#his fashion in her private life >>>>> | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

youthguk · 3 months ago

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✦ Encore | jjk (m) ✦

pairing: idol! jungkook x editor! reader

genre: smut, ex lovers, second chance au, angst with smut, toxic ex au

summary: You loved him before the lights, before the headlines, before he learned how to disappear.Now he’s back — older, hotter, famous — and this time, you’re the one calling the shots. But Jeon Jungkook doesn’t do endings. Only encores.

w.c: 10k

author's note: writing and creating stories takes a lot of time, and no matter how much i love doing this and jungkook, i would love your support and feedback 🖤

You’ve always known how to keep secrets. It’s a requirement—the requirement—of survival in an industry that trades on whispers, scandals, and carefully curated lies. Fashion is ruthless, a pretty monster wearing designer heels, and no one understands that better than you.

Two years of blood, sweat, and designer tears later, you've earned your throne at Vogue Korea. A glass-walled office overlooking Seoul's constellation of lights, your name etched in gold next to campaigns that make lesser editors weep with envy. You didn't just climb the ladder; you conquered it in six-inch heels.

They call you the Ice Queen of Editorial. Untouchable. Unshakeable. The woman who can stare down Korea's biggest idols without so much as a flutter of mascara-coated lashes. Your boundaries aren't just lines in the sand—they're walls of steel and glass, keeping your personal life locked away where it belongs.

You’ve been handed the crown jewel of assignments: the exclusive BTS cover story.

The kind of story that turns editors into legends. Or ruins them completely.

“You must be feeling the pressure,” Hyerin teases, nudging your elbow as you both stand by the studio coffee station. “If I had to face seven of the most beautiful men on Earth, I’d probably collapse.”

You smile lightly, perfectly controlled. “Luckily, fainting isn’t part of my job description.”

Hyerin laughs, tossing her silky hair back. “You’re seriously not nervous? Not even a little?”

Before you can respond, another voice cuts in—cool and sharp as glass.

“Y/N’s never nervous,” Kara says smoothly, sidling up with a carefully constructed smile. Her eyes skim over your perfectly ironed blouse, searching for any flaw she can exploit. “Even when she probably should be.”

You meet her stare evenly. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. It’s just another day at work.”

“Oh, sure,” Kara shrugs, delicately adjusting her blazer. “Just the biggest magazine cover of the year. With the biggest K-pop group in history. But you’re right—no pressure at all.”

You hold your tongue, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. Kara’s smile widens, eyes glittering dangerously.

“Don’t worry,” she says softly. “We’re all rooting for you.”

As she walks away, Hyerin gives you a sympathetic glance. “Ignore her. She’s just mad they picked you.”

“She’ll get over it,” you say calmly, taking a sip of coffee. But privately, you wonder if she ever will. Kara’s eyes feel permanently locked on your back, waiting for you to slip—and she’d love nothing more than to watch you fall.

You inhale slowly, forcing the tension from your shoulders as you remind yourself that Kara isn’t your concern today. No — your concern just stepped through the studio doors like he owned the light that followed.

So you lift your chin, smooth the edges of your expression, and bury the frantic thrum of your heart beneath that practiced, glassy calm you’ve spent years perfecting.

You feel Jungkook’s presence before you see him. Hear the chatter ripple across the set, feel the shift in the air. Turning slowly, you catch sight of him walking toward makeup, tTattooed fingers, midnight hair, confident smile charming everyone in his orbit.

He hasn’t noticed you yet, but your pulse already quickens. You haven’t been face-to-face since he vanished from your life years ago, choosing fame over what you once shared. Not even your closest colleagues know about your past—not Hyerin, certainly not Kara. To them, you’re the girl who can handle any celebrity without batting an eye.

But Jungkook isn’t just any celebrity. He’s your first heartbreak. Your only weakness.

And the moment his eyes find yours across the room, his casual smile fading into something raw and hungry, you realize secrets never stay hidden forever.

Not when every glance he sends your way feels like a promise—Encore. We’re not done yet.

Your breath catches painfully in your throat, stomach twisting into a knot so tight it leaves you dizzy. For all your polished composure, the sight of Jungkook still manages to unravel you like loose threads on a designer gown.

Seeing him again feels like reopening a wound you spent years pretending had healed. It floods you with memories you'd promised yourself to forget—quiet nights tangled in sheets, whispered promises that felt unbreakable, how he used to hold you as if you were the most precious thing he’d ever touched.

But then came the silence. Slow at first, then deafening. A text left unread, calls unanswered. You waited like a fool, convinced something must've happened, sure he’d reach out again and say everything was fine. But days turned into weeks, then months, and eventually you stopped counting—stopped waiting.

He'd left you in a silence louder than any goodbye could've been.

It still haunts you, that hollow uncertainty. All those unanswered questions, the ache of wondering why you hadn't been enough—why something that had been your entire world had apparently meant so little to him.

Even now, standing across a crowded room from him, you feel nineteen again, confused and heartbroken, questioning yourself: Was it you? Was it fame? Or was he just that good at faking forever?

Your hands tremble slightly, and you quickly clasp them behind your back, steadying your breath, forcing your expression back into neutrality. You are not that girl anymore. You're not nineteen, naive and waiting.

You're the woman who clawed her way up the ladder, who built herself from the ground up, and who refuses to be unraveled by Jeon Jungkook ever again.

Yet, as his gaze locks onto yours and his expression shifts—something fragile breaking beneath the confident mask—you realize you might not have a choice.

You're the woman who clawed her way up the ladder, who built herself from the ground up, and who refuses to be unraveled by Jeon Jungkook ever again.

You grit your teeth, straightening your posture defiantly. No, you're not going to fall apart because he decided to show up now, years later. It doesn’t matter how familiar his gaze still feels, or how your stomach flips traitorously when his eyes linger a second too long. It’s just shock, you reason. The surprise of seeing someone from your past. He means nothing now. He can’t mean anything—not after he left you drowning in unanswered questions.

And yet, as his gaze locks onto yours and his expression shifts—something fragile breaking beneath the confident mask—you shove down the dangerous impulse fluttering inside you.

Because you won’t allow it. Not today. Not ever.

But Jungkook tilts his head slightly, eyes darkening with an intensity you know too well, and you feel your carefully constructed resolve begin to tremble at the edges.

It doesn’t matter, you remind yourself harshly. You’ll never make the same mistake twice. Not for Jungkook. Not for anyone.

Still, the moment he takes a step toward you, your heart skips—just once. And you hate yourself for it.

And it’s terrifying how much your body still reacts, how tightly your stomach knots, how you feel yourself leaning backward without meaning to. You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing.

But just before he can get closer—

“Jungkook! Manager wants you in the briefing room, now!”

The shout cuts across the set, snapping him back to reality. He hesitates. A small shift of weight. A flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Then he turns, walking toward the exit without another glance.

You make yourself go still, expression smooth, breath finally releasing. He’s gone again. And you hate how that emptiness still lingers in the space he almost crossed.

✦

The studio smelled like caffeine, expensive cologne, and urgency.

Light rigs hummed above, shifting shadows across white backdrops. Stylists darted like bees between racks of designer coats and racks of idols. The floor was a mosaic of garment bags, wires, coffee cups, and carefully controlled chaos.

And you were in the eye of the storm.

Clipboards. Checklists. The shoot brief folded neatly in your tote, annotated with sharp red edits. You’d been here since seven. Confirming the team, adjusting the timeline after a last-minute delivery delay, nodding politely through the photographer’s temper tantrum over lighting angles.

Professional. Polished. In control. Just like always.

Hyerin only nodded, already lifting her phone to send the message.

And then a shift. Subtle, at first. Not a sound, not a movement, but something in the air tightening, thickening — the kind of change you feel against your skin before your mind can name it. Like the slow drop in pressure that happens before thunder splits the sky.

You didn’t need to turn. You already knew.

BTS had arrived. This time, all of them. Fully, unmistakably, overwhelmingly present.

Voices lifted across the space. Polite bows, excited murmurs, stylists practically vibrating. You focused on your clipboard, eyes locked on the line that read: Group cover, final set — standing profile + seated variation.

You could feel it before you saw him. Like a magnet realigning in your chest.

Jeon Jungkook. The name alone was supposed to mean nothing now. Not here. Not in this room. Not in this life you built without him.

But your gaze lifted—just once, just for a breath—and there he was.

Dark hair, slightly damp. A black oversized tee clinging to his frame like it had no choice. Tattoos curling down his arm like vines. He was talking to one of the stylists, something easy in his body, but then—

His eyes found yours. Again.

And froze. As if the moment before seemed unbelievable to him, and now he got a confirmation that it was truly you who he saw before.

For one suspended moment, the studio blurred. Sound dulled. All you could hear was the low pulse in your ears, thudding like memory. His gaze didn’t flicker. Didn’t flinch.

It lingered. You turned away first. Professional, you reminded yourself. You could breathe later.

Behind you, a quiet voice laced with syrup and venom sliced through the air. “Well, don’t you look composed.”

Kara.

You didn’t bother turning. Her heels clicked as she approached, each step full of intention.

“I’d be shaking,” she continued, feigning casual amusement. “If he looked at me like that.”

Your clipboard didn’t move.

“I don’t mix work with fantasy,” you said coolly.

Kara laughed, bright and biting. “Right. Of course. You’re very composed.”

Before you could answer, the studio door opened wider, and the rest of the crew flooded in behind the members. Lights adjusted. Cables plugged. The moment passed.

But your stomach? Still twisted.

You didn’t have time for this. Not the memories. Not the questions. Not the way your breath still stumbled just because he was in the same room.

You crossed the set in brisk, deliberate strides, addressing the camera assistant without once glancing his way — you didn’t have to.

The air shifted again, electric with movement, and you felt it before you saw it. He was walking toward you. He wore that perfect, easy smile — all charm, all textbook idol — as if the cameras had never stopped rolling. But his steps were purposeful, and they were headed straight for you.

Still, you didn’t move. Behind him, Taehyung watched with a slight tilt of his head, a flicker of something unreadable tightening his brow.

“Where’s he going?” he murmured to Jimin, his voice low enough not to carry.

Jimin looked up from his water bottle, following the path of Jungkook’s steps.

“Who is that—” He paused. Squinted. His expression shifted slowly. “No way,” he muttered. “Is that… Y/N?”

Taehyung’s eyes narrowed as he got a better look. “Damn,” he said under his breath. “She really changed.”

“She doesn’t look like a college student anymore,” Jimin added, then whistled low. “She looks like she’d step on your throat for blinking at the wrong moment.”

Taehyung snorted. “And Jungkook’s walking straight toward her like it’s nothing.”

Jimin’s smile faltered, just slightly. “It’s not nothing,” he said, softer now.

The glance he shared with Taehyung was brief, but loaded — a silent recognition passing between them that didn’t need words to say what they already knew: this was going to get complicated.

Jungkook stopped just close enough for it to be plausible. Two colleagues. Two professionals. A friendly exchange in the middle of a crowded set.

But you felt the heat of him at your side. The static in the air between your bodies. The weight of five years in the space between his next breath and your silence.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said. His voice was lower now. Smooth, familiar. Dangerous.

You kept your eyes on the call sheet in your hands. “Then maybe you should’ve read your shoot brief.”

He let out a quiet, amused exhale. “Guess I was distracted.”

You finally turned to face him, slow and deliberate. He looked at you like you were a memory he wanted to taste again. And you hated how much you felt it in your knees.

“Still pretending I don’t exist?” he asked softly.

You smiled—polite, cold. “You’re not that hard to ignore.”

He tilted his head, amused. “You used to say I was impossible to forget.”

You didn’t blink. “People change.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. The smile dimmed, only slightly. And you hated that it made your chest ache.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “They do.”

You stepped back first. Not because you were retreating—but because if you stayed, you’d say something you’d regret.

“We’re about to start,” you said, voice crisp. “Please get into wardrobe.”

He didn’t argue. But his gaze lingered like the brush of fingers on skin—something remembered. Something unfinished.

You turned on your heel and walked away. And behind you, Jungkook watched like he was seeing something he thought he'd lost forever.

You walk with your back straight, spine stiff, each click of your heels against the polished floor louder than the last. The studio spins in a blur around you—shutters firing, stylists buzzing, interns darting past—but your body moves like it’s on autopilot.

You don’t need to see him to feel the weight of his stare still pressing into your skin, hot and searching. Your lungs burn quietly, your heart hammering beneath the silk of your blouse in a rhythm that doesn’t belong to a woman in control.

You handled that well, you tell yourself. He didn’t rattle you. Not really. It was nothing—just a greeting. Just a ghost in designer boots. You didn’t flinch.

But your fingers still tremble as you slide the clipboard into your bag. And his scent—faint on the air, sandalwood and heat—lingers like a bruise. That voice you used to fall asleep to.

He said so little, but it was too much. Too soft. Too knowing. Too close to the edge of the past you buried under ambition and late-night edits and deadlines that couldn’t be missed. A past that still knows exactly how to make your mouth dry and your pulse quicken.

You exhale through your nose, slow and tight, pressing your thumb into your palm until it stings.

This isn’t college. This isn’t your bedroom at 3 a.m. waiting for his text. You are not that girl anymore. And he doesn’t get to reach into your life now just because he remembered how to say your name.

Across the studio, a pair of eyes followed your every step.

Kara leaned against a lighting rig, one arm crossed lazily over her chest, a paper cup of overpriced coffee in hand. She wasn’t watching the shoot, not really. Her gaze was fixed on you—your clenched jaw, your too-smooth posture, the slight tremble in your fingers as you adjusted your sleeve.

Her lips curled just barely at the edges. She didn’t say anything just sipped her coffee and tilted her head thoughtfully, like a girl already collecting dots to connect.

And when her eyes flicked over to Jungkook, now slipping into wardrobe, and then back to you. Something in her expression sharpened. She had nothing solid. Not yet. But Kara had always known how to smell blood long before the wound appeared.

✦

The shoot was already in full swing by the time you were called in.

High-key lighting flared against the matte white backdrop as the photographer directed the rest of the group into place. Jungkook hadn’t shot his solos yet — he’d been saved for last, as if they all knew the best tension builds slowly.

You were reviewing proofs on a monitor when the stylist approached you, breathless and mid-hustle.

“Sorry, Y/N—can you approve the jewelry for Jungkook’s third look? We’ve got the options prepped, but he wants to wear the chain without layering.” She didn't wait for a full answer, already turning back. “He’s in the fitting room.”

You don’t hesitate. Don’t sigh. You just nod once and follow, clipboard in hand, pulse tucked neatly beneath your professionalism.

It’s just another detail. Another decision. You’ve approved a hundred accessories today already but you haven’t approved him.

The fitting area isn’t private. Just a curtained nook off the main set, half-lit by dressing bulbs and cluttered with half-dressed mannequins and hangers heavy with sponsored silk.

And he’s there when you slip inside. Shirtless, silver chain dangling from his fingers, tattoos curling down his arm like they belong to a different man than the boy you once knew.

He looks over his shoulder the moment he hears you enter. His lips curve slowly, like this is a scene he’s played in his head a thousand times already.

“Oh,” he says. “They sent you.”

You don’t react. You’re too tired for games and too exposed for softness.

“Only because the chain needs editorial sign-off,” you say coolly.

He turns to face you fully, unhurried. Like the air between you isn’t thick enough to choke on.

“Then by all means,” he murmurs, offering the necklace like a dare, “approve me.”

You step forward without flinching, though every part of you wants to be somewhere—anywhere—else. The chain is cool in your palm. His hand is warm. The heat of his body radiates as you move into his space, standing just close enough to clasp the piece around his bare neck.

His skin smells like cologne and memory. Like summer and sweat and one a.m. phone calls you’ll never get back.

You keep your eyes down. Your fingers are steady as you drape the chain across his collarbones, lock it into place behind his neck. He watches you in the mirror and doesn’t blink.

“Still pretending I don’t affect you?” he asks, low enough that no one outside this curtain will ever hear.

You don’t look at him. Don’t let him win.

“You’re not that hard to ignore.”

He laughs, soft and sharp. It brushes the side of your cheek like smoke. “Liar.”

You step back; one clean motion with no hesitation. Your eyes scan the chain against his chest. Simple. Effective. Professional.

“It works,” you say.

He’s still looking at you. Not with smugness now, but something quieter. Studying the way your arms stay crossed. The way your voice never shakes, even when your throat does.

“You always liked this one,” he says, tapping the charm. “You said it made me look dangerous.”

“That was a long time ago.”

His smile shifts. “You still look at me like it’s not.”

You leave before you can answer. Let the curtain fall shut behind you like a closing door.

And you don’t breathe again until you’re halfway down the hallway.

The bathroom is cold and sterile and mercifully empty.

You close the door behind you, flip the lock, and let your clipboard fall to the counter with a dull clatter.

It’s only then—only then—that your shoulders drop.

Your hands brace against the sink, breath coming out in one sharp exhale like it’s been trapped under your ribs since you walked into that fitting room. Your reflection in the mirror is still composed, still precise… but your eyes are too bright, and your skin is too warm, and the chain you touched is still clinging to your fingertips like a memory you can’t scrub off.

The cold water against your wrists and temples helps clear your mind as you gather yourself in the bathroom. This is just another work assignment - he's just another subject to photograph. You've dealt with far more challenging situations than being near someone who once made you believe in forever.

With practiced efficiency, you touch up your lipstick and straighten your blouse. When you emerge into the hallway, your composure is flawless, your expression revealing nothing of the storm beneath. The studio has quieted now, with only essential crew remaining.

Light rigs now buzz on low. Laptops closed, garment bags zipped, coffee cups abandoned on carts. A few stylists linger in quiet conversations by the exit, voices hushed with the kind of fatigue that only comes after a perfect shot.

The hallway outside the dressing area is empty except for you and the steady hum of the hard drive transferring the final export. Metal and stale sweat linger in the air, a reminder of the day's shoot. You've maintained your composure perfectly throughout, every interaction calculated and professional.

But when you hear those footsteps approaching - measured, purposeful, unmistakable - your carefully constructed facade threatens to crack. You don't need to look to know who it is.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” Jungkook says, voice low behind you.

You glance over your shoulder. He’s out of wardrobe now, in a simple hoodie and sweats, hair still slightly damp from styling. His tattoos are half-hidden under the sleeves, but his eyes are all sharp edge and unfinished business.

You straighten. "Waiting on a drive."

He moves closer, maintaining a careful distance. "They left in a rush. Didn't even say goodbye." The words carry a weight you both understand - he's not talking about the crew.

"It was a long day," you reply, your voice measured.

"You always were good at making things efficient," he observes, a hint of something unspoken in his tone.

You turn to face him with your perfected expression - the unflappable editor no one dares to question. "Did you need something, Jungkook?"

His composure shifts, tongue pressed against his cheek. "I need to know why you're acting like we didn't matter."

The words land with the weight of years unspoken. You meet his gaze steadily. "Because you acted like we didn't."

The silence stretches between you as the truth of it settles. He doesn't deny it. "I didn't know how to end it back then. I was selfish."

"You were a coward," you reply, voice steady despite the burning in your throat. "A call, a text - anything would have been better than disappearing."

"I thought it would be easier if I let you hate me."

A bitter laugh escapes you. "Easier for who?"

He closes the distance between you until you can feel the heat radiating from his body, his familiar scent mixing with the dim emergency lights that line the floors. "I still remember everything," he murmurs. "Your old apartment with the mattress on the floor. How you'd cry over unfinished articles. The way you'd fall asleep against my chest like you belonged there."

You remain frozen, breath caught somewhere beneath your ribs as he leans in slightly, the air between you crackling with tension. "Do you remember any of it?" he whispers.

The memories flood back unbidden, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction. Instead, you tilt your head and deliver the words with practiced indifference. "You're five years too late."

You walk away before he can notice your trembling hands, and he remains rooted in place, torn between the urge to follow and the knowledge that he lost that right long ago.

✦

The suite smells like charcoal-grilled meat and takeout beer. The shoot’s over. The glamor is gone.

They’ve all crammed into Namjoon’s apartment for a late dinner, half-unwinding, half-rehashing the chaos of the day. Yoongi’s in the corner scrolling on his phone. Jin’s talking over everyone about how the lighting made him look “unfairly youthful.” But Jungkook hasn’t touched his food.

He’s nursing a beer. And he hasn’t said more than a few words all night.

Taehyung notices first.

“You good?” he asks, lazily tossing a cushion at him from across the couch.

Jungkook doesn’t look up. “Yeah.”

Jimin lifts an eyebrow. “You’ve been zoning out since we left the studio.”

There’s a beat of silence then Jungkook exhales and runs a hand through his hair. “She was really there.”

Jin, mid-chew, frowns. “Who?”

Jungkook glances at the ceiling, leans back, eyes unfocused. “Y/N.”

The name still tastes strange in his mouth. “She’s… she was our editorial lead. For the cover.”

Yoongi finally looks up. “Seriously?”

“She didn’t even flinch,” Jungkook mutters. “Like I never existed.”

Namjoon gives him a long look. “You expected a welcome hug?”

“No,” Jungkook says, quieter. “I don’t know what I expected. But not… that.”

He thinks of the way she stood—straight-backed, calm, like she’d stripped him from her system entirely. He thinks of her voice. How carefully detached it was. You’re five years too late.The line replays in his chest like a lyric.

“She looked good,” Jungkook says after a pause. “Better than before.”

“Better without you,” Yoongi says flatly.

Jungkook doesn’t reply. Taehyung sighs, sitting up. “It’s insane that you’re surprised. You ghosted her while fucking your way through rookie girl groups.”

“I didn’t—” Jungkook winces. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like that.”

“But it did,” Namjoon says, voice firm. “You left her. And you never gave her a real goodbye. You just vanished.”

Jimin shifts, arms crossed. “You think she forgot? That she sat around waiting while you made headlines with girls you didn’t even text back?”

“I was overwhelmed,” Jungkook snaps, frustration leaking out. “We were finally being notice, I was twenty, the world was on fire—”

“And she was in the middle of it with you,” Taehyung cuts in. “Until you acted like she was a phase you could leave behind.”

That shuts him up. Jungkook stares at the label on his bottle. His jaw ticks.

“She looked right through me today,” he says quietly. “Like I never touched her. Like she doesn’t still exist in my head every fucking day.”

Silence falls over the room. Then Jin sighs and pats his shoulder. “Well. Maybe now you know how it felt.”

✦

You hold the final print like it owes you something.

Not just a paycheck. Not just another spread to fill your portfolio. But proof that you belong here.

Vogue Korea – October Issue. The one everyone wanted to work on. And you got it.

The paper stock is matte heavyweight — no gloss, no gimmick. The cover design minimal: just the group’s name in clean serif and the issue title in metallic foil, whispering luxury. Echoes of the Future.

You flip through the pages like you haven’t already memorized the entire layout. But it still hits. The gravity. The precision. The power of it.

Each editorial frame is stripped to its bones — no backdrops, no props, no distractions. Just symmetry, shadowplay, and seven of the most photographed men in the world, captured like you’ve never seen them before.

Jimin in sharp Céline tailoring, wet hair pushed off his forehead, lips parted like he’s about to ruin someone.

Namjoon in a crisp Ferragamo overcoat and nothing underneath. Minimal styling. Maximum command.

Taehyung draped in silk Givenchy, silver rings on every finger, a single brow arched like a dare. Yoongi — Gucci and attitude. Seated. Unbothered. A king tired of his throne. Jin in a Bottega turtleneck with sculptural shoulders, the kind of silhouette only he could make feel warm. Hoseok’s frame wrapped in a monochrome Rick Owens layered set, gaze tilted away from camera — like he knows you’re looking. And Jungkook. Front and center. Mugler suit. Bare chest. One silver chain. Wet strands falling over his brow, a half-smirk caught between innocence and provocation.

You chose that shot. Pushed for it. It’s not about sex. It’s about control. Power. Presence.

There’s no overstyling. No theatrics. Just tension. The kind that doesn’t need words.

When you close the issue and step into the elevator of the JW Marriott rooftop lounge, your reflection catches in the mirror: off-the-shoulder Alaïa column dress in black crepe, Louboutin heels, lips painted the exact shade of silent danger. You look expensive. Untouchable. Editorial. Exactly how you planned it.

The party has already started by the time you arrive — hosted in the private event wing, high above Seoul’s skyline. Dim, golden lighting. Smooth jazz threaded with ambient house. Crystal glasses passed by silent staff in Tom Ford uniforms. Everyone here is someone.

Vogue doesn’t just launch a cover — it celebrates it. Especially one this anticipated. Especially when the entire campaign broke engagement records before it hit print.

And when the subject is BTS? The fashion world watches. So tonight isn’t just a party. It’s an affirmation. For the magazine. For the editorial team. For you.

You float through it with your usual ease — nodding to the creative director from Boucheron, chatting with the head of marketing from Dior Beauty, accepting compliments on the issue from half the room without blinking.

Until someone mentions it. “Did you hear BTS might actually show tonight?”

You maintain your composure, letting the champagne brush your lips as you smile with practiced nonchalance. The air in the room shifts subtly, and with the slightest turn of your head, you see him.

Jeon Jungkook. Walking in through the side entrance, flanked by two staffers and dressed in black-on-black: a Saint Laurent suit jacket left open over a silk shirt, sheer enough to tease the curve of his chest. No tie. Just skin, chain, stare.

He looks different tonight - transformed from both the idol whose image you curated and the ghost who haunted your hallway last week. There's something raw and deliberate in his presence now, a man who arrived with clear intent. His eyes find you immediately across the room, heavy with purpose, and you notice with a start that he came alone.

Namjoon had RSVP’d but sent a polite decline. You’d caught wind of Jimin flying out for a brand shoot in Tokyo. The rest were likely busy or deliberately laying low — as expected.

But he showed up, of all people, leaving you unsure whether to laugh at his audacity or grip your glass tighter.

Jungkook doesn’t approach you. Not at first. You feel his gaze like pressure behind your bare shoulder. But he moves slowly through the room — greets the Vogue team with a bow, gives the photographer a brief, easy hug. Accepts a drink from a server. Ends up near the bar with a woman you vaguely recognize from the Seoul fashion circuit — a model with collarbones sharp enough to cut glass, her dress barely skimming the line of decency.

She leans in when she speaks to him. Laughs too brightly. Touches his forearm once, casually.

He barely acknowledges the model's attention, his gaze fixed elsewhere in the room - on you. Through the evening, his eyes find you repeatedly, not with desire but with careful observation, like he's memorizing every detail. The looks fall into a steady rhythm, yet he maintains his distance while others gravitate toward you.

You’re halfway through your second glass when two men — suits, handsome, not strangers to the room — flank you near the edge of the terrace. One is from an ad agency you’ve worked with before. The other’s from an international menswear brand.

They talk shop. Compliment your dress. One of them offers you another drink before you can say no. The other leans in when he speaks, a little too close to your ear, and you catch the ghost of his cologne mixed with something slightly sour.

You offer your practiced, polite smile But you're aware of how their eyes follow the dip of your neckline like they’ve been given permission. One of them lets his fingers rest too long against your elbow. The other jokes, "Are all editors this pretty or are you the exception?" and doesn’t seem to care that you don’t laugh.

Your eyes drift across the room unbidden to find him exactly where he's been all evening, his steady gaze never having left you.

Jungkook’s grip on his glass is tighter now. The model beside him keeps talking, oblivious. He’s not listening. You know that jaw too well. The tension behind it. The twitch when he’s about to break.

You take another sip. Feel the flush of alcohol under your skin. Your vision gets softer at the edges, but the awareness sharpens. You know how this ends. You feel it humming beneath your ribs, hot and inevitable.

And when the man beside you brushes your wrist again — subtle, casual, entitled — you don’t pull away fast enough.

Without warning or spectacle, Jungkook materializes beside you with the practiced grace of someone who's spent years in the spotlight. His movement is fluid, deliberate - sliding between you and your unwanted admirers with a hand ghosting the small of your back. His body creates a subtle barrier, the gesture so smoothly executed that it appears almost accidental, yet the message is unmistakably clear.

“Didn’t realize I was late to this conversation,” he says smoothly.

You catch the flicker of recognition on the men’s faces. One of them steps back half a pace, suddenly less charming. The other adjusts his collar and offers a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Jeon Jungkook,” the taller one says, offering a hand. “Didn’t know you were here.”

Jungkook shakes it. Calm. Collected. “Figured I’d say hello to the team who made the shoot happen.”

His eyes flick toward you, then back. “Though it looks like I should’ve come earlier.”

It’s almost nothing. Just a hint. A slip beneath the surface. But you hear it. Feel it in the weight of his voice. The way his hand stays just a fraction too close to yours.

Possessive. And yet — perfectly palatable for a crowd.

No one would question this display of protectiveness - the touch, the timing, or the implications. The men's faces fell as their evening plans crumbled, replaced by hasty excuses about drivers and text messages from L'Officiel. They melted into the crowd, leaving as quickly as they had appeared.

Jungkook watches them disappear into the crowd with that unreadable expression you remember from his early idol days. When he didn’t know how to speak with words yet — just stares.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, voice quiet, cutting.

“I know.”

“Then why?”

He shrugs. Still watching the crowd. “Didn’t like how they were touching you.”

“That’s not your concern anymore.”

He turns to face you then. Full. Real. And the look in his eyes is darker than the mood lighting.

“It never stopped being my concern.”

That does something to your throat. Tightens it.

You want to roll your eyes. Push him away. Instead, you take a half-step back and fix your dress strap.

“You can go now,” you say, coolly.

But his jaw tightens. That’s when you know you’ve hit something.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He says it so quietly. But it doesn’t feel soft. It feels like something pulled from the center of his chest.

You scan the room out of instinct. Too many eyes. Too much potential noise.

Jungkook notices. And he moves.He doesn’t ask.His hand brushes your wrist—light, guiding—and then he’s walking. Confident. Unbothered. Heading toward the side hallway just past the lounge bar, near the VIP exit where only staff and talent are allowed to pass.

You should stop him but instead you follow.

The hallway is quiet, dimmer than the rest of the event. A velvet rope keeps guests from entering, and a private elevator tucked at the end promises anonymity to anyone important enough to use it. You’ve seen it before. Watched stylists hustle idols through that door like ghosts, like secrets.

Jungkook stops just out of view.

The corner of the hall is shadowed, walls covered in gold-veined marble and muted hotel art. The muffled bass from the party barely reaches here. His back is to you.

He turns when you stop. And then he steps in.

Close. Too close. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t raise his voice. But he towers.

The heat from his body sears into yours. His jaw clenches once before relaxing, like he’s trying to hold back a thousand versions of the same mistake.

“You know what they wanted from you,” he says, voice low. “And you were going to let them?”

“I wasn’t going to let them do anything.”

“You let them touch you.”

“You fucked half the industry,” you snap, too fast. Too exposed. “Don’t start pretending I’m the one who crossed lines.”

That lands. Sharp. But he doesn’t retreat.

“I haven’t loved anyone except for you.”

Your breath catches in your throat as the weight of his words sinks in, leaving you dizzy and unsteady.

You want to argue. You want to scream liar.But he’s looking at you like it’s gospel. Like the weight of that confession has been killing him slowly every night since. And god, he’s close.

You feel your body respond before your brain can stop it. The heat between your legs. The flush rising beneath your skin. The sharp, brutal ache that coils low in your stomach just from the way he’s standing there — like he’d throw himself between you and the world all over again.

You glance down — mistake. The open collar of his shirt frames his chest like it was designed for your hands. The chain you once clasped glints against his skin, half-damp from heat. You remember how he tastes. Wonder if he still does.

Your thighs press together instinctively as his gaze drops to notice the movement. The knowledge that he can still read your body's reactions makes your stomach twist with loathing.

“You have no right to be jealous,” you say, voice barely a whisper.

“I know.”

“You left me.”

“I know.”

Your heart is pounding. Your mouth is dry. And when he leans in just a little closer — breath brushing your ear, his voice raw and unfiltered — it takes every ounce of strength not to melt against the wall.

“You can hate me all you want,” he says. “But I still know how to make you come apart.”

Jungkook’s stare is heavy. Focused. Unflinching.

He says nothing for a long, charged second, and you hate how your body reacts to that silence — like it remembers something your brain is still trying to forget.

“You don’t get to act like this,” you say, and it comes out sharp, acidic. “You don’t get to touch me now and pretend it means anything.”

His jaw tenses, but his voice stays level. Quiet. Deadly calm.

“I’m not pretending.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, shifting your weight — and that’s when he does it.

His hand slides down with deliberate intent, finding its target. He squeezes your ass with possessive familiarity, the firm pressure making your breath catch. Though you maintain your composure, your body betrays you - skin flushing hot, thighs pressing together as desire coils in your stomach.

“You’re disgusting,” you mutter through your teeth.

But he leans in, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“You didn’t stop me.”

You shove at his chest, but there’s no real strength in it. Not when your knees feel like static and your pulse is hammering between your legs. Not when your own body is already betraying you, flooding with heat from the base of your spine to the ache you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.

“You’re the one who fucked other people the second you got famous,” you snap. “Don’t come near me like we have unfinished business.”

“You think I don’t remember how you taste?” he breathes, low and lethal. “How your thighs shake when I—”

“Shut up.” You cut him off, voice breaking around the edge. “You’re pathetic.”

But his hand is still on you. Still burning through the fabric of your dress.

And now he's walking.

You're not sure when his hand left yours. You're not sure when your legs decided to follow. But you're moving. Toward the private elevator at the end of the hallway. It dings as it opens — discreet, slow, waiting for no one else.

“Don’t,” you say, half-hearted, hovering just outside the doors.

He steps inside the elevator and glances back, waiting with an unspoken challenge in his eyes.

“Unless you're scared,” he murmurs.

You could slap him. You should, but instead you step into the elevator with feigned composure, despite your trembling heels.

The doors close with a soft click, leaving you enveloped in thick, electric silence. His presence looms behind you, coiled and simmering, while you maintain your dignity - chin raised, gaze fixed steadily on the elevator doors.

Your mind races as the floors tick by, but you've already surrendered to whatever destination he has in mind.

You tell yourself it’s just physical. You’re tired. Your bones are tired. You've been carrying ambition like armor for too long and you want — god, you want — to feel something. Something that doesn’t require you to smile, or pose, or win.

You want to stop being the calculated editor, the polished image, the embodiment of perfection - if only for one night. And if it has to be Jungkook, the only man who ever witnessed you come undone, then so be it. After all, if he's determined to shatter your composure again, you'll make sure he crumbles right alongside you.

The car ride settles into a weighty silence, charged with unspoken tension that fills the space between you.

A stretch of velvet air between you, thick with all the things neither of you are brave or stupid enough to say.

Jungkook’s limo is absurd. Sleek black leather, blue LED trim humming at your feet. A built-in bar you ignore. Curtains drawn. City lights blur past the tinted glass as if the world outside has nothing to do with what’s about to happen inside.

You sit rigid, legs crossed. The dress has ridden up just slightly — the soft part of your thigh kissing cool air — and he notices.

He notices immediately. His hand moves with quiet confidence, as if remembering a familiar path. Fingertips rest briefly on your knee before sliding upward, his thumb drawing lazy circles where silk meets flesh.

Though you avoid his gaze, busying yourself by twisting your hair between your fingers, your body betrays you - thighs pressing together as his touch ventures into dangerous territory. The corner of his mouth lifts in a knowing smirk.

“I forgot how stubborn you are.”

You glare. “You forgot a lot of things.”

His fingers don’t retreat. He slides them just a breath higher, pulling the hem of your dress with them.

“You can say stop,” he murmurs, voice dropping low. “You know I’ll listen.”

You hate the truth of it, hate even more that you don't want to stop him. Your thighs remain locked together as heat builds between them, as if friction alone could erase what's about to happen.

He stays perfectly still, his touch a gentle reminder on your skin. Patient. Waiting. Your body responds to his presence with a familiar ache, your pulse quickening as it remembers his touch.

Through the window, city lights blur past while you try to steady your breathing. There's no denying what's about to happen - you knew it from the moment you followed him from that party.

Tonight, you’re not Vogue Korea’s untouchable ice queen. You’re just a woman.

Lonely. Starving. So fucking tired of pretending she doesn’t want to be ruined.

✦

The car stops in front of La Premiere, one of Seoul’s most exclusive residential towers — all glass, obsidian stone, gold accents that shimmer even at midnight. You’re not surprised. This is the kind of place you only enter if your name is a brand.

The lobby's marble floors echo beneath your heels as you follow him to the private elevator, where a thumbprint grants access to the upper floors. The doorman's familiar greeting only amplifies the tension crackling between you.

Your heart pounds against your ribs as the elevator climbs to the penthouse. The space unfolds before you - a stunning expanse of high ceilings and concrete walls, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of Seoul's glittering skyline. But you barely register the luxurious details.

The moment the door clicks shut behind you, he presses you against the wall, his mouth capturing yours with desperate intensity.

He kisses you like a man starved, like he's been haunted by the memory of your taste. His hands roam possessively over your body while his tongue claims yours in a heated dance of desire. When an involuntary moan escapes your lips, his mouth curves into a knowing grin against yours.

“Still pretending you don’t want this?”

You shove at his chest, breathless.

“Still pretending you don’t want to be fucked?”

His laugh is dark. “You want to feel me inside you, don’t you?”

You don’t answer and he takes it as a yes.

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, carrying you down the hallway. You catch glimpses of modern art, black marble floors, absurdly expensive furniture you could write articles about.

But then...His bedroom.

Of course it’s massive. King-sized bed draped in jet-black sheets, one wall entirely glass, Seoul glittering behind it like a crown.

He lays you down. Stares at you for a second. Then bends. Presses a kiss to your shin. Your knee. Your inner thigh. You arch.

“You’re not going to tease me,” you spit, breath shaky.

“Oh no?” His voice is warm silk wrapped around something feral. “I think you’ve been begging to be teased.”

And then he’s peeling your dress up, up, over your hips, dragging it slowly, deliberately, like he’s unwrapping a sin he’s already claimed.

His hands never stop moving.

He spreads your legs with ease, dress bunched high at your waist now, the cold kiss of air meeting warm skin. You feel obscenely exposed and utterly alive — laid out against his sheets in nothing but a paper-thin pair of black lace underwear that does nothing to hide the heat soaking through.

And when his eyes land there, dark and molten, his breath catches.

“Fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “You’ve always been unreal.”

You watch his throat move, swallowing thickly. His fingers trail from your calf to the inside of your thigh, slow and reverent.

“I’m gonna fuck you so good,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your heat like he’s watching a meal he’s about to ruin. “You’ll forget how to hate me.”

You don’t have time to snarl back before his mouth is on you again — dragging up your body, lips trailing over your stomach, your ribs, your bra. He finds your breast with one hand, slipping beneath the delicate cup, warm palm cupping it, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. Then his tongue is there, licking over your nipple through the lace, wetting it until the fabric turns transparent and your back lifts off the bed.

You whimper. Loud. And you hate that it sounds like relief.

His other hand finds your ass, gripping it with the kind of pressure that says mine, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed as he grinds down against you, clothed cock heavy and hot against your inner thigh.

He nips at your breast, tongue flicking, eyes on your face.

“Still pretending you don’t remember what this feels like?”

You pant, fingers buried in his hair. “Just fuck me already.”

But he’s not done teasing. He slides lower again, mouth kissing a path down your torso, tongue tasting your skin like it’s his.

When he reaches your panties, he pauses. Licks his lips.

“These need to come off.”

You lift your hips. He slides them down your legs, slow and smooth, like he’s savoring every inch of skin revealed.

And then he groans.

“Fuck, baby…” His thumb brushes over your slit. “You’re soaked.”

You glare. “You’re not special.”

He chuckles. “We’ll see.”

Then he kisses you again, deep and dirty, hand slipping between your thighs, two fingers sliding through your folds with ease, coating themselves in everything your pride is trying to hide.

He presses in — just one finger, shallow and slow — and you gasp into his mouth.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he breathes against your lips. “You really haven’t let anyone else stretch you like this?”

You don’t answer.

But your moan says enough.

He adds another finger. Curling them. Moving them just right.

“This is me preparing you,” he murmurs, voice all silk and sin. “I’m gonna make it good. Gonna make you cum on my fingers before I even fuck you.”

Your eyes flutter shut. “God, Jungkook—”

“I love when you beg,” he growls, “but not yet.”

You reach for him then, desperate, fingers tugging at his open shirt — sheer and slippery beneath your grip. You want to see him. Need to.

He feels it. “Patience,” he smirks, but he lets you undress him anyway.

Jacket drops first. Then that ridiculous silk shirt that slides off his arms like water. You make a sound low in your throat when you see him again, bare and sculpted and dangerous. Then he pushes his pants down, black slacks pooling on the floor, and all that’s left is his boxers — stretched tight over his cock, which is very obviously hard.

And huge. Your mouth parts. He sees it. Smirks again.

“Don’t act surprised,” he murmurs, leaning in. “You’ve had it before.”

His body covers yours, the warmth of his skin burning against you, his cock pressing hot and heavy between your thighs. He grinds once, slow, and you gasp — the length of him perfectly aligned against your soaked slit, dragging between your folds like he’s memorizing the shape of your desperation.

He doesn't push in yet.

Just teases. Rubs the head against your clit. Circles it. Slips down, catches your entrance, then pulls back again.

You bite your lip so hard it stings.

“Jungkook,” you pant, voice breaking.

He kisses your jaw, your neck, his voice low and smug and maddening.

“You’re gonna say please.”

You don’t say please.Not with your mouth.

But when you look down and see him reach for the nightstand drawer, tear open the foil packet with steady fingers, and roll the condom down his thick, veined length...Your mouth parts on instinct.

God.

You forgot what he looked like like this. Not just big — devastating. Long, hard, flushed dark at the tip, heavy in his own hand. Your core clenches around nothing, heat flooding your stomach.

You don’t mean to moan. But you do. His smirk falters for a split second.

“You’re still so easy to ruin,” he murmurs, fisting his cock, stroking once, lining himself up between your thighs. “I barely touched you.”

“You’ve been talking too much,” you whisper, chest heaving. “Shut up and—”

But the words die the second he starts to push in.

You gasp — your whole body tensing — and your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging in hard.

He groans above you. “Shit—you’re tight.”

You feel the stretch like it’s the first time. A slow, thick pressure as he sinks in inch by inch. Every muscle in your body coils, thighs trembling, breath catching.

His mouth finds yours again — wet, open, filthy — kissing you through it, licking into your whimper like he’s feeding off your pleasure.

“Just breathe,” he whispers, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your waist. “I’ve got you.”

You do. You let him in.

And god, you hate how good it feels — to have him deep inside, to feel the way your body opens around him like it remembers exactly where he belongs.

When he bottoms out, hips flush to yours, he groans into your throat.

You’re both panting. Stunned. Then you move. Your legs wrap around his waist. Tight. Holding him there. His back arches into it, and he nearly chokes on his breath.

“F-fuck,” he stutters, voice cracking. “You’re gonna make me cum just like that.”

You grin, delirious. “Control yourself.”

“Impossible,” he groans, but he stays still, grinding his hips in slow, rolling circles, letting you feel all of him, the friction igniting fire where your nerves used to be.

Your hands slide down his back — hot, damp with sweat — and you whisper between shaky breaths:

“You feel so good, Jungkook… so fucking good—”

That does it. He starts to move. Slow at first. Deep. Letting you feel every inch drag through you, the way your walls flutter around him. He groans again — long and low — kisses you like he’s starving.

Then he leans back just enough to slip a hand between your bodies, tugging at your bra strap.

“Off,” he pants. “I want to feel all of you.”

You arch for him, and he peels the lace away, throws it somewhere behind him without a second glance. His mouth latches onto your breast immediately, tongue circling your nipple while he thrusts deeper now, rhythm gaining speed.

Your moan rips from your throat — helpless.

The room is filled with slick, obscene sounds. Wet kisses. The slap of skin against skin. His name. Your name. Every broken breath in between.

He fucks you like he never stopped wanting you. Like every other girl was just a placeholder. Like this is what he’s been chasing for years.

You meet him thrust for thrust, body to body, every part of you singing from the friction and the fullness.

“Jungkook—” you gasp, legs shaking around him.

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut tight.

“I’m close—fuck—I’m gonna—”

Your nails dig into his back. Your mouth finds his. Hot. Messy. Breathless.

And you both fall.

You cum around him with a strangled cry, legs locking, mouth open, his name your only word. He follows seconds later — hips jerking, body shaking, groaning into your mouth as he spills into the condom, both of you swallowed in heat and noise and everything you said you’d never feel again.

The room goes still except your breathing. And the heartbeat pounding between your ribs like a warning.

Your body is still shaking when he collapses beside you, skin damp and breath ragged, his palm pressed flat against your stomach like he needs to anchor himself to something that’s real.

Neither of you speak. Your lungs are too full of what just happened — of the heat still lingering between your thighs, of his scent on your skin, of the kiss still wet on your mouth.

And then he moves again.

You feel it before you see it — the subtle shift of his body behind yours, the press of his chest against your back, the way his hand slides down your stomach, lower, lower, fingers brushing over your still-sensitive slit with the softest, filthiest reverence.

Your legs twitch.

“Jungkook…” your voice is nothing more than a broken breath.

But he’s already hard again. His cock slides against your ass, hot and ready, nestling in the curve of your body like it belongs there. Like it never stopped belonging there.

“I can’t stop,” he whispers, voice husky and wrecked. “Not yet. I need more.”

You don’t argue because the truth is, so do you.

You feel the crinkle of another condom. The soft hiss of him rolling it on. And then he pushes in from behind.

This angle — lying on your side, body curled into his, his arm wrapped tight around your waist — it’s too much. Too deep. Too intimate.

You cry out softly as he fills you again, slower this time, his hips moving in lazy, grinding rolls that feel like velvet dragging through your core.

He groans low into your neck.

“Still so fucking tight. So warm,” he pants. “You’re made for me.”

Your hands scramble behind you, reaching for anything to hold. You find his hair, his neck, your fingers threading through damp strands and pulling him closer. His mouth finds yours again — messy, hot, upside down, your teeth clashing a little before they part.

The kiss is deeper than it should be. Slower. Desperate in a different way.

Like neither of you are trying to cum anymore. Like you’re just trying to stay here.

He fucks you like he’s drunk on you — like your body is a drug he’s been forced to quit and now can’t get enough of. His hand slides over your breasts, then down again, gripping your thigh to tilt your hips back, opening you wider.

You whimper into the pillow, moaning his name over and over, helpless.

“Feel so good, baby,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t stop.”

You don’t want him to, you’re shaking. Sweat-slick. Eyes wet.

You twist your neck just enough to kiss him again — messy, slow, tongues tangling mid-thrust, like your mouths can’t stay apart even now. His pace stutters.

You feel him start to lose it, his rhythm breaking as you clench around him, your walls pulling him deeper with every snap of his hips.

And when you cum again — this time quieter, slower, your body trembling as you squeeze your eyes shut — he goes with you.

He groans your name into your skin as he spills into you again, the rhythm fading into soft, tired rolls of his hips, your bodies still locked together under the sheets.

For a long while, neither of you move.

You just lay there. Breathing. Tangled. Spent.

He kisses your shoulder once. Light. Almost careful.

And then sleep pulls you both under — not out of comfort, but out of collapse. Because neither of you came here looking for peace.

You just needed an escape.

And you found it in each other’s ruin.

✦

Your eyes snap open before your alarm ever has the chance.

The room is quiet. Dim gray light filters through blackout curtains. The sheets smell like sex and sweat and a mistake you swore you'd never make again.

Slowly opening your eyes, you feel the weight of memories flood back.

The kisses. The way he moaned your name. His hands, his mouth, the sound of skin slapping skin. The taste of him on your lips. The way he said you’re mine without ever needing the words.

“Fuck,” you breathe, pressing your hand over your eyes.

You sit up slowly.

Your body aches in all the right ways and all the wrong ones — thighs sore, lips bruised, a pulsing between your legs that still flutters when you shift.

Next to you, Jungkook sleeps facedown. Bare, sprawled, shamelessly beautiful. The sheets only just cover his waist, one arm bent beneath the pillow, the muscles in his back stretching in long, carved lines.

Your gaze lingers on his sleeping form. He looks peaceful and unguarded, making him all the more dangerous in his vulnerability.

You bite your lip hard, fighting back unwanted feelings.

Your fingers twitch with the urge to trace the curve of his spine, but you stop yourself. Because you don’t have time for softness. You have work. You always have work.

Dragging yourself out of the bed, you start collecting your clothes — your dress crumpled in the corner, your heels under the chaise, your bra on the floor beside the door like a monument to your downfall.

When you catch your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you wince.

Mascara smudged. Lips bitten raw. Hair wrecked. You look like a woman who had a night.

And in less than an hour, you need to look like a woman in charge of the most powerful editorial campaign of the year.

You move fast. Cold water. Concealer. Lip balm. Breath mints. You finger-comb your hair and twist it into something sleek. But the problem isn’t the face — it’s the clothes.

Your dress is a dead giveaway. Wrinkled, short, undeniably last night.

You move to Jungkook’s closet. Rows of Saint Laurent, Givenchy, Alexander McQueen. Racks of custom suits and silky button-downs. Not a single item designed for discretion.

But then — a structured black blazer. Boxy, masculine, clean-cut enough to pass.

You slide it on. It swallows your frame. The hem falls past your thighs, hiding your dress completely. You roll the sleeves once. Twice. Pair it with quiet confidence and a pair of sunglasses from the entryway table.

You almost look like a Vogue editor again. You don’t let yourself look at him again.

You just close the door behind you, call a taxi, and vanish into morning traffic with nothing but your pride duct-taped together inside that blazer.

The office pulses with energy when you arrive, as your colleagues look up with warm, welcoming smiles.

“Y/N! Congrats again on the October issue—” “That cover is insane, seriously, you killed it—” “You must be exhausted after last night’s party!”

With a practiced smile, you offer polite thanks to your colleagues while trying to ignore how your skin still carries traces of last night - a mix of sex and his signature cologne. When an intern approaches with coffee, you accept it with silent gratitude, thinking you've almost made it through unscathed.

Until Kara appears.

“Wow,” she says, voice honeyed and loud. “You look… rough.”

The conversation halts like a car crash. A beat of awkward silence. Someone clears their throat.

Meeting her gaze, you watch as Kara's smile spreads across her face, predatory and sharp.

“Late night?” she adds, mock-innocent. “Or should I say… early morning?”

Without a word, you lift your coffee and stride forward, but she trails behind you through the main office hallway. As you approach the glass-walled door of your boss's office, it swings open to reveal your editor-in-chief - a vision of authority in sharp heels and an immaculate outfit, her penetrating gaze already assessing the situation.

Kara laughs softly and says, “She probably didn’t even go home. Just look — same dress as last night’s party. Slept over somewhere fancy, though. That’s not hers.”

Time seems to slow as your muscles tense. Your boss's calculating gaze sweeps over you, her expression as impenetrable as marble and twice as cold.

“Y/N,” she says. “My office. Now.”

Your stomach plummets as you head toward her office, acutely aware of Kara's self-satisfied smirk and the way she bites her thumb, savoring her apparent victory.

Your phone buzzes in your palm.

Unknown Number: That blazer suits you. But you’ll have to pay me back eventually. Preferably not in cash.

Your pulse quickens at the message, and you don't need to guess who sent it, you slip the phone into your pocket before knocking on your boss's door.

part 2

🖤

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fanfictionismyaddiction · 4 months ago

Text

WAG Bootcamp

Part 2

Word count: 767

Pairing: lando Norris x reader, but mostly just Y/n and the WAGs

Summary: Y/n, Lando Norris’ new girlfriend, attends her first F1 race and is swiftly taken under the wing of the WAGs, who teach her the unspoken rules of f1

________________________________________________________

Y/n had been to big events before. Red carpets, premieres, and fashion weeks—she could handle a camera flash like a pro. But standing at the entrance of the paddock for her first-ever Formula 1 race, wearing her McLaren pass around her neck, she felt completely out of her depth.

The world of F1 wasn’t just about fast cars; it was about politics, strategy, and—most terrifyingly—the WAGs.

Lando had kissed her goodbye at the hospitality entrance, promising to see her after FP1, and that was when she was ambushed.

“Alright, rookie,” Kika, Pierre Gasly’s girlfriend, looped an arm through hers, her honey-blonde hair bouncing as she steered Y/n toward a private table in the paddock. “Time for bootcamp.”

“Bootcamp?” Y/n repeated, feeling a bit like a deer in the headlights.

“You think you can just waltz in here and be a proper F1 girlfriend without guidance?” Lily, Alex Albon’s girlfriend, teased, sliding into a seat with a knowing smirk. “No, sweetheart, it doesn’t work like that.”

“You’re lucky,” Alex, Charles Leclerc’s girlfriend, added. “Not everyone gets the full WAG orientation on their first weekend. Usually, we just let them suffer.”

Y/n blinked. “Should I be scared?”

Rebecca, Carlos Sainz’s girlfriend, gave her an encouraging pat on the back. “Yes.”

Lesson One: Pre-Race Preparation

“You need to know how to handle Lando before a race,” Carmen, George Russell’s girlfriend, started, flipping her sunglasses onto her head. “Every driver has their own pre-race routine. If you mess it up, congratulations—you’re the reason he finishes P12.”

“Wait—what?” Y/n’s eyes widened. “That’s a lot of pressure.”

“Not really,” Kelly, Max Verstappen’s girlfriend, said with a shrug. “Just don’t be annoying. Keep the energy calm, don’t talk too much, and if he’s in the zone, let him stay there.”

Kika nodded. “Pierre needs hype. So I tell him he’s the best, kiss him, and send him off like a gladiator into battle. Meanwhile, Lily literally has to trick Alex into thinking racing is just a fun little game so he doesn’t overthink.”

Lily grinned. “I gaslight him into thinking it’s no big deal. Works like a charm.”

“Susie?” Y/n turned to Susie Wolff, the ultimate WAG and wife of Toto Wolff. If anyone knew how to manage an F1 man, it was her.

Susie sipped her espresso like a woman who had seen it all. “Toto is different. He’s not the one in the car, but believe me, he’s more dramatic than any of the drivers.” She sighed. “My advice? Just make sure Lando doesn’t forget to eat.”

“Got it. No messing with his pre-race mood, gaslight if necessary, and make sure he eats,” Y/n recapped. “I can do that.”

Lesson Two: Media Management

“Now, the media,” Alex said, leaning in. “You’re dating Lando. People will analyze everything you do. What you wear, how you look at him, whether or not you smiled when he crossed the finish line.”

“You need to learn the ‘paddock girlfriend’ face,” Kelly instructed. “Not too excited, not too miserable—just engaged enough to look like you care, but also mysterious.”

Lily demonstrated, tilting her head slightly and pressing her lips together in the perfect neutral expression.

Y/n tried to mimic her but ended up looking mildly constipated.

“We’ll work on it,” Carmen assured her.

“And social media,” Rebecca added. “Fans will stalk every post, every like. If you breathe near another driver, they’ll start a conspiracy theory that you’re cheating.”

Y/n groaned. “Oh, fantastic.”

“Just own it,” Kika advised. “If they start a rumor, make it worse. That’s what I do.”

Lesson Three: Surviving the Race

“You are now a part of the emotional rollercoaster that is watching your boyfriend risk his life at 300 km/h,” Susie said with a knowing look. “You will feel stress, anxiety, and possibly rage.”

“If someone crashes into Lando, you are obligated to hate that driver for at least two weeks,” Kelly informed her.

“And you need a coping strategy,” Rebecca added. “I stress-eat.”

“I online shop,” Alex said.

“I start manifesting,” Lily said dramatically.

“I drink,” Kika said, holding up a glass of champagne.

Y/n exhaled. “This sport is insane.”

The women all nodded in agreement.

As the session wrapped up, Y/n felt a new sense of confidence. Maybe she wasn’t fully prepared yet, but she had an elite team of WAGs ready to guide her through the chaos.

Just then, her phone buzzed. A message from Lando: How’s your first F1 day going?

She smiled, typing back: I think I just joined a secret society.

And so, the newest recruit of the WAG Bootcamp was officially initiated.

1K notes · View notes

foxtrology · 1 month ago

Text

material girl

THIS CONTAINS MATERIALISTS SPOILERS!

harry castillo x reader

age gap, female reader, contains themes of body image, chapter has not been edited

─────

You were born in the penthouse suite of Lenox Hill Hospital, wrapped in lavender silk instead of muslin.

The first sound you heard was the laugh track of your mother’s favorite 1950s sitcom playing softly in the background as she recovered on morphine.

You grew up in a six-story limestone townhouse off Fifth Avenue, the kind with frescoed ceilings and staircases so wide they made women feel like swans. The house smelled like bergamot and old paper. Always.

Your last name meant something—meant everything—in film. Directors paused when they heard it. Festival organizers offered you rooms. Cinematographers tried not to blink. Your family didn’t just fund films, they curated the atmosphere in which they were watched. Museums asked for your grandfather’s reel collection like relics. Your father’s voice had been immortalized in Criterion commentary tracks. You were born into the lighting. You were born on set.

By the time you were five, you knew what a backlot was.

By ten, you’d learned how to tell when a director was faking their references.

You could cry on cue, not because you were trained—but because crying got you what you wanted. You were always told you looked like your mother, which you hated.

But you knew it was true.

Same feline cheekbones, same bloodless complexion, same way of arching an eyebrow so it felt like an accusation.

Your sister, younger by three years, had always been the darling of brunch tables. You were the one who drew headlines when you spilled wine on a Cannes jury member’s lap and didn’t apologize. You were called “feisty” by Vanity Fair and “difficult” by your aunt’s third husband.

You hadn’t worked a day in your life, not in the way people mean it. You’d attended Columbia briefly, then left because someone on the faculty looked at you wrong. You dated mostly artists—photographers who lived in lofts and sculptors who never returned your YSL coat. Occasionally a screenwriter, someone who claimed he was writing you into something. They never did.

But lately, it had begun to sour.

Parties were too loud. Everyone looked like someone you’d already met. Men your age were either married or trying to get you to invest in something blockchain-related. Your doorman had started to pity you. He looked at you like you were an orchid in the wrong light.

It didn’t help that the world had shifted.

The industry, the city, the people you once dismissed as temporary had begun to stick. There were new families at the Met Gala now, new surnames attached to legacy tables at Polo Bar. You knew the kind of men you wanted. You just hadn’t seen one in a very long time. Not really.

But elsewhere, in a different corner of the city, another life was ticking along with equal weight and silence.

Harry Castillo stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in his penthouse and read a memo he didn’t care about. The building was newer than yours, all glass and good taste. The kind of place where appliances whispered and marble was warm to the touch.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a slate-gray sweater that looked like it belonged in a film about grief. His hair was dark but threaded with silver, curling at the back of his neck. His eyes were the color of wet earth. There was something old-fashioned about the way he stood—shoulders slightly back, like he was ready to say something difficult but necessary.

Harry was born into money too, though it was newer and quieter than yours.

His mother founded the Castillo Group after taking an inheritance and multiplying it tenfold in under a decade. She built the firm with the kind of discipline normally reserved for surgeons. Harry's father and brother now worked under her. So did he. Not because he had to—but because it was what Castillos did.

Private equity didn’t thrill him, but it made sense.

And Harry liked things that made sense.

He liked structure. He liked the rhythms of quarterly reports and the smell of ink on legal pads. His world ran on spreadsheets and quiet dinners with men who owned things you’d never see.

He had recently ended things with Lucy Mason, a woman who had once been important to him. She was a professional matchmaker—poised, brilliant, and deeply concerned with emotional compatibility indexes.

He’d liked her. He’d tried to love her. But there had always been a small door inside his chest that wouldn’t open for her. Not all the way.

They ended things late at night.

It was civil, almost eerie in its neatness. She told him that if he ever wanted to try her service, he should.

“If you call the office,” she said. “They'll assign someone great for you.”

He nodded and never called. Not yet.

Back uptown, you were barefoot on the heated terrazzo floor of your kitchen, making a mess out of truffle honey and sourdough. Your sister was at the counter, scrolling through her phone like it was her real job. She looked too pleased. You didn’t trust her when she looked pleased.

“You’re not wearing those boots again, are you?” she asked, not looking up. “They’re very…divorcee.”

You ignored her. You’d been feeling unstable lately, a little trapped in the amber of your own life. You’d been googling people you once hated and found out they might have figured something out.

Before you.

You hated how that felt.

Your sister put down her phone. Too deliberately.

“So,” she said. “Promise not to get mad?”

You looked up. “No.”

She beamed. “Okay. Don’t freak out. But I might have filled out a little thing for you.”

You blinked. “What kind of thing.”

“It’s nothing. Just…a profile. For a matchmaking service. Very elite. Very low-profile. Super bespoke.”

You said nothing. You stared at her, hard enough that she briefly flinched.

“I knew you’d react like this,” she groaned. “But come on. You’ve dated everyone in Manhattan who’s not in rehab or under federal investigation. You need a reset. A new algorithm. Let the universe—or a very qualified stranger—take the wheel.”

You turned away, grabbed the spoon, stirred your espresso like it was someone’s fault.

“Please tell me you didn’t use my real name,” you said quietly.

She hesitated.

“I used your middle name,” she said brightly. “That counts, right?”

Outside, the city shuddered to life—cars moving like brushstrokes, old buildings watching from behind limestone brows.

You didn’t know it yet but Harry Castillo would open a drawer that night and find the business card Lucy once left behind. He’d hold it in his hand a little too long.

Today was for disbelief. For the kind of quiet before something tilts. For looking out at the city and wondering—against all logic—if maybe someone was already looking back.

You didn’t go out much that week.

Not in any performative way—no detoxes, no dramatic declarations to your group chat, just a slow unspooling of invitations you didn’t RSVP to.

A dinner at Lucien you skipped.

A gallery opening where someone’s assistant texted, They’re asking if you’re coming.

You weren’t.

You sat barefoot on the windowsill instead, eating cold papaya and watching the fog crawl up like it was trying to forget where it came from.

Your sister had gone quiet. Not in a guilty way—she’d never been wired for guilt—but in that annoying, practiced stillness she slipped into when she was waiting to be proven right. You could feel it in the one word texts. The silence that followed. The smug, hovering dot-dot-dot that never became a message.

You lasted about two weeks like that. Then your mother called.

Lunch, she said. Cipriani, obviously. She didn’t ask if it worked for you. She didn’t need to.

You arrived ten minutes late on principle. She was already seated, already picking mint from her cocktail, already tilting her cheek for a kiss she never quite gave.

Her hair was perfect.

It always was.

Still pulled into a chignon so tight it made her face look slightly unreal. Her scarf—Hermès, naturally—was twisted just so, like she'd stepped out of a 1970s Italian film and never aged past the good lighting.

“I ordered the risotto for the table,” she said. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine.”

“Have you been working out? Your stomach looks soft.”

“I said I’m fine.”

She waved you off, already bored. Her nails tapped her wine glass with deliberate disdain. You knew the rhythm by heart.

She asked how you’d been, and you told her the sanitized version—books you were pretending to read, your new pilates instructor with that Finnish accent, something about how you were considering showing up on dad's set in Los Angeles just to feel something.

She nodded politely through all of it, eyes scanning the room.

Then, as the waiter laid down the salmon, she struck.

“You know,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be chosen.”

You didn’t look up. You kept slicing bread. Slowly. Cleanly.

She kept going, of course.

“I worry you’ve built this little moat around yourself. And for what? So no one can disappoint you? That’s not strength, darling.”

“Are you seriously—”

“And don’t say you’re not lonely. Everyone’s lonely. It’s boring.”

You could feel your jaw set. That was the thing with her. She never said it cruelly. She said it like it was just another fact, like the weather or your blood type. Like cruelty wasn’t personal unless you let it be.

“I didn’t come here for a lecture.”

“No. You came because I asked you to.” She smiled over her wine. “And because no one else did.”

The silence that followed was sour and expensive. The kind that doesn’t get broken by apologies, only by checks and limousines and the distraction of someone else’s scandal.

You got into the back of your car with your stomach a tight little fist. You didn’t cry. Not there, not then. You weren’t that girl.

But that night, the email came.

From a stranger.

Subject line: Matchmaker Profile Review – Please Confirm Details.

At first, you thought it was spam. Then you saw your middle name typed like it belonged to someone else. The same photo your sister had forced you to take last year, standing on the terrace in a white dress that had made you feel like a ghost. It was you. You, in some unnervingly accurate bullet points. Preferences. Dealbreakers. Love languages.

You hovered over the trash icon. Didn’t click.

Not yet.

Harry sat in his bedroom in silence.

The penthouse—more glass than walls—was hushed, interrupted only by the occasional hum of temperature regulation or the sigh of traffic five stories down. He liked it that way. Controlled. Calibrated. No echoes of someone else’s taste.

He sat in the reading chair by the window, laptop balanced across his thighs, a page open with the pale gray header: Castillo, H — Matchmaker Profile Review Requested.

Rose—his matchmaker—had told him to look it over. See if anything felt off. “Even the smallest thing,” she’d said, with her clipped precision. “We don’t want anything distorting the signal.”

He didn’t believe in signals. Not really.

Still, he scrolled.

He scanned the words—edited, carefully neutral. No photos. He’d opted out. There were photos of everyone now. He didn’t want that. He liked the idea of someone reading first. Imagining. Filling in the edges wrong.

Then he saw it.

Height: 6’0

He paused.

It was true. Now.

But it wasn’t always.

He shifted in the chair, legs stiff. That familiar ache, dull and ghostlike, stirred beneath his skin.

It had been eight years.

Still, some mornings he swore he could feel the break. The phantom throb of it. The remembering.

He’d been thirty-seven when he did it. His brother had gone first, dragging him into the consultation like it was some secret rite. The doctor spoke with an accent and wore a Rolex that glinted like a challenge.

They broke the bones. Femurs. Tibias. Stretched them millimeter by millimeter over months. Metal rods inside the legs. Physical therapy that made grown men cry.

Four hundred thousand dollars.

Each.

They were lucky.

Rich boys.

They healed in penthouses with private nurses and blackout curtains. Harry read biographies of ruined men while his legs screamed.

He never told anyone. Not even Lucy. Until she found his scars while he was sleeping.

The scars were faint. A pair of pale, wicked lines running along the outside of each leg, like punctuation marks on a story he didn’t talk about. He saw them in the mirror sometimes and thought, What did I gain, really?

Six inches, yes.

But also… something unspoken. Some strange edge. A new way men listened when he spoke. The way women didn’t ask questions, just tilted their heads in approval, as if the air had shifted.

It wasn’t vanity. Not exactly.

It was about scale. About not disappearing in rooms where power stood tall.

Still, seeing it there, written down, made something in his throat tighten.

He shut the laptop and leaned back. The city glowed below him. Red tail lights inching up West Broadway. People moving, choosing, being chosen.

He reached down and rubbed his shin gently, as if to remind himself...this is yours.

You paid for this height.

You earned it in bone.

Meanwhile in another penthouse just a few blocks away...you were lying on your back, staring up at the crown molding, thinking about the things your mother said.

The idea that being chosen was something worth wanting.

You hated that it echoed.

You hated more that it almost sounded true.

Downstairs, your doorman signed for a package. Something sent from an office you’d never heard of. A folder sealed in black. Your name printed in serif.

You wouldn’t see it until morning.

But it was already in the building.

Already waiting.

When you woke, the light in your bedroom was soft and dull, filtered through gauzy curtains your mother had once called tragically optimistic. The air had that filtered morning silence that felt vaguely judgmental, like even your apartment was waiting to see what kind of person you were going to be today.

You padded barefoot across the terrazzo floor, still in last night’s silk camisole, your stomach a soft ache from too much wine or not enough food. You didn’t remember which.

And there it was.

A black envelope.

Just outside your penthouse door. Laid neatly on the marble like it belonged there. No branding. No return address. Only your middle name printed in thin serif font.

You stood there for a moment, coffee-less, suspicious, bare-legged in a building where people wore jewelry to take out the trash.

You thought...spam. PR. A strange flex from a failed suitor.

But then you saw the initials etched lightly on the back seal...R.S.

Your stomach curled slightly.

Your sister. That smug, beautiful demon.

You carried the envelope inside like it was cursed.

At the kitchen island, you made espresso and stared at it like it might blink. Your phone had seven unread messages and none of them mattered. You’d spent too many mornings like this—floating in your own life like it was someone else’s bathwater.

Eventually, you slid your finger under the flap.

Inside a slim folder. Matte cardstock. Minimalist. Heavy enough to feel expensive.

A letter on the front.

Your sister mentioned you were hesitant. I understand hesitation—it can be a sign of intelligence. But I also know a match when I see one. The following is not a pitch, nor a promise. It’s just a possibility. — Rose

You blinked. That was it. No company logo, no contact info. Just a name and a voice like the inside of a glass of wine—dry, elegant, a little smug.

You flipped the page.

There were bullet points. Controlled, curated, clinical. Every line written like it had been vetted by lawyers and therapists.

Age: 47

Height: 6'0

Marital Status: Never married

Children: None

Occupation: Private Equity (Partner, Family Firm)

Residency: Tribeca

Education: Ivy League (Economics)

Religion: Agnostic

Languages: English, Spanish

Temperament: Observant. Principled.

Emotional Availability: High—when trust is earned.

Love Language: Acts of service.

Looking for: The real thing.

You stared at it.

Private equity. Tribeca. Forty-seven. You groaned.

He sounded like the kind of man who corrected waitstaff and had a framed blueprint of a yacht in his office. The kind of man your mother would politely destroy with a single glance and a casually cruel remark about his tie.

But you kept reading.

There were notes. Margins full of them. From the matchmaker, apparently—this unseen curator pulling invisible strings.

"He listens more than he speaks. But when he speaks, everyone listens."

"Very tactile with people he trusts. Rare, but notable."

"He likes reading before bed. Not out of habit. Out of need."

"Wants children. Not urgently. But honestly."

You felt yourself bristle. Then soften. Then bristle again.

Because you knew men like this didn’t exist. Not really. And if they did, they didn’t submit themselves to algorithms. They didn’t hand over their inner lives to professional matchmakers in New York City. They didn’t wait around for women with baggage and beautifully designed boundaries.

But then—

Then there was the smaller envelope.

Sealed. Black wax. No flourish, just the words...

Only open if interested.

Which, of course, was exactly the kind of thing that made you want to open it.

So you did.

Inside, a deeper profile. Not his answers. Her notes.

No photo. Of course not.

But somehow, without seeing him, the image began to form anyway.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. A man who dressed like he didn’t think about it—because someone else always had. Dark hair, graying in a way that made you think of salt, of restraint, of stories not told too soon. Eyes like wet bark. The kind of brown that held heat, not just color.

There was a line under Romantic Compatibility, written in Rose's careful script...

“He doesn’t flirt. He focuses. Makes you feel like the only room he’s ever stood in is the one you’re in now.”

Your stomach did a thing.

You hated that it did a thing.

You closed the file. Too fast. Like the words could see you, like they knew.

Who was this man?

You’d known hundreds of men. Dated enough to recognize types. Models. Trust fund poets. One devastating poet’s assistant. You could smell performative vulnerability from two rooms away. But this wasn’t that.

This was something else.

Across the city, Rose sipped her espresso in a glass office with zero personal items. She tapped a pen against her tablet and refreshed her inbox.

Harry still hadn’t responded.

She didn’t blame him. He was slower than most. A man who considered decisions like he was building a bridge over water he hadn’t named yet.

So she’d done it herself.

She'd read your sister’s submission, then read between the lines.

Googled you. Googled your grandfather.

Saw the name in festival archives, on lost reels from the sixties. Watched the grainy interview with your mother in a Paris cinema.

Saw the haunted brilliance in your face, the face of a legacy you hadn’t asked for.

She knew then.

She knew.

It wasn’t about wealth or aesthetic parity—it was energy. Containment. Quiet power looking for a counterpart.

So she sent it.

Let the rich girl read. Let the serious man stall.

Let the city do the rest.

Back in your kitchen, you refilled your espresso. Opened the file again. Not because you believed in it. But because something in your chest had begun to hum.

You hadn’t seen his face.

But you couldn’t stop picturing it.

And when you went to bed that night, you didn’t throw away the folder like you had planned to do.

You didn’t talk to your sister about it either.

You just let it sit there, glowing in your building.

A match you hadn’t chosen.

But maybe—

Just maybe—

One that saw you anyway.

The next tine you blinked it had been six days since the envelope.

Time moves fast when you are stressing over a man who doesn't even know you exist.

You hadn’t opened the envelope again. You’d slid it back into the matte folder and tucked the whole thing into the shallow drawer of your vanity—the one usually reserved for lipsticks in limited-edition packaging and love letters you never responded to.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that it was just some expensive exercise in curated loneliness.

Like horoscopes for people with trust funds.

You’d stopped searching the internet.

There were too many men. Too many firms.

Every time you typed “New York private equity, 47, no kids,” the results made you want to burn your laptop. Sleek men in sleeker suits, blinking across LinkedIn headshots like a smug carousel. Half of them looked like the villain in a thriller, the other half like your ex’s father.

None of them looked like him—whoever he was.

And you told yourself you didn’t care.

You were busy, anyway.

Your grandmother had summoned the family.

She did this sometimes. Not for holidays, not for birthdays. Only for matters. The kind that required linen blazers and polite expressions, and the ceremonial silence that came when she mentioned death like it was something chic and inevitable.

Your grandfather had passed five years ago in Italy, holding a cigarette and laughing at a joke you never heard. He’d left behind vaults of film, four ex-lovers at his funeral, and a will that could’ve passed for a screenplay. Your grandmother had been quiet since. Not sad, exactly—just...theatrical in a colder register. As if grief was a role she’d aged out of but still wanted to audition for.

She’d asked the family to meet with a firm. Something about reorganizing trusts. Future-proofing. “Estate things,” your mother had said vaguely while buttering toast with her rings on.

All you heard was...meetings.

So now you had one. A meeting with a private equity firm that sounded like a wine label. It was supposed to be “the best,” of course. It always was.

The name meant nothing to you.

Castillo Group.

Sounded clean. Impersonal. Like a gallery that only sold work in black and white.

You were barely listening when your sister explained the structure of the meeting.

“…and we’re meeting with one of the partners,” she said, scrolling through her phone while icing her jaw. “They assigned us someone directly. It’s serious, apparently. Gran wants to talk about legacy clauses.”

You made a vague sound of acknowledgement and stole a sip of her green juice.

She slapped your hand without looking up.

“Don’t be weird,” she said.

You weren’t weird. You were bored.

The week passed in lacquered hours.

Days filled with pilates, wine, group chats muted indefinitely.

You ignored texts from men you didn’t remember giving your number to.

You wore sunglasses indoors. You bought a vintage Schiaparelli coat you didn’t need. You stared out windows longer than was socially acceptable.

And still—

The man lingered.

The match. Him.

Not directly. Just in flashes. The way someone brushed your wrist on the subway. The way the barista called your name too softly. The memory of Rose’s notes, scribbled like a diary for someone else’s soul.

You didn’t even know his name.

So you stopped thinking about it.

You went to pilates instead.

It was one of those spaces that didn’t call itself a gym—more like a “wellness lab.” All eucalyptus mist and minimalist lighting. The front desk staff were beautiful in that beige, uncanny way, like they’d been grown in a vat labeled Miu Miu campaign.

Your friends were already on the reformers when you arrived.

“Nice of you to join us,” said Inez, legs in straps, gold hoops catching the morning light. “Thought maybe you’d died of aesthetic fatigue.”

You dropped your mat bag dramatically. “I almost did. Someone tried to pitch me a podcast on legacy healing at Dries.”

Sophia snorted and gestured for you to take the spot beside her.

“Guess who’s instructing today,” she whispered, eyes gleaming.

You didn’t have to guess long.

The instructor—Matteo—looked like a poem someone wrote after watching too many Prada ads. Italian. Arms covered in tattoos that didn’t need stories.

You tried not to notice. You failed.

Midway through class, he came over to adjust your form. His hands grazed your hips, featherlight, intentional. He said something low in your ear—“You hold tension here, no?”—and you didn’t even pretend not to smirk.

After class, he caught up with you by the locker rooms. Said your movement was better than anyone in that class. You laughed, genuinely. He asked if you wanted to get a drink sometime.

You paused. Tilted your head. Let the moment breathe.

And then, “You wouldn’t survive my family,” you said, brushing past him with the smile you reserved for temporary men.

Your friends howled when you told them.

“I give it two weeks before you sleep with him,” said Sophia, adjusting her sunglasses.

“Two days,” Inez countered. “Max.”

You shook your head. “He’s a rebound I haven’t even earned yet.”

You didn’t tell them about the envelope. You hadn’t told anyone. Not really. It wasn’t shame—just…a strange refusal to share something you didn’t understand.

The man. The notes. The way they settled under your skin like they belonged there.

Later that evening, your mother texted.

Confirming tomorrow’s appointment. 11 AM. Don’t wear that thing with the fringe.

You didn’t respond.

Instead, you stood by your window, barefoot again, staring down at the city.

Somewhere out there was a man who might’ve been made for you.

And you were about to walk into his building.

Without even knowing it.

The next morning, the light came in soft again—but this time, you were ready for it.

You woke early. Not from an alarm, but from something subtler...the shifting silence of the city beyond your window, the almost imperceptible creak of your building adjusting to the day. There was a feeling in the air, taut and irritable, like silk snagged on a nail.

You didn’t hesitate.

Slipped out of bed, bare feet meeting cold terrazzo, body moving through the motions of your morning like choreography. Coffee first. Then the shower, where steam curled like memory and water hit your back in steady, punishing streams. Your playlist—jazz, something you played when you needed stability.

At your vanity, you moved with purpose.

Silk robe open at the shoulders. Skin dewy from serum. Hair twisted into a low chignon so severe your mother might approve. Your makeup was minimal. A little contour, a matte lip, the faintest shimmer on your cheekbones.

Then the dress.

Vintage Givenchy, the kind of black that absorbs your body. Sleeveless, high-necked, sculpted like you’d been poured into it. It flared just slightly at the hem. You added earrings your grandmother had once described as “impractical for daylight” which of course meant they were perfect.

You checked your reflection only once.

Perfect posture. Unbothered elegance.

Then, you descended.

At the lobby, your driver was already waiting.

Claude had been with your family since before you were born. He'd taught you how to parallel park in Montauk and once threatened paparazzi with a tire iron outside your prep school formal. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to.

You slid into the back seat, legs crossed at the knee, coat draped over one shoulder. He merged onto Fifth with surgical precision.

“Traffic?” you asked.

“Not terrible.”

You nodded. Looked out the window.

Then the camera flashes hit.

Paparazzi. Two of them—lurking just outside the florist’s on 74th, lying in wait like roaches with thousand-dollar lenses. You didn’t flinch. You turned slightly, letting them get your better side.

Later, someone would send you a tabloid screenshot with the headline...Heiress En Route to High-Stakes Family Meeting. Your hair would tried to be recreated on TikTok. Someone in the comments would say you looked like a bitch.

Everything is great.

You arrived fifteen minutes late.

Because of course you did.

Claude pulled up in front of the building, not caring about the no parking sign,

Castillo Group read on the glass. The entrance was flanked by planters so perfectly symmetrical it felt aggressive.

You didn’t wait for the concierge. You just walked in, heels clicking like punctuation, coat draped over your forearm, eyes scanning the marble-and-brushed-brass lobby like it might bore you.

The receptionist blinked.

Everyone blinked.

You were used to that.

You gave your name. She gave a floor number.

“Your family’s already up there.”

Of course they were.

The elevator was silent, mirrored. You caught your own reflection and didn’t look away. You didn’t fidget. You didn’t check your phone. When the doors opened, you walked out like you belonged there.

Upstairs, in a glass-walled conference room designed for bids and negotiations, Harry Castillo was already seated.

He didn’t see you at first. He was focused on your grandmother—who’d arrived ten minutes early and was now seated at the head of the table like a bored monarch.

Your mother was beside her, glancing at her nails like they might betray her. Your sister, chewing invisible gum, scrolling on her phone. Your father, thank God, smiled when Harry greeted him. Warmly, even.

Harry liked your father. Had met him briefly before—quietly magnetic, the kind of man who’d aged into his cynicism with charm.

The meeting was already in motion.

Legacy clauses. Trust restructuring. Long-term tax shelters.

Harry had learned long ago how to focus on the numbers without being distracted by the jewelry, the veiled insults, the family lore. Your grandmother referred to their fortune like it had been bestowed by Zeus himself.

Then the door opened.

And you entered.

Harry didn’t look up right away. He was mid-sentence, something about generational liquidity and stepped-up basis calculations. Then his eyes lifted.

And the sentence died in his mouth.

You walked in like the room had been built around your arrival. Back straight. Expression unreadable. Not arrogant—just certain.

Black dress. Earrings that shouldn’t have worked, but did. A face that held a thousand stories and dared you to ask for one. You didn’t apologize for being late. You didn’t even pretend to care.

You took the empty seat beside your father.

Harry watched you like a man trying not to be caught watching.

His colleagues—the senior associate, the analyst, even the usually-unflappable estate attorney—reacted like something seismic had shifted. A cough. A fidget. A clearing of the throat.

You didn’t notice.

Or you did—and chose not to respond.

Harry looked down at his notes.

You, he thought, were exactly what Rose had sent. Except he didn’t know that yet. Couldn’t know. Because the sleek black envelope was still unopened. Still sealed. Still sitting in his office under a stack of quarterly earnings reports.

And you?

You barely looked at him.

You were polite. Dismissive. Tired in a way that didn’t show on your face but echoed in the way you crossed your legs. You asked two questions—sharp, surgical. You answered one of your grandmother’s passive-aggressive remarks with a half-smile so lethal the paralegal accidentally knocked over his water glass.

Harry watched it all.

Took it in like a study.

You didn’t look like a woman who needed anything.

Which is why, when you leaned slightly toward your father and murmured something that made him laugh, Harry felt something strange stir behind his ribs.

You were nothing like Lucy.

You were...burnt edges and quiet glamour, the kind of presence that made people straighten their posture without knowing why. The kind of woman who didn’t smile to make others comfortable.

The meeting continued.

You didn’t speak much.

But when you did, it changed the tone.

You challenged who would earn the rights to certain films.

Asked about film archive clauses.

Corrected your mother without blinking.

And when Harry finally did address you—only once, to clarify a section on trust structure—you nodded.

“Understood,” you said.

No smile. No flirtation.

Just clarity.

And still—Harry felt it. That tilt. The quiet shift. The thing that lives in the breath between two people before they ever really speak.

When the meeting ended, your grandmother rose first.

She didn't thank anyone. She didn’t need to. Her rings did the talking.

Your mother followed. Your sister made a quip about the chairs being bad for her hips. Your father lingered, shaking hands, making small talk with the estate attorney about his late father-in-law's cinema.

You were the last to stand.

And Harry—Harry watched you go.

Not in a way anyone would notice. Just a glance. A flicker. But enough to feel something crack inside his well-constructed, well-curated sense of detachment.

He didn’t know your name.

You didn’t know his.

Not yet.

And the black envelope in his office remained untouched.

But the city was shifting.

And the string had already pulled tight.

That night, Harry couldn’t sleep.

He didn’t usually have this problem. His apartment—if it could still be called that—was engineered for silence. Floor-to-ceiling windows, blackout shades, temperature calibrated to lull any insomniac into submission. The kind of place where sound had to ask permission.

But still, he laid there, one arm behind his head, shirt off, the city beyond the glass blinking like a pulse.

You’d been in his head all day.

Since you walked into that conference room like it owed you something. Since you’d crossed your legs and tilted your chin and answered your grandmother like a diplomat with a dagger under her tongue.

He’d barely heard a word of the financial summary after that. The analyst had repeated himself twice.

He’d nodded. Pretended. Said all the right things. But your face had lingered—cool, sculptural, with eyes that didn’t wander. Like you didn’t need the room’s approval. Like the room had already lost its chance to impress you.

Which is exactly why he needed to get you out of his head.

He rose sometime past midnight. The floor was cold against his feet. He poured himself a glass of water and crossed to his office.

The space was minimalist, but not impersonal. Books lined the walls. A single photograph—his brother Peter’s wedding—sat framed in the corner of his desk.

He had been Peter’s best man. Smiling, tailored, solemn in that way that made women say he looked like someone who had stories and the discipline not to tell them.

Peter had married Charlotte—sharp, beautiful, meticulous. A match made by Adore Matchmaking, by Lucy herself. The agency Harry had never believed in.

But Rose...Rose had sent him something weeks ago. Something he hadn’t touched.

He got to his desk slowly. The envelope was still there. Black wax seal. No branding. Just two letters.

R.S.

No flourish. Just intent.

He cracked the seal. Slowly. Like it might burn.

Inside, a folder. Matte. Heavy. Clinical. His name written at the top in neat serif.

Castillo, H. — Match Profile Review

He almost laughed. Almost.

Then he flipped the page.

And saw your photo.

It hit him like a held breath.

You.

You, in a white dress, standing on a terrace that looked vaguely Roman, vaguely imagined. You weren’t smiling. Just watching something beyond the frame, your posture perfect, your mouth slightly parted like you were about to say something.

The city dimmed around him.

He set the photo down, too gently.

The rest came after—your name (middle only, smart), your background, the carefully-worded notes Rose had stitched together like myth.

He read the line about your grandfather and felt it click into place. The film family. The legacy. The reason everyone in the room had sat straighter when your father entered.

But it was you.

It had been you all along.

And you had no idea.

He sank into the leather chair, your photo still resting beside his wrist like something too sacred to touch again.

It felt impossible. Too neat. And yet—

He thought about that moment in the meeting. When your eyes flicked over him once, unreadable. When you barely spoke to him at all.

He’d assumed it was because you were used to men noticing you. That it was nothing.

But now he wondered...was it better that you didn’t know? Or worse?

He rubbed his hand absently along the outside of his thigh. Scar tissue.

The faint ridge where bone had once been broken, slowly stretched, made new.

If you ever saw it—if you ran your fingers down his legs in the dark, tracing those pale punctuation marks—would you recoil? Would you laugh? Would you ask why?

Would he tell you the truth?

That it wasn’t vanity. Not really. That it was something more primitive than that.

Survival.

He closed the folder. Not to hide it. Just to think.

Because suddenly the idea of seeing you again—of meeting you, really meeting you—felt unbearable and inevitable all at once.

He hadn’t believed in fate. Not until now.

He looked out at the city.

Somewhere, not far, you were probably asleep in a bed the size of a country, one arm flung over your eyes, dreaming of nothing because you refused to give the universe the satisfaction.

And he—

He leaned back in his chair, your name like an electric thread running behind his ribs.

He would see you again.

He knew it.

He just didn’t know when.

But he hoped—quietly, selfishly—that it would be soon.

tag list: @lizziesfirstwife @bluevelvetpedro @thatpinkshirt @i-wanna-be-your-muse @okiegal68 @buckyandlokirunmylife @sohaaa6 @saltyfartdreamland @catharinamarea @cassiuspascal

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x you #harry castillo x reader #harry castillo #harry castillo x you #harry castillo fic #harry castillo fanfiction #harry castillo materialists #the materialists fanfic #materialists #materialists fanfic #the materialists #harry castillo fluff

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wcters · 8 months ago

Text

ROMANCE IS NOT DEAD IF YOU KEEP IT JUST YOURS

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

summary: alex’s best friend and lando norris meet and something blossoms between them during a project the two are starting

warnings/contents: A rumours, hate, i do not know the whole magui situation, the comments are for the story

author’s note: i absolutely do not affiliate with any of the beliefs of the people in here and do not support israel, faceclaim is shira klein as requested, i don’t think the international uni of monaco has a fashion program but let’s pretend it does for a hot minute

yourusername

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, yourclassmate, and 1,083 others

yourusername school is kicking my ass rn

view all 38 comments

alexandrasaintmleux my talented best friend 💗💗

↳ yourusername marry me

↳ alexandrasaintmleux yes!

↳ charles_leclerc 🤨🤨🤨

↳ yourusername sorry not sorry 🤷‍♀️

user1 you’re living the dream

yourclassmate no cause why is our professer so hard on us

francisca.cgomes pretty girl 🫠❤️

user2 how is the program there?

↳ yourusername it’s good! very nice people and teachers. i just like to complain 😔

alexandrasaintmleux

liked by yourusername, iamrebeccad, and 320,763 others

alexandrasaintmleux 🍓🍓🍓 dress by the best girl @yourusername

view all 1,012 comments

iamrebeccad beautiful 💕

user1 who is yourusername?

↳ user2 alex’s best friend! she goes to the international university of monaco studying fashion

yourusername i am blushing so hard 😚😚

↳ alexandrasaintmleux love youu

francisa.cgomes 😍😍

user3 fit made by y/n never fails

f1gossip

liked by user1, user2, and 74,974 others

f1gossip alex’s best friend, y/n y/l/n seen in the ferrari garage at the dutch grand prix. she was also seen congratulating lando on his win. what do you think about this? 🤔

view all 218 comments

user1 after magui i’m done

user2 not ANOTHER one

↳ user3 what do you mean?

↳ user2 this is like the sixth girl he’s been seen with

user4 love seeing y/n and alex together 💗

user5 she needs to stay away from him

author i know the timeline doesn’t match up with school semesters but let’s play pretend 😁😁

yourusername

liked by landonorris, alexandrasaintmleux, and 1,103 others

yourusername new project loading . . .

view all 32 comments

alexandrasaintmleux se excited to see the outcome of this one!

user1 girl tell usss 😫😫

yourclassmate i’m still coming up with an idea 😭😭

↳ yourusername let’s meet up at the library and we can brains together together

↳ yourclassmate you’re my saviour

user2 my dream life

user3 cutie

user4 who’s the man

↳ yourusername 🤫🤫

f1gossip

liked by user1, user2, and 87,025 others

f1gossip lando norris seen meeting up with someone who has a striking resemblance to y/n y/l/n, alexandra saint mleux’s best friend. they then made their way to the international university of monaca? does this confirm its lando and y/n?

view all 235 comments

user1 we need to lando and his love life aloneee

user2 first magui and now her? this man is not slowing down

user3 why is he getting with a uni student?

user4 she’s probably just getting with him to get her and alex more attention

↳ user5 her account is literally private? 💀💀

user6 these lando fans need to chill

user7 at least this one’s smart 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

f1gossip

liked by user1, user2, and 87,963 others

f1gossip lando seen with the same girl before but at a restaurant this time. do we think it’s a date?

view all 233 comments

user1 she’s actually so ugly

user2 at this point i’d rather him be with magui 🤦‍♀️

user3 isn’t she a fashion student? shes probably a good digger

user4 she looks pretty

↳ user5 pretty ugly 🤢

yourusername

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, landonorris, and 1,487 others

yourusername the look of love, the rush of blood

view all 42 comments

alexandrasaintmleux so happy for you 💗🥺

↳ yourusername i love you alex ❤️

user1 arctic monkeys reference !!!

yourclassmate this is why you have so many new ideas 🤨🤨

landonorris ❤️❤️

user2 i’m so jealous rn

niña bonita 😚

i don’t know if this is going to work

niña bonita 😚

if what’s going to work?

me and lando

the hate is crazy and i don’t know if i can handle it

niña bonita 😚

ma belle ☹️☹️

have you tried talking to him?

i don’t want to worry him with it

he already gets enough as it is

niña bonita 😚

oh y/n

whatever you think will help you more mentally and physically, do it

but please tell him. he would hate himself if he knew this was happening and you didn’t tell him

charles is the same

like, i know they don’t know it’s me, that’s just speculation

but they’re still taking digs at ME

what i look like, sound like, what i do

niña bonita 😚

i know honey

and you shouldn’t feel guilty for feeling like this either

and before you say you aren’t, you are. i know you

you are NEVER alone. ever.

not with me, not with lando, not with anyone

please don’t go through this alone love 💗

te amo mucho 🥺🥺🥺 (i love you so much)

niña bonita 😚

yo también te amo ❤️

now go and get that takeout you like. i know you’re questioning to or not

f1gossip

liked by user1, user2, and 100,368 others

f1gossip according to a fan, lando’s new girlfriend is y/n y/l/n! she’s a fashion student at the international university of monaco and are best friends with alexandra saint mleux. they were seen together holding hands and kissing. y/n also was there when the fan got a picture with lando

view all 364 comments

user1 she looks like a bitch

user2 she’s probably just using him for clout

user3 she’s not pretty enough to be his girlfriend 🤢🤢

user4 she’s so beautiful

user5 go back to the models @landonorris

landonorris

liked by yourusername, alexandrasaintmleux, and 1,297,034 others

landonorris yes. i do have a girlfriend. no, it is not your business, but yet you’ve made it your business. we wanted to keep it private but now we can’t. the hate that my girlfriend, and any girl seen with me, has been getting is ridiculous. my girlfriend is the sweetest person in the world, and you don’t even bother to try to get to know her before you run her name through the dirt. i have been silent on this for too long. forgive me, my love.

i am so proud of you and what you are doing. thank you for giving me a chance (and saving my style, apparently) ❤️

comments have been disabled

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dollishmehrayan · 7 months ago

Text

# “MRS. WAYNE I THINK THIS IS FOR YOU!” ── .✦ ( bruce wayne wife headcannons )

a/n: this was request by a anon (here) so yeah but anyways I Lowkey used to be OBSESSED with like batmom stories but like I genuinely then lost all care for liking anything bruce wayne but this might just like help me (jason todd girly converts into a batmom Stan😭) tags: (bruce wayne x fem!reader)

CHAOTIC HEADCANNONS ── .✦

“No, Bruce. That’s Not a Normal Thing to Do.”

You frequently have to remind him that billionaire habits don’t translate to normal life.

Bruce: “I thought I’d buy out the café you like so you wouldn’t have to wait in line.”

You: “Bruce, we’re just getting lattes. Calm down.”

The expensive car Dilemma: He’s tried picking you up in one of his expensive cars once, and you’ve never let him live it down.

“Bruce, we’re not running a car dealership we’re going to Target.”

Tech Mishaps: Bruce likes to show off his gadgets, but they always malfunction around you. Once, the Batcomputer locked him out because you accidentally spilled coffee near it. You took a picture of his shocked face and made it your phone wallpaper for weeks.

The Disastrous Cooking Attempts: Bruce insists he can cook. The truth? Alfred banned him from the kitchen after he tried to “surprise” you with pancakes and set the stovetop on fire.

“I’m Batman, but I can’t handle pancake batter.”

OVERPROTECTIVE HUSBAND™ ── .✦

He’ll interrogate any new friends you bring around like they’re suspects in a heist.

Bruce, shaking someone’s hand firmly: “And what do you do for a living?”

You, glaring: “Bruce, they’re not applying to join the Justice League.”

GOSSIP FINAL BOSS ── .✦

He pretends not to care about gossip, but he secretly listens to you rant about gala drama. Sometimes, he’ll even chime in with hilariously accurate observations.

You: “That woman was glaring at me all night.”

Bruce: “Because she kept seeing her husband looking at you’re instagram posts. Trust me, Alfred told me.”

ROMANTIC HCS ── .✦

Constant Gentleman Mode: Bruce is always opening doors for you, carrying your bags, or pulling out your chair. You tease him about being old-fashioned, but it’s clear he loves taking care of you.

Private Dance Lessons in the Manor: When you’re stressed, Bruce will put on some music in the empty ballroom and sweep you into an impromptu dance. He’s a surprisingly good dancer, but the way he looks at you mid-spin? That’s what makes your heart race.

Personal Love Notes: Bruce doesn’t text much, but he leaves little handwritten notes around the house.

“Don’t forget, you’re the best part of my day.”

“Coffee’s ready downstairs. So is your husband, who can’t stop thinking about you.”

The ‘I’m Watching You’ Look: At galas, Bruce can’t stop staring at you. When you catch him, he gives that little smirk that says, Yeah, you caught me, but I’m not sorry.

Soft Batman Moments: Even in the Batcave, he has moments where he’s just your Bruce. When he sees you waiting up for him late at night, he’ll silently take off his cowl, walk over, and hold you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Protective, but Not Controlling: He worries, of course, but he respects your independence. If you’re ever in trouble, though, the Bat is out faster than you can blink. “No one touches my wife.”

Gift Giving Expert: He puts serious thought into gifts. One time, he recreated your childhood bedroom in the manor when you were feeling homesick. “I just wanted you to feel at home,” he said, completely nonchalant.

The Morning Ritual: He wakes up early to watch you sleep for a few minutes (in the least creepy way possible) because it’s his quiet reminder of how lucky he is. When you stir awake, he presses a kiss to your forehead and whispers, “Good morning, love.”

Subtle Public Affection: In public, his affection is subtle—hand on the small of your back, thumb grazing your hand, or an almost imperceptible wink across the room. But behind closed doors? He’s all cuddles and kisses.

Always Puts You First: Whether it’s cutting a patrol short to spend time with you or risking everything to keep you safe, Bruce’s priority will always be you. “The city can wait. You can’t.”

MIX OF CHAOS AND ROMANCE ── .✦

When Bruce tries to be romantic but Alfred bringing him back to reality: Bruce, holding your hand: “You’re the light in my dark world.”

Alfred, walking in: “Sir, you said that to the last woman, too. Shall I fetch your script?”

You once jokingly wore a bat-symbol T-shirt to tease him. Bruce didn’t say anything, but later that week, he wore a matching shirt that said, “I <3 My Wife.”

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #batmom #wfa #batboys #dcu #batman x reader #batman #batfamily #batfam #dc #bruce wayne headcanon #bruce wayne imagine #dollish #batman utrh #dc comics #mrs wayne #wayne family adventures

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trinity15 · 8 days ago

Text

GABRIELA

Charles Leclerc x model!reader

word count: 1.7k

summary: Charles begins a relationship with a model, but her biggest rival won't give up until Charles ends up with her.

Story with some smau. Inspired by KATSEYE's song 'Gabriela', go listen to it babes xoxo. Gabriela face claim: alexandra. A really messy timeline but don't think about it just enjoy.

masterlist

voguemagazine

liked by user21, cl16fanzone and more

caption: Wimbeldon looking great with celebrities like charlesleclerc and gabrielavelez.

user1 weve lost him guys

user2 charles the man you are

user3 charles and gabriela together was not on my 2025 bingo card

user4 wasn't charles seen with y/n some days ago why is he now with Gabriela??

Y/n closed the computer with more force than usual. She had arrived the day before in Paris and was already looking forward to leaving and flying to the UK just to pull Gabriela's hair out.

Oh, Gabriela.

Gabriela was half-Mexican, half-English, a world-renowned model. Famously known as the "golden woman" - every man who dated Gabriela was considered a lucky man. She could have anyone she wanted, but unfortunately she only wanted one: Charles Leclerc.

Gabriela was not only known for her beauty and elegance on the catwalk. Her failed friendship with Y/n was one of the juiciest gossip topics in the industry, especially since no one knew the real reason why it all ended. The day Y/n and Gabriela's friendship broke up, another feeling was born between the two: an eternal hatred.

Gabriela and Y/n started hating each other and challenging each other in absolutely everything. If Gabriela did something Y/n had to do it better and vice versa.

But Y/n had something Gabriela wanted, but could not have: Charles Leclerc. The war had begun. It began the moment Gabriela saw Charles slip an arm around Y/n's waist and kiss her at a private after-party.

Gabriela didn't care about the consequences. If she wanted something, she would do anything to get it, and Y/n knew that. That's why seeing her sitting next to her boyfriend made her blood boil. Gabriela was already launching her attacks, now it was Y/n's turn to respond.

Later that night Y/n called Charles, he answered the call in a second.

On Y/n's computer screen appeared a wet-haired Charles, fresh from his hotel shower. "Hello, mon amor" Y/n smiled and sat up in bed to make herself more comfortable.

"How was the game?" Charles just nodded his head as he raised his shoulders. A slightly confused answer.

"The match was good, but Gabriela sat next to me and it was a bit awkward" Charles sighed and then looked at Y/n. "sorry, now the rumours will start".

People loved to talk and the post on Vogue's Instagram that Y/n had seen hadn't gone unnoticed. They had posted a picture of Charles and Gabriela together. They weren't touching and they weren't talking either, they were just sitting together and that was enough.

Y/n played it down and they went on to talk about a different subject.

charlesleclerc

liked by ynusername, gabrielavelez and more

Fashion week at Paris

user1 he is that hadsome he doen't even look real

user2 im on my knees mr leclerc

user3 gabriela is so lucky

user4 gabriela?? i will bet my life he's dating y/n not gabriela user5 gabriela and y/n's gossip keeps going and im here for it

Only one of the most handsome and elegant men in the world of sport could be one of the guests at Paris fashion week and that was Charles Leclerc.

To his good fortune his girlfriend was walking for Versace, but to his misfortune Gabriela would also be present walking for Prada. Although neither of them would be walking the same catwalk as the other, they would meet at the dinners and parties organised by the brands. Dinners to which Charles had also been invited. The perfect battlefield. Private dinners and parties where photos and videos were forbidden.

At the Versace show Charles was able to admire some of the designs thanks to the little knowledge of fashion that his girlfriend had taught him. However, the moment Y/n appeared to close the show, with her defiant gaze and wearing the collection's main design, Charles forgot everything, even how to breathe. She was beautiful and if Charles was already head over heels in love with her, now he was even more so, if that was possible.

They didn't see each other until later in the evening. Versace had arranged a dinner party that was to be attended by many important people. Neither Y/n nor Charles expected to see Gabriela there but when Y/n returned to her seat after greeting Gigi Hadid and found her biggest rival sitting next to her boyfriend trying to flirt with him her face changed completely. If Gabriela wanted to play then they would play, Y/n was not going to tolerate any flirtatious behaviour towards Charles.

"Oh, Y/n! It's been a long time since we've seen each other." Y/n replied with a fake smile. If Gabriela was going to be this fake to her then Y/n would be twice as fake.

"Right Gabriela? It's been years since we've spoken." Charles didn't know what to do - The tension could be cut with scissors and the challenging looks on the two women's faces could kill anyone who got in their way. "Dinner is about to start, I think you should go to your seat now."

"Oh! I'm sitting in my seat already, don't worry" The two let out fake laughs and Charles, who was sitting between the two, didn't know what to do.

Charles spoke little or not at all during dinner. Gabriela asked him questions in a flirtatious tone that Y/n was unable to ignore. Before Charles could say anything to Gabriela, Y/n would always go ahead and answer them for him herself, or blurt out any comment to change the subject.

They got back to their hotel around 1:25am. Y/n took off her heels as she walked through the door and threw herself on the bed, letting out a deep sigh. "I can't stand her, I hate her."

Charles knew the whole story between Gabriela and Y/n but as much as he loved his girlfriend he would never tell her that the one who was right all along in that conflict was Gabriela. However, he didn't agree with what Gabriela was trying to do now. No matter how many times or how she tried to seduce him, he had given his heart to Y/n and had decided to be with her through thick and thin and no one was going to change his mind.

f1movie

liked by lewishamilton and more

Important people walking the red carpet of the f1 movie premier in New york city.

user1 all the drivers with their girlfriends except carlos, lando and charles.

user2 charles has rumors with two models this could be the time to finish the rumors and hardlaunch but he decides to go alone

user3 maybe he's single user4 user3 denial is always the first stage

Yes, Y/n had been invited to the premiere of f1 the movie for her short appearance in the Ferrari garage. Gabriela had attended the same premiere thanks to her agency.

The red carpet had been walked by the actors of the film, the f1 drivers and the lesser known influencers. Afterwards they went to a cinema to watch the film. Once the film was over they went to a party organised by the same people who had organised the premiere.

Y/n had been trying to keep her distance from Charles at that party because very few people there knew about their relationship and it was not the time to make it public.

Or so she thought until she saw Gabriela millimetres away from Charles, rubbing her body against him. Charles was trying to pull away without being too rude, because he was polite first and foremost, and Y/n cursed her boyfriend for that.

Y/n finished her conversation with Tate McRae and said her goodbyes before turning away from her and heading in the direction of Charles and Gabriela.

Y/n grabbed Gabriela's arm and pulled her away from Charles roughly. "What do you think you're doing? He's my boyfriend Gabriela and whatever you're trying it's not going to work." Y/n was furious and Gabriela was enjoying every second of watching Y/n holding back the urge to kill her.

Sure Gabriela liked Charles, but she loved seeing Y/n's face every time she got close to him even more. She also loved knowing that she was finally getting her revenge on Y/n.

"How does it feel Y/n...seeing me with your boyfriend every chance I get" Gabriela's tone was defiant and her gaze didn't waver.

"You could have anyone here Gabriela, but Charles has come with me and he's going with me too."

"I thought so too" Gabriela replied nonchalantly, but she was annoyed. Annoyed that Y/n didn't seem to remember what had happened between them. March fucking 3rd, 2023. Gabriela had that date marked in her memory. The day she saw Y/n flirting with her boyfriend at a party and a month later discovered that he was cheating on her with Y/n, her best friend.

"What are you talking about?" This time Gabriela was really offended. That question had been too much and had confirmed her suspicions. Y/n really didn't remember.

"I don't know, maybe that you took my boyfriend away from me without giving a shit that I was your best friend?" Gabriela's sarcastic and angry tone made Y/n startled. She remembered everything and now, looking at it from another point of view, she understood that she did wrong and that Gabriela had every right to be angry.

Gabriel shook her head and looked at Y/n with a molten frown. "Never mind, I got what I wanted, a reaction from you. Besides, Charles loves you way too much to hurt you." Gabriela took a step to leave, but stopped short. "Congratulations, you've won."

Gabriela left without another glance at Y/n. On the other hand, Y/n was still taking in all the information and watching Gabriela leave, and when she finally left the place Y/n turned around and went straight to Charles.

Charles looked at her. But he didn't look at her with surprise for appearing out of nowhere in front of him, or with suspicion for not knowing what Y/n was going to do. He looked at her as if she was the only person in the world. He looked at her with love and adoration. He didn't know what Y/n intended, but he trusted her and if she wanted to reveal their relationship there and now he wasn't going to stop her because he loved her and would love her just as intensely publicly as he did privately.

Then Y/n grabbed Charles by the face and kissed him. Charles responded by wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her into his body.

There was nothing more powerful in this world than rumours. Rumours could ruin lives and careers, but they could also do the opposite and help someone rise to stardom. At the time both Charles and Y/n didn't care about the rumours anymore, if people wanted to talk then let them talk. They were happy and in love and nothing and no one was going to change that.

taglist: @scentedrosa @northpizzasposts @op81s-sweethOe @anamiad00msday @h-rtsnana @ilovemeni @n3versatisfied @linnygirl09 @imdyinghelpplease @love4rami @halleest @chlodavids

#f1 #formula 1 #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #formula one #f1 x female reader #f1 x reader #charles leclerc x yn #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #gabriela #katseye #trinity15 #formula 1 smau #smau #f1 smau

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giuseppe-yuki · 9 months ago

Text

money, money, money

normal!max verstappen x billionaire!reader

w.c.: 6.8k

warnings: curse words, allusions to sex, RUDE people, sprinkle of angst (?)

summary: you introduce max to the good and bad sides of having money.

a/n: roughly inspired by crazy rich asians- one of my fav movies!!!

edit: bonus birthday oneshot :)

photo credits from pinterest :)

it was no secret to the majority of the world that your bloodline was rich- filthy rich. with your father’s side of the family owning the equivalent of half a small country and your mother’s side of the family the owners of several major corporations, you had no lack of paper bills in your bank accounts.

along with your siblings and your cousins, you grew up pampered, only going to your country’s best schools and wearing only the latest fashion. you were picked up by a chauffeur in a personal sleek black bentley and had a team of maids at your beck and call. hell, you were even granted access to a private jet in case you wanted to fly somewhere exotic just for fun!

as a child without a sense of the value of money, you thought all children lived like this. every birthday, you expected only the very best from your parents. on your sixth birthday, your parents closed down disneyland and let the kids rampage throughout the park. for your cousin’s grade school graduation, your aunt bought an entire cruise liner (company) and held a week-long party on the water to celebrate. when your little brother passed his driver’s license, your father bought him a customized ferrari pista (that he might have crashed three days in) as his first car. when christmas came by, your grandma flew in your entire family to her private island in first class, and surprised all the kids with their very own mini play homes in the backyard that were each the size of a small apartment.

slowly, as you matured, you realized how lucky you were. while eating the caviar and champagne at the expensive gala, the homeless were out in the cold, eating the leftover crusts in oily crumpled pizza boxes that they fished out of the trash. each dollar in your bank accounts could go to sick children whose parents couldn’t pay the hospital bills for, and instead, they were going to mega yachts that sat in the monaco bay most of the year. besides, wouldn’t your parents' money run out some time?

it seemed that many of your cousins and siblings didn’t give a fuck. you watched them exponentially abuse their power, blowing through thousands of grands for luxury cars they drove only once and exclusive rooftop parties where they swam in pools of champagne. one by one, you saw them drop out of school and spend every day as the life of the party. once they rapidly grew out of the excuse of being “young, naive, and not knowing better” their reputation to the general public became “spoiled and out-of-touch” with society.

you of course, weren’t totally exempt from this. you had to admit that you occasionally spent a few k on a nice little bag for yourself, or had an occasional trip to bali for some sun. however, you focused much more on your studies and helping others than partying. instead of spending your draining your mother’s company assets, wouldn’t it be better to have your own? why wield a black card embellished with your father’s name in gold when it could be your own name? with your own money, you could also donate huge amounts to people in need- all under your name.

slowly, you built up your own credible business using the knowledge you gained, and it soon skyrocketed into a world-wide profitable company.

even with such success however, all your siblings and cousins laughed at you. running a company? they had chuckled, in their balenciaga suits and miu miu dresses. why do such tedious work when you can just marry into a rich family?

rich family, you scoff, looking at one of your cousins at the yearly family party that your family threw. though she was dressed to the nines, hair done up and jewelry glistening on her neck, she looked absolutely miserable. her husband, that everyone knew she had just married “for the money” stood on the opposite end of the room, flirting unashamedly with a rather uncomfortable looking waiter. that was really funny, considering that your cousin had been bragging about how much her husband loved her at the last function. she had even shoved a picture of her next to a humongous flower bouquet into your face, teasingly stating how “you never had this experience before, huh?”

your brother wasn’t that much different. although he looked rather successful with a big quarter of your mother’s company stocks, you knew that he was in major debt from burning through his bank accounts gambling at casinos around the world. he paraded around the room with his wife, who hung on his arm so proudly, but only because she didn’t know a thing. if you hinted at your brother’s little “problem,” you knew that she would have the divorce papers ready by afternoon the next day.

as the party went on and the alcohol broke down the painstakingly-built facades of your family’s relationships, you began to stop envying their so-called perfect lives. you realized that all they knew about was money. what did they know about love?

love to you was a kind man with blue eyes that crinkled whenever he smiled at you, light brown hair that was oh-so-soft to run through with your hands, and a soothing voice with a twinge of an accent and slight lisp. love smelled like his soft cologne, and tasted like the spiced sweetbreads he would bake on the weekends.

max was the total opposite from the cocky and money-hungry douchebags from your home country that were more attracted to your wallet and family influence, which was what you liked about him. even the way you met him was different. usually, the men would make it all about themselves, trying to impress you with their “achievements” (owning three ferraris is not a keystone achievement, david) or throwing technical jargon at you to sound smart. if you somehow invited them on a second date, they always showed up late and would tear off their clothes the second they got in the house, expecting to get to third base immediately. however, you met max through a friend of a friend at a small party in monaco. he could barely look you in the eyes and stuttered through his sentences, which you found quite refreshing compared to the arrogant guys that you usually encountered. on your first date, he got you some rather wilty looking tulips, but also brought some homemade bread that you swore was the best you ever ate. on the second date, he yapped about all the flags of all the countries he knew, but you didn’t mind because he let you ramble your own interests after. before long, you moved in with him in his apartment on the edge of monaco, and had the honor of calling him your boyfriend.

so now, lying in his arms on his tiny bed, you felt more at home than ever.

the sunlight streams in through the windows above his bed, casting a glow across his face and filtering through his impossibly long eyelashes. you take a minute to admire the angelic scene, before one his cats leaps off of who-knows-where and jumps on his face.

he yelps, and unwinds his arm from around you to softly push who you assume to be sassy away from his head.

you flash a glare at sassy for ruining such a nice moment, before picking her up and attempt to “throw” her off the bed.

unfortunately, max yanks her out of your hands before you are able to.

“hey!” he says in a chastising tone. “be nice to sassy. i’m sure she didn’t mean to.”

max sits up on the bed and gives sassy a few head scratches before placing a kiss on her soft head. sassy meows at you, which you swear is in a mocking tone. across the room, jimmy sprints over and takes a spot next to max, purring for head scratches too, effectively pushing you off the bed.

you didn’t understand how your boyfriend couldn’t see that his cats were literally devils. you were basically subject to their abuse every day (i.e. random ankle attacks, knocking over all you fragile items, unplugging your devices, cat hair in your food, and the worst one, stealing max away from you). scowling, you surrender your rightful spot on the bed and pad into the kitchen in your slippers to start the coffee.

it’s not until both the coffee and breakfast is ready when max finally enters the kitchen, now freshly dressed. the cats scamper around his feet, curling lovingly around his ankles.

“sorry about that, baby.” he says, pulling out his chair and taking a seat in front of his plate of food. “jimmy and sassy just wanted some love.”

you roll your eyes before settling down into your own seat.

he spears a few sausage links and eggs into his mouth before glancing at the clock. eyes widening, he shoves the rest of the food into his mouth and chugs down the hot coffee.

“so sorry, i have to run!” he sputters out, “i’m going to be late to my engineering meeting!”

he dashes to the bedroom to grab his bag before running back into the kitchen to press a kiss to your cheek in goodbye.

“have fun at work too, baby!” he yells before the front door slams closed.

sighing, you finish your plate before washing the dishes in the sink. he was always late for his engineering job at a small office in downtown monaco. max somehow always got to his office in time though, but probably because he raced his little yellow renault clio rs on the streets like he was some type of formula one driver. meanwhile, you had your “work” at home (which typically meant one phone call to your secretary to make sure everything was running smoothly, a quick scroll through your company accounts, and then netflix on the couch).

from the time you met to the time you started dating, you never got to telling max about your family history or your job. it was actually kind of unbelievable that he didn’t notice actually, even when all your clothes were covertly designer and heels were always red bottoms, or when you seemingly traveled out of the country every other weekend for company meetings. however, he never asked, so you never told.

well, that was until he came home that night.

his footsteps echo on the ground as he walks out from the bathroom, but stops before he gets into the kitchen

“hey baby,” he says, tilting his head. “what’s this?”

you stop stirring the pasta sauce, looking back to see your freshly showered boyfriend questioningly glancing at your open macbook on the couch.

you must have forgotten to close out of your company bank account tab. quickly, you throw the spoon aside, slam the laptop shut, and throw it to the side.

“that’s nothing, baby.” you say, rushing back to the kitchen and stirring the bubbling red mixture again.

“oh-kay…” he says, walking up behind you and reaching over to help strain the pasta noodles.

while straining the water out in the sink, he flashes you a quick glance. “was it like…” he whispers quietly. “adult material or something?? is that why you didn’t want me to see it?”

what?

you look back him, an unimpressed look at your face. “adult material, max???” you repeat back at him. “no. i was not watching adult material on my work laptop.”

“okay, whatever you say, baby.” max says, clearly not believing you. clearing his throat, he continues. “so, um… anyways, my coworker george was talking about how he met his boyfriend alex's parents over the weekend, and i realized that i never met your parents before. do you think we can maybe pay them a visit?"

you freeze, halfway sliding out a plate of garlic bread from the oven.

“i- um, don’t think that’s wise, maxie.” you reply quietly.

your boyfriend wrinkles his brow. he stops the plating of the noodles and walks over to you, placing a hand on your shoulder.

“is it…is it because they are assholes?” he asks, looking at you seriously. “cause it’s okay if they are- i understand, because my dad…my dad is not very kind either.”

you can’t help to think about your family in your home country. you could never take your maxie there. they would rip him to shreds, degrading him for being rather plain and destitute compared to them. you would never want to put your boyfriend through your parents, either, who would probably criticize him for wanting to marry you just for the money, even if max didn’t know a goddamn thing about how you earned your funds.

you rub your face. “no, it’s not that.” you sigh, “i- mean- it’s just complicated over there in my home country. i don’t want you to feel pressure or uncomfortable-”

max cuts you off with a hug, and presses a kiss to your cheek. “i really don’t mind, baby. i’d really like to meet the people who made such a kind and beautiful person like you.”

you blush a little at his words. even if you have an uneasy feeling to your stomach, you nod lightly. it can’t be that bad, right?

if you were to take max over to your home country, there was no doubt he would be exposed to your massive fame and influence there. to slowly ease him into the more luxurious side of your life, you first introduce the luxuries of a private jet the day you take off from the airport.

“a private JET???” your boyfriend shrieks, looking at his speciality boarding pass.

hurriedly, you shush him to avoid the glares of other travelers within a yelling distance of you both.

“max, please be quiet.” you hiss into his ear. “yes, it says private jet.”

maneuvering your cart with your lv-branded luggage to the side of the terminal, along with max’s one small carry-on and two pet cages with the reincarnations of the devil inside, you pull out your phone to check the location of the driver who would take you to the separate private-jet entrance.

like magic, he materializes behind you, tapping you on the shoulder.

politely, he takes your horde of luggages and max’s items before politely gesturing towards a massive black lincoln that was definitely not parked there before.

“this way miss,” he says curtly, before reaching forward to open the car door for you.

max, snapping out of his confusion, snaps his hand out first and roughly yanks the door open, and nearly hitting both you and the driver.

“i’ll open the door for my own girlfriend, thanks!” he retorts, glaring suspiciously at the driver, who just shrugs and starts loading the luggage into the back of the car.

when max climbs into the spacious back of the lincoln, you can’t help but giggle into your hand.

“max, you need to relax,” you laugh, placing a calming hand on max’s leg. “he’s my driver. it’s his job to open the door, okay?”

your boyfriend sniffs, pouting a little.

“fine.”

after boarding the jet and ascending safely into the air, you settle into your padded chair. meanwhile, max runs around the jet like a little kid, pointing out the “special features,” much to the amusement of the staff.

“omg, baby, look!” he yells, pointing at a wooden-paneled door behind your chair. “the bathroom is huge!”

you nod, and hum in agreement, sparing a quick glance at max, who was opening and closing the door as if it would change what was behind it.

he then charges toward a cabinet near the middle of the plane, which is stuffed to the brim with your favorite snacks. “wow!” he shouts, before sprinting towards a similar cabinet further down, which you know is the alcohol storage area.

there’s a moment of silence before max steps into view with three gin and tonics and one of your favorite drinks in hand. he carefully sets them down in front of you, batting away a disgruntled-looking bartender who held a half-open bottle of gin that you assumed he was in the middle of pouring when max snatched the bottle away.

you apologize profusely to the bartender while max watches on, straight up chugging his drinks.

“this is wild!!” he whispers, pointing to the cups in front of him.

no more than five minutes after sending the bartender away with a little tip, max has already finished two of his three gin and tonics and was already bounding out of his seat to explore the rest of the plane.

once you hear his exclamations of joy from the back of the plane, you know he has discovered the master bedroom.

before you have a chance to take a sip of your own drink, max basically pounces on you and drags you towards the private bedroom. your boyfriend pushes you onto the soft bed, yells out the door.

“give us a little bit of privacy, okay?” he shouts to no one in particular, before slamming the door shut.

he turns back to your figure lying spread-eagle in the bed, and wiggles his eyebrows.

max is the first one to talk after you both lay on the bed, lips swollen and cheeks red.

“so…?” he says, running a hand down your back.

“so… what?” you ask, looking up at him from your position sprawled on top of him. from your point of view, you could feel the slight rise and fall of his chest, his slightly damp hair, and the way his blue, blue eyes study your face.

“so, when were you going to tell me that you were…like…rich?” he replies.

you maneuver yourself to a sitting position on your boyfriend’s lap, looking him nervously.

“well…” you remark, twiddling your thumbs. this wasn’t the way you thought you were going to break the news to max.

“i grew up more- comfortably in my home country, thanks to my family and their connections. i was lucky to not have to worry about money at all. when i became a little older, i separated myself from the rest of my siblings and cousins to form and take care of my own company. then, on a business trip, i met you and then.. yeah, you know what happens next.”

an awkward silence fills the room, with max digesting the information and you toying with a stray thread from the bedcovers.

your boyfriend opens his mouth slowly.

“a company?” he questions, turning to you. “what company?”

you scramble off the bed for your phone, and type something quick in the search bar. when you find what you are looking for, you rotate the phone towards your boyfriend, the glowing screen reflecting on his features.

it only takes one or two seconds for max to scan and decipher the words on the screen.

“YOU’RE THE CEO OF REDBULL??” max shouts.

when the wheels of your private jet hit the bumpy runway, it was midnight. your pilot’s voice crackles on the intercom, politely notifying you that you have arrived, and are free to disembark whenever you’d like. outside, you can see several workers unloading your luggage, along with jimmy and sassy in their pet carriers.

you turn to max, who was intensely staring at his screen, unmoving. you assume he was still in the middle of his fervent wikipedia dive of you and your family’s entire history that he insisted on learning, once he got over the initial shock.

“max,” you say, nudging him slightly.

he doesn’t budge, eyes trained like an eagle on his screen.

you pull on sweatshirt before nudging him again, this time a little harder. “max, come on, we gotta go.”

he snaps up, and pockets his phone before mock saluting you. “yes, of course, miss ceo! whatever you say!”

you roll your eyes. max was a little extra sometimes.

he trails behind you obediently as you climb down the stairs to get off the plane, and into a sleek black limousine.

before long, you find yourself on the familiar streets and freeways that you used to frequent when you were younger. it feels the slightest bit nostalgic, so different from the streets of monaco that you became used to thanks to max.

you look back to find max tilting his head at you.

“where to now, miss ceo?” he asks in a curious tone.

you smile.

”i know just the place.”

even when it was close to three am, the downtown streets were still packed with people. vendors engulfed the street sides, selling delicious soups and snacks beckoned to people, and little shops with bright signs advertised souvenirs, clothing, stationary, and everything in between. the car inches to a stop when you come upon a familiar old building that you remember visiting often as a child. bright glittery letters on the storefront and windows exclaim, “lombardi ice cream shop.” a line of people streams out the door, an ode to the delicious creamy treats that the shop has been selling for years. god, you could basically taste the ice cream on your tongue already.

you practically leap out of the car, dragging max with you towards the front of the shop. the red bottoms of your heels click against the concrete, turning many heads in the crowd along the sidewalk. you hear gasps of shock and a few whispers of your name along the crowd. they automatically parts like moses and the red sea when you get closer. max hesitates, wide eyed, at the edge of the crowd.

”c’mon,” you laugh, taking his hand and leading him through the people.

an old woman, back hunched with age, waddles out of the kitchen and greets you warmly when you arrive at the counter. without realizing, a warm feeling spreads across your chest. she was basically like a second mother to you, considering you spent your entire childhood frequenting this shop with your cousins and siblings. whenever you visited your home country, you would always make sure to pop by her shop (not that she needed your business- her lines always curled around the block, day and night).

“ahh!! welcome back, honey,” she exclaims, wiping her wrinkled hands on her apron. “you’ve gotten so beautiful!” throwing a glance at a shy max hesitantly hidden behind you, she sends you an eyebrow raise. “ah, and i see you brought a boy back huh?”

you reach over to give the weathered old woman a hug, blushing. “hello, momma lella! yes, this is my boyfriend max.”

max waves a polite hello, one hand still nervously holding yours.

the elderly woman smiles kindly at max, not hiding how she looks him up and down. “well, i approve!” she states, giving you a thumbs up and a wink. “polite and handsome!”

without another word, she grabs the largest size cup and fills it to the brim with creamy chocolate ice cream. sprinkling a good amount of sprinkles and shoving two spoons into the cup, she offers it to you.

“on the house!”

you and max sit on the sidewalk with the cup of ice cream, watching people walk by and cars zoom through the traffic. occasionally, max takes his spoon and shovels a large helping of chocolate ice cream into his mouth.

“you look like you’re really enjoying the ice cream,” you state, noticing the chocolate smeared over the corners of his mouth.

max just smiles at you in the way he always does, with the dimples and the crinkle in his eyes.

suddenly, your moment is ruined when a flash goes off in your face.

max jerks back, rubbing his eyes, not used to the invasive cameras that made up your childhood.

you whip around towards the flash, seeing a small herd of paparazzi smiling wickedly. a rare spotting of you in back in your home country for the first time in years? that was payday for them. a flash of anger shoots through you, causing you to throw your wooden spoon at their expensive cameras. unfortunately, it just bounces off of the arm of a short looking man carrying a heavy duty camera.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?” you yell, shooing them away from max. “can you just leave us alone for one second?”

bothersome paparazzi like this was common when you grew up in a family rich with drama and money. you recall them camping in front of your house, shutters clicking once they saw a sign of movement. whatever mistake you made, like tripping over a small rock or fighting with your sister over a doll, was publicized and dramatized into unrecognizable stories on gossip magazines that were popular in your home country. it was a pity that this was max’s first introduction to these pests.

you pull max with you as you shove your way roughly through the paparazzi. they deserved it if you accidentally smashed someone’s lens.

max stumbles behind you.

“wha-?” he says, holding the half-empty chocolate ice cream. “where are we going?”

you huff. “away from those wannabe photographers- i hate them so much.”

you flip open your phone to call your chauffeur, but your app notifies you it would take a total of ten minutes for him to weave through traffic to get to you both. in the distance, the paparazzi raise their cameras again, shutters clicking as they photograph your pissed off expression and a dumbfounded max next to you. you can practically see the headlines tomorrow- ‘bratty billionaire back in country!!’

like a godsend, a futuristic-looking car rumbles to life next to you. that will probably get you home and away from these fuckers fast, right? hurriedly, you march over to the disgruntled middle-aged man in the passengers’ seat.

“five million for your car- right now.” you say, dead serious.

the man’s eyes widen comically large.

“five mi-“

you cut him off quickly, seeing the paparazzi darting closer to max, who was still holding the ice cream and eyeing the cameras wearily.

“yes, five million. i’ll mail you the check.”

without another word, the man tosses you the keys and hefts himself out of the car. you leap into the drivers seat just as he gets out, and jam your finger on the window down button to beckon max into the car immediately.

the moment he sits down on the expensive-looking leather seats, you rev the engine and leave the paparazzi behind in the dust.

it’s not until you are halfway back to your penthouse when max finally speaks.

“this is a super nice car,” he states, running his hand against the interior side panels.

you look around, really noticing the detailings of the car. the sides look like they are made with some carbon fiber material, and it seemed like it didn’t even have a door handle- just straps you pull on the corner of the dashboard.

”yeah, i guess so,” you admit. “i just bought this off of that dude back there in order to get away from the damn paparazzi.”

max wrinkles his brows.

“you bought-?? what??? you know this is an aston martin valkyrie, right?”

the next morning, when the sun shines through the skyline windows lining your penthouse, you keep your promise by instructing one of your staff to send the promised check to the random guy on the street (fernando, he said his name was). your boyfriend scrolls idly on his phone next to you, probably scrolling through your family’s lengthy wikipedia page again. his cats stamp around your white bedsheets as if they owned the place. you think about what you both could do today. perhaps visit the children’s hospital? before moving to monaco, you frequented many small hospitals, bringing gifts for the children. it always felt good seeing the sick kids light up with joy. or, you could go shopping, although you did spend a little bit much on the random car yesterday. or-

before you can complete your thought, a familiar ringtone lights up the screen of your phone. your mother’s name lights up your phone, as if taunting you. before you second-guess yourself, you smash your finger into the green ‘answer’ button and place the phone to your ear.

your mother’s voice flows through the speakers, sending a wave of nostalgia throughout your body.

“darling!” the voice hums, “why didn’t you tell me that you were back in your home country? i had to find out over the silly little paparazzi pictures on the newspapers!”

damn it, you think, cursing silently in your head. it seemed that the paparazzi from yesterday night had probably sold your pictures to some trashy gossip magazine that had caught the attention of your mother. that meant that you had to face your family sooner or later.

“hello, mother,” you reply curtly, trying to avoid the topic. “how may i help you?”

your mother tuts through the speakerphone. “oh, your own mother can’t just call to say hello?”

you groan. “no- i mean yes-“

your mother cuts you off, laughing. “i’m kidding, darling. i just wanted to let you know that i’m hosting a party at our estate tomorrow, to celebrate your arrival! you’ve been in monaco for a god-awful long time. your cousins and siblings will be coming too- i’m sure they’ll all excited to see you after your hiatus in monaco!”

you hesitate before responding. your first instinct was to say no, because everybody knew full well that the only reason your cousins and siblings even bothered to show up at these kind of events is to save face and show off their new ridiculously expensive clothing and cars, not to welcome you. however, this also gave you a chance for max to meet your parents, like he wanted back in monaco. it isn’t a hard choice when you agree to meet the next day.

max revs the engine once again as he pulls the valkyrie to stop in front of the valet at the front of your family’s estate.

through the tinted windows of the car, you see one of your snobby cousins, dressed in an jeweled gown, jump at the loud sound and clutch her husband’s arm tighter however, her husband ignores her to get a good look at your aston martin supercar, which makes you laugh. to your surprise, he is not the only one. a few other family members gather around, admiring the hypercar.

in the passenger’s seat, max’s mischievous grin slowly turns into a frown of nervousness as he spots the crowd of people gathering around you both. you know it must look intimidating, meeting your significant other’s family, especially when they had such high expectations of you. you place a kiss on his cheek.

“you ready, maxie?” you ask, patting his shoulder comfortingly.

he nods, before opening the car door.

like the gentleman he is, max quickly hurries over to the passenger’s side of the car to help you out of the car. you gladly take his hand, and step out of the vehicle daintily. straight away, you can hear the confused mutterings and jealous glares of your family members start up, which follow the both of you into the house.

like expected, your childhood home is decorated a little over the top. people mingle under crystal chandeliers around staircases draped with real flowers. from the second living room, music drifts out that sounds suspiciously like martin garrix. a fancy bar is set up a room that was usually the dining room, with a bottle of every single alcohol you can ever think of. the courtyard, usually empty save a few plants, was turned into outdoor buffet bar, complete with a five story cake and massive chocolate fountain.

once inside, max attempts to introduce himself to the first friendly-looking family member that he sees, which happens to be your aunt on your mother’s side. he sticks out his hand, a smile gracing his face.

“hi, my name is max,” he says, “i’m your niece’s boyfriend.”

your aunt nods politely, shaking his hand.

“hello max,” she says, visibly studying him, “what are you, a ceo? businessman? sports star?”

”auntie!” you say, shocked, cutting max off from his response. that rude bitch. although she looked relatively kind from the outside, all she really cared about anyone was their power and money. which was probably why your cousin married a mega popstar that was away half the time. like the rest of your family, money trumped true love. “you can’t just start a conversation like that!”

max shakes his head, “no, no, it’s alright. i’m an engineer.”

“ah,” your aunt says, knowingly. taking a sip of her champagne, she continues, “head engineer, huh? of what company?”

thinking he might have misheard her, max corrects her, “oh- no, not head engineer, just an engineer, like in an office.”

your great-aunt’s friendly demeanor automatically drops.

“just an engineer?” she responds, coldly.

you notice how max’s face falls the slightest bit, before he plasters a fake polite smile on his face. he shuffles uncomfortably, glancing at you, as if saying, did i say something wrong?

before you can say something rather rude to your aunt, a hand clasps your shoulder. turning around, your brother beams at you.

“sister!” he exclaims. “i haven’t seen you in a hot sec. too busy partying in monaco, huh? or doing your silly little business things for redbull?”

he then eyes max, to which he wiggles his eyebrows at you. “who’s this, huh? your boyfriend?”

”yes,” you snap, still a little pissed from your aunt’s rude reaction.

your brother puts his hands up jokingly, in a surrender position. “damn, okay, no need to be defensive.”

he sticks out his hand to your boyfriend, who takes it gladly.

“what’s up, dude,” your brother says, shaking max’s hand. “i saw you pull up with my sister in that sick aston martin valkyrie! you must have some insane connections- the waitlist for that baby is like years long.”

your aunt answers before your boyfriend can.

“there’s no way he could have bought that car- he’s just an office engineer at some company at who knows where,” she says pointedly.

hearing this, your brother’s impressed look turns into a sneer of disdain. he steps back from max in disgust, as if he had just turned into some horrible monster. he chuckles at you.

”wow, sister, you’ve outdone yourself huh? an office engineer?”

your family, slowly becoming aware of something going on, turns towards the scene. a wide-eyed martin garrix turns off the booming music in the back.

you shove your brother further away from max, causing the glass of champagne to spill onto your brother’s designer suit.

“what’s wrong with you?” you exclaim angrily. “at least he has a job, unlike you!”

ignoring the bubbling liquid staining his suit and your enraged expression, he turns toward max, still eyeing him with disgust. “how pathetic, leeching off of my sister’s money as a ceo? ha, you probably used her card to buy that valkyrie, didn’t you?”

next to you, stunned into silence, max’s blue eyes begin to fill with tears.

behind you, your aunt lets out a cackle of laughter, along with a few members of the crowd.

you just about launch yourself at your brother, wanting more than anything to bash his head in.

as if it couldn’t get worse, your mother pushes through the crowd gathered around you both, and grabs your arm before you can make contact with your brother.

“hey!” she yells, yanking you back. “what is going on here?”

your brother grins, pointing at max. “your precious daughter went and got herself a little gold digger boyfriend- and look, he’s crying!”

you glance over to max, heart sinking. like your brother said, he had a tear running down his face, and he shook a little with embarrassment. it reminded you of a story that max once told you, how his father had often upset him as a child when he was forced to do karting. an anger flared inside of you. max had only wanted to be a good boyfriend and introduce himself to your family, but was in turn ridiculed in front of a crowd by your hypocrite brother.

your mother turns to max, then turns to you.

“is this true, darling?” she asks, tilting her head. “does he exploit you for money?”

does max exploit you for money? you can hardly even comprehend the ridiculous sentence. you roughly yank your arm out of your mother’s grasp and march over to max. you lace your fingers through his, giving his hand a squeeze.

you turn towards your chuckling brother. he won’t be laughing soon.

“you’re really one to talk, brother! you think you’re hot shit, with a large chunk of mother’s company stocks. well, wouldn't it be a shame if everyone knew that you are in debt from your uncontrollable gambling problem, hmm? i wonder what your wife feels about that?”

you take comfort in the way the smug smile drops from your brother’s face, now replaced with a withering glare. the silent crowd gathered around the scene lets out a gasp, in light of this news. their focus now was trained on your brother instead of max.

“and you!” you exclaim, turning to your aunt. “since you think the word gold digger is so funny, auntie, wouldn’t you like to know how your own daughter is one, huh?”

your aunt jerks back, not used to the crowd’s attention trained on her, along with your harsh words.

”yeah,” you continue, “if you would stop judging people based on their worth in money, you might have been able to see that all she does is spend her husband‘s money on inane things in order to ignore his multiple affairs!”

from the back of the room, you hear your cousin burst into tears while her mother, your aunt, standing in front of you, turns as red as a tomato.

gently, you lead max towards the gilded gold front door. your family gives you judgemental looks as you make your way through the crowd. turning back one last time before you step out, you address the crowd. “don’t think any of you guys are any better. all you lot do is leech off of trust fund money!”

max stays silent all the way to your penthouse, as do you. after a hot shower, you bundle him up in your soft fluffy blankets until he looks the puft marshmallow man. you can’t help but feel terrible. he silently shuffles towards you, which you respond by pulling his head against your chest. jimmy and sassy watch wearily from a distance on the carpet.

you are the first to cut through the silence.

“i am so sorry that my family did that to you, maxie.”

he doesn’t answer, but the new tears that soak your expensive silk pajama set does the answering for him.

you run your hand through his damp strands of light brown hair, and rub his back comfortingly.

he pulls back from your embrace to wipe his eyes briefly.

“why do you love me?” he hiccups, cheeks wet with tears. “like- i have no money, two cats that you hate, and- and- a tiny apartment-“

“max!” you say, cutting him off from his ramblings. “listen to me.”

you look into his watery eyes, eyelashes wet with tears.

”i really don’t care if you lived in a literal dirt hole with no job, or if you were a formula one world champion. i would love you no matter what. i love your blue eyes and your pouty lips and your lisp, and your cologne, and the bread that you bake, and your little apartment and even though it may not seem like it, i love your stupid cats too.“

he chuckles wetly at the last part of your sentence.

you kiss the top of his head.

”you don’t know how much i love you, max emillian verstappen.”

a devious grin slips onto his face. he shoots you a sultry look.

“show me.”

and you do.

later, when max lays asleep on the bed, love bites on his neck, face slightly flushed, and back bare, you get up to fetch your phone.

the person you seek is only a few taps away. he picks up on the second ring, politely greeting you even though it was an ungodly hour. you tell him your request, but he hesitates slightly.

”are you sure-“

you cut your financial advisor off as politely as possible.

“yes, that’s right. i would like to buy the entirety of my mother’s companies and my father’s estates.”

the sounds of pencil scratching paper fills your ears before your financial advisor lets out a sound of approval.

“right away, ma’am!”

a/n: APOLOGIES for my week-long hiatus!! take this fic as an apology... your normal spinoff series! scheduling will resume shortly <3

also let me know if you have a better name for this piece- i was STRUGGLING trying to name this one ;-;

#f1 x reader #f1 fic #f1 x female reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #f1 fanfic #f1 rpf fic #f1 imagine #max verstappen x y/n #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x reader #mv1 x y/n #mv1 x reader #mv1 x you #📝

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miss-vanta-likes-to-write · 2 months ago

Text

Part 2 to Life Line

(I ain't) Sorry

Pairing: cheater!Price x wife!reader

CW: infidelity. angst. idk is price a cuck now? 18+

Middle fingers up, put them hands high. Wave it in his face, tell him, boy bye (sorry). Tell him, boy bye (sorry) boy bye. Middle fingers up, I ain't thinking 'bout you.

It's been six months since the new rules of John Price's marriage had been established. In public, he is still Captain John Price, a fearless leader, highly decorated, and on track to be a major. John Price was thought to have it all. Two gorgeous children, a darling little girl named Iyana aged six and a charming baby boy named Jackie aged four (who everyone says looks like John made him in the same fashion as a sea sponge. That is to say, through asexual reproduction because they look so much alike).

To top it all off, he had a gorgeous and smart wife who worked with a notable contractor that dealt with information gathering, sorting, and code breaking. Said to be highly requested and sought after to work with military operations, both official and private military based.

Yes, Captain John Price to the public eye, had it all. Despite the blood on his hands, the blackness on his soul and actions, the Lord above gave him a loving family. He was always the man of the hour when he walked into a room.

Right now, though, he didn't feel like a man of the hour that he was thought to be. Right now, he watches his daughter pedal her little pink bike around the front driveway. Her hair ribbons are lopsided, giggles echoing on the wind. It almost sounds and feels like a dream. She's got light up fairy wings, a fairy dress, and tiara, all high-quality custome made in an array of colors and gem stones. It's cute. He thinks it is cute, and it makes his little girl happy. What he can't stand, however, are the pink and white rhinestone cowboy boots. They cost a pretty penny, and she wears them everywhere. She wears them with every outfit.

John hates it. Or better yet, he hates where these items come from.

His son, while he has always been easily pleased, has particularly enjoyed his little hobby horse toy. The saddle has his name painted on the side in deep blue letters that stand out against the deep brown wood.

John hates the damn horse toy and also hates the suspected origins. Both of these things are reminders that his marriage is on the rocks and that it's a reflection of his mistakes. Another man buying his children toys. He has little doubt that it is the same man he is forced to work with.

He leans against the support beam of the front porch, cigar to his lips. He was watching his daughter and keeping also keeping an ear out for his son, who slept in the house. The three of them are waiting for the fourth member of the household. A sleek black car pulls up to the house and Iyana abandons her bike to greet the love of John's life.

You.

His darling, sweet, loving wife, who he wouldn't trade for the world. Even if you are being difficult. It doesn't matter though he's sure this tantrum can't go on forever.

Now you wanna say you're sorry. Now you wanna call me cryin'. Now you gotta see me wildin'. Now I'm the one that's lyin'. And I don't feel bad about it. It's exactly what you get. Stop interrupting my grinding. (You interrupt my grinding)

You shut off the car, and the door swings open. Your saccharine voice carries just about your daughter. "My love! I've missed you!" Nimble fingers push sunshades back onto your forehead as you lean down to sweep her up into a hug.

"Do you like my dress? It came in the mail today!" She shouts, "Daddy helped me into it when we got home from school!"

"It's lovely, my love. You look like a pretty fairy princess." Your eyes appraise her dress and accessories appreciatively. When you finally lay your eyes on John, you offer him a polite smile. "John, I'm glad you could get off early to pick the kids up today."

John isn't focused on your words. His eyes are clearly looking you over, desperatewith want. Since the new rules were put in place and boundaries made known, he has made it clear that he misses you. Each time, you reminded him of the rules and that he was allowed to see other people. You watch as his eyes finally land on the space above your cleavage. Right on the dainty gold chain with only one charm on it.

"You didn't wear that to work, did you?" John grumbles as you walk past him.

"John, am I not allowed to wear jewelry now?" You ask, already over this conversation and wear it is about to head to.

"Sweetheart." He still calls you that. The pet name bristles you, but you tolerate it for the sake of your children. "At least grant me the decency of not wearing his bloody branding in public."

"Iyana, go pack your bag for grand mum's and poppop's house." You usher her towards the steps. She dutifully says yeah and how she's packing all of her new little dresses. Finally, alone with him, you turn to face your husband. "Why does it matter, John?"

A deep sigh escapes him, and he's a bit flustered with frustration. You suppose you'd be frustrated, too, if work was hell. And to be clear, it was only hell because of the new long-term assignments he and several different teams were coordinating on. You raise your eyebrows at him, waiting patiently for his answer.

"It matters because it bothers me." He finally gets out, "it causes me to feel upset."

You take note of the carefully chosen words. Efforts of his therapy sessions peaking through. While you still won't go with him, he goes once a week when he isn't deployed. The habit started a month into your new reality. Shortly after, he began to be a more present father to the kids. Family weekends that he plans (which you suspect he does as often as possible to keep you with him), attending parent teacher conferences and evenings, and just generally paying more attention when he is home. It's great for the kids, but it's too little too late for you.

"Okay, John." You dismiss him and make your way to the kitchen with his footsteps following close behind. The conversation is clearly not over for you both.

"Was work fine today? I didn't see you at the all hands meeting on base." He leans against the kitchen island.

"My schedule was packed, so I sent my junior to fill in for me. Another PMC is contacting the company they requested me specifically." You dig around the fridge searching for a snack. His eyes are on you again. They always are these days. Since you reentered the workforce and quickly rose in rank, you've changed. You're more confident, more stern, and have leaned into the feeling of being desirable again by other men and women. Opportunities flowed easier to you. Your former boss had welcomed you back with open arms. Her exact words were something along the lines of "Mrs. Price, it's good to have you back. Now, the numbers can make sense again, and I can prepare to retire!"

John huffs, "Yeah, I saw. Kate was annoyed the entire time with the poor girl. And she was too afraid to work with Simon."

You find a snack and smile. "How is Simon?"

"You should know." He bites back with a bit of force. His blue eyes shift away from you, "You aren't sleeping with my lieutenant, are you?" It's a soft question you almost miss. He almost sounds insecure at the idea of one of his boys looking at you that way. And with the rules that are now in place, there's nothing to stop you but their friendship to him.

"John... Now, why would I do such a thing?" You sneer and then laugh. "There isn't anything going on between me and Simon."

"Then why won't you speak with me on base?" He furrows his brow. "People are literally looking at you two funny." And the 'They're looking at me with concern' is left unsaid.

"Because he is the chosen liason I picked for your team?" The scoff you let out is near comical, "Don't be so vain, John Price. If I was going to sleep with anyone it would be Kyle as he is the only one that apologized for not saying anything sooner about you fucking around behind my back. Maybe Johnny because he's good-looking. Tragic that they both are loyal to you, a skill they picked up from somewhere. "

His face turns red with agitation. His eyes go back to the necklace and the charm around your neck. It's a small, dainty, gold little heart, and when the light catches it, an engraved series of numbers and letters can be seen faintly. "So if not them, then who?"

"You know who. Don't be daft." You shrug your shoulders, "I'm gonna be gone all weekend after we drop the kids off at your parents. So you have the house to yourself."

"I'd much rather prefer we spent time together." He tries and smiles sweetly at you.

"I can't. My friend is dying to spend time with me, and he insists upon it, or he will simply die."

It's a beat of silence for a moment. Before he looks away from you. "Is he the one who sent those gifts to the kids? Which I don't appreciate, by the way."

"No. I'm not seeing him tonigt." You say leaving the kitchen, "Phillip has to go back to the States tonight. Won't be back till three days before you all move out."

"Could you at least tell that fuck to not give my kids gifts. It's rather rude, don't you think?" He glares.

"Phillip didn't give the kids those gifts. He gave me money, and then I got them things they've been asking for."

"And the necklace?" He asks. He almost seems like he doesn't want to know. But he keeps digging the hole deeper.

"From my other boyfriend." You glance over your shoulder at him, "instead of worrying about me and who I'm seeing. You should worry about yourself."

The tension is only cut at the sound of your daughter calling for help. She wants help with closing her backpack up.

That night after you and John played happy family infrint of his parents, the drive back home was tense. A quiet that could be heard from miles away even as the radio played, trying its best to ease both of your nerves. It's subtle, but you notice how his eyes cut to you every so often.

"Sweetheart."

"The kids aren't with us John."

"Don't be difficult please."

Your eyes hurt with how they roll. "What is it John?"

"I want to know when we can give us another try." He asks quietly, "I miss you." He grips the steering wheel tightly, knuckles turning white. "I don't want you running around that fuck Graves, or whoever else your tend to see. You're my wife and I'm your husband. We should at least try to fix our marriage."

You don't say anything and keep your eyes in the passing scenery. This conversation isn't new. It comes up often and when it does you fight like hell to hold your ground. Another deep sigh and you wait in silence for him to continue.

"I love you, always will and never stopped." He says, and the sentiment is there. The way he says it reminds you of days when you were ignorant to his infidelity.

But then your mind conjures up the rage and hurt you experienced when you first saw what was in that folder the private investigator gave you. The embarrassment you felt when you asked Simon, Kyle and Johnny if they knew. They way that none of them could look you in the eyes for weeks. Or the grief that resurface each time your mind wanders over the memory of how he found someone who was similar to you in appearance from before your first child together.

"John, can we not tonight?" You simply avoid his eyes, "We can still get a divorce or you can deal with the way things are. I'm not revisiting any conversations about us or therapy."

"Are you doing this to hurt me back?" He asks. It's the most direct he's ever been with admitting that his actions hurt you. Before it was always a deflection. He wasn't right in the head after missions, he was trying to cope with the miscarriage, anything but outright saying he was a cheater. The tone of his voice cracks a bit with sorrow, but you don't budge.

"No." You state and turn up the radio, ending the conversation.

The car rolls to a stop in the driveway and you hurry out of the car and into the house. You don't want anymore questions or comments from him about the marriage he ruined. You don't want to deal with any nasty emotions that can't be fixed with the wine and sex that is waiting for you. An hour later you're finishing up packing, the house is quiet. The shrill ring of the doorbell pierces the silence of the house. It takes a moment but you hear John walking around downstairs towards the door. There's a bit of a sick thrill that shivers through you at who you know he will find on the otherside of that door. It won't be Phillip, he had already sent his messages that he would call you when he's back in the states.

You zip up your suitcase, check your hair once more in the mirror. When you get down the steps you're mer with John's more than angry glare that seems more hurt than anything. It's ignored as you pass the living room where he is.

You swing open the door, "Hey sweety."

"Hallo Meine Liebe." You're greeted with a hug from a strong embrace, "I'm hoping the guys will leave us be this weekend. They have been irritating since seeing you today and calling your charm necklace a fancy set of dog tags."

In the living room John closes his eyes as he hears you leave. Your laugh trails on the end of your words. And his heart absolutely aches at the idea of you with another man, much less another one he doesn't really like.

"Kökö, your I.D number is on it. Of course they would say that."

a.n: one more part and then I'm done with this mini series. Thank you all for supporting me.

All Night (final)

#captain john price #john price #john price x reader #cheater!john price #captain john price x reader #call of duty fanfic #call of duty fic #call of duty x reader #black reader #black!fem!reader #angst #captain price x reader

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hamilton-here · 1 month ago

Note

Lewis x famous reader? They meet randomly and instantly click, but for the first time in his life the woman is the one to be hesitant about being in a relationship with him, and not really wanting to claim him, especially after learning his reputation. The chemistry is there and he seems to bend over backwards for her, but is she just another trophy he's desperate to claim? Or is he genuinely falling in love?

I don't think he's used to really courting and pursuing people properly anymore, especially those who already have fame and fortune

𝑀𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝒜 𝒯𝓇𝑜𝓅𝒽𝓎

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! Bouncing around waiting for the Canadian Grand Prix. I need it now...anyway enjoy. Lots of love xx

Summary: You meet Lewis Hamilton by chance and instantly click, but his past with women makes you hesitant until he proves you're the one he’s been waiting for.

Warnings: slight sweating

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes @piston-cup

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You’d almost skipped it, yet another opulent gathering filled with designer perfume, flashing lights, and smiles stretched too tightly across surgically perfected faces. These days, you knew how to play the game. Show up, smile, give just enough soundbites to feed the headlines, and then vanish before the fifth glass of champagne dulled your instincts. But your agent had insisted. Monaco, post-race, luxury and sponsors lining the balconies. It was the kind of glamorous setting where your presence wasn’t just welcomed, it was expected.

So, you went.

The dress was a custom number your stylist sent over. The attire was slinky, liquid silver and wrapped around you like it had been painted on. You wore it with the practiced ease of someone who’d long learned how to turn their body into armour. The cameras flashed the second you stepped out of the black car. You gave them a smirk, a slight tilt of the head, then walked up the marbled steps without a backward glance.

Inside, the venue was sheer decadence. Crystal chandeliers, velvet furniture, waiters moving like ghosts with champagne flutes, and a DJ spinning house music under a canopy of stars. The party was housed on a private terrace of a super yacht club, high above the coastline. The kind of place where money was assumed and names didn’t need introductions.

A few nods, a few air kisses. You exchanged pleasantries with a fashion house executive and a singer you’d shot a cover with last month. A Formula 1 driver whose name escaped you tried to pull you into a conversation, but you politely peeled away. The air inside felt too thick, too staged. You needed a moment to yourself.

So, you found your way to the balcony.

The cool night air kissed your skin, and you let your shoulders drop. The view was unreal as Monaco glittered below like spilled stardust, and the ocean beyond looked like smooth onyx. You leaned on the railing, letting the silence settle over you for a brief moment of peace.

That’s when you saw him.

Lewis Hamilton.

He stood not far away, half-shadowed by a column of white stone, hands in his pockets. You hadn’t noticed him before. Odd. He usually lit up a room just by being in it.

His suit was black-on-black, effortlessly tailored, no tie. Understated but impossibly sharp. There was no flashiness about him tonight, no statement jewellery and no cameras orbiting like satellites. Just quiet confidence, the kind that didn’t beg to be noticed.

Your eyes met for half a second. You looked away first. Not because you were shy but because something about his gaze made you feel seen. Not in the usual, transactional way. But truly, uncomfortably, seen.

He started walking over. You told yourself you didn’t care.

“You don’t look like you want to be here,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like dark velvet with a hint of amusement.

You arched a brow, not turning toward him just yet. “And here I thought I was hiding it well.”

He chuckled, stepping closer but not too close. “You’re doing a great job of pretending. Just not to someone who’s mastered the art of faking it himself.”

You turned to face him now, studying him up close. His skin glowed under the warm lights, and up close, his eyes were softer than you expected. Thoughtful. Present.

“Lewis,” he said, as if you didn’t already know.

“I’m aware.” You let a smirk tug at your lips. “I’m not blind.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

You shrugged and sipped your champagne. “Just means I’ve seen enough to know what I’m getting into.”

“Have you?” His tone was playful, but his eyes flickered with something more. “Because I’m not sure you’ve got me figured out just yet.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you replied, but there was no bite to it.

He leaned against the railing beside you, his side just brushing yours. Not by accident. You didn’t move. He noticed.

“I’m not trying to flatter,” he said. “But I am curious.”

“About what?”

“You,” he said simply.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You barely know me.”

“That’s the point,” he replied. “Everyone here knows of each other. But nobody actually knows anyone. You’re the first person I’ve seen tonight who wasn’t performing.”

You laughed, short and dry. “Maybe I’m just tired.”

“Maybe,” he said, smiling. “Or maybe you’re one of the rare people who remembers who she is outside of the cameras.”

You stared at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. There was no pick-up line, no bravado. He said it like a truth. One that he carried for himself, too.

“And you’re here to tell me you’re one of those rare people too?” you asked.

He considered that for a moment, looking out at the horizon. “I’m trying to be. Lately, that means stepping away from what people expect and figuring out what I want again.”

You hummed softly, unsure whether it was refreshing or rehearsed. Either way, he delivered it well.

“I thought F1 drivers liked the attention,” you mused, watching him from the corner of your eye.

“I liked the racing,” he said, voice quiet now. “Everything else got loud.”

The honesty in his tone pulled you in before you could stop yourself.

“What makes you think I’m different?” you asked him.

He didn’t hesitate. “Because you haven’t once tried to impress me.”

You blinked, then smiled despite yourself. “Maybe I don’t think I need to.”

“That’s exactly why I’m impressed,” he said, his voice dropping just a touch.

There it was. The flirtation. But it didn’t come off as manipulative or predatory. It was gentle. Interested. Intentional.

Still, you hesitated.

“You’ve got a reputation,” you said, folding your arms as a breeze swept over the balcony. “And I’ve worked too hard to be anyone’s temporary fascination.”

Lewis turned slightly to face you more directly, his expression shifting.

“You think I chase women like some trophy collector?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

He sighed, low and self-aware. “Fair enough. I know what the headlines say.”

You gave him a small, almost apologetic shrug. “They say the same things about me, just in reverse.”

That surprised him.

“You think people see you as a trophy too?”

You hesitated, then nodded once. “All the time. They just want to own something beautiful. Not get to know it.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, softly: “Then maybe we’re more alike than we thought.”

A flash from a distant camera reminded you of where you were. You stiffened automatically, the years of instinct kicking in. You turned your head slightly, shielding your face.

Lewis noticed immediately. “You, okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied. “I just hate the way one candid photo can become a story that never happened.”

He looked at you for a long moment, then said gently, “Want to get out of here?”

Your gaze snapped back to his.

“I’m not asking for a nightcap,” he added quickly, lifting his hands in surrender. “Just a break. A quiet street. A walk. I figure someone like you probably hasn’t had one in a while.”

You hesitated.

Everything about this was dangerous. He was dangerous - good looks, charisma, a long trail of tabloid flings. He was the type of man who made you forget logic, forget your boundaries, forget how hard you’d worked to protect yourself from becoming a footnote in someone else’s story.

And yet he wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t assuming. He was offering you a choice.

You looked at him, studying the quiet sincerity in his eyes. Then, slowly, you nodded.

“Alright,” you said softly. “But no funny business.”

Lewis grinned, charming and boyish. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He offered his arm. You didn’t take it. But you walked beside him anyway.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt curious about what would happen next.

You didn’t expect the silence between you to feel so natural. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just the kind of quiet that let you breathe, like your lungs hadn’t fully expanded all night until now.

The buzz of the gala had dulled into a distant murmur behind you. Out here, the night was warmer than expected, cloaked in that soft summer breeze that carried the perfume of city jasmine and the faint smoke of a food cart two blocks over. Even your heels on the pavement sounded less sharp than they had when you first arrived like the world had turned its volume down just for this walk.

Neither of you rushed. The pace was slow, not out of hesitation, but out of comfort. The kind of tempo that suggested time wasn’t the priority, presence was.

You snuck a glance at him, eyes sliding sideways.

“You always this forward?” you asked, tone dry but not sharp.

Lewis glanced over, his mouth tugging upward slightly, eyes reflecting the gold flicker of a passing streetlamp. “What, for dragging a woman away from champagne and celebrities after barely ten minutes?”

You arched a brow, amused. “Something like that.”

He chuckled, a quiet, rasp-edged sound that made something flicker low in your chest. “No. Not usually. But I figured worst case, you tell me to piss off. Best case, you let me walk beside you for a few minutes.”

You shook your head with a smile. “Bit of a gamble.”

He nudged his shoulder slightly in your direction, hands tucked casually into his pockets. “Sometimes the odds feel worth it.”

There was an ease to him now different from the poised, polished figure who’d been standing at the edge of the ballroom, swarmed by admiration, half-listening to everyone but looking only at you. Out here, he felt less like Lewis Hamilton, global icon, and more like a man who’d just needed air. Maybe for the same reasons you had.

“You seemed like you wanted to disappear in there,” he said, eyes focused forward again. “That’s why I noticed you.”

You exhaled a quiet laugh through your nose. “I did. Not really my scene.”

“I figured,” he said. “You weren’t posing. You weren’t trying. I watched you turn down three photographers.”

You blinked. “You were watching me?”

He grinned, unabashed. “Just a little.”

A pause. Then, quieter: “I liked how you didn’t seem to care if anyone saw you or not. That’s rare.”

The words pulled a strange warmth to your cheeks. You didn’t know what to do with the sincerity in his voice how different it felt from the usual compliments tossed at you like darts. This wasn’t about your dress. Or your face. Or your presence on someone’s arm. It was about how you were.

He looked up at the sky for a second, exhaling like he was trying to loosen something in his chest.

“Truth is,” he said, “I’ve spent years around people who want to be seen with me. Not really with me.”

You stayed quiet, sensing this was more than just small talk.

“Sometimes they come for the wrong reasons. They want the access, the image, the feeling of being close to something big. And that’s fine,” he shrugged. “I let it happen sometimes. I play the part.”

“You mean you let them in?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “I let them close enough to think they are. Then most nights, I send them home before morning.”

There was no brag in it. No edge. Just a quiet exhaustion that felt lived-in.

“That sounds lonely,” you said gently, more truth than question.

He glanced over, his expression soft. “It is. But it’s better than pretending. I used to keep people around just to avoid silence. But now, I think I’d rather be alone than misunderstood.”

Your heart tugged a little at that. There was something disarming about hearing a man like him say something like that. Like peeling back, a curtain and finding a mirror.

“I’m not looking for something casual,” he added after a beat. “I know that’s what people think about me that I’ve always got someone. But most of the time, those women they come wanting a version of me that doesn’t exist. And the moment I’m quiet, or complicated, or just tired, they start looking for an exit.”

You bit your lip, trying to hide the sting those words gave you not because they were painful to hear, but because they were so starkly honest. It reminded you of your own experiences. Of people who only stayed for the best parts, never the messy middle.

“So,” you said, voice careful, “why are you telling me all this?”

He looked at you. And the way his gaze settled on your face made the night feel warmer somehow. More intimate.

“Because I don’t want to play a part with you,” he said simply. “And because I think you’re the kind of woman who’d see through it anyway.”

You stopped walking.

You didn’t mean to it just happened, like your feet had caught up to what your heart was processing.

He stopped too, facing you.

The street around you was quiet, your car parked just a little ahead, but the space between you felt suddenly thick with something unspoken. A current. A shift.

“I’m not perfect,” he said, hands out of his pockets now, open at his sides. “I’ve made mistakes. I’ve walked away from good things because I didn’t think I deserved them at the time. But I’m older now. I’ve done the noise. The distractions. I’ve had every kind of attention, and none of it ever made me feel seen.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening, not out of doubt but recognition.

Because maybe you’d been waiting to feel seen too.

“Good night, Lewis,” you said softly, fingers brushing the edge of the door handle behind you.

But before you could pull it open, he stepped forward not close enough to invade, just enough to let you know he wasn’t done.

“Wait.”

You looked back.

His voice was quiet. No show. No charm. Just him.

“You’re not just beautiful,” he said. “You’re different. I don’t even know what that means yet, but I’d like to find out. Slowly. Properly. Not in a headline. Not at some party. Just one real moment at a time.”

For a second, all you could do was look at him.

Because in the space of a single walk, he’d gone from the kind of man you avoided - flashy, loud, too easily admired to someone who made you feel steady from one conversation. Grounded. Like maybe the world wasn’t just curated smiles and shallow compliments.

You nodded.

Just once.

Then you stepped into the car. The door clicked shut behind you, the driver already pulling into motion as the city began to blur past.

But you didn’t look at your phone. You didn’t reach for your clutch.

You just looked back.

And there he was.

Still standing on the sidewalk. Still watching you go.

Still waiting.

And for the first time in a long time, you wanted someone to wait.

You didn’t expect to hear from him again not really.

That night had felt like something outside of time. A moment suspended in glass, too rare and perfect to survive in the wild. You had replayed it in fragments: the sound of his laugh under the streetlamp, the way his voice dropped when he admitted things he didn’t owe you, the stillness between you that somehow said more than any scripted line ever could.

But life didn’t slow down just because you’d shared a quiet spark with someone the rest of the world idolised. Monday came with the full force of deadlines and digital calendars. Lecture halls and coffee-stained notepads. Your desk was a mess of model agency printouts and half-written research about majority of them, your inbox a graveyard of unread threads and polite nudges your manager. You had barely looked at your phone all morning, which was saying something in this age.

But around noon, during a rare lull, you picked it up. A red badge hovered over Instagram. You opened the app on muscle memory, expecting a meme from Angelica or a random story tag. What you didn’t expect was a DM request.

From lewishamilton.

Your breath stalled for a second. The blue checkmark confirmed it before your brain could even begin to rationalise a fake account theory.

You tapped.

lewishamilton:

Hey. It’s Lewis.

I found something I think you’d appreciate.

You free Thursday night? Private art exhibit. Low-key. Just us.

You blinked. Once. Twice. The words sat still on the screen, but your thoughts raced ahead.

There was no flourish. No grand gesture. Just him, continuing a conversation as if the street hadn’t swallowed your night whole after you’d driven off. Like your shared moment wasn’t just some one-off flicker of chemistry under the glow of a city too used to pretending.

You clicked on his profile, absurdly just to confirm again that it really was him. Same photos. Same activism highlights. Same effortless, understated captions.

And yet somehow, the most intimate thing was this message. Because he hadn’t gone through anyone. Not PR. Not assistants. Not Angela. Just him.

Your gaze drifted to your planner, where Thursday was already bleeding with ink. Two lectures back to back, a research meeting, and a late-night shift organising files for a criminal law professor with a penchant for last-minute requests.

You sat back in your chair, thumb hovering over the reply box far longer than necessary. You considered just saying yes. You even typed it once. Sure. Where?

Then deleted it.

You couldn’t remember the last time someone had invited you to something like that. Not as a networking move, not to impress you with glitz or clout but just because they thought you might enjoy it. Because of something you had said.

You stared at the screen again. Then, finally:

You:

Appreciate the invite.

Sounds like a lovely night, but I’m buried in work this week.

Maybe another time.

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself into oblivion.

There was a pang as you closed the app. Not regret, exactly but something adjacent. Like brushing your fingers along the edge of a door you weren’t ready to walk through.

You didn’t expect a reply.

And none came. Not right away.

You figured that was it. He’d probably moved on. Maybe it had just been a kind impulse, a spark he was already used to forgetting.

But two days later, a small package arrived at your apartment.

No frills. No courier with a clipboard or a sleek branded sleeve. Just a plain cardboard box with your name handwritten across the top in a surprisingly neat script.

Your heart beat a little faster as you opened it.

Inside was a book. Hardbound. Leather edges worn just slightly, like it had lived somewhere loved.

"The Language of Light: A Hidden History of Art and Emotion."

You sat down.

Your fingers brushed over the cover like it might disappear. It wasn’t just rare. It was out of print. Something you’d mentioned offhandedly during that first conversation at the event, an old favourite you had only ever found in scanned PDFs during long nights at the library.

He remembered.

You opened the cover. Inside, tucked between the pages, was a folded note on unlined ivory paper.

Thought you’d enjoy this more than a gallery tour. No pressure. Just thought of you.

— L.

Your throat tightened.

There were gifts, and then there were gestures. This was the latter - measured, thoughtful, intimate in a way that felt undeserved but impossible not to be moved by. You hadn’t said much to him. Just a few thoughts about symbolism, about how light in Renaissance paintings wasn’t just technique but emotion how it often told the story louder than the faces.

And he’d listened.

You stared at the book for a long time, trying to find the right place in your chest to store the weight of that intention.

It was almost evening when you finally reopened your phone.

Instagram DM.

You:

That was thoughtful. Unexpected.

How about coffee instead? Saturday? Casual.

You stared at the message for a long beat. Then hit send.

You barely had time to put the phone down before it buzzed again.

lewishamilton:

Absolutely.

You pick the place. I’ll be there.

There was no emoji. No ellipsis of hesitation.

Just certainty.

You leaned back into your chair, the half-eaten takeout now cold beside your untouched notes. For the first time in a long while, your mind drifted away from work, from pressure, from performance.

You smiled.

The pursuit had begun.

But it wasn’t flashy.

It wasn’t performative.

It was something else entirely.

Intentional. Quiet. Patient.

The kind of pursuit that didn’t ask to be chased.

Just seen.

And maybe just maybe that was exactly what you’d been waiting for.

You chose the café carefully small, quiet, discreet. A little tucked away, pressed between two bookstores, as if it were hiding on purpose. The kind of place where you could order a coffee and stay for hours without anyone ushering you out. The kind of place that knew how to mind its business.

It felt like a space you could breathe in where conversation could spill and stretch without the threat of interruption.

And when Lewis walked in, head low beneath a grey hoodie, worn cap pulled down to shield his profile, no one gave him a second glance.

But your eyes found him instantly.

Not because he was Lewis Hamilton. Not because of the weight his name carried.

But because of how he walked in looking only for you.

There was no scan of the café, no moment of hesitation. Just a direct line between the door and your table like he already knew you’d be exactly where he’d hoped.

His smile half-curved, familiar now in a way that warmed your ribs slipped into place as he pulled off his cap.

“Hope you weren’t waiting too long,” he said, sliding into the seat across from you, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

You shook your head, your lips twitching. “Not at all. I was curious what kind of coffee a seven-time world champion drinks when he’s not being mobbed by photographers.”

That earned a quiet laugh low and genuine.

“Disappointingly normal,” he replied. “Oat flat white. Sometimes cinnamon when I’m feeling dangerous.”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning mock intrigue. “Living recklessly, I see.”

He leaned back slightly, a teasing glint in his eyes. “What can I say? Risk is in my blood.”

It was easy, the way you spoke. A rhythm neither of you had to search for. Like a song you already half-knew the lyrics to.

But the small talk didn’t last. It never did with him.

There was something about Lewis, about the way he listened without interruption, about how he never rushed silence that made honesty spill from you in ways you didn’t expect.

You talked about your work not the high-shine, polished version that made it to social media, but the reality. The grit behind the glamour. The endless fittings, the exhausting travel, the strange ache that came with building a career on being looked at, judged, picked apart.

You told him how you used to bend to fit expectations how you’d confused being seen with being valued.

“I used to think success was just visibility,” you said, your hands wrapped tightly around your mug. “Like if enough people saw me, I’d matter. But now? I’m more interested in impact. Quiet, long-term things. Not just posing for a cause but creating space. Mentoring. Funding grassroots programs. Giving the next girl a voice before the world teaches her to silence it.”

He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t even blink. He just absorbed.

“That’s powerful,” he said finally, voice low. “A lot of people don’t pivot like that. They get stuck in the game, even when it’s hurting them.”

You looked at him then. “You’d know a thing or two about games.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach all the way to his eyes.

“Yeah,” he murmured, fingers tracing the lip of his coffee cup. “The system. The expectations. The story people write for you before you’ve had a chance to write your own.”

You didn’t speak. Just gave him space. And sure enough, he continued.

“I love racing. I always have. But fame that’s the part that’s lonelier than people think. Everyone thinks they know you. Or worse, they want to. But not for you, for the version of you they’ve decided on.”

He paused; eyes trained on the swirl of his coffee.

“I used to try and keep up. Try to meet the version people expected. Now? I just want something real. Quiet, maybe. But true.”

You remembered that night not just the event, but the aftermath. The book he sent. The handwritten note. The gesture that wasn’t loud, but intentional. And how, even before you met him again, you knew he wasn’t the type to play games. He’d told you as much: I don’t do casual anymore. Haven’t in a long time.

Still…

There was a part of you that hesitated. Not because of anything he’d done. But because of everything that came with him.

You stared into your cup for a long moment before saying softly, “Can I ask something?”

He nodded. “Always.”

You drew in a breath, trying to sort through the tangle in your chest. “I know you’re not looking for something fleeting. I believe that. I just need to question again. I’ve seen the headlines, Lewis. The relationships. The breakups. The speculation. I’ve seen how people talk about you like you’re a season on a streaming service something to tune into until they get bored.”

You lifted your gaze to meet his. “I don’t want to be a headline. Or a phase. Or a rumor someone laughs about over wine.”

The café hummed with soft chatter around you, but in your booth, there was only stillness.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t retreat.

Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice steady and sure.

“I get that. Completely. And I don’t blame you for being cautious. But just so you know I’ve had enough of surface-level everything. Of relationships that look good in photos but feel hollow behind closed doors.”

His voice dipped slightly. “I’m not looking for the next thing. I’m looking for the real thing. And I’d rather move slowly with someone who matters than rush into something shiny that breaks.”

You let his words sit between you.

Outside, people passed with coffee cups and hurried steps. Deadlines. Meetings. A whole city moving fast.

But in here, time bent. Stretched.

“You’re not what I expected,” you said finally, your voice quieter now.

He gave a lopsided grin. “Good, unexpected?”

You smiled. “The best kind.”

It wasn’t a thunderclap moment. No orchestral swell. Just a shift. Deep, subtle. Like the earth moving beneath your feet.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t want to run.

You didn’t want to edit yourself into something more palatable.

You just wanted to stay.

And that was enough for now.

Though soon enough, it started with a single photo.

No warning. No camera clicks. No telltale whispers behind menus or sunglasses tilted just a little too far.

Just a quiet corner of a Notting Hill café, the smell of roasted espresso in the air, the sleeve of your jacket brushing against his as you leaned in to laugh at something stupid, he said. A moment that had felt safe, untouched - yours.

And then it was everywhere.

By Monday morning, it felt like the entire internet had a magnifying glass held up to your life. Your face was splashed across digital tabloids, dissected on talk shows, paired with clickbait captions in bold fonts.

"Lewis Hamilton Spotted on Cozy Coffee Date with Model-Activist [Y/N]"

"Hamilton’s Mystery Woman: Who is She and How Did She Win His Heart?"

"Is This the Beginning of a New F1 Love Story?"

And worse:

"[Y/N]: From Campaigns to Hamilton’s Arm Candy?"

They called it romantic. Enigmatic. A “power couple in the making.”

But to you, it felt invasive. Dehumanising.

You had been seen but not in the way that mattered. Not for your voice, your work, your values. Just as another woman in Lewis Hamilton’s orbit.

What had been sacred and what had felt real was now public property. Another storyline to chew on. Another notch in the narrative of who Lewis Hamilton might be dating this time.

You weren’t stupid. You knew who he was. What came with him. You’d done your research the way any woman with a protective instinct would. And no matter how respectful he’d been with you, no matter how much he seemed different in private, the world didn’t care about nuance.

To them, you were just a pretty face. A model. A convenient narrative.

And it was already starting to bleed into your career.

That afternoon, walking into a primetime radio spot meant to raise awareness for a girls’ education fund, you felt it immediately the shift in tone. The not so subtle smiles from producers, the curious glint in the host’s eyes before the segment even began.

Fifteen minutes in, it happened.

“So, the internet’s been buzzing after you were spotted with the Lewis Hamilton. Anything you’d like to confirm or deny?”

A beat.

You smiled, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I didn’t realise grabbing coffee with a friend had become headline-worthy.”

The host chuckled, leaning in. “Well, when that friend is Lewis Hamilton, it’s fair game, no?”

You steered the conversation back to the girls’ stories. Their voices. Their potential. But part of you knew it wouldn’t matter.

You could already hear the edit in your head.

By the time you left the building, your phone was vibrating nonstop. A DM from your agent. A group chat with your friends lighting up. A gossip blog already running a headline that quoted your sarcasm completely out of context.

And suddenly, you were no longer the lead of your own life.

You were someone’s accessory.

By the time you reached Lewis’s place that evening, your chest was tight with frustration. Not at him not yet but at how predictable this all felt. How familiar. Like the very thing you’d always avoided was now unfolding, despite every quiet warning you’d given yourself.

He opened the door in a hoodie and sweats, hair tied up, a tea mug in hand. His expression shifted immediately when he saw your face.

“Hey are you alright?”

You didn’t answer.

You walked past him, head bowed, hands in the pockets of your oversized coat. The silence hung between you like static.

“Did you know?” you asked finally, your voice low and tight.

He blinked. “Did I know what?”

“That we were photographed. That this would happen. That they’d turn it into this.”

He shut the door slowly, setting the mug aside. “No. I swear I didn’t. I had no idea.”

You nodded once, but it wasn’t enough. The knot inside you was still there. Growing.

“I knew this would happen eventually. I knew. But I didn’t think it would be this soon. And now…” You paced once, then stopped. “Now they’re writing about me like I’m some some stunt. Like I’m another model sleeping her way into your headlines.”

His face dropped. “That’s not what—”

“No, I know it’s not what you think,” you said, voice rising, cracking slightly. “But that’s how they’ll spin it. It’s already happening. Three interviews today, Lewis. Three. And not one of them gave a damn about the girls I’m working with. They wanted soundbites. They wanted a scoop. They wanted you.”

He stayed quiet, jaw tense, watching you with a look that was more pain than anything else.

You took a breath, then another, pressing your hands to your temples.

“This is exactly why I didn’t want to get involved. With you. Not because I don’t like you. Not because I don’t see something real between us. But because this is what happens. Every woman you’re linked to, she gets reduced to a hashtag. A rumor. A whore in the comments section.”

Your voice broke, but you didn’t stop.

“They’re already calling me the new ‘flavour.’ The model-of-the-month. As if I’m not allowed to be more than a body. As if I haven’t spent years building my name on actual work.”

You met his eyes then, finally still. “Do you know how exhausting it is to constantly have to prove that you’re not some pretty thing sleeping her way through life? To fight for every inch of credibility and then lose it the second someone powerful is seen next to you?”

The room was quiet. So quiet you could hear your pulse in your ears.

And then he stepped forward, voice hushed.

“I hate that you’re feeling this. That being next to me made it harder, not easier. That you got the backlash for something I should’ve protected you from.”

You shook your head. “It’s not just you. It’s the machine around you. The expectations. The stories they’ve already written before they even know who I am.”

“I know,” he said softly. “And I wish I could change it all. I’d burn the whole narrative down if I could.”

He walked over, slowly, giving you space to step away if you needed. You didn’t.

“I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how women are treated in this world,” he continued. “How women like you are always the first ones questioned, the first ones judged. And it kills me that being near me added fuel to that.”

You exhaled, your voice quieter now. “It’s not that I regret being with you. I just... I need to know that I still get to be me. That I don’t disappear into this.”

He reached for your hand gentle, warm and grounding.

“You won’t,” he promised. “I won’t let that happen. We can be as private as you need. I won’t post anything, won’t speak about you unless you’re ready. If this is too soon, I’ll give you space. But I don’t want to lose this. Lose you.”

You swallowed, eyes meeting his. “I don’t want to lose it either.”

Then, softer: “I just don’t want to lose myself in the process.”

His thumb brushed your knuckles. “You were someone before me. You’ll always be someone - with or without me. I see you. Not the headlines. You. And I’ll do whatever it takes to help protect that.”

You didn’t speak right away.

But when you leaned into him a moment later resting your forehead against his shoulder, his arms looping gently around your waist and you let yourself believe that maybe, this could still be yours.

Not theirs.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

When Lewis invited you to the charity gala, you almost said no.

Not because you weren’t interested, it aligned almost perfectly with your values. Clean water initiatives. Sustainable farming. Educational access for girls in under-resourced areas. The kind of evening that, under different circumstances, would’ve felt like home.

But this past week had knocked the wind out of you.

There had been headlines speculating about you, not just as a woman in his orbit, but as someone “plucked from obscurity,” someone “new to the scene,” someone “clearly enjoying the spotlight.”

They didn’t know the years of study. The late nights. The passion for justice work you’d carried with you since you were old enough to understand that not all children were born with the same safety nets.

You weren’t sure you could stomach another night of being seen with him, rather than being seen as yourself.

He must’ve sensed that hesitation.

Because when he asked, it wasn’t with pressure or persuasion it was with honesty.

“If you don’t want to be there for me, come for the work. It’s not a red carpet thing it’s quiet, real. You can sit in the back, speak if you want, disappear if you don’t. I just thought you might actually love what the night stands for.”

There was no glint of charm in his eyes when he said it. No flirtation. Just a quiet offering.

That was what made you say yes.

It wasn’t about the glitz. It wasn’t about optics. It wasn’t even about him, entirely.

It was about a door he opened to a part of his life that meant something.

And the way he invited you through it like it wasn’t a performance but a partnership.

The event wasn’t what you expected.

There was no fanfare. No swarms of photographers. No branded step-and-repeats or celebrity entourages.

Just an intimate venue nestled in a quiet place converted from an old greenhouse, the space still held that same breath of life. Ferns and potted fig trees filled the corners. The air smelled like eucalyptus and orange blossom. Candlelight flickered against glass panes, casting soft gold reflections across the faces of people who, like you, had come to listen.

You arrived separately.

He’d insisted on it.

“I don’t want this to feel like a scene,” he’d said gently on the phone the night before. “I just want it to feel right.”

He hadn’t tried to sit you front and centre. In fact, when you found your name card on a small round table, you were tucked beside two female founders of a clean energy nonprofit. He knew enough not to wedge you into a table of influencers and athletes. He placed you among peers.

And him?

He was working.

You watched him move through the room never in a rush, never pulling attention. He greeted activists and organisers with the kind of familiarity that only comes from showing up before the cameras. Quiet nods, quick hugs, listening intently when someone spoke instead of nodding distractedly and moving on.

You caught glimpses of him helping staff rearrange chairs at the back. Taking a moment to calm a nervous teenage speaker behind the scenes. Whispering something encouraging that made her shoulders square again.

When his time came to speak, there was no pomp, no overly rehearsed notes.

He stood beside a simple wooden podium and let silence fall before he spoke.

“It’s not about being seen doing good,” he said, his voice quiet but resonant. “It’s about making sure we’re not the last ones in the room to care. About using our platforms to amplify not overshadow. I’ve been that guy before. The one who thought showing up was enough. But showing up is just the start.”

The words weren’t smooth or media ready. They cracked slightly at the edges, especially when he talked about the time he’d visited a refugee camp outside Nairobi, and a little boy asked if he was the man who drove cars or built homes.

“That question wrecked me,” he said. “Because I had no answer that felt good enough.”

You didn’t realise you were gripping the stem of your glass so tightly until the applause broke out around you, warm and genuine.

There it was.

Not a polished version of Lewis Hamilton.

Just Lewis. No mask. No script.

And for the first time in days, the tension in your chest began to loosen.

Maybe this wasn’t a performance.

Maybe he meant all of it.

Later, after the final speaker and a silent auction that raised over a million pounds, you found yourself near the garden terrace, away from the warm chatter and clinking glasses inside.

The night air was crisp, touched by the scent of night jasmine and damp stone. You sipped your sparkling elderflower tonic slowly, letting the stillness settle around you.

That’s when you felt him approach before you saw him.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You looked over, and there he was. Not Lewis Hamilton the icon. Just Lewis. Shirt collar undone, tie gone, suit sleeves rolled up slightly at the cuffs. He looked almost boyish in that moment. Disarming.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low.

You nodded, then after a beat, added, “This was incredible, Lewis.”

He smiled, but it wasn’t his usual smirk. It was quieter. Touched by something real.

“Means a lot coming from you.”

You turned to face him more fully. “You weren’t kidding. This wasn’t for cameras. You really care.”

“I do.” He paused, looking back toward the glowing windows. “People assume it’s performative. That I just throw money at causes to sleep better at night. But I’ve seen the wells go dry. I’ve met the kids who walk hours for school and still show up smiling. You can’t unsee that.”

There was a weight to his words, one you knew well.

“I wish people saw this version of you more often,” you said.

He gave a small, crooked grin. “Doesn’t trend the way yacht photos do.”

You laughed together, but there was something sad under it. A knowing. An ache.

And then he held out his hand, gentle and sure.

“Dance with me?”

You looked around. “There’s no dance floor.”

“There’s music,” he said, eyes glinting with a quiet softness.

You hesitated just long enough to feel the tremor of nerves flutter in your chest—then slipped your hand into his.

He led you to a tucked-away corner of the garden, where the music of soft jazz and piano drifted from discreet speakers. There were no fairy lights. No spotlight.

Just the moon above, the hush of the night, and him.

His hand settled on your waist. The other curled around yours.

And you danced.

Slow, unhurried, silent.

You felt the rise and fall of his chest. The heat of his skin through the thin fabric of your dress. The steady brush of his thumb over your spine.

The world faded.

You rested your head back on his shoulder, his arms circling you tighter.

You weren’t naïve. The world would still talk. The headlines would still twist things. You’d still be pulled into narratives you hadn’t written.

But in this still moment, in this small corner of the night you weren’t just a face next to his.

You were his choice.

And possibly he was becoming yours, too.

You stayed like that for a while, swaying gently under the soft hum of piano and night wind, neither of you speaking, but saying everything that needed to be said in the way your bodies moved in tandem unhurried, present, close.

Then slowly, he pulled back not far, just enough so he could look at you.

His gaze searched your face, quiet and steady.

And something passed between you then. Wordless. Certain.

The space between your mouths felt impossibly small.

You could’ve looked away. You could’ve stepped back.

But you didn’t.

Because for the first time, you didn’t feel like you were standing on someone else’s stage.

You felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

And when he leaned in slowly, giving you the chance to stop him you met him halfway.

The kiss was gentle at first. Just a soft press of lips, reverent and tentative. But when you didn’t pull away when your fingers curled into the lapel of his jacket and his hand slid up your back with quiet certainty - it deepened.

Still slow. Still careful.

But full of everything unspoken.

His lips moved with intention, not hunger. Not possession. Just connection.

Like he wanted to memorise you.

Like he didn’t want the moment to slip through his fingers too quickly.

When you finally parted, neither of you moved far. His forehead rested against yours, breath shallow and warm between you.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he admitted quietly, voice barely more than a whisper.

You smiled, lips still tingling. “I know.”

He laughed softly, and the sound vibrated in your chest.

Then, pulling back just enough to see your eyes, he added, “But I needed it to mean something.”

“It does,” you whispered. “It does.”

And as his fingers laced through yours again, holding your hand like it was something worth protecting, you knew—

This wasn’t about being swept up in someone else’s gravity.

This was about finding someone who saw your light and wanted to walk in it with you.

So, you leaned in, brushed your lips against his once more, and let yourself believe—

That maybe love didn’t always start with fireworks and fanfare.

Maybe, sometimes, it started quietly.

In the corner of a garden.

With soft music.

And a kiss that felt like the beginning of something honest.

Something that, for once, didn’t need the world’s approval.

Only yours.

Only his.

And that was enough.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The shift didn’t come with fireworks or grand declarations.

It came in the quiet things.

The way he texted to ask how your casting call went before his own day had even started, even if he was in another time zone. The way you sent him photos of books you thought he’d like, or quotes from poetry that reminded you of him. The way he called late at night from hotel rooms halfway across the world just to hear your voice his tone always soft, sometimes tired, but never distracted. Always present.

You were blending slowly, intentionally. Stitching together the edges of your lives without unraveling the seams of your individual selves.

And maybe that’s what made it feel real.

One Sunday, you invited him to brunch with your closest circle - Sarah, of course, and two other friends from modelling. The ones who had seen you cry into takeout after a brutal agency meeting, who'd seen you laugh until your stomach hurt in dressing room mirrors, who'd taken your hand when jobs got too thin or criticism too sharp. They were your chosen sisters. The women who had known you in both glamour and collapse.

You warned them beforehand.

“He’s not the version you see in magazines,” you told Sarah as you sipped on your oat milk latte. “He’s quieter. Softer. So don’t you know. Put on a show.”

Sarah arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “We won’t. But if he’s fake nice, or name-drops his watch brand mid-sentence, we will roast him.”

You smirked. “That’s fair.”

But when the morning arrived, he wasn’t fake nice. Not even close.

He showed up early, dressed in a navy hoodie, loose jeans, and a beanie tugged low on his curls. No entourage. No designer coat. Just him. And a bouquet of yellow ranunculus clutched a little awkwardly in one hand.

“For your roommate,” he said, handing them over with a shy smile. “She said she liked these once. Thought it might brighten up the place.”

Inside the cozy little brunch spot, he sat across from your friends with his shoulders relaxed, elbows off the table, listening more than he spoke. He asked Sarah about her new photography exhibit like he actually cared, not like he was trying to impress. He asked one of your friends how her runway in Milan had gone and told her he’d seen the photos “You absolutely owned that Dior coat, by the way.”

Your friends tested him, gently, the way protective women do. A few sarcastic jabs. A joke about being vegan. A story from the tabloids that was clearly exaggerated.

But Lewis didn’t flinch. He leaned into it. He laughed. Deflected with grace. Made a self-deprecating joke about being the “worst texter in the world” and admitted he still sometimes got nervous before a race. When your friend mentioned a charity gala she was helping organise for women’s shelters, he asked if she needed help with sponsorships.

And when he slipped his hand onto your knee beneath the table grounding and sure. Your friends glanced at each other. Not with suspicion.

But with approval.

“He’s really into you,” Sarah whispered afterward as you walked her to her car.

You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest. “I know.”

And maybe you were, too. Maybe you were in deeper than you’d meant to go.

A week later, he invited you to a Grand Prix.

Not as a guest of the team.

As his guest.

“I want you to see it,” he said one night over dinner. “Not the press conferences. Not the headlines. The actual thing. The chaos. The team. The work.”

You paused, your fork mid-air. “Are you sure? That’s a lot of attention. And it’s your turf.”

“I’m sure.” He reached across the table and brushed your fingers. “I don’t need you to be seen there. I just want you with me.”

And that’s what got you.

So, you packed light denim jacket, your favourite sunglasses, comfortable sneakers. The paddock pass arrived the day before your flight, your name printed neatly at the bottom. You stared at it for a long time before tucking it into your purse.

The race weekend was a whirlwind.

The noise hit you first an electric, thunderous energy that pulsed through your chest and under your skin. Everything moved fast. Precision met instinct at every turn. Team members zipped around like choreographed dancers, every gesture economical, every second accounted for.

But even in the chaos, Lewis was calm.

In his race suit, visor down, he moved with the poise of someone who had lived inside this world for years. You watched him converse with engineers in low, clipped tones, his hand sometimes resting on his hip, nodding as he processed data. You saw him break into a grin when a young fan nervously asked for a selfie. You saw him shake the hand of every crew member before stepping into the car.

And every so often, he looked for you. His eyes scanning. Finding. Softening.

Like you were his centre in the whirlwind.

At one point, you watched him crouch down to speak with a group of kids, students from an inner-city school he supported. He met them at eye level. Asked them questions. Showed them the buttons on his steering wheel. Let one of them wear his spare headset.

You didn’t take a photo.

You just admired it.

That night, back at the hotel after hours of racing, debriefs, sponsor handshakes, and a long shower that left the scent of his body wash on your skin - he lay beside you, the sheets tangled around your legs, his chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths.

For a long while, he didn’t say anything.

Then quietly, his voice low and a little hoarse:

“Do you think we’re doing this?”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze in the half-dark.

“Doing what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely between you, a tired smile playing at the corners of his lips. “You and me. The real thing.”

You didn’t rush to answer. You felt the question settle between your ribs like something fragile. Something worth protecting.

And then, you reached for his hand. Laced your fingers with his.

“I think we are.”

He nodded. Once. Like he was afraid to breathe too loud and ruin the moment.

“I don’t want to just be a chapter in your story,” he whispered. “I want to build something. Not fast. Not flashy. Just us.”

You moved closer, your leg draping over his, your mouth brushing against his.

“Then let’s build it.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for months. Then pulled you against him, his arms circling your waist, your bodies fitting like something familiar.

The next morning, sunlight spilled through the gauzy curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. His arm was heavy across your waist, his face buried in the curve of your neck, curls mussed and sleep warm.

You reached for your phone, blinking blearily at the screen.

A text from Sarah lit up the top:

Saw the paddock photo. You looked hot. But more importantly you looked happy.

You smiled.

Turning to face him, you gently brushed a curl from his forehead. His eyes fluttered open, sleepy and unguarded.

“We’re gonna have to talk about what this looks like in the real world,” you murmured.

He blinked. Then nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

“We can’t control what they say about me. Or you. Especially not together.”

“No,” he said quietly. “But we can control what we say. What we choose.”

You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the compass tattoo on his chest, close enough where you could feel the heart beat steady and strong beneath your palm.

“We’re choosing each other, then?”

His hand slid up your spine, pulled you closer, tucked your head beneath his chin.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Every damn time.”

And somehow, just like that, it felt like the beginning of something permanent.

A few weeks later.

It started with a headline.

“Hamilton’s Late-Night Encounter: Mystery Woman Spotted Leaving Monaco Suite.”

You were in the kitchen when you saw it still in sweatpants, mug in hand, waiting for the kettle to boil when your phone vibrated with a message from Sarah and a single word: Ugh.

You clicked the link, still half-asleep.

There it was.

A blurry photo. A woman walking briskly through the side entrance of a hotel, her back turned to the camera. Designer heels. Sleek hair. The timestamp circled in red.

Your stomach flipped.

Two nights ago. Monaco. When Lewis was supposed to be doing a sponsor dinner. When you'd been stuck in London for a shoot that ran late, your texts with him soft and sweet and sleepy.

The article didn’t outright accuse. It didn’t have to.

Phrases like “unconfirmed identity,” “not his usual companion,” “seen leaving after midnight” did all the heavy lifting. The tone of it was calculated, rehearsed an artfully vague dissection designed to pierce.

You didn’t even notice the mug slip from your hand until it hit the counter and clattered onto the floor, tea splashing across your bare feet. You barely blinked. Your eyes were locked on the screen.

And then your name.

Third paragraph.

“This comes only weeks after Hamilton was seen getting close to rising model sparking speculation of a new romance. If so, it seems the honeymoon phase may already be over.”

Your hands started shaking before your mind could even catch up.

For a few seconds, all you could hear was the rush of blood in your ears. Then the silence of your flat closed in around you like a trap. Still. Too still. Oppressively quiet.

You sat down on the edge of the sofa, the article still open, as if rereading it might make it hurt less.

But your brain refused to compute anything other than the one question looping like static in your mind:

What if it’s true?

You didn’t text him.

Not with anger. Not with curiosity. Not even with sarcasm.

You said nothing. Because silence was the only thing that made sense in that moment. Because if you’d opened your mouth or your inbox you weren’t sure what might come pouring out.

You opened his last message again, reading it through blurred eyes:

Miss you. Can’t wait to be home. Call you when I’m back, sweetheart. x

Your thumb hovered over the screen.

Backspace. Lock. Unlock. Backspace again.

When he called that night, your phone lit up on the coffee table his contact photo appearing like a punch to the chest. You let it ring out.

Once.

Then again.

Then a third time.

By then your hand was clenched so tightly around the hem of your hoodie it started to ache. You finally answered the silence with a message:

“Saw the article. I need space.”

No punctuation. No heart. Just space.

You expected a reply.

Some kind of defence. A panicked call. A voice note.

But instead, nothing.

Twenty-four hours.

Then another.

And another.

You told yourself it was better this way. That you wanted the silence. That it gave you room to breathe.

But by day three, you were checking his Instagram stories with a pathetic sort of desperation, searching for signs proof of innocence or guilt. Anything.

There was nothing.

Not a quote. Not a cryptic lyric. Not even a black square.

Sarah came by with Thai food and a bottle of wine.

You didn’t want to talk about it. You told her that.

She sat with you anyway, unpacking containers onto the coffee table, brushing soy sauce off her jeans as if the world weren’t falling apart in the room with you.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head. No.

But then, halfway through the wine and an hour into a rewatch of Notting Hill, it spilled out like floodwater breaking a dam.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” you whispered, legs tucked beneath you, voice barely audible. “I thought we were strong enough. That we were real. And that the noise would stay outside.”

Sarah didn’t interrupt. She just reached over, brushed a tear off your cheek with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

“Do you think he actually cheated?” she asked, carefully.

You took a long breath. One that burned on the way in.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “That’s the part that makes me sick. The fact that I can’t say for sure. The fact that it’s even a question.”

The knock came on the third night.

Late. Nearly eleven. Rain streaked across your windows, soft and steady.

You froze.

Another knock firm but cautious.

You opened the door to find Lewis standing there in a hoodie and joggers, soaked from the downpour, cap pulled low. He looked tired. Hollow in a way you hadn’t seen before.

His eyes met yours with a rawness that nearly buckled your knees.

He held up a manila folder like it was some kind of peace offering.

“Can I come in?” he asked, quietly.

You didn’t speak. You just stepped back.

He walked in slowly, like your flat was unfamiliar now. Like it belonged to another version of your relationship.

He didn’t sit.

He didn’t try to touch you.

He just handed you the folder.

“I need you to see this.”

Inside: printed emails, a timestamped guest log, signed clearance documents from the hotel. Screenshots of security footage - Jenna, the stylist, walking in at 9:13 p.m., walking out at 9:32.

“She was there for a fitting,” he said, voice rough. “That’s all. She’s married. Her husband was in the car downstairs waiting for her. I had no idea someone tipped off a pap until I woke up to the headline.”

You ran your thumb along the corner of the folder. Slowly. The paper was still warm from his hands.

“I should’ve called the moment I saw it,” he continued. “But I was scared. Not of what you’d say. I was scared it might already be too late.”

You sat down. Not because you wanted to. Because your legs gave out.

He stayed standing, elbows on his knees, hands knotted together in front of him.

“I’ve never lied to you,” he said softly. “Not once. And I won’t start now. This – us it means everything to me. But I know headlines like that plant doubt. I just wanted to show you I still choose you. That I’m not going to disappear when it gets ugly.”

Your vision blurred again. But this time not with confusion. With the weight of knowing he really did show up.

“I didn’t know if you would,” you murmured. “I hoped. But I didn’t know.”

Lewis took a cautious step closer, lowering himself onto the edge of the coffee table in front of you.

“I will,” he said. “Even if you shut me out. Even if you think you hate me. I’ll keep showing up.”

You reached for his hand. He gripped yours like a lifeline.

“I believe you,” you said quietly. “And I’m sorry I didn’t… I just didn’t know what to do with all of it.”

“You were scared,” he said. “I get it. So was I.”

You exhaled shakily, leaning your forehead against his.

The silence between you felt different now. Less like distance. More like healing.

That night, wrapped in the dark quiet of your bed, you traced your fingers along his chest.

“This is the part where most people give up,” you whispered.

He kissed the crown of your head.

“Then let’s not be most people.”

You let the words settle in your bones.

And then, softly, without lifting your head:

“If it ever happens again if they try to drag us through it…”

“I’ll handle it,” he murmured.

“No,” you said. “Next time, I get to punch them first.”

He laughed, really laughed for the first time in days and pulled you closer.

“Deal.”

The decision hadn’t been light.

Three days after the Monaco fallout, he posted the photo - your hands intertwined, taken on a quiet morning neither of you remembered posing for. No caption. No tags.

Just the truth, plain and deliberate.

You’d stared at it on your screen for a long time before you breathed again.

The press had a field day, of course. Speculation, headlines, theories. Some kind. Most not.

But what mattered was what he said when reporters asked him directly that weekend at the paddock.

“I’m in a relationship,” he said calmly, mic in hand, eyes steady beneath his sunglasses. “And I care about her a lot. That’s all I’ll say, because I’m not here to perform it. I’m here to protect it.”

He looked directly into the camera as he said it.

And you knew that was for you.

Now, as the night unfolded in glittering layers, you found him again across the room. He was with a few other drivers, laughing at something Charles had just said. But when he saw you lingering near the balcony doors, he excused himself without a second thought.

You leaned against the railing, letting the city hum below you. The party blurred behind the glass.

“Too much?” Lewis asked, stepping beside you.

You glanced at him. “Not when you’re here.”

He nodded slowly, slipping his hand into yours.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “Back at the paddock. I don’t want to hide what we are. Not anymore. Not ever again.”

You looked at him - this man who had fought for you, who had waited through your silence, who had offered not just proof, but presence.

“I know,” you said softly. “And I’m with you. All the way.”

You turned, facing him fully, letting vulnerability bloom between you like it had the night he’d shown up with that manila folder in his hand and heartbreak in his eyes.

“I was scared,” you admitted. “That loving someone like you meant losing pieces of myself. But it’s the opposite. Being with you feels like coming home to parts of me I didn’t even know were missing.”

Lewis exhaled, slow and deep.

His hand came to rest against your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye.

“I don’t need the perfect version of you,” he said. “I just want you. All of you.”

A lump rose in your throat. This man. This flawed, honest, vulnerable man who’d chosen you in the storm.

“I love you,” you whispered. “Even when it’s messy. Even when I’m terrified.”

His forehead pressed gently to yours, his breath warm and steady against your lips.

“Good because I love you till infinity,” he murmured. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, anchoring you to the moment. His lips brushed yours soft, reverent, like he was trying to memorise the feel of your mouth before he even fully kissed you. And then he did kiss you, slow and sure, his other hand resting at your waist like a vow. It was the kind of kiss that made time go quiet, the kind that wrapped itself around your ribs and held tight.

When he pulled back, his voice was rougher. Barely above a whisper.

“You were never just a trophy, you know.”

You blinked, your heart stuttering in your chest.

“Lewis—”

He shook his head, gently cutting you off. “Not to the world. To me. I was scared that maybe that’s what you thought you were to me. That with the cameras and the rumours and everything else, maybe I’d made you feel like you were a prize I won. But you weren’t. You aren’t.”

Your throat tightened. He looked down at you like you were more than flesh and blood like you were the answer to a question he hadn’t realised he’d been asking for years.

“I knew the first time I met you,” he continued, thumb grazing your jaw, “when you looked at me like I was just a man. Not a driver. Not a brand. Just a man who’d said something dumb and you called me out for it.”

You laughed softly, remembering.

He smiled, but it faltered slightly. His tone shifted again, deeper now. Honest.

“But I also knew right then that you were the lot. Not just someone special. The person. The one I’d been waiting to find without knowing I was even missing her.”

You swallowed around the ache in your throat.

Then his expression shifted again tender, and a little raw. “And thank you…for seeing past everything they said about me. The headlines. The stories. The women. I know how it looks sometimes. I know what they’ve said.”

He paused, pressing his lips together for a second.

“I was lost for a while,” he admitted quietly. “There were nights I didn’t even recognise myself. But you looked past all that. You saw me. You never made me explain, and you never used it against me.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just reached up and touched the side of his face.

“I didn’t want the version of you they painted,” you said gently. “I wanted the one who shows up. The one who sits with me in the quiet. The one who fights to be better and means it.”

His eyes shone with emotion. “I’m still fighting.”

“I know. So am I.”

Silence stretched between you, comfortable now, thick with the gravity of everything that had been said.

“I didn’t want to need anyone,” you whispered. “But I chose you. And I still do. Every single day.”

His eyes closed for half a second, like the weight of those words landed somewhere deep in his chest. When he opened them again, they shimmered with unshed emotion.

“Then let me be worthy of that. Let me keep showing up. Even when it’s hard. Even when we fight. Even when the world’s watching.”

“It already is,” you said softly, gesturing to the world behind the glass, the party still spinning without you.

He turned slightly, angling his body so he shielded you from the view inside. “Let them watch. Let them write their headlines.”

Then he leaned in, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“They’ll never capture this. What we are. What we have.”

You closed your eyes, a small breath escaping your lips. You’d never been one for grand declarations, but this wasn’t about spectacle. It was about certainty. The kind of love that didn’t need a spotlight, just a steady hand to hold.

You rested your forehead against his collarbone, breathing him in. “Stay with me tonight?”

He tilted your chin up to meet his gaze. “Always.”

The night ended with the city lights flickering beneath the glass and the afterparty fading into a blur behind you. His jacket draped over your shoulders, his hand finding yours again without even looking.

In the car, your heels abandoned at your feet, your bare legs draped across his lap, you leaned into the quiet. The hum of the road, the steady rhythm of his hand tracing circles on your thigh.

He looked at you like you were the sunrise and the safe harbour all at once.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you were just surviving the world around you.

You felt like you had someone to meet it with.

Not a perfect love. But a real one.

And as his fingers laced through yours, as he pressed a kiss to your knuckles like they were holy, you knew—

This was only the beginning.

461 notes · View notes

driverlando · 10 months ago

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✧.* THE FAN DIARIES

synopsis- in which nothing escapes the eyes of the devoted (Oscar Piastri x f!reader)

before you continue: I hope you enjoy this new smau series where I delve into stories from fans about the couples throughout the years!! it’s been so fun <3

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

✧.* 2022- boyfriend and girlfriend

✧.* 2023- boyfriend and girlfriend

✧.* 2024-boyfriend and girlfriend

—

✧.* 2026- engaged

Formula 1 Star Oscar Piastri Engaged to Supermodel Y/N Y/L/N? Fans Spot a Ring in Public!

By: Sasha, Rumour Radar

In the fast-paced world of Formula 1, it’s not unusual for drivers to make headlines both on and off the track. But when it comes to Oscar Piastri, the young McLaren driver known for his cool demeanour and precise driving, the latest buzz isn’t about his lap times—it’s about his love life.

Over the weekend, Piastri was spotted in a casual but intimate moment with none other than international supermodel Y/N Y/L/N, setting the rumour mill ablaze with speculation that the two are secretly engaged. The couple, who have been dating since 2022 and have been notoriously private about their relationship, were seen shopping together at a quaint boutique in Monaco, sparking a flurry of excitement among fans.

The sighting was innocent enough: Oscar and Y/N, both dressed in laid-back summer attire, were browsing through a selection of home goods. Witnesses described them as "completely at ease," sharing laughs as they picked out items for what appeared to be a shared living space. But it wasn’t the domesticity of their outing that caught fans’ attention—it was the sparkling ring adorning Y/N’s left hand.

Eagle-eyed fans quickly took to social media, sharing photos and videos of the couple from the outing. The ring in question, a delicate but undeniably stunning diamond set in a simple band, has led many to believe that the pair might be engaged.

"Did anyone else see that rock on Y/N’s finger?!" one fan tweeted, alongside a blurry but revealing image of the couple holding hands. "Oscar and Y/N engaged?? This is HUGE!"

While neither Oscar nor Y/N have confirmed or denied the engagement rumours, the speculation has only grown stronger. Some fans have pointed out that the couple has been spending more time together in recent months, often seen in each other’s company at high-profile events, as well as more low-key, everyday outings like this one.

"It's not just the ring," another fan commented in a viral TikTok video analysing the couple's body language. "They look so comfortable together, like they've moved past just dating and are really solidifying their relationship. I wouldn't be surprised if they were already planning a wedding!"

Despite their best efforts to keep their romance under wraps, Oscar and Y/N have become one of the most talked-about couples in the world of sports and fashion. The Australian F1 prodigy and the glamorous supermodel have been linked since early 2022, though they've kept their relationship out of the limelight, only occasionally giving fans glimpses into their private lives.

The rumour of their engagement isn’t the first time the pair has sparked speculation. Last December, they were photographed together on a secluded beach getaway in the Maldives, fuelling rumours of a blossoming romance. And earlier this year, Y/N was spotted cheering Oscar on from the McLaren paddock during the Monaco Grand Prix, further solidifying her status as his number one fan.

For now, Oscar and Y/N have remained tight-lipped about the swirling engagement rumours, leaving fans to speculate and hope for a confirmation. But if the ring on Y/N’s finger is anything to go by, it seems the couple might just be ready to take their relationship to the next level.

As the Formula 1 season continues to heat up, so too does the curiosity surrounding one of its rising stars. Whether or not the engagement rumours are true, one thing is certain: all eyes will be on Oscar Piastri and Y/N Y/L/N as they navigate life both on and off the track.

Stay tuned to Rumour Radar for the latest updates on this unfolding story and more celebrity gossip.

—

✧.* 2028 - husband and wife

✧.* 2030- parents

—

#f1 fanfic #oscar piastri social media au #f1 x reader #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri smau #f1 smau #formula one smau #oscar piastri x you #f1 smut #oscar piastri x reader

2K notes · View notes

sunflowerlando · 5 months ago

Text

right but wrong | ln4

• summary: the fans think you’re dating an f1 driver, but they’re wrong about which one

• pairing: lando norris x plus-size model!reader

• warnings: occasional swearing; use of y/n; probably typos

• faceclaim: ashley graham (pics from pinterest/insta and do not belong to me)

• a/n: good gourd this is looooooooooong (i actually hit the photo limit), but y'all voted for a long post vs. 2 parts

F1 masterlist

•~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-•

•yourusername•

Liked by scuderiaferrari, charles_leclerc, carlossainz55, lando, yourbff, and 1.5m others

yourusername: Vegas Babyyyyy🏎️🏁❤️

view all comments

scuderiaferrari Was such a pleasure having you, Y/n! Come back any time

yourusername Thank you for the invite! I had so much fun

yourbff We had a blastttttttt

fanuser1 omg my queen and my team together

yourmodelingagency That’s our girl!! 😍😍

yourusername Thanks for setting it up ❤️

lando so nice to meet you, beautiful! would love to have you at McLaren next time! you’d look so good in papaya 🧡 (liked by creator)

yourusername that would be so fun!! 🧡

fanuser2 lando tryingtorizz? 😂

oscarpiastri yes! Come hang with us next

fanuser3 omfg you are so gorgeous

•yourusername has posted to their story•

story replies

yourbff safe flight baby

yourusername thank you my love!! I’ll text you 🥰🥰

lando excited to see you!

yourusername right back at you!!

carlossainz55 Ferrari garage again???

yourusername I'll come say hi for sure!

fanuser1 is what I think is happening happening

fanuser2 oh to live your life

•fan tweets•

•yourusername•

Liked by mclaren, oscarpiastri, carlossainz55, lando, yourbff, and 1.1m others

yourusername: Abu Dhabi you were amaziiiing

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mclaren Maybe you were our lucky charm? (liked by creator)

yourusername What a win!! Congrats again to everyone 🧡

lando thank you for being there! (liked by creator)

oscarpiastri wooooohooooooooooooooo (liked by creator)

carlossainz55 after party was loco (liked by creator)

yourbff I hope you had the most wonderful tiiiime (liked by creator)

yourusername all parts of this trip were incrediiiible

fanuser1 Excuse me, is that A MAN in the last 2 slides?

fanuser2 Carlos in the likes again too 👀👀

fanuser3 liking & commenting carlossainz55

alexandrasaintmleux it was so nice finally meeting you!!!

yourusername omg you too!! You are the sweetest and I’m so glad we got to chat fashion 😍😍

fanuser2 and now Alex is here too???

fanuser4 soft launch???

fanuser5 HELLO. I love that she went all b/w except for the papaya photo. Already a good friend to Landoscar!

•lando posted to his private story•

story replies

carlossainz55 little lando norris finally growing up?

lando you can fuck right off

danielricciardo I know I haven't been around lately, but damn you move fast!

lando life of a race car driver mate

maxverstappen1 how did you get her to agree to go out with you?

lando literally have no idea

•yourusername posted to her private story•

story replies

yourbff stopppp this is so so cute

yourusername cannot believe how happy he makes me

yourbff you deserve it and so much more

alexandrasaintmleux 💕💕💕💕

yourusername ☺️🥰😘

carlossainz55 still don’t know why you agreed to go out with him… but if you’re happy 😂

yourusername I really really am 😊

carlossainz55 you let me know if that changes and I’ll break his legs and arms

oscarpiastri he won’t shut up about you

yourusername I’m sure my friends feel that way about me with him 🙃

lando miss you already my beautiful ❤️

yourusername why are you so cute 😭

yourusername and I miss you too

•yourusername•

liked by yourbff, yourmodelingagency, lando, carlossainz55, alexandrasaintmleux, francisca.cgomes and 3.2m others

yourusername: Some projects I’ve been working on lately❤️🖤

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yourbff oh my god. you are so hot

yourusername no, you are!

francisca.cgomes Acho que estou apaixonada por você {I think I'm in love with you}

yourusername Don't tell Pierre about us...

pierregasly why am I constantly losing my girlfriend to other people?

fanuser1 MOMMY

fanuser2 why is Lando in the likes on Carlos’s girl’s sexy photos 😭

fanuser3 CARLOS WE SEE YOU

fanuser4 red and black outfits okayyyyyy. She’s def dating Carlos

•texts with lando•

•f1gossip•

liked by fanuser1, fanuser2, fanuser3, danielricciardo, and 359,503 others

f1gossip: Rumored to be dating Carlos Sainz, model Y/n L/n has been seen about in London ahead of the F1 event at the O2.

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fanuser4 WHAT IS DANNY DOING IN THE LIKES

fanuser5 he’s so messy 😂

fanuser6 omg do you think she’s been spending time with Carlos over break 😍

fanuser7 she’s actually been pretty busy with her own job!

fanuser6 oh true! It’s nice that she’s taking time to support him now though!!

•yourusername posted to her private story•

story replies

yourbff you’re so cute

yourusername i love you so much

lando thank you for coming and spending time with me

yourusername so happy I was able to make it out for this! had such a fun time with you 😘

lando I had fun too babe. See you in Melbourne ❤️❤️

lilyzneimer I loved meeting you!!! Coffee in Melbourne?

yourusername Yes, please! I loved meeting you too💕

•f1wagsgossip•

liked by fanuser1, fanuser2, fanuser3, fanuser4, carlossainz55, and 220,517 others

f1wagsgossip: New WAG confirmed? Model Y/n L/n spotted in Melbourne ahead of the Australian GP. Is she here to support Williams?

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fanuser3 CARLOS IN THE LKES WHAT

fanuser4 confirmeddddddddd

fanuser5 they’re such a hot couple. I don’t know who I’m more jealous of

fanuser6 I love being bi 😍

•yourusername•

Liked by oscarpiastri, lando, maxverstappen1, carlossainz55, charles_leclerc, and 1.2m others

yourusername: I love traveliiiing with you ✈️🧳🌏

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lilyzneimer it was so nice spending time with you in Melbourne!

yourusername thank you for being the most wonderful human & showing me around 💕

yourbff iiii want to borrow those heels

yourusername done and done!!!!

francisca.cgomes I also want to borrow them!! 😊😊

yourusername next time i see you!!!!

fanuser1 can you just hard launch already??

fanuser2 seriously... we all already know 😂

•yourusername posted to her story•

story replies

fanuser1 WHAT!?!?

fanuser2 accidental launch????

fanuser3 THAT IS NOT CARLOS??????

fanuser4 snjkldfgjklhnegjlrjopewf

yourbff GIRL YOU POSTED THIS ON MAIN

yourusername fuck my life. i removed it but 🙃🙃🙃🙃

•fan tweets•

•texts with lando•

•yourusername•

liked by lando, carlossainz55, francisca.cgomes, alexandrasaintmleux, and 5.6m others

yourusername: well I guess the cat is out of the bag… been a great 3+ months getting to know and spend time with this guy 🥰❤️

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lando you make me so much happier every day just by being in my life

yourusername stopppp I’m going to cry

yourbff you better treat her right cause I will not hesitate to hurt you

carlossainz55 hey, he stole my girlfriend!

yourusername Carlos, please 😭😭 I didn’t mean it. You know my love for you is strong

oscarpiastri you should have heard how much Lando would complain that everyone thought Carlos was with Y/n 😂

lando I hate all of you

fanuser1 this is so hilarious

danielricciardo yaaaaasssss my boy!!!!

lilyzneimer welcome (officially) to the papaya wags club!

yourusername funnest club on the planet!!!

fanuser2 YOU GUYS. I just went back and looked at all of her soft launch posts - her & her bff were always putting 4 i's in words where it wasn't needed... she was hinting at Lando this entire time 😭😭

fanuser3 OHMYGOD YOU'RE RIGHT. In Abu Dhabi & the traveling ones she had extra i's & 4 exclamation points 🥲

•lando•

Liked by yourusername, charles_leclerc, danielricciardo, oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1, and 3.5m others

lando: FINALLY get to tell the world that this lovely woman is MY girlfriend (and has been for months) ❤️

comments on this post have been limited

charles_leclerc oh thank god I didn’t know how much longer I could keep the secret (liked by creator)

oscarpiastri someone was bound to spill it

yourusername i couldn’t even keep my own secret 🫠

maxverstappen1 still don’t know how you got her to agree to one date with you, let alone a whole relationship

danielricciardo he actually has rizz?

yourusername I kindof love you, lando (liked by creator)

lando And I kindof love you, yourusername

•~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-•

a/n: if you read this entire thing, thank you so so much!!! i think i put more work into this than i have some of my fully written stories. total kudos to people that create these all the time. idk if i will do any more, but it was fun!!!

reblogs/likes/feedback are appreciated!

#lando norris smau #lando norris x reader #lando norris x y/n #ln4 x y/n #ln4 fic #ln4 smau #f1 x y/n #f1 x reader #sunflowerlando creates #sunflowerlando writes #f1 smau #formula 1 smau #lando norris x you #ln4 x reader #ln4 x you #f1 x you #f1 x female reader #f1 fic

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toonice113 · 3 months ago

Text

This Ken’s job is hockey ⋆ ★ N.Hischier

Pairings: Nico Hischier x reader

Genre: fluff, SMAU at the end

Summary: In which you have a famous podcast with your best friend where you talk about everything and anything including stories about your relationship even though people don’t know the identity of your boyfriend — that is until you decide to hard launch him

Warnings: none

Word count: 554

⋆˚࿔ tina's note 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ Wrote most of this last night at midnight when I couldn’t sleep and didn’t proofread it but here’s a little blurb to celebrate Nico’s second hat trick and the two wins against the wild.

You were in the middle of filming a new episode of your podcast when your best friend brings up the topic of men’s fashion “Like when men were wearing those stupid jeans with ribs on them” Your face contorts in cringe thinking back on it “Or skinny jeans but like really tight skinny jeans”

“You know what I hate? When I see a girl on a date and she’s all dressed up and the guy’s made no effort” You say, your friend agreeing

“YESSSS!!! I once went out on a first date with this guy and he wore sweats to it which I would get if our plans were just casual but we were going to a fancy-ish restaurant” You laugh at her story “You got lucky with Ken”

“He lives in athleisure when he’s home, you have no idea” You chuckle thinking “He’s so over suits which sucks cause he looks yummy in them”

Your friend winces at your last comment “Please never call him yummy again, anyways for those of you who don’t know Ken—”

“My boyfriend” You clarify

“Yes, his job requires him to wear suits and y/n loves it”

“I do love it” You nod at the camera

“You know, you’ve never revealed why you started calling him Ken online” Your friend says “Why don’t you share that story with everyone?”

“Oh well it started because I’ve never shown him in anything before and we’ve always talked about having a more private relationship since well you know I post a lot of my life on the internet” You say, your friend nodding as both of your content outside of the podcast is pretty similar “And there was this day when I was you know doing my usual making my coffee and sharing a story tiktok and the story was about how I’d had a bad day the day before I hadn’tslept enough”

“And you guys don’t want to deal with a sleep deprived y/n, it gets bad” Your friend adds

You flip her off before continuing your story “Anyways I was tired and cranky and my he had made plans for lunch that day but because I was in a bad mood we ended up leaving lunch early to take a nap because he knew I would be insufferable for the rest of the day if I didn’t get more sleep”

“Big nap household you guys are” You nod “I wish i could nap but I can’t sleep during the day”

“Honestly? I wasn’t much of a napper before him” You say “But now I love naps”

“Okay finish your story” Your friend reminds you knowing this nap tangent could keep going for way longer

“Right, so after I posted that one comment said ‘Barbie has a great day everyday, but Ken only has a great day If Barbie gets enough sleep’ and then I just started calling him Ken when I told my stories” You finish

“Well I think the nickname Ken does suit him to be honest, I will attest to Ken only having a good day if Barbie smiles at him” Soon after that you two finish the episode.

It’s months after, on your 2 year anniversary, after sharing dozen of stories about ‘Ken’ that you finally hard launched your relationship with an Instagram post.

yourusername

Liked by nicohischier and others

yourusername This Ken's job is Hockey! 2 years of loving you here's to many more 💘

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📌 nicohischier 2 years of having good days thanks to you

yourfriend you two are disgustingly cute happy two years!

user I was convinced she was dating a finance bro

↳ user2 no because me too! especially because of the suit comments

user3 it feels illegal to know this man's identity

user4 wtf do you mean nico hischier is THE ken

user5 thank you for introducing us i will now go back to pretending i don't know who this man is, happy 2 years though!

↳ user6 right? because he will always be ken to me

yourusename don't worry everyone, he'll still be ken in my story times!

#nhl fic #nj devils fic #nico hischier #nico hischier fanfic #nico hischier fluff #nico hischier x you #nico hischier x reader #nico hischier imagine

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wholoveseggs · 5 months ago

Note

Could you possibly write something with Elijah and boudoir??

I had the idea of the reader being best friends with Rebekah and Rebekah brings up the idea to her as a gift for Elijah and reader agrees. When she gets the photos back she ends up slipping them to him randomly during the day to get him worked up,, like at the breakfast table, while he’s reading, while he’s in his study working, ect ect. And finally he ends up snapping and he ends up punishing her for getting him all worked up… maybe with some spanking?? Then she gives him the photo album and he admires all the photos while cuddling?

If not,, that’s totally fine, please don’t write anything you’re not comfortable with!! I love your writing!!

Polaroids

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

{Elijah Mikaelson x f!reader} Hidden in his suits, tucked in his ties. Each scandalous polaroid Elijah finds drives him closer to the edge… until he finally snaps.

♡♡ Thank you for the lovely request darling anon!!! This is a late valentines day gift to you && all my beautiful followers ~xo ♡♡

4.8k words - Warnings: smutt, teasing, sexual tension, lingerie kink, boudoir photography, Elijah losing his legendary patience, spanking, an awkward family dinner, Rebekah being mischievous, Elijah's walk-in closet (a sacred space), && a dirty limerick ...

Elijah is a man of many layers, secrets within secrets, locked away behind centuries of careful control. He valued privacy, he valued discretion, and most of all. He valued you.

You had been dating for years now. He knew you inside and out. Or at least, he thought so.

It was almost Valentine's Day, and you had a special surprise planned.

It was a bit unusual for you to be so open about these kinds of things. You were private. More private than him, even. He never would have asked you to do something like this, not in a million years. And that’s why it was the perfect gift.

Rebekah had sparked the idea, encouraging you to go all out. Professional makeup, high-end lingerie, lighting, everything. She insisted on being the one to take the photographs, partly because she was better at it than any photographer you could hire and partly because she was the only person you trusted enough to see you in the state that you would be in.

At first, you both couldn’t stop giggling. It was awkward, playful, and you kept messing up every other pose. But soon enough, with Rebekah’s expert guidance, the session took on a sultry rhythm. By the time it was over, your cheeks burned from more than just laughter.

You were a little apprehensive when the prints came back. The images were intimate, and you knew that the moment you slipped the polaroid's into the pockets of your boyfriend’s suits, you would be signing him up for the most torturous few days of his life.

And it would all be worth it.

So, so, so worth it.

Elijah’s sense of fashion and style had always been immaculate. From the moment you met him, you had been drawn to the way he dressed.

The way he would take his time picking out his suits. The way his fingers skimmed over fabric, thoughtful, methodical. You thought it was cute that he liked to match his pocket square to his tie and his socks. It was the little things that made him endearing.

Which was why you had to wait until he was out to sneak into his closet. The one place no one but him was allowed to enter.

You felt like a teenager, sneaking around. His closet was locked, but you knew where to find the key. Hidden in his underwear drawer.

With shaking hands, you unlocked the door and stepped inside, exhaling softly at the sight before you.

His closet was nothing short of opulent. Dark mahogany wood gleamed under the soft recessed lighting, every shelf, drawer, and rack meticulously arranged. The rich scent of cedar and his cologne lingered in the air. A lush rug stretched across the floor, muffling your footsteps as you wandered deeper inside.

Your fingers trailed over the polished surface of the central island, where rows of ornate, vintage cufflinks sat nestled in velvet-lined drawers, each one a tiny work of art. You knew Elijah had collected them over the centuries, tiny fragments of history locked away in his closet like the rest of his carefully preserved past.

You could have spent hours just admiring the contents of his closet, marveling at his taste in clothing and accessories. It was like a museum of men’s fashion, every outfit an exhibit.

But today, you had a mission. You had spent weeks planning it, and now that it was finally here, you were equal parts nervous and excited.

Slipping your hand into the silk pouch you brought with you, you pulled out the first polaroid .

It was one of your favorites. Your body stretched out on the bed in nothing but the sheer, lacy red set Rebekah had picked out, soft lighting casting shadows over the curves of your thighs and the swell of your breasts. Your lips were slightly parted, eyes half-lidded as if waiting for someone. Waiting for him.

Smiling to yourself, you wandered over to where his suit jackets hung. Your fingers ghosted over the smooth lapels. A charcoal gray, a deep navy, a crisp black. Every piece, tailored to perfection.

Your eyes scanned the row, searching for the perfect jacket. You settled on one of your favorites. A midnight blue with a subtle herringbone pattern woven through the interior fabric.

Elijah wore this one often, and the idea of him wearing it again while the photo sat tucked safely away made your heart flutter with anticipation.

Carefully, you slid the photo into the inner breast pocket, smoothing out the fabric so there was no trace of it.

Next, you moved to his drawer of perfectly folded trousers. You slipped another polaroid into the pocket of his favorite charcoal slacks. This one of you kneeling on the floor, your hands behind your back, wearing nothing but a thong and an expression of pure obedience on your face.

He was going to lose his mind when he found that one.

One by one, you continued your game, tucking a scandalous little piece of yourself into his daily wardrobe. A black-and-white photo of you reclining in his chair, wearing only his dress shirt. ..Unbuttoned, of course...Went into his favorite black blazer.

Another, of you perched on his desk with your legs spread just enough to tease, slipped into his coat.

Finally, you approached the island in the center of the room, where his drawer of ties sat waiting.

You had saved the most provocative ones for last.

A dark navy tie caught your eye. It had tiny little hearts stitched on the inside fabric. The kind of thing he would wear for valentines day, a subtle touch no one else would see.

You reached out, gently lifting the tie from its place.

This one was special. This was the tie you were going to put the last photo in.

And the final photo… was truly the pièce de résistance.

You were fully bare, stretched across his bed on your stomach, ass in the air, a red heart-shaped buttplug nestled between your cheeks. Your face was turned to the side, biting your lower lip.

You had a feeling this was the one that was going to break him.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you carefully slid the photo into the interior lining of the tie, tucking it away so it was completely hidden. He would most likely find it when he was adjusting his tie, perhaps even in the middle of something important.

Your cheeks flushed, and you couldn't help the giggle that escaped your lips as you imagined his reaction.

For now, all you could do was wait. And when Elijah found them? Oh, he was going to make you pay for it.

Dinner at the Mikaelson estate was, as always, a grand affair, even if it was just a normal day. The dining room was dimly lit by the warm glow of the chandelier, the long mahogany table set with crystal glasses and fine silverware, an assortment of dishes spread elegantly before them.

Klaus was already half a bottle deep into a vintage red, while Kol swirled his own glass with a knowing smirk. Rebekah sat across from Elijah, offering him a look that was just a bit too smug for his liking.

He ignored her.

He had to.

Because for the past five days, he had been enduring your little game. One he was certain his sister was a part of.

He found the first photograph on Monday, tucked neatly into the breast pocket of his favorite suit jacket. A stunning, sinful image of you stretched across his bed, lace barely covering anything, your gaze dark with invitation.

That was the moment he knew he was in trouble.

Tuesday, just as he was leaving for a meeting, he slid his hand into his trouser pocket. Only to freeze as his fingers brushed against glossy paper.

He had been halfway out the door when he dared a glance.

A photo of you kneeling, hands behind your back, lace panties so sheer they might as well have been nonexistent.

Elijah had promptly shut the door, canceled his meeting, and spent the next fifteen minutes in his office. Door locked, tie loosened, cock hard, a photo of you crumpled in his hand, the other pumping his cock as he pictured your face.

On Wednesday, he was convinced he had discovered them all.

Until he stepped into his Italian leather shoes.

And felt something crinkle beneath his foot.

For the first time in centuries, Elijah actually stumbled.

Rebekah, who had been passing by in the hallway, had stopped short, staring as he clutched the doorframe.

"Did you just trip?" she had asked, stunned.

"Hardly," he had responded, straightening immediately. As if his pulse wasn’t hammering in his throat.

He had waited until she disappeared before slowly, cautiously, extracting the latest piece of your torment from inside his shoe.

This one had been even worse.

You. Wearing nothing but one of his ties, wrapped neatly around your wrists.

His cock throbbed at the mere memory.

But he hadn't broken.

He could withstand this.

He was Elijah Mikaelson, and he would not be defeated by a few naughty pictures. He was a man of patience and refinement, and he could endure. He would wait until Valentine's Day, when he would show you what it meant to tease a vampire.

But that morning, as he adjusted his cufflinks at breakfast, he reached into his suit jacket pocket out of habit and immediately clenched his fist around the next scandalous polaroid .

He had been mid-sip of his coffee.

He had not been prepared.

For the first time since the invention of coffee, Elijah Mikaelson had actually choked.

Kol had howled with laughter.

"Blimey, brother, you alright? Coffee too hot?."

Elijah had merely dabbed at his mouth with his handkerchief, offering his most practiced, impassive look. "I'm fine."

He was absolutely not fine.

Now, sitting around with his family and you at dinner, mere hours away from Valentine's Day, he was rattled.

You had been purposely avoiding him all week. Staying at your own place, barely responding to his messages, keeping your distance. It was clear you were waiting him out, playing games.

Well, Elijah was a patient man. He would endure. No matter how scandalous, how sinful, how provocative you were being, he would not falter.

At least, that was the plan.

Niklaus leaned forward, swirling his wine lazily, and said, "So, Elijah, any plans with your lovely y/n on Valentine's Day? You are always so sentimental about the holiday," he teased.

"I have something special planned for us," you replied before Elijah could say anything, smiling mischievously.

Rebekah hid her snort behind a sip of wine and Elijah gave her a withering glare.

"What? You aren't making the plans Elijah? Do you remember... I think it was back in the 17th century... when you were obsessed with this baker girl? Such overtures for a bread maker…" Klaus began, grinning at the memory.

"No, not this story, please, Niklaus, not tonight," Elijah groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

You placed a hand on his arm, giving him an apologetic look. But you desperately wanted to know the story.

"He had been sending her these love poems. You know how he was, always so proper, so romantic," Klaus continued.

"They were sonnets," Elijah muttered.

"Anyway, this little baker girl decides to send him one back, but it was rather crass limerick about how she wanted him to take her in the bakery," Klaus went on.

"There once was a baker so sweet, who begged, ‘Lay me down on the wheat" Kol began, a shit-eating grin on his face.

"She said, ‘Knead me like dough. Fill me up nice and slow," Rebekah joined in, leaning forward.

Elijah closed his eyes, wanting to dissolve into the flooring.

"And make sure that I rise with the heat!" the three of them finished in unison, all dissolving into laughter.

You could hardly breathe, you were laughing so hard, tears pricking at your eyes. Elijah looked as though he was going to stab someone with his fork.

"What happened to the girl?" you managed to ask through gasps.

"He ate her," Rebekah laughed.

"I did not," Elijah said immediately, scowling at the three of them. "She died of an infection, actually."

You wiped a tear away from your eye, still giggling, and reached out to stroke his cheek.

"I'm sorry, babe," you cooed, kissing his jaw.

He didn't seem impressed, but his gaze softened as you leaned into his shoulder, wrapping an arm around his.

The rest of the meal was a little less chaotic, and soon enough, it was time for dessert. There was an impressive spread of valentine's themed desserts. Heart shaped cookies, red velvet cupcakes, chocolate-covered strawberries, and a tray of mini éclairs.

Elijah was leaning back in his chair, sipping on his wine, his arm draped casually over the back of your chair. You had been stealing glances at him throughout the meal, trying to gauge his reaction. So far, he seemed unphased. It was clear he had not found the final photograph, and you were a bit disappointed. You had really hoped he would have discovered it by now.

But that was an easy fix.

You cuddled closer to him, reaching out to place a hand on his chest, stroking his tie idly. He glanced down at you, offering a warm smile.

Your eyes met his, and you subtly loosened the knot of his tie and moved it off center.

Just a fraction of an inch.

His eyes narrowed a bit.

But you didn't say a word.

Elijah took another sip of his wine, his gaze lingering on yours for a moment longer before he fixed his tie. His fingers dipping underneath, tightening the knot again.

As he did, his finger brushed against something. Something stiff, thin, glossy, hidden inside the liner.

His body went rigid.

A sharp, almost imperceptible inhale.

Not again.

Not here, in front of everyone.

Carefully. Deliberately. He curled his fingers around the photo, his movements slow as he lowered his arm and tucked it beneath the table, keeping it hidden against his thigh.

Rebekah watched him over the rim of her wine glass, her lips twitching. She glanced at you and you had to look away before you burst out laughing.

"Valentine’s Day," Elijah said smoothly, raising his glass, as if his pulse wasn’t steadily climbing, as if his fingers weren’t currently gripping the newest piece of your torment. "I propose a toast. To love, and all the beauty and passion that it brings."

"To love," the others echoed.

You smiled, and clinked your glass against his, watching as he brought it to his lips and took a long sip.

"Elijah," you purred, leaning close, "I'm going to go upstairs and get ready for bed, why don't you join me soon?"

He kissed your temple and murmured, "Of course, my darling."

With a wink, you stood, excusing yourself from the table and making your way towards the staircase.

His fingers twitched around the polaroid, burning with curiosity.

Rebekah had the audacity to grin, resting her chin on her hand as she observed him like a predator awaiting the moment its prey faltered.

Elijah refused to give her the satisfaction.

With calculated ease, he lowered his gaze beneath the table, unfolding the final piece of your torment.

And what he saw nearly had him choking on his wine.

Bloody hell.

You. Completely bare. Laid out on your stomach.

And nestled between your ass cheeks… fuckk you were going to get it.

His grip tightened on the photo, so fierce that it nearly ripped. Heat licked up his spine, sharp and demanding, pooling in the very depths of his control.

He had spent this entire week enduring your carefully orchestrated torture.

And now?

Now, you had officially broken him.

You knew you only had a few minutes before Elijah made his way upstairs.

With quick, light footsteps, you changed into the same lingerie you had posed in for one of the polaroids. Giggling as you pulled up the matching thigh high stockings.

He was going to lose his mind.

You went to sit on his bed, when you paused, a delicious idea forming in your head.

His closet.

You quickly grabbed the key and unlocked the door, stepping inside. It was dark, and you turned on the single lamp that was perched on a shelf, casting the small room in a soft glow.

You sat on the island in the middle of the room, crossing your legs and trying not to squirm as the excitement built.

You could hear the sound of him walking down the hall. His heavy footfalls. Then he paused when he entered his room, momentarily confused as to where you had gone.

And then his gaze fell upon his closet door.

You had left it open, just a crack.

He groaned, fuck you were playing with fire, and pushed the door open the rest of the way.

He saw you there, bathed in the dim golden light, dressed in the most lovely sheer lace. He would burn every precious item in this room just to get a taste of your skin.

He took a deep breath, composing himself. He wanted to play this out perfectly. Adjusting his cufflinks, he sauntered in, his eyes dark, hungry, a dangerous smirk tugging at his lips.

"Darling," he murmured, leaning against the island across from you. "I believe we have something to discuss."

You tilted your head innocently. "What's that?"

He stepped closer, bracing his hands on the edge of the table, caging you in. His gaze slid over your body, the curve of your neck, the swell of your breasts, the slope of your waist.

He opened a drawer next to your thigh, pulling out a neat pile of Polaroids, fanning them out so they were all visible. Then he pulled the latest one out of his jacket pocket, uncrumpling it and adding it to the rest.

You swallowed thickly.

"Quite the collection," he hummed, tapping the stack against the palm of his hand. "A beautiful, scandalous display, truly."

He slipped a hand under your chin, tilting your face up so you were forced to meet his gaze. His thumb ghosted over your lower lip.

"Although, I've always been partial to the real thing."

And then he leaned down and captured your lips with his.

A moan slipped from your throat as he pressed his tongue past your lips, the kiss heated and passionate. His free hand slipped down the curve of your waist, grasping your thigh and hooking it over his hip.

"You've been so very naughty, sweetheart. Teasing me all week, putting such sinful things in my clothes, right under my nose," he whispered, pressing a kiss to your jaw, and then another, slowly trailing his lips down the column of your throat.

"Do you have any idea how many meetings I've had to cancel because I was thinking about your perfect little pussy, or those sweet, tempting lips wrapped around my cock?" He nipped at the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder and you whimpered.

His hands gripped your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the island, spreading your legs and settling between them.

"And to involve Rebekah? That's diabolical. What did I do to deserve such a vengeful, cruel lover?"

You grinned, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. "Are you saying you didn't enjoy it?"

His fingers danced over the sheer lace covering your breasts, tugging the cups down so he could cup the soft flesh in his hands, massaging them, kneading them, squeezing until you gasped.

"That's not what I said, darling," he purred, leaning in and capturing a pert nipple between his teeth. You whimpered, your back arching.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp as he kissed and licked and nipped his way down the curve of your body.

"Elijah," you moaned softly as he got on his knees, spreading your thighs and licking a hot, wet stripe against the fabric of your panties.

He pressed his thumb against the wetness that was already seeping through, and then hooked his fingers around the waistband, peeling the flimsy lace down your thighs, leaving it tangled around one ankle.

"So beautiful," he sighed, kissing the insides of your thighs, his lips trailing higher and higher.

You gasped, your head falling back as his mouth met your pussy, his tongue sliding between your slit, low moan vibrating against you.

Your hands tangled in his hair, holding him close as he feasted on you. He had been dying to taste you all week, and now, he was going to savor it.

"Elijah," you moaned, writhing as his tongue swirled around your clit. Your legs trembled, threatening to give out, but his firm hands held you steady.

He groaned against you, the vibrations sending another pulse of pleasure through your body. He eased two fingers inside you, moving slow and deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world to unravel you. His tongue flicked, teased, circled, building you up only to pull back just before you could tip over the edge.

You whimpered in frustration, your fingers tightening in his hair. "'Lijah, please-"

He chuckled, the sound dark and full of wicked amusement. "Please what, darling? Use your words."

Your body was burning, every nerve alight with need. You bucked against his mouth, desperate for more friction, more of him. "Please let me come."

He hummed in approval, the heat in his gaze almost unbearable as he lifted his head, his lips slick with your arousal. "Good girl."

His fingers curled just right, and his mouth latched back onto your clit, sucking just hard enough to make stars burst behind your eyes. The coil in your belly tightened, wound so impossibly tight you thought you might snap.

"Come for me, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice like silk against your skin. "I want to feel you shake for me."

That was all it took. Your body arched as pleasure crashed over you, a strangled moan tearing from your throat as your orgasm consumed you. He held you through it, drinking in every shudder, every gasp, until you were trembling in his grasp.

Only then did he pull back, his eyes dark and hungry as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He pressed a lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh before standing to his full height, his body towering over yours.

"You look exquisite like this," he murmured, tracing a finger along your trembling thigh. "Completely undone. And yet, I fear we're not even close to being finished."

You barely had a chance to catch your breath before he was lifting you into his arms, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. He carried you effortlessly, striding back into the bedroom and laying you down on the bed and turning you over, face down with your ass propped up in the air. Just like his favorite polaroid.

He stood at the edge of the bed, undoing the buttons of his shirt with slow, deliberate precision. "Tell me, darling," he mused, letting the fabric slide from his shoulders. "Was all of this worth it?" His eyes gleamed as he pulled his belt from its loops with a sharp snap. "Because now, I'm going to make sure you remember exactly why you shouldn't play games with me,"

You bit your lip, unable to stop the moan that spilled past your lips as his palm smoothed over your ass, massaging and squeezing. He pressed his hips into yours, letting you feel the hard length of his cock through his trousers.

You pushed back against him, grinding against the bulge, your body aching with anticipation.

Elijah hummed appreciatively, and then brought his palm down sharply against your ass.

You yelped, glaring at him from over your shoulder, the sting making you shudder. His other hand smoothed over the heated skin, rubbing gently before lifting and spanking you again.

You moaned, pushing back into his hand, a delicious thrill racing through your veins.

"Such a needy little thing, aren't you?" he purred, leaning down to press a kiss to your neck. "It's a good thing I have no intention of holding back."

He smacked you again, and again, alternating between each cheek, the sharp crack echoing in the room. He rubbed the stinging skin, his other hand freeing his cock from his trousers, giving himself a few languid strokes.

You whimpered, pressing your ass against his hand, pleading without words.

"Look at you, getting off on being punished," he mused, a dark chuckle rumbling through his chest.

You whimpered, burying your face in the sheets. You could feel heat spreading through your body, desperate and needy.

He leaned down, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. "Tell me, sweetheart. Do you want me to fuck you like this? Bent over the edge of the bed, that's not very romantic,"

You could hear the rustle of fabric as he shrugged off his trousers, and then the firm, searing heat of his cock as he settled between your thighs, the thick head teasing your pussy, coating himself in your arousal. He groaned at the wetness that clung to him, the way your body pulsed with need.

"Please, 'Lijah," you whimpered, rolling your hips.

He tutted, a dark chuckle vibrating through his chest. "Patience, sweetheart."

You cried out as he finally eased inside you, his cock stretching you impossibly. Your toes curled, the delicious sting of being filled too much and not enough all at once.

He let out a low groan as he sank to the hilt, his cock buried inside your tight, wet heat. He gripped your ass, his fingertips digging into your reddened skin, and began thrusting slowly.

"Ohh, yes," you moaned, pushing back into him.

He picked up the pace, his hips snapping against yours, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the room.

"Fuck, sweetheart, you're so wet," he growled, his hand tangling in your hair, tugging just enough to have you whimpering.

"Please, 'Lijah, I'm close," you gasped, the fire in your belly building.

"That's my good girl," he praised, his grip tightening, his hips picking up the pace, fucking you harder.

You cried out, his cock hitting you deep, a string of moans falling from your lips.

He released your hair and leaned down, bracing himself with one hand, the other reaching to squeeze your ass and give it another sharp spank.

You came undone, a scream of pleasure tearing from your throat as you came, the fire inside you roaring through your veins.

"That's it, sweetheart," he groaned, his hips snapping against yours, driving you further into the mattress.

You shuddered, pleasure washing over you as the world melted away.

Elijah came with a low, feral growl, his hips slowing as he filled you, his grip tightening as he rode out his high. His hands squeezing your hips, holding you against him as he came, the warmth filling you.

He pressed a lingering kiss to the nape of your neck, and then eased out, taking a step back.

You were a mess, the lingerie twisted around your body, hair disheveled, face flushed. He chuckled at the sight.

"Prettier than any picture,"

He scooped you up, pulling back the covers and tucking you into the bed. Your eyelids fluttered as you watched him climb in next to you, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you close.

"I love you," you murmured, cuddling into his chest.

"I love you more," he replied, kissing your forehead.

"I have one more gift for you," you hummed, sleep already dragging you under.

He smiled, his hand running along the curve of your hip, his fingers curling possessively. "And what might that be, darling?"

You shifted a bit, rolling over and reaching into his bedside drawer. Where you stashed a small wrapped package.

"Here,"

Elijah sat up, accepting the gift and opening it carefully, a small smile playing on his lips.

It was a photo album. With a small note taped to the front.

'For Elijah's eyes only,'

He raised an eyebrow at you, and flipped the cover open. He froze. Dozens upon dozens of polaroids. Of you. All of them in a variety of scandalous poses.

"Happy Valentine's Day," you giggled, nuzzling into his shoulder. "Oh, and I have more where those came from."

He let out a low chuckle, and then he was on you. Pinning you beneath him, his eyes burning with need, his cock already stirring against your thigh.

"You," he growled, his lips capturing yours in a bruising kiss, "are going to pay for this."

And oh, what a beautiful, wonderful punishment it was.

#elijah mikaelson #the originals #the vampire diaries #vampire diaries #tvdu #elijah mikaelson smut #elijah mikaelson imagine #elijah mikealson imagine #elijah mikealson #elijah mikaelson x reader #elijah mikealson x reader #tvd #the vampire diaries x you #the vampire diaries x reader #the vampire diares imagine #the vampire diaries imagine #the originals imagine #elijah mikealson smut

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dr-spencer-reids-queen · 1 month ago

Text

Ugly Side To Fame

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~3.7k

Warnings: fluff, angst, being kidnapped and forced to act out a fantasy, implied smut

Request by anon: can you do a Spencer x reader where the reader is like a famous singer model actress (what ever you want the reader to be) and she is gorgeous and no one on the team knows because her and Spencer what to keep it private because of how famous she is and Garcia is her biggest fan and one day she never shows up to her and Spencer dinner date and he is worried about her so her goes to her condo house and sees that the door is wide open and the house is ransacked and there is blood and he call the team and they open a case for her but then they get specious of why he was at her condo and he comes clean to them about dating her

Summary: You’re a famous model with lots of fans who adore you. When one of them crosses the line between fan and stalker, it’s up to Spencer’s team to save you before it’s too late.

Square Filled: forced to hurt someone for @badthingshappenbingo

Author’s Note: just a reminder that there are models of all sizes, and each of them is beautiful!

You arch your back and tilt your head slightly to the right, staring at the camera as you do. Fans blow all around the set to keep the models cool, but you can feel the baby oil sliding down your skin into places where it shouldn’t be. You’re hot, sticky, and sweaty, but the position is perfect.

“Great work, Y/N! Now turn toward Gio and put your hands on his shoulders lazily.”

You turn toward your coworker and sling your arms around his shoulders naturally, leaning into him slightly.

“Fantastic job, you two. Don’t look at the camera.”

The photographer snaps a few dozen photos from different angles, and she grins when she’s done. You feel a sense of pride when she grins like that. It means you’re doing your job right. You’re a famous model, shown all across the country and different parts of the world in billboards, ads, magazines, and even fashion shows. You’ve even gotten a spot in the next Victoria Secret show, and that’s something you’re looking forward to.

People are coming and going from this set, so you don’t think much of the chatter until you see him. The love of your life. Your rock. Your love. Spencer Reid. He must have gotten off work early and decided to come see you.

“Okay, take five while I reset everything.”

You break away from your coworker and immediately go to Spencer’s side, pulling him in for a hug. You’re careful not to get too much baby oil on him, but he doesn't seem to mind.

“I’m so happy you’re here!” You lean up and kiss him. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you. We don’t have a case this weekend, so be prepared to spend every minute with me.”

“Sounds like a dream.” The five minutes are up, and you look back at set. “I should be done in thirty minutes. Wait for me.”

You scurry off to do more poses with your coworker. Spencer has never been the jealous type. He’s secure in his relationship with you. Yes, you’re a model. Yes, you have a lot of fans who adore you. Yes, you do often pose with half-naked men. However, he’s the one you’re going to go home with at the end of the day. You never fail to show him how much you love him. He loves seeing you on ads and billboards, and he made sure to secure a spot at the Victoria Secret fashion show next month.

He could not be more proud of you.

After the shoot is done, and you’ve taken a quick shower, you two leave hand in hand. He doesn’t drive, but you don’t mind the walk to your house.

“So, when am I going to meet your friends?”

“Is it so wrong to want to stay in this bubble with you?”

“Have you even told them about me? That I’m a famous model?”

“If I have, you’d know about it. Penelope is your biggest fan.”

The topic of meeting his second family has always come up, especially recently. It’s not that he’s hiding you or wants to hide you. He knows how people can get, and he wants to keep you all to himself. You’ll meet them eventually, but tonight won’t be that night. You don’t feel shame from him, so you know that's not the issue. It can be overwhelming, especially when the love of your life is so much more famous than you. Spencer is setting high expectations for his friends. What if they don’t like you? What if they do? What if you get hurt because of him and his job?

You get to your house and immediately go to the kitchen to put a frozen pizza in the oven. It’s quick, and you don’t feel like cooking a whole meal after a long day. Being a model doesn’t mean you get to skimp out on what you eat. You work out regularly, and with the right balance, you can have both a model career and eat what you want. Models like Kendall Jenner and Gigi Hadid look great, but you know how strictly they set rules for themselves.

When you became a model, you promised yourself you weren't going to be like them.

You and Spencer enjoy pizza and a movie, but you’re in the mood for some dessert. Before the movie ends, you slink closer to his side and attach your lips to his neck. Spencer relaxes against the couch and pulls you onto his lap so you’re straddling him. You suck on the sensitive spot underneath his ear, and he grows harder underneath you.

He cups your cheeks and pulls your lips to his, and he kisses you passionately. He hooks his hands under your thighs and stands with you in his arms. The night is filled with steamy passion, one that leaves you shaking for more.

On Monday, he arrived at work before you got up. He left a note on his pillow that he’ll see you for lunch. He’ll call you later with details. If he looked into a mirror before he left, he’d have seen something he never wanted his friends to see. The girls are around JJ’s desk gossiping about what they did over the weekend.

JJ is about to share what she, Will, and the boys did when she sees it. Her mouth parts, and the girls turn to see what JJ is looking at. At first, they don’t see it until Spencer turns his head. Right on his neck is a big red spot from where you were sucking.

“Who, Spencer, who knew you’d be the type?” JJ chuckles.

“What?”

“Damn, here I thought all you did was read and do research,” Tara laughs.

“What are you talking about?”

Matt and Luke walk over to see what the girls are giggling about when they see the mark on Spencer’s neck.

“Who, Spencer, who’s your little girlfriend?” Luke grins.

Spencer looks at everyone and finally realizes what they’re looking at. His hand flies to the side of his neck where he knows your mark is, and his cheeks redden.

“I burned myself.”

“With that, a curling iron?” JJ smirks.

“You have a girl we don’t know about?” Luke asks.

“What? No.”

“Oh, so then you’re hooking up with people?” Tara smirks.

“No. Okay. Yes, I’m dating someone, but she’s not ready to meet you all yet.” That’s a lie. It’s he who isn’t ready. He’s content with staying in this bubble for as long as he can. “Can we return to work now?”

Spencer leaves before anyone else can ask more questions. They’ll come to know you soon enough, so he wants to avoid those questions as long as he can. Like last week, there isn’t an active case since the B team is out, so he focuses on the files he has open. Time flies, and it’s lunchtime before he knows it.

He takes out his phone to call you, but you don’t answer the phone. You must be caught in a shoot that’s running long, and he doesn’t want to bother you. He leaves a voicemail saying he can do a late lunch, but you don’t return his call. He doesn’t think much of it and returns to work. By the end of the day, he starts to become worried that you haven’t answered any of his calls. It’s weird, but maybe work ran late.

However, the set is closed when he arrives to pick you up. If you’re not at work, then you have to be at home, and you should have answered his calls. As he walks to your house, he calls you. All of them have gone to voicemail, and he immediately becomes suspicious. That suspicion turns to worry when he sees your house.

The front door is wide open which is Spencer’s first indication that something is wrong. He walks inside your house carefully as if someone will pop up and scare him. The living room is to the right, and the furniture is toppled over as if you were running from someone or something.

The kitchen is worse with every drawer and cabinet open, and knives on the ground. He doesn’t even want to see what upstairs looks like, but he goes up there regardless. The first thing he notices is the pool of blood on the carpet. He doesn’t need to see the rest of the house.

He knows what he needs to do.

He pulls out his phone and calls his team. Only they are going to be able to help. He doesn’t trust the local PD to be able to solve this. If you’re hurt and suffering, he needs only the best to track you down. Soon, your house is crawling with officers, CSIs, and his team.

“Look, I know I said she wasn’t ready to meet you all, but it was me who wasn’t ready. I guess I wanted to stay in this bubble we created. My girlfriend is Y/N, the famous model. I don’t know what happened here, but we were meant to get lunch together. I thought she was at work because she never answered my calls. I just came here to see this. I don’t know what happened.”

Everyone is shocked that Spencer is dating. No, not that he is dating. It’s that he’s dating you. They never pictured him with a model. They’re happy for him, of course, but it’s a little shocking when they never expected it.

Still, this is a crime scene, and everyone snaps into focus. A sample of the blood is taken to the labs for testing. If it doesn’t come out as yours, then whoever was in this house after you is hurt. The local PD is tasked with gathering as much evidence as they can from the scene alongside Matt and Rossi.

With being a famous model, you have a lot of fans from all over the country, the world, even. If you were attacked in your home, then the person who did this to you might have been a fan. Spencer, JJ, and Penelope are tasked with going through your social media and laptop to see if there is someone who has taken a special interest in you.

Luke is going around to your neighbors in hopes someone might have seen something, so Spencer heads back to the BAU with JJ and your laptop. Penelope heard the news as soon as Spencer called, so she tried to contain her excitement about potentially knowing her favorite model.

“I’ll be sure to introduce her to you after this, but here is her laptop,” Spencer says and hands it over.

“Sure, of course. Don’t worry, Spencer, we’ll find her.”

Getting into your laptop is light work for Penelope, and Spencer and JJ go through your social media accounts. Spencer has the passwords to all of your accounts because you’re so forgetful, and you don’t want to put your passwords in your notes just in case you get hacked. One of your friends was hacked a year ago and had all of her information stolen. Plus, why remember when you have a super smart boyfriend to remember for you?

“Look at this, Spence,” JJ says, showing him her phone. It’s one of your DMs on Instagram. “Y/NSBOY_69 has sent her multiple messages talking about how beautiful she is and how he’d love to meet up with her. She never accepted the request, so all of them are left unanswered, but it looks like she has a fanboy.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Spencer’s brow furrows as he reads through your TikTok, Facebook, Snapchat, and Twitter messages. The ones that aren’t from friends and family are from fans who seem to have some sort of obsession with you. None are as bad as Y/NSBOY_69. He has liked every picture you have posted, commented multiple times on them, and has messaged you asking when you two are going to get together.

“This guy is seriously all the way creepy,” Penelope says. “I have messages asking her to carry his babies.”

Anger flares up in Spencer’s chest, but he tries not to let it show. He’s usually a calm person when it comes to you. He knows you get messages from obsessed fans, but he never knew it could get this bad. Sure, he’s seen what obsession looks like, but it’s different when it happens to someone he knows.

“I can’t wait for Rossi and Matt to finish up at her house. I know this guy is the one who attacked her. How, I’m not sure. Maybe he followed her home and forced his way in.” Realization passes over his face. “What if she let him in?”

“I highly doubt that,” JJ scoffs. Just then, the others come back from the crime scene. “Find out anything?”

“One of the neighbors noticed something as she was out walking her dog. She was on her way out when she noticed someone tall and lanky sneaking around her house, looking into her windows. When she came back, the door was wide open. Y/N was already gone.”

“So, he was stalking her. You should see her social media accounts. Tons of comments and messages from a single account that I’m sure Penelope is looking through.”

Spencer frowns in thought. He never knew the kind of behavior you’d see daily. You keep a good front for someone who knows there is a stalker out there obsessed with you.

“You bet your ass I am,” Penelope says. “This guy is not trying to hide at all. He doesn’t even have safety measures to prevent someone like me from getting through. His name is Charlie Jones. His address and work have been sent to your PDAs.”

The team splits into two with one half going to his work and the other half to his home. Luke kicks in his front door, and Spencer and JJ follow him inside with guns raised. It’s a two-bedroom apartment, so the team quickly clears it. Charlie isn’t here. However, it’s not a total bust. In a bedroom, the walls are covered with pictures of you. Not just the pictures you’ve posted online or you in ads. Pictures of you out and about. Some even with Spencer in them. His face is crossed off in every single one of them.

This isn’t just an obsession. This is something else entirely.

Spencer takes out his phone and calls Rossi before connecting him to a call with Penelope. “He’s not at his house.”

“He’s not at work, either. Turns out, he’d been fired a few months ago for bad behavior,” Matt informs.

“We found something at his house. One of the bedrooms has pictures of Y/N in it. He was completely infatuated with her. Pictures of her going about her normal life. Garcia, is there anything else you can dig up on this guy? Another property he might own?”

“He doesn't have any other property in his name. However, his parents do. They work in Asia, but they do have a farmhouse they bought several years ago. I guess they wanted to try their hand at farmlife, but it never stuck. It looks like the place is abandoned.”

“I bet he took her there,” Spencer says.

“Address already sent. Please be careful.”

When the strange man broke into your home, you fought hard. You fucked up your house trying to get away from him. You even managed to cut him with one of the kitchen knives. Still, he came prepared and managed to trap you inside your bathroom. He stuck a syringe in your neck and injected you with something that caused you to pass out.

You woke up in this farmhouse to him crying over you, apologizing for hurting you. He smothered your face with wet kisses, and you did your best not to vomit. All he wants is to be with you. He created this fake life with you in his head, and now he wants it to become reality. Besides injecting you, he hasn’t hurt you.

Maybe it’s because you’ve been complying knowing you have to save your energy for escaping. As soon as an opportunity presents itself, you’re taking that one-way ticket out of here. If Spencer didn’t know you were missing when he attacked, he surely does now. He and his team are going to find you.

You just have to stay alive long enough for them to save you.

“How is your neck?” he asks.

“Good. It doesn’t hurt anymore,” you lie.

It hurts like a bitch since he wiggled the needle in you to make sure it stuck. The last thing you’re going to do is tell him that.

“I’m sorry, baby. I had to do that. You were fighting me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He reaches up and touches your cheek. He pulls you in for a kiss, and you lean in hesitantly. “Never be sorry. You’re too perfect to apologize for anything. Now, go get the food you cooked.”

You eagerly leave his side to grab the food you’ve been cooking for the past hour. You sit across from him and push your food around. You lost your appetite long ago, but Charlie scarfs his food down as if he hadn’t eaten for days.

“Am I ever going to go home, Charlie?”

“You are home. This is our home now. Y/n, it’ll be perfect. I’ll fix up the house and make it perfect for you. You’ll be here with the kids, and I can tend to the farm with all kinds of animals.”

“Kids?” you squeak.

“Four of them. I’ve always wanted a big family,” he grins.

Oh, hell no. You don’t care if this will kill you. You need to get out of here now. The front door doesn’t seem to have a lock on it. He must be so confident that you’d want to stay here with him that he doesn’t care to lock the front door. Or, maybe it is. Either way, you have to get out of here.

“I’ve made dessert. Are you ready for that?”

“You are the dessert, my love.” Like fuck are you going to let him touch you, but you don’t tell him that. “But yes. I’d love some.”

You get up from the table and walk into the kitchen, his back still turned to you. There are no knives around, so you grab the pan you used to cook. You grip the handle tightly and sneak over to Charlie on light feet. Without thinking, you swing the pan across Charlie’s head, gasping when he is tossed onto the floor from the impact. You drop the pan in shock before your fight-or-flight response kicks in.

You jump over Charlie and run to the front door, yanking it open. Thank fuck it’s not locked. There is a car pulling up to the farm, and you scream for help.

“Help me!” You cry out in pain when Charlie grabs your hair tightly. He yanks you away from the door and slams it shut. “Let go of me, you psycho!”

The front door is kicked in, and the FBI swarms in with guns raised. Charlie puts you in front of him and presses the sharp tip of a knife to your throat. Where the hell did he get that from?

“Charlie Jones! Drop the knife,” Emily demands.

Your eyes immediately find Spencer’s, and you know you’re going to be okay. Even if he stabs you. Spencer is here. He always takes care of you.

“I’m not going to do that. You don’t understand. We were meant to be together!”

“Look at her, man,” Luke says, “you’re scaring her. Do you really want to do that to the woman you love?”

“She’s scared because you’re pointing your guns at her!”

“Okay, I’m putting my gun away,” Spencer says as he steps forward. No one else does, but Charlie isn’t focused on them. “I know you love her. I saw your wall. You don’t like me very much, do you?”

“You took her away from me,” Charlie growls.

“You can have her.” You try not to be hurt knowing he is just trying to talk him down. Spencer is just saying anything to get Charlie away from you. “If you care about her, Charlie, if you want a life with her, then you’ll let her go. She can’t give you children if she’s hurt or dead.”

“She was always meant to be with me.”

“I know. I just need to know she won’t get hurt. I care about her, too, but I know you love her. Just let her go, and you two can go back to your life here.”

The hesitation on Charlie’s part is all Emily needs to take the shot. He loosens his grip on you, and you duck just in time for Emily to shoot Charlie in the head. You immediately run into Spencer’s arms, and he holds you tightly as the others make a quick sweep of the place.

“You’re safe, Y/N. I’m sorry for saying those things.”

“No, you saved me.” You lean up and kiss him. “I love you.”

The paramedics come to check you out, and Spencer is by your side the whole time. The rest of his team is standing by their cars, whispering to each other. It’s out now. Everyone knows Spencer is dating the hot model.

“Spencer, I think they know now,” you giggle.

“Yeah, I know. I’ll introduce you.”

Charlie injected you with a local anesthetic to knock you out, so you’ll feel much better in the morning. You’re good to go. Spencer walks you over to the group, and he sees that JJ is on FaceTime with Penelope.

“Guys, this is Y/N, my girlfriend.”

“Hi, I’ve heard so much about all of you,” you smile.

“Funny. We never heard a thing about you.”

“My fault. I know.”

“I’d love to get to know all of you. Maybe next week we can all have lunch at my place. You know, after I get it all cleaned up.”

“Are you okay? He better not have hurt you. I’ll beat his ass in the afterlife,” Penelope says protectively.

“No, not much. He just had me make him dinner. He kissed me. It was gross.” You lean into Spencer. “I’m okay now.”

It’s nice to finally be able to talk to the people he calls his second family. There will always be people like Charlie out there who want to hurt you, but you know you’ll be okay with a whole team of FBI agents behind you.

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