res

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saintslewis · 1 year ago

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𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐙𝐄𝐑𝐎 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 | 𝐋𝐇𝟒𝟒

— drabble.

pairing: sir lewis hamilton x black fem!reader

summary: the sun shined on the man himself, the one to break records, the one to raise the golden trophy.

warnings: outfit links, cussing, loads of happy tears, suggestive themes.

saint’s team radio 🪩: lewis mf hamilton won his 104th so you knowwwwwww i had to do it. thank you all for 1k and this is just the start of the celebration. congratulations to my husband 🥳 tags down below! (i put nads in the header but shhhhh)

pls like, comment and reblog 💗

Tying your shoelaces, you stood up straight and looked at yourself in the mirror. Fidgeting around with your hair and jewellery, you took several breaths to calm yourself down.

The previous day, Lewis took p2 for qualifying. It’s a well known fact that Silverstone is his playground but anything could happen, this race could go any which way and that’s what scared you the most.

“Should I take a jacket?” You called out to Lewis who was in his closet, most likely picking out his jewellery. “It won’t get too cold but I’ll take one for you.” He spoke, stepping out of the closet in his red ensemble, donning different types of pearls this time around and his black timbs shining.

Your eyes fell to his silhouette in your peripheral view and you turned your head so that your gaze fell upon him. He looked good, his head was high as he strode into the room with a special aura around him. You were always someone who had faith in anything Lewis does on track, no matter the place he finishes the race in, often treating a P7 like a podium.

The past two and a half years have been incredibly tough on Lewis and his mental health, often bringing himself down in the expense of his team’s terrible strategies. Finding it hard to wake up each and every day with a pained smile on his face whenever he walked into any paddock around, he knew he had his family as his biggest cheerleaders. Including you. In your wedding vows, he acknowledged how eternally grateful he was for you even after all the hardships he endured.

“Are we seriously matching?” Your shoulders dropped once you realised you were both wearing red. “I don’t know, I find it cute.” He smiled, giving you a wink and a pat on the ass before walking out of the room. Shaking your head, you fixed up your appearance before reaching for your handbag and you were out of the house in the nick of time. Confirming the logistics of bringing Roscoe along, you hopped in the same SUV and headed off to the track.

SILVERSTONE CIRCUIT

You poorly underestimated the weather that Silverstone would bring but as your husband promised, you had a jacket around your shoulders since the weather was predicted to change during the race. As nervous as you were, you walked and spoke with pure confidence.

Ever since you stepped in the paddock, eyes never strayed from the Hamilton family, more than usual. You had brushed it off and stayed in the garage along with your in-laws, your arms were around Willow’s shoulders as the national anthem concluded and teams were ready to start the race.

“Hopefully we’ll hear that again.” Carmen smiled at you as she took her seat next to you. “I’m hoping for a trophy lift of some sort.” You returned the smile and placed Willow on your lap as you sat down.

Anthony had appeared on screen, standing by Lewis with a straight face while looking at his son fix his balaclava. Anyone with eyes knew the energy that exuded from the 5 second clip, that was Lewis’ dad knowing that his son was not going to finish lower than P4.

You had already given him good luck hugs and kisses but your hands were still shaking because you knew anything could happen. Your heart calmed when your eyes landed on the crowd across the track and how so many of them were there to cheer for Lewis. Seas of the neon yellow your husband donned were strategically positioned in front of his garage and you could feel the support from your seat.

From lap 20, you couldn’t sit still but you tried your best to keep your seat as he stayed within the top 4. The beast that was the w15 was swiftly moving across the track and never slid even when the rain appeared.

George’s car rolled in the car after it was announced that he would retire from the race and your heart slightly sank although it made you slightly happy. The drivers behind Lewis weren’t exactly kind when it came to fighting for the number one spot but they hadn’t raced against Lewis in a long time so they were messing up strategies left right and centre as Lewis drove.

He was reminding people who the fuck he was in real time.

By the time the McLarens and the singular Ferrari had pitted by lap 44, you knew Lewis had this win or at least second place but your husband doesn’t exist to be second. You stood from your seat and joined Anthony at the edge of the garage, your right hand on your chest as your breaths became quicker with your left hand on your hip.

Tears prickled your eyes as Lewis stayed the race leader and as lap 52 began, a tear of joy slid down your face with the pit team already climbing the fence right next to the finish line. The crowd’s cheers overpowered that of Mercedes’ garage as the sun shined on his car, the top of his helmet glowing.

“Oh my God!” You screamed, your hands flailing about as your father in law celebrated next to you and eventually brought you into a bear hug. A wave of different emotions came over you as you tried to catch your breath and you were able to compose yourself as cameras came rushing to the garage.

Walking with your in laws to parc femme, you watched Lewis park the car and wrap the flag around his shoulders, the crowd cheering even louder than before. He embraced his father and you could see his shoulders slightly bouncing and your heart was pounding at the thought of him crying under the helmet. Eventually prepping himself for his post-race interview, he ran over to where you stood with his family.

His eyes caught your tearful ones just after he let go of his mom’s face. The smile that spread across his face was pure joy and his eyes held so much warmth even though he was a few meters from you. He quickly strode to you and you opened your arms to lock around his neck.

“I’m so proud of you, my love. So proud.” Your voice shook as you moved to hold his face. “I love you.” He said, kissing your forehead and blinked away the tears threatening to fall from his eyes. “I love you so much, thank you.” He repeated, squeezing your waist a little then let go of you. Before you could respond, Lewis sent back a smile as he had to continue the interviews.

The podium was as magical as the win itself, drops of the champagne landed on you as he sprayed the crowd but you didn’t mind. Anything to see him smile like he had on that podium.

“King of Silverstone, huh?” You smiled as you walked out of the bathroom clad in a silk robe with a surprise hidden underneath. Lewis looked up from his phone, his back against the headboard. Just like the morning before, his gaze fell on your body and he could not take his eyes off you.

He quickly glanced at the time, the digital clock reading 4 am and he thought you two would be utterly exhausted after his celebration party but you had proved him wrong. You sashayed onto the bed and sat next to him with your knees underneath you, his head following you throughout.

“You have no idea how much you mean to me.” Lewis spoke, itching to touch you as his eyes wandered to the cleavage your silk robe displayed as you sat close to your husband. “I’m so proud of you, my love. Never giving up and staying strong throughout everything you went through is admirable.” You praised, your hand at the back of his head with your nails lightly scratching his nape. Although you could tell he was not paying attention.

“Lewis?”

“Hm?”

“Did you hear anything I said?” You chuckled and his eyes finally connected with yours. “Uh…yeah.” He tried to give you an answer but his eyes were then glued on your glossy lips.

Smiling at your husband’s actions, you reached for the knot of the robe and slowly began untying it. “Since today is your day,” Sliding off the soft material of your shoulders, you continued. “You can do whatever you want to me.” Your words were soft yet seductive.

“Anything?” Lewis questioned.

“You deserve it, Sir.”

saint’s notes: i did NAWT mean to take this long with this, oh em gee. i hope you guys love it and yes, i’m still living off the high from July 7th 🫶🏽

tags: @mauvecherie-writes @non-stop-imagines @exotic-iris13 @yeea-nah @cocobutterqwueen @queenshikongo3 @saturnville @serpenttines-library @emjayewrites @arshiyuh @motheroffae @henneseyhoe @shhhchriss

#saint writes #saint’s 1k celebration ⭐️#lewis hamilton x black reader #lewis hamilton fanfics #lewis hamilton smut #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton fic #lewis hamilton fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic

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anakinstwinklebunny · 5 months ago

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PAIRING: sam monroe x vinnie

FLUFF ❦ (lil crazy)

It was late. Too late. SAM MONROE was exhausted, too lazy to do anything important than stretching out on his back with his arm sluggishly draped over his forehead. But Vinnie? Vinnie was still wide awake - somehow - babbling soft little nonsense while fidgeting with Sam’s bare chest like it was his personal playground.

At first Sam barely reacted, too drained to care that his toddler was smushing his tiny fingers into his collarbone, patting a couple of times against his sternum, poking at his ribs, and tracing aimless little patterns over his skin. At least it wasn’t a slap to the face this time.

But then—

A tiny pudgy hand landed on Sam’s nipple, pinching it between chubby fingers.

Eyes immediately cracked open, brows pulling together as he processed what had just happened. But as he tried to even bring his thoughts together, the softest, most innocent little voice mumbled, “Boobie.”

Sam’s brain short-circuited.

“…What?” His voice cracked.

Vinnie, still clutching Sam’s nipple like it was a damn life line, looked up at him with wide, sleepy eyes. “Boobie,” he repeated, nodding to himself like he’d just made the most groundbreaking discovery of his life.

Sam swore his entire soul left his body. Heat crawled up his neck, smacking him in the face as he sat up, pushing Vinnie’s hand off him.

“Dude—what the hell,” he muttered, rubbing at his face like that would erase what just happened.

Vinnie only blinked up at him, confused. “No boobie?”

Sam felt his soul fully leave his body.

“No boobie,” Sam confirmed, jaw tight, ears red as tomato.

Vinnie frowned. Then, with the most devastated pout Sam had ever seen, he softly whimpered, “No boobie…” like it was the saddest news in the world.

“Shit” He ran a hand through his already-messy hair, trying to get his life together, trying to get a proper answer together “I—I’m a dude, man, I don’t—i mean, some dudes do, but I don’t!” He stopped, exhaled, what the hell? “I’m just—too cool for them..” he mumbled the best answer he had in mind

Vinnie let out a dramatic, heartbroken sigh before looking up at him, devastated.

Sam panicked. What the hell was he more supposed to say?!

Desperate, he blurted out, “But guess what?”

Vinnie sniffled. “Wha’?”

Sam lowered his voice like he was about to tell the biggest secret in the world. “Mama’s got super boobies.”

Vinnie gasped. Like, full body gasp.

“Supew boobie?” he whispered, eyes wide

“Super boobie, dude.” Sam nodded solemnly. “Way better than any other boobie. Top-tier, grade-A, superhero-level boobie.”

Vinnie bought that instantly, shoving a fist in his mouth in awe before rolling off of Sam, making a beeline for the door.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—where the hell you goin’?”

Vinnie turned, before mumbling with such determination “Boobie.”

Sam groaned, grabbing him before he could escape. “Dude, you can’t just—you can’t wake her up to ask about her ‘super boobies.’”

Vinnie pouted.

Sam groaned louder, life flashing before his eyes.

This was his fate. This was his reality. This was his life. He was seventeen years old, and his biggest problem at the moment was explaining why he didn’t have boobs..to the damn toddler..

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @literally-izzy-deactivated20250 @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @bimbo-baggins17-deactivated2025 @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty @luluartpop @cloverina @nikiloveshayden

#hayden christensen #christensen hayden #haydenchristensen #hayden christensen characters #life as a house #sam monroe fanfiction #sam monroe fic #sam monre #sam monroe x reader #sam monroe fanfic #sam monroe fluff #sam monroe #sam monroe drabble

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nameless-jamie · 5 months ago

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WE'RE NOT CALLING IT THOR

Glimpse Into the Future - Jamie Tartt x fem!PA reader

Masterlist

TW: cursing

By the time Georgie and Simon arrived at the hospital, Y/N had barely managed to brush her hair. She was still propped up in bed, cradling the baby against her chest while Jamie sat beside her, half-asleep with his head resting on the mattress.

A gentle knock at the door startled them both. Jamie blinked awake as Georgie peeked her head in, her eyes instantly lighting up.

“Oh, love!” she gasped, stepping into the room with her hands clasped over her heart. Simon followed closely, holding a bouquet of sunflowers and a teddy bear.

Y/N offered a tired smile. “Hi, Georgie. Hi, Simon.”

“Oh, look at ‘im,” Georgie cooed, her eyes welling up as she approached the bed. “He’s beautiful. Absolutely perfect.”

Simon nodded in agreement, placing the flowers on the side table. “Congratulations, both of you. He’s a proper little Tartt.”

Jamie straightened up, puffing his chest out with pride. “Yeah, he is, innit?”

Georgie leaned closer, her smile warm. “So… what’s his name?”

Silence.

Y/N froze, eyes widening slightly. She glanced at Jamie, who blinked as if the question had short-circuited his brain.

“Shit,” Jamie muttered under his breath. “We forgot to name ‘im.”

“You what?” Georgie’s eyebrows shot up.

“Oi, it’s been a busy day, yesterday!” Jamie defended. “Didn’t exactly have time to scroll baby names while she was pushin’ him out and I had a match!”

Y/N let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. “I can’t believe we forgot to give him a name…” She looked down at the baby, who squirmed against her chest, completely unaware of the identity crisis unfolding around him.

“Well, you better get on with it,” Simon said with a chuckle. “Can’t have the lad goin’ home as Baby Tartt forever.”

Jamie jumped up suddenly, eyes lighting up. “Right—hang on. I got an idea.”

Before anyone could stop him, he darted out of the room. Georgie tilted her head. “What’s he up to now?”

Y/N could only shrug.

Ten minutes later, Jamie returned, triumphantly rolling a whiteboard into the hospital room.

“Where the hell did you get that?” Y/N asked, incredulous.

“Borrowed it from some nurse down the hall,” Jamie said casually. “Said it was for ‘educational purposes.’”

Georgie bit back a laugh as Jamie grabbed a marker and scribbled BABY NAME BRAINSTORM across the top.

“Alright,” Jamie declared, clapping his hands together. “We’re gonna sort this out today. No one leaves till this baby’s got a proper name.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “Okay, fine. I’ll start. What about… Andrew?”

Jamie grimaced like she’d just suggested naming the baby Voldemort. “Nah. Sounds like the kinda name kids take the piss out of in school.”

“Oh, and your suggestions won’t get him bullied?” Y/N shot back. “Go on then, hit me with your genius ideas.”

Without hesitation, Jamie uncapped the marker and wrote:

Thor

Ronaldo

Ace

Zidane

Rocky

“Are you serious?” Y/N stared at him. “You want our son to sound like either a Marvel superhero or a footballer?”

“Oi, Thor’s cool as fuck!” Jamie protested. “And Ronaldo’s a legend!”

“Yeah, well, I’m not shouting ‘Thor Tartt’ across the playground.”

Georgie covered her mouth to muffle a laugh. Simon shook his head, amused.

“Fine, fine,” Jamie grumbled. “Your turn again.”

Y/N tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Okay… Jasper?”

Jamie groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “Babe, c’mon! Jasper sounds like a posh kid who collects stamps or somethin’.”

“Hey! Jasper’s cute!”

“Yeah, too cute. Our kid needs a name with a bit of edge, y’know?”

Georgie raised her hand like she was in school. “How about Oliver?”

“Sounds like he belongs in a Dickens novel,” Jamie muttered, scribbling it down anyway.

Simon chimed in. “What about Jack? Strong, classic name.”

“Bit too common,” Y/N said apologetically.

Jamie groaned dramatically. “We’re never gonna pick one. Might as well call ‘im Baby Tartt forever.”

“Let’s ask the team,” Y/N suggested, half-joking.

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s gonna help,” Jamie muttered, already pulling out his phone.

An hour later, the whiteboard was chaos, and Georgie and Simon decided to leave the new parents to their own mess. The team did come up with a bunch of names, though.

Sam: Elijah (It's very sophisticated, he insisted.)

Dani: Diego (or preferably Dani after himself, typical.)

Isaac: Maximus (because it sounded like a warrior’s name)

Colin: Finn (simple, but cool)

Jan: Wolfgang (no explanation given)

Roy: Didn’t offer a name, just grunted and said, “Don’t name him somethin’ stupid.”

Keeley: Leo or Apple (because his name would be leotard and apple tart, hehe iykyk)

By evening, the whiteboard was full, but nothing felt right. Y/N sat on the edge of the bed, cradling the baby while Jamie paced the room, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration. The only person they were waiting for, for a name suggestion, was Ted.

“This is impossible,” he muttered. “How’d people even do this?”

Y/N chuckled softly. “We’ll figure it out. He’s only been here a day. We’ve got time.”

Jamie sighed, walking over to her and leaning down to press a kiss to her temple. For a moment, they both just looked at the baby—their baby—sleeping peacefully in Y/N’s arms. Then Y/N's phone lit up with a message from Ted.

Ted: You should name him Jesse Tartt. Or Jamie Jr. just puttin' it out there folks.

Silence stretched between them as Jamie and Y/N looked at the text message. Then, almost at the same time—

“Jesse,” Y/N whispered.

“Jesseh,” Jamie echoed with his Manc accent.

Their eyes met.

“That… actually works,” Y/N said, surprised.

Jamie grinned. “Yeah. Jesse Tartt. Sounds proper, don’t it?”

“It’s strong, but still sweet,” Y/N agreed, smiling down at their son. “And it fits him.” And Y/N loved how Jamie said this name in his cute accent...

Jamie leaned closer, gently brushing his finger against Jesse’s tiny hand. “Oi, little man. You’re Jesse now, alright?”

The baby stirred slightly, as if acknowledging his name.

“Guess he approves,” Y/N chuckled.

“Damn right he does,” Jamie said proudly. Then, with a smirk, he added, “Jesseh Tartt. Future football legend. Gotta tell Ted that he just named our fuckin' baby boy. Roy's goin' to be so mad!”

Y/N rolled her eyes fondly, leaning against Jamie’s shoulder. “Let’s just get him home first, yeah?”

Discharge day arrived, and Jamie was determined to execute the mission: The First Drive Home with military precision.

“Alright,” he muttered as he carefully buckled Jesse into the car seat, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Not too tight, not too loose… perfect.”

Y/N stood beside him, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “You know babies are sturdier than they look, right?”

“Yeah, well, I’m not takin’ any chances,” Jamie replied, lifting the car seat with both hands like he was cradling a bomb.

“Jamie, you can carry it normally—”

“Nope. Nope. This is the safest way.”

He shuffled toward the hospital exit, holding the seat awkwardly in front of him with both hands. When they reached the car, Jamie inspected the base attachment three times before snapping the seat into place with a loud click.

“Alright, baby boy. You’re all secure,” he announced proudly. Then, turning to Y/N with uncharacteristic seriousness, he added, “I’m gonna drive slow as fuck.”

“Jamie—”

“Slow as fuck, Y/N.”

And true to his word, Jamie crept out of the parking lot like he was chauffeuring royalty, eyes glued to the road, hands locked at ten and two.

“Jamie, you can go faster than 15 miles per hour—”

“Oi, you want me speedin’ with our kid in the car?”

“We’re gonna get overtaken by a bicycle at this rate!”

“Don’t care.” Jamie’s jaw was set with determination. “I got precious cargo now.”

Y/N just laughed, shaking her head as Jamie continued his cautious, glacial journey home.

And as ridiculous as it all was…

She wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

#jamie tartt #ted lasso #ted lasso show #jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt x y/n #jamie tartt x you #afc richmond #jamie tartt imagine #roy kent #sam obisanya #Jamie Tartt x PA

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