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gillybear17 · 12 hours ago

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Second Chances

Pairings: Mattheo Riddle x Reader, Theo Nott x Reader (slight flirting), Draco Malfoy x Reader (platonic)

Summary: You see your ex boyfriend with his new girlfriend at a party.

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: I loved writing this so much. I wasn’t sure how I wanted this story to go and I kind of was thinking of potentially making this at least 2 parts but I decided to just do it all in 1 part. I think to do a multiple part fic I need a lot more details to it. Also this was an idea of my own. And I wasn’t expecting this to go the way it did but as I was writing this is just the direction it took. Please continue to send in requests

Mattheo Riddle. The one boy you promised yourself that you would never cry over. The boy who broke your heart, and who you had cried over countless times. He had the audacity to stand there smirking at you from across the room, his arm slung around his new girlfriends shoulders, as she whispered in his ear so he could hear her over the loud music.

That pig you thought to yourself. It had only been two weeks since Mattheo broke up with you, and he already had a new girlfriend. It’s clear to you, that you never meant anything to him.

“Y/N!” Your best friend Hermione shouted trying to grab your attention.

You tore your gaze away from Mattheo and looked at Hermione.

“You were staring at Mattheo.” She said.

“He was staring first,” you muttered just loud enough for her to hear.

“Well you need to get over him. He’s clearly already gotten over you.” She said giving you a small smile.

“I need a drink.” You said making your way to grab some Firewhiskey.

“Hey Y/N.” You heard a familiar voice say.

You turned around drink in hand, and saw your ex’s best friend.

“Hey Theo.” You said giving him a small smile, before taking a big sip of your drink.

“How are you doing?” He asked.

“Just great. My ex is here with his new girlfriend. Two weeks after he broke up with me. It’s as if I meant nothing to him. We were together for three years. I didn’t even want to come to this stupid party only came because Hermione convinced me to. Now I have to see him with some slut.” You said before downing the rest of your drink.

You went to grab another but Theo quickly stopped you.

“Slow down Y/N. You’ll get drunk way too fast. And you’ll feel like crap.” He said.

“That’s the plan.” You said ignoring him and grabbing another drink.

“Now Theo you can either drink with me, or leave me alone.” You said taking a sip of your second drink.

“I’m not leaving you alone. Not when you’re going to be in a state.” He said.

“Good, then drink with me.” You said grabbing a drink for Theo, and then pulling him to the sofa in the middle of the Slytherin common room.

You pushed him down on the sofa, and sat down on his lap.

“Y/N, I don’t think this is a good idea.” He said.

“Well there isn’t many other places I can sit so it’s your lap or on the floor. And I would much rather sit on your lap Theo.” You said smiling at him,

You looked over at Mattheo who was still watching you. He had been watching your every move. He now had a scowl on his face. It was your turn to smirk at him.

His new girlfriend was trying to get his attention but he couldn’t stop watching as you sat on his best friends lap. Laughing and flirting with Theo. You kept glancing at Mattheo to see his reaction.

When his girlfriend couldn’t get Mattheo’s attention she looked over to see where he was glaring. She immediately started to get angry with Mattheo. Shouting at him. Telling him to pay attention to her. But Mattheo’s gaze never shifted from you and Theo.

“You know Theo you’re really handsome, maybe I should have dated you instead of Mattheo.” You said running your fingers through his hair.

“Y/N stop before you do or say something you’ll regret.” Theo warned.

“And who says I will regret it.” You smirked before crashing your lips against Theo’ s.

Theo was reluctant to kiss you back. It’s not that he didn’t want to, he had always liked you, but you had been with his best friend. Before Theo could decide whether or not to kiss you back, you felt yourself being pulled off his lap.

You turned to see Mattheo stood there absolutely livid.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He asked.

“That is none of your business anymore Mattheo. You broke up with me.” You snapped.

“You can’t just go kissing my best friend.” He snapped getting in your face. He was breathing heavily, absolutely seething.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore. I can kiss whoever the fuck I want. And if I want to fuck someone I can do that too. You don’t have the right to lecture me, not when you started dating that slut only two weeks after we broke up. Clearly the last three years meant nothing to you. I meant nothing to you.”

“What the fuck did you call me?” Mattheo’s girlfriend said inserting herself into the conversation.

Pushing Mattheo out of the way you glared at his girlfriend.

“I called you a slut, everyone knows you spread your legs for any guy that looks at you.”

“How dare you? You’re the one who cheated on Mattheo.” She said.

“Excuse me.” You said, utterly confused.

“What bullshit have you been telling her Mattheo?” You said glaring at him.

“Actually you know what. Fuck you. And fuck your disgusting slut of a girlfriend.” You said and slapped Mattheo across the face.

You pushed past his girlfriend, and ran out of the Slytherin common room. You didn’t know where you were going you just knew that you had to get as far away from Mattheo and his new girlfriend as possible.

“What the hell have you done Riddle?” Draco asked having seen the commotion.

“I did nothing.” Mattheo said.

“I swear if you’ve hurt her I’ll kill you.” Draco spat.

“Why do you care about her?” Mattheo asked.

“Have you forgotten the fact that me and her were best friends up until she became friends with Granger. We grew up together. We might not be as close as we used to be but I still care about her. Now I’m going to go and find her. And if I find out you’ve done something else to hurt her I will kill you Riddle.” Draco said before leaving the common room to look for you.

He knew exactly where to look for you. He found you sat by the Black Lake sobbing. Draco sat down by you and took his jacket off placing it over your shoulders.

“It’s cold out here, you should have stayed in the castle.” He said.

“Draco what are you doing here?” You asked looking at him.

“I had to come check you were ok. No one else seemed to want to come and check up on you. Not even your new best friend.” He said.

“Why did you have to come though? I mean we aren’t as close as we used to be.”

“I still care about you. My parents ask about you all the time you know. They always tell me they hope you’ll come over to the manor again one day. Like you used to. Stay the summer again. They miss you as much as I miss you.”

“Draco I. I’m sorry I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s ok. Look you know I don’t like Granger. You deserve better friends than her.”

“Draco don’t.” You said starting to get annoyed.

“I’m sorry but look if she truly was your best friend she would be here with you now. Not me.” He said.

“I guess you’re right.” You said not really wanting to admit he was right. But you couldn’t deny that he had a very valid point.

If Hermione really was your friend she would have followed straight after you. But why didn’t she?

“How come you slapped Mattheo?” Draco asked.

“He told his new girlfriend that I cheated on him, and that’s why he broke up with me.”

“What the fuck. Why would he say that?”

“Honestly. I have no idea. I’ve done nothing but love him for the last three years.”

“Right. Well I’m going to find out what the fuck is going on with that idiot. Either he’s made it up so he doesn’t seem like the bad guy. Or someone made shit up to him. Either way I’m going to find out. I will set things straight for you. I owe you that much for being such a terrible friend.” Draco said.

“Draco you have never been a terrible friend. We stopped being close because you and Hermione don’t see eye to eye.” You explained.

“I still need to make up for us not being as close as we used to. I deeply regret letting Granger come between our friendship.” He said wrapping his arm around you and pulling you in for a hug.

A few days later Draco came back to you, with some news. He found you in the library after classes.

“Y/N I have the answers you need.” He said sitting down opposite you.

“From the look on your face I’m guessing I am not going to like what you have to tell me.” You said noticing the angry expression on his face.

“No you aren’t.” Draco said.

“Ok. Let’s hear it.” You said.

“Well first of all Mattheo refused to say anything, no matter how many times I threatened him or tried to get him to talk. I tried his new girlfriend, but she also refused to speak to me. So my last resort was Theo. I know he’s Mattheo’s best friend but I knew he must have some insight into what happened. Best friends tell each other everything.” Draco said.

“Ok. And he had some information right?” You asked.

“Yes he did. First of all that girl, is not Mattheo’s new girlfriend. He only pretended to be with her to get back at you. The girl however honestly did think that they were together. He has now told her to leave him alone he wants nothing to do with her.” Draco explained.

“Ok, but did you find out why he told her that I cheated on him?” You asked.

“Of course I did. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have all the information. You know I don’t stop until I have everything I need.”

“I know sorry. Carry on.”

“It was Granger. She was the one who told Mattheo that you cheated on him.”

“What why the hell would she do that? I thought she was my friend.”

“I know and I’m sorry.” Draco said taking his hand in yours.

“Right let’s go and speak to her. She will be in the Gryffindor common room you can come with me.” You said.

“You know we aren’t normally allowed in other houses common rooms unless there’s a party.” Draco said.

“Well it’s ok because you’re with me, and I give you permission to be in there.” You said.

The two of you made your way to the Gryffindor common room. Giving the portrait of the Fat Lady the password you and Draco entered the Gryffindor common room.

Hermione was sat there with Ron and Harry and a few other Gryffindor students were around.

“Y/N there you are.” She said giving you a smile.

“What the hell is Malfoy doing here?” Ron asked.

“Yeah what is he doing here you know we aren’t allowed in other houses common rooms.” Hermione said looking pissed off.

“He is my friend and I gave him permission to be here. And Hermione I think me and you need a little talk.” You said.

“What about? And I’m not talking if he’s here.” Hermione said glaring at Draco.

“Well I’m not going anywhere you filthy little mudblood.” Draco spat.

“Hey watch it Malfoy.” Harry said standing up and pointing his wand at Draco ready to start a fight.

You stepped between Harry and Draco and pushed Harry.

“Don’t you dare Harry” you said.

“How can you defend him?” Harry asked.

“Because he is my best friend. Has been since we were young. But we haven’t been as close over the last few years. But we are getting back on track again.” You explained.

“I thought I was your best friend?” Hermione asked.

“Yeah I thought so too.” You said glaring at Hermione.

“What do you mean?” Hermione said now standing up.

You didn’t say anything. Hermione stumbled back once your hand connected with her face.

“Why would you do that?” Ron asked.

“Ask her. She knows what she did.” You said pointing to Hermione who now had tears in her eyes.

“I didn’t do anything,” she said.

“Yes you did Hermione. What was it huh? Were you jealous? Didn’t want me to be happy? What was it? What caused you to ruin my relationship?” You asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She denied.

“Seriously what is going on?” Harry asked.

“This filthy little mudblood told Mattheo that Y/N cheated on him.” Draco said.

“I told you to watch it Malfoy.” Harry said pointing his wand at Draco again.

“And I said don’t you dare Harry.” You said pushing him away from Draco again.

“How could you do this to me Hermione?” You asked now looking at her.

“I didn’t.” She denied again.

“But you did. We know you did. So why would you sabotage my relationship? Do you like Mattheo or something?” You asked.

“I didn’t.”

“Yes you did. I can see it in your eyes Hermione. You can’t lie to me.”

“I don’t have to explain anything to you.” She snapped.

“Yes you do. You ruined my relationship of three fucking years. You owe me an explanation.” You yelled.

“Fine. It’s true I like Mattheo. And you don’t deserve him. You don’t deserve anyone. You’re a bitch.” She said.

You chuckled and then tackled Hermione to the floor. You punched her over and over again.

Harry and Ron tried to pull you off of Hermione. They did not succeed. Draco just watched in amusement laughing. The rest of the Gryffindor students just watched in horror and shock.

Finally you got off Hermione and looked at your handy work. You smiled as Ron and Harry checked if Hermione was ok.

“You can come stay in my dorm tonight. Don’t want you staying here.” Draco said.

“Yeah let’s go get my things.” You said leading Draco to your dorm room so you could get some change of clothes and everything else you would need for the night.

As you walked out of the common room your belongings in tow with Draco, you turned to Hermione and said “you deserved that mudblood.”

Draco laughed, while Harry and Ron glared at you. Hermione completely avoided looking at you as you and Draco left the Gryffindor common room.

When you arrived at the Slytherin common room you were annoyed to see Mattheo sat there with Theo.

Mattheo noticed you and asked “what is she doing here?”

“She’s staying with me tonight.” Draco said.

“Are you two dating now?” Mattheo asked.

“No of course not, she’s my best friend. And she just beat the crap out of Granger.”Draco explained.

Mattheo and Theo shared a look between them.

“Let’s go to my dorm.” Draco said.

“I actually need to sit down a minute.” You said sitting down in an empty chair.

“Ok I will take your stuff to my dorm and then I will be back in a few minutes.” Draco said leaving you there.

You sighed and rested your head on the back of the chair and staring up at the ceiling.

“Why did you beat up Granger?” Mattheo asked.

You didn’t answer him just chose to ignore him.

“Y/N I asked you a question.” Mattheo said annoyed that you weren’t responding.

“Just drop it Mattheo.” You said.

“No. I won’t. Why did you beat her up? That’s not like you at all.”

“Because she sabotaged our relationship. She lied about me cheating on you because she likes you. There are you happy now.” You snapped and made your way to Draco’s dorm.

You spent the night with Draco. He held you the entire night, soothing you, wiping away your tears.

“Good morning.” Draco said when you woke up, arms still around you.

“Morning Draco. I’m sorry about last night.” You said.

“You have nothing to apologise for. If you want to stay here for a bit longer with me until things calm down a bit you’re welcome to. You don’t have to go back to your common room until you’re ready to. We can go get you some more clothes after classes today.” Draco suggested.

“Thank you I appreciate that. And yeah I definitely think that’s a good idea. For a little while at least.”

You and Draco stayed in bed until it was time to go classes. You both decided it was best to avoid going to the Great Hall for breakfast. Knowing you would have to sit at the Gryffindor table whilst Draco was at the Slytherin table wasn’t appealing to you.

For all your classes you usually sat by Hermione but opted to sit by Draco all day. You were surprised that you didn’t get into any trouble about what you had done to Hermione. But maybe she knew better than to snitch on you. Harry and Ron didn’t seem happy with the fact that you were getting away with it.

At the end of the day you grabbed dinner from the Great Hall. You and Draco didn’t stick around knowing you would have to sit at separate tables so you grabbed some food and just headed back to the Slytherin common room. You had already grabbed everything you needed from your dorm for a few more days so you didn’t have to worry about going anywhere for the rest of the night.

You had not long finished eating when Mattheo and Theo entered the common room. He saw you cuddled up with Draco and his heart sank. He knows you and Draco are just friends but it still hurt to see you cuddled up with him.

“Y/N can we talk?” Mattheo asked.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Draco said speaking for you. It was like he knew exactly what you wanted to say.

“Please.” Mattheo begged.

Draco looked at you as if silently saying it’s your choice.

“Ok fine but make it quick.” You said.

“I’ll be in my dorm room if you need me.” Draco said and placed a kiss on top of your head.

Draco left you and Mattheo to talk. Theo also left the two of you alone. Luckily no other students were back from dinner yet so it was just you and Mattheo.

He sat down next to you and didn’t say anything for a few minutes.

“Go on then Mattheo. You said you wanted to talk but you aren’t saying anything.” You said.

“I know I’m sorry. I just I don’t want to mess things up further. I don’t want to say anything wrong.” He admitted.

“It’s ok. Just say what you have to say.” You said.

“Hermione asked me out.” Mattheo said.

“What the fuck. That filthy mudblood seriously has the audacity after everything she did and everything she said to me last night.” You said angrily.

“Hey don’t get angry.” Mattheo said and he took one of your hands in his.

You looked at your hands interlocked and felt your heart race. You tried to ignore it.

“What did she say to you anyway?” Mattheo asked.

“She called me a bitch. And she said that I didn’t deserve you. That I don’t deserve anyone.” You said.

You started crying. You could no longer hold back the tears.

Mattheo was quick to wrap his arms around you.

“Hey shhhhhh” he said trying to soothe you.

Neither of you said anything for about ten minutes. Mattheo just held you in his arms, as you sobbed into his chest.

He placed a kiss on top of your head.

“When Hermione asked me out I embarrassed her in front of the entire Great Hall. Told her she should be ashamed asking me out after ruining our relationship. Told her she always seems to want something she can’t have because she’s jealous of someone else. Told her that even if she was the last person in the world I wouldn’t go near her. Said she’s a bitch for pretending to be your friend this whole time, just waiting for the right opportunity to sabotage our relationship. She cried and ran away of course.” Mattheo said.

“Oh and before she ran away I told her that I am still in love with the most beautiful girl I have ever known, inside and out. That I should have never believed her lies. And that I regret ever doubting you for a second.” He added.

You lifted your head from Mattheo’s chest to look him in the eyes.

“You still love me?” You asked.

“Of course I do. We were together for three years. And I’m sorry I pretended to be with someone else just to make you jealous. Don’t worry I didn’t do anything with her. I didn’t even kiss her.” Mattheo said.

“I still love you too Mattheo. And I’m sorry I kissed Theo. I only did it because I was hurting so much. Especially since you seemed to move on from me so quickly. I mean moving on after two weeks is far too quick.” You said.

“As I said. I wasn’t actually with her, so technically I hadn’t moved on. And it’s ok. I get why you did it. You were upset.”

“Where do we go from here then?” You asked.

“Well if you are I’m willing to act like this was just a little bump in the road. If you’re willing to put this behind us we can carry on as normal. Only if you want to of course.” Mattheo said.

You smiled before leaning in to kiss him. The kiss was warm and gentle. You had missed this so much.

Pulling away you rested your forehead against Mattheo’s.

“I’m willing to do anything it takes to fix us.” You said.

“Me too.” Mattheo replied.

You both smiled and it suddenly felt like everything was going to be ok.

“If you hurt her again I will kill you.” Draco said as he re entered the room with Theo.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. I plan on making this girl happy for the rest of our lives. Nothing and no one will come between us again. I will make sure of it.” Mattheo said before kissing you again.

And you knew that he meant it.

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gillybear17 · 12 hours ago

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wanna bet? m.list

ˋ°•*⁀➷ a mattheo riddle x potter!reader au

navigation // ꩜ smut, ❀ fluff, 𖤓 angsty/angry, 𖤐 funny

synopsis: when harry potter's sister moves from beauxbatons to hogwarts for her final year of wizarding school, she is immediately adopted into an unlikely friend group. ft. jily

✩ bet on it, parkinson? - when the group of slytherins spot harry potter with a girl they’ve never seen before, pansy decides to investigate, convinced you’re his sister. (𖤐)

✩ you're excused - pansy invites you to sit with her friend group on the train to hogwarts, an invite you immediately take, happy to make your friends instead of lingering around your brother's group. however, it isn't as simple as that with a brother as protective as harry potter. COMING SOON

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gillybear17 · 2 days ago

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oscar (if i’m remembering correctly he’s mango on your list!); SMAU (if you do them) with a dallas cowboys cheerleader reader (maybe they like met at COTA since the dcc perform there)!

CUPID PIASTRI

Oscar Piastri x Dallas Cowboys cheerleader!reader Summary: Hattie's fanatism leads to Oscar meeting the love of his life. Request!, fem! reader, SMAU! , face clain: Reece Weaver. Tried to make the story with them meeting at COTA but i saw in reece's insta that she went to the miami gp so i tought: "this is perfect, lets change it" im sorry tho. I love Hattie so I needed to use her for this, she's me and I'm her. It's my first ever smau so I tried my best, i think it's a bit short 🫠

masterlist

hattiepiastri

liked by oscarpiastri, nicolepiastri and more

caption: last week of april done, americas sweethears is the only thing keeping me entertained right now...

user1 idkw but hattie watching the documentary about the Dallas cowboys' cheerleaders makes so much sense

user2 hattie i love you please say hi ❤️

user3 will you be going to the next gp??

oscarpiastri stop watching netflix you ipad kid

hattiepiastri NEVER

ynusername

liked by hattiepiastri and more

caption:

user4 hattie in the likes she must really like the netflix show

hattiepiastri she could step on my face and i wouldn't complain

user5 someone has a crush hattiepiastri oh im not the one with the crush

user6 yn is so goddamm beautiful she doesnt look real at all

user7 she's so talented and so beautiful i want to be her

oscarpiastri

liked by landonorris, mclaren and more

caption: Tidy few days. Ready for Miami!

mclaren what a race

user8 the man you are oscar

user9 this years world champion! 🏆

hattiepiastri promise to bring me to the next race 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

oscarpiastri no??? hattiepiastri the hell you mean no

ynusername

liked by hattiepiastri, oscarpiastri and more

caption: Pit stops and palm trees🌴🏁🩵

hattiepiastri finally met yn but my stupid brother got in the way

user10 so oscar did take you to the gp user11 wdym got in the way?

user12 OSCAR IN THE LIKES

user13 god forbid a man who's just being polite with the girl he just met user14 no girl, that is not just being polite he likes her user15 but he is not following her so everything is fine user16 tf???

user17 queen is at miami

marissaphillips_ you are trully the cutest! liked by author

oscarpiastri

liked by mclaren, ynusername and more

caption: Good vibes in the 305

ynusername congrats!! liked by author

user17 GUYS THIS IS NOT A SIMULATION THE INTERACTION IS HAPPENING

user18 he dedicated the win to hattie 🥺

hattiepiastri you did decent, not enough to impress someone 🫤

user19 does that someone have a name? user20 love their sibling interactions

user21 the papaya boys winning in miami for two consecutive years 🧡🧡🧡

hattiepiastri

liked by oscarpiastri and more

caption: they call me cupid

oscarpiastri no one calls you that

hattiepiastri YOU should user22 guys what is happening user23 hattie im waiting for a storytime tiktok user24 is this about oscar and yn??

two months after

five months after

ynusername

liked by oscarpiastri, hattiepiastri and more

caption: what a week

user25 guys GUYS THAT. IS. OSCAR.

user26 no he isn't user27 girl u blind?? user28 they don't even follow each other

user29 i have no idea of football but i could watch the cheerleaders' performances over and over again without getting bored

oscarpiastri

liked by ynusername, hattiepiastry and more

oscarpiastri has tagged ynusername

caption: sorry, forgot about the follow button

ynusername ily osc 💞 liked by author

user30 oh, to be loved by oscar piastri user31 to be loved by yn wdym

hattiepiastri you're welcome

user32 idk if i want to be her or i want to be with her

user33 its giving pr relationship

user34 stfu 🤗

user34 this man loves his woman

user35 may this love attack me.

user36 the hardlaunch????

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gillybear17 · 2 days ago

Text

CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE WINTER SOLDIER (2014) dir. Joe & Anthony Russo

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gillybear17 · 2 days ago

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He Loves You Like I Do

Charles Leclerc x Wife!Reader

It was subtle at first.

Little signs that your son, barely past his first birthday, had already chosen you as his favorite person in the entire universe.

Not that Charles minded. Okay, maybe he did. A little.

Because this morning, for the fourth time in a row, your baby reached for you and only you — refusing his papa’s open arms with a frown and a pitiful whimper that said How dare you not be holding me, Mama?

Charles stood there in his Ferrari hoodie, hair messy from sleep, watching his mini-me bury his face in your neck like he’d been gone from you for years — when you’d literally just gone to the bathroom.

You looked up and gave Charles a knowing look, whispering behind the baby’s ear, “He missed me.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “He saw you three minutes ago, amour.”

“I know,” you smiled, running a gentle hand over your son’s curls. “But that’s like… a decade in baby time.”

Your son turned to glance at Charles, wide green eyes blinking, cheeks squished against your shoulder.

“Papa,” Charles said softly, trying again, holding out his arms. “Come here, mon petit. Papa missed you.”

The baby didn’t even move.

He looked back at Charles. Considered it. Then shook his head with all the sass of a toddler who knew his power.

Charles pressed a hand to his heart. “Oof. That one hurt.”

You were laughing now, rocking your son side to side. “Maybe he just needs some mama time.”

“You said that yesterday,” Charles mumbled, though his eyes were full of love as he stepped closer, brushing his fingers along your arm. “And the day before.”

“I think he’s a mama’s boy,” you whispered proudly, kissing the top of your son's head.

Charles leaned down and kissed you.

“I don’t blame him,” he said, voice low. “I fell for you the same way.”

Your son giggled — a real belly laugh — and Charles’ eyes softened. He could be jealous all he wanted, but nothing, nothing, beat the sound of his family like this.

Charles wrapped an arm around both of you, whispering in mock seriousness, “I’ll win him back. I’ll bribe him with chocolate when you’re not looking.”

“You’ll be the reason he needs a dentist by two.”

“Then I’ll pay for the dentist.”

You rolled your eyes with a smile, but your son suddenly reached one chubby hand toward Charles’ face, patting his cheek softly — the smallest of apologies. Then, with no warning, he leaned out of your arms… and into Charles’.

Charles caught him mid-air, stunned but thrilled, holding him tightly.

“Well,” he grinned, looking at you. “That only took a week of rejection.”

Your son snuggled into his chest this time, blinking up at him, one tiny thumb in his mouth.

And Charles, swaying both of you gently, whispered like a secret:

“He loves you just like I do.”

This was Requested.🫶🏼

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gillybear17 · 2 days ago

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Engaged-ish

Lando Norris x Grand Duchess!Reader

Summary: in which an obscure Luxembourgish tradition leads to a proposal … sort of

The paddock buzzes like a beehive, sun-drenched and shimmering with the scent of gasoline, sunscreen, and expensive cologne. Cameras flash. People talk in clipped, purposeful voices. Somewhere, an engine snarls awake.

And then — chaos.

Well, not chaos exactly. More like a whoosh, followed by a yelp.

“Oi! Shit! Watch out!”

A blur of black and orange comes flying down the narrow stretch between team garages. Lando Norris, crouched low on a scooter like a gremlin on wheels, is laughing before he slams into something soft and solid.

There’s a crunch of expensive heels.

A thud.

A gasp.

And then-

“Oh my God. Ohmygodohmygod.” Lando’s already halfway off the scooter, scrambling to his feet with hands out like he can rewind time by sheer panic. “Are you — are you okay? I didn’t — I mean, it’s not like, that fast, right? It’s — okay, yeah, no, you’re very much on the ground, cool cool cool-”

You’re lying there, halfway on your side, propped up by one elbow, blinking. Your oversized sunglasses are askew. One of your heels has flown halfway under a stack of Pirellis.

And the guy looming above you is grinning like he’s not sure if he should laugh or throw himself into the Mediterranean out of shame.

"Hi," he says. "Sorry for, uh. Running you over."

You tilt your head, still stunned. “Are you seriously racing a scooter through the paddock?”

“It’s not racing if no one’s timing it,” Lando says brightly, offering you a hand. “… But yes. And that was reckless. And stupid. And really fun. But mostly stupid.”

You stare at his hand. His cap’s pushed up on his head, curly hair spilling out in sweaty tangles. His eyes are impossibly bright. He looks like he just crash-landed from a cartoon.

You take his hand.

He pulls you up with an exaggerated grunt. “Wow. Okay. You’re stronger than you look.”

“You’re more of a menace than you look.”

He grins. "Thank you. Wait, was that a compliment?"

“Not even remotely.”

You dust yourself off, lifting your sunglasses onto your head. Lando watches, then lets out a short laugh.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“You’re — yeah, wow, okay. You’re very pretty. Like, really pretty. You’re probably important, huh?”

You narrow your eyes.

“Are you asking if I’m important because I’m pretty?”

“No! No no no,” he says, horrified. “God, no. I mean — you look like the kind of person who has a security detail and a Wikipedia page. Which is not the only reason you’re important. It’s just … I feel like I’m gonna get sued.”

You smirk. “You might.”

He’s staring at you like you just told him he ran over Taylor Swift.

“Okay. What’s your name? I’ll write you a very panicked apology letter. Maybe flowers? Wait, do you even like flowers? Maybe chocolate. Wait — nut allergy?”

You blink. “Are you always like this?”

He considers that. “Yeah. But sometimes I tone it down for the elderly or if I’m at a funeral.”

You should be irritated. You’re not. Somehow, all this flailing panic is … disarming. He’s like a golden retriever who just knocked over a vase and is now waiting to see if you’ll still pet him.

“I’m Y/N,” you say finally.

“Y/N,” he repeats. “That’s a lovely name.”

“And you are Lando Norris.”

He pauses. “… So you do know who I am. That feels unfair.”

“You ran me over.”

“Right. Nevermind.”

You retrieve your shoe from under the tires with a little sigh. He watches you with a sort of guilty awe. Like he can’t quite believe he survived the collision.

Then, after a beat, “You here for the race?”

You arch a brow. “What gave it away?”

“Could be the Monaco sun,” he says, walking backward beside you now. “But also the outfit. You look too … elegant to be someone’s PR handler. You’re not a driver’s girlfriend either, or I’d have seen you on Insta by now.”

You snort. “What a deduction.”

“I know, right? Sherlock Norris. So … what do you do?”

You stop walking. He stops too. Tilts his head.

You smile. “I would tell you …”

“Oh, you would?” He says, eyebrows bouncing.

“-but I think I want to see if you can guess my job correctly.”

He grins. “Love a challenge.”

You lean in slightly, like you’re sharing a secret. “You only get one guess.”

“Only one?”

“One.”

“Okay, okay. No pressure.” He pinches the bridge of his nose like it’ll help summon divine clarity. “Let’s see. You’re well-dressed, clearly clever, somehow not screaming at me despite the vehicular assault … so you’re either incredibly powerful or completely unbothered by earthly consequences.”

“Very astute.”

He squints. “You’re … a fashion CEO.”

You blink. “That’s your guess?”

He nods, proud. “Big time. Like, quietly running a billion-euro empire from a Parisian penthouse. You look like you boss people around in three languages.”

You purse your lips. “Close.”

“Seriously?”

“No. Not even remotely.”

He looks personally offended. “Okay, then who are you?”

You just start walking again.

“Oh, come on! That’s mean,” he whines, trailing after you. “I guessed. You said I get to know!”

“No,” you say over your shoulder. “I said I want to hear if you can guess it. You didn’t.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Is this what heartbreak feels like? Are you — are you a spy? A secret agent? Do you know Daniel Craig? Please tell me you’re MI6.”

You’re laughing now, which only makes him more dramatic.

“Oh, you’re loving this,” he accuses. “You’re totally enjoying watching me flail.”

“You flail very naturally.”

“Thank you — wait, no. That’s not a compliment.”

“Isn’t it?”

He squints suspiciously. “You’ve got the same energy as my trainer when he says I’m doing a good job but makes the workouts harder.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Okay, mysterious beautiful stranger who may or may not be royalty-”

You freeze for a split second.

He catches it.

“Oh my God,” he says slowly. “Wait. Wait. Are you actually — wait. Like, real royalty? Is that — no. That’s not a thing. That’s a thing in Netflix movies.”

You raise a brow.

“Oh shit,” he whispers.

You don’t confirm. Don’t deny.

He stares at you like you just turned into a unicorn. “I ran over a princess.”

You tilt your head. “Technically, Grand Duchess. Hereditary Grand Duchess, if we’re being precise.”

He’s silent.

For about three whole seconds.

Then, “I’m going to jail.”

You burst out laughing.

“No, seriously,” he says, mouth falling open. “That’s like treason? Assault on a noble? Is that a law? Is there a dungeon? Oh my god-”

You reach for his sleeve, tug it gently. “Relax. You’re not going to prison.”

“But I could be,” he says, stunned. “You’re actual royalty. I think I saw you once, like a year ago! You were on the cover of Vogue or something-”

You glance sideways. “So you have seen me before.”

“I thought you looked familiar! But I just assumed I’d dreamed you.”

You roll your eyes.

He stares at you for another second, then breaks into a wide, sheepish grin. “This is insane.”

“You’re telling me.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “So … you coming to the motorhome, Your Highness?”

You pretend to consider it. “Only if you stop calling me that.”

“Deal,” he says immediately. “But I’m still going to make you guess what my job is, just to even the playing field.”

You glance at his McLaren shirt. “You sell scooters.”

He gasps. “Correct. Wow. Nailed it in one.”

You both laugh.

***

The McLaren motorhome hums with life, all sharp lines and bright orange accents, but it feels like a bubble. A refuge tucked between the chaos of the paddock and the roaring engines beyond. You follow Lando inside, still unsure how you got here — still vaguely amused that he hasn’t stopped talking since the crash.

“You know, I don’t normally just run over people,” he says, leading you past a security guy who gives you both a baffled look. “You’re actually my first. Well. That I know of. I might’ve clipped a Ferrari engineer once, but he was dramatic about it and threw a clipboard.”

You smile, trailing after him. “Is this your version of flirting?”

“Oh no, no, this is panic,” he says quickly. “My flirting is marginally smoother.”

“Marginally.”

“On a good day.”

The motorhome is bustling. Engineers tap away on laptops. There’s a spread of snacks someone’s half-raided. You notice a few people double-taking as they see you walk in, but no one says anything. It’s like they’re used to Lando bringing in strays.

“Do they always stare like that?” You ask under your breath.

He glances around. “What, that? Nah. That’s just them wondering if you’re a Netflix producer, or my cousin, or a very lost model.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so annoyingly casual about this.”

“It’s my greatest skill,” he says proudly, then spins around suddenly. “Wait … here.”

He pulls off his McLaren cap and steps forward, holding it out to you. “Sun’s brutal today. You’ll need this if you’re hanging out here.”

You blink at the hat in his hand. “You’re giving me your hat?”

“Lending it,” he corrects, but he’s already stepping closer.

And then — without really thinking — he lifts it over your head and places it gently on top of your hair, adjusting it with exaggerated care.

“There,” he says, grinning. “Now you look fast.”

You snort. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to,” he says. “You feel fast.”

You adjust the cap slightly, not thinking much of it. It’s warm from his head. Smells faintly like his shampoo and sun.

And somewhere across the paddock, at least four camera lenses catch it. The exact moment Lando Norris — a nonchalant, grinning mess of curls and chaotic charm — places his own hat gently on your head with all the care of someone proposing a life together.

Of course, neither of you notices.

“You look good in papaya,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

You raise an eyebrow. “You just like seeing people wear your merch.”

“True,” he admits. “It’s excellent branding.”

There’s a pause, and then you both start laughing at the same time. Loud and open, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere in the background, a McLaren comms staffer walks by, glancing between the two of you and immediately pulling out her phone.

“Right,” Lando says, flopping onto the couch and patting the space next to him. “Come on. Sit. Tell me everything.”

You lower yourself carefully onto the cushion, still unsure how your diplomatic morning turned into … whatever this is. “Everything?”

“Everything. Like what’s your actual day-to-day like? Are you doing royal things all the time? Are there, like, scrolls? Do you own a sceptre?”

“No scrolls,” you say. “And sadly, no sceptre. But I’m working on it.”

He nods solemnly. “You deserve a sceptre.”

“Thank you.”

“But seriously. Do you have meetings with … I don’t know, other royals? Do you sit in a big room and talk about treaties and wear sashes?”

You laugh. “Sometimes. Though most of my meetings are just government-adjacent. I do a lot of international work. Cultural diplomacy. Economic initiatives. Tourism stuff.”

“So … not just tea parties and ribbon cutting?”

“Shockingly, no.”

He whistles. “That actually sounds important.”

“It is.”

“And exhausting.”

You tilt your head. “It can be. There’s pressure. Constantly being watched. Expectations. Every gesture means something.”

He raises a brow. “Even hats?”

You don’t even flinch.

But internally, you do hesitate. The old Luxembourgish tradition flashes through your mind — one your grandmother once explained with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye.

“If a man offers you something of his, something worn, something marked by him — especially a hat — and places it on your head, it means he offers you protection. Partnership. In the old days, it was a proposal before a proposal.”

You remember laughing at the time. It was quaint. Archaic. Romantic, in a way that felt more myth than law.

You doubt Lando Norris is aware of any of that.

You watch him now — grinning at a text, tossing his phone aside, still slouched like he owns the whole motorhome — and decide not to mention it.

“It’s just a hat,” you say lightly.

He nods. “Right? Totally normal. Generous, even.”

“Deeply generous,” you echo, smiling.

You both fall quiet for a moment. It’s not awkward. It’s … easy.

Then he turns to you again.

“So do you get bored of it?” He asks.

You blink. “Of what?”

“Being important. Being watched. Being … not normal.”

That one hits.

You lean back, letting your gaze drift to the window. “Sometimes. It’s hard to know if people are being real with me. If they want something, or if they’re just pretending they don’t know who I am. Or worse, pretending they do.”

He nods, slower now. “Yeah. I get that. A bit.”

You glance over at him.

“Okay, not the royal part,” he adds. “But … being public. Being expected to be on all the time. It’s weird, right? Like, people think they know you. Like they’ve already decided who you are before you say anything.”

You watch his face as he says it. There’s a moment of real honesty there, flickering between his words.

And you realize he’s not as clueless as he seems.

“I like this,” you say softly.

He looks up. “This?”

“This. Just talking. Not performing.”

He smiles, slower this time. “Me too.”

Someone calls his name from across the motorhome, but he doesn’t look away.

You pick up a packet of cookies from the coffee table, toss it into his lap. “Tell me more about crashing into other people. I want to know how many lawsuits you’re juggling.”

He laughs. “Okay, so once in Silverstone, I clipped George Russell with a golf cart. He insists I did it on purpose, but I maintain it was sabotage from Mercedes.”

You lean in, smiling. “Tell me everything.”

And so he does.

He talks with his hands, dramatic and unfiltered. He tells stories that make you laugh until you’re clutching your stomach. He impersonates Daniel Ricciardo. He makes fun of himself, of the team, of the absurdity of fame. You don’t realize how much time has passed until the room starts to empty.

You glance at the clock and blink. “It’s been two hours.”

“No way.”

You both look around. People are filtering out. The buzz of the paddock is louder now, the day slipping past you like sand through your fingers.

You reach up to adjust the hat again, and Lando watches, biting back a smile.

“You’re really keeping that, huh?”

You shrug. “Finders keepers.”

“I knew it,” he says. “You just came here for the merch.”

“I’m royalty,” you reply. “I came here for the drama and the free stuff.”

He clutches his heart. “A woman after my own heart.”

You hear a few more shutter clicks outside — photographers catching shots through the motorhome windows, lenses like little eyes peering in. Lando doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s used to it.

You should care more. Maybe you do, somewhere deep down.

But right now? In this moment?

You don’t.

You’re wearing his hat, and he’s laughing like he’s never had more fun in his life. And you’re just … two people on a couch, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist.

Later, you’ll both hear about the photos. About the symbolism. The headlines in Luxembourgish tabloids translating your laughter into lovers’ whispers, the cap into a silent vow.

But for now, you just look at him and smile.

And he smiles back.

***

It starts early.

Too early for a Sunday race day.

Lando is still half-asleep, blinking against the pale Monte Carlo morning light slicing through the curtains, when his phone explodes.

First it’s the buzz. Then the buzzbuzzbuzz. Then the ping, ping, ping of messages stacking up like a digital avalanche.

He groans, rolls over, tries to bury himself under the pillow. No use. Whatever this is, it’s not going away.

And then-

Cabrón. WHAT have you done?

Carlos is the first one in the group chat. With a screenshot.

Lando squints blearily at it. All caps. Tabloid headline.

A blurry photo from yesterday.

It’s you. Wearing his McLaren cap. Laughing. The moment he placed it on your head captured in too-crisp detail.

And the headline-

HEREDITARY GRAND DUCHESS OF LUXEMBOURG ENGAGED TO FORMULA 1 STAR LANDO NORRIS IN SECRET MONACO CEREMONY?

He blinks again.

“…What the fu-”

Another buzz.

ZAK BROWN: Call me. Now.

ANDREA STELLA: This is not funny. We are in Monaco. Please, for once, use your head.

GEORGE: Lando. Mate. Explain the royal engagement.

MUM: We need to talk ❤️

He stares at the screen like it might bite him.

The Grand Duchess part doesn’t even register at first. He scrolls through more links, more headlines, all variations of the same fever dream.

Symbolic proposal shocks royal observers in Monaco GP paddock.

Royal family confirms no comment

McLaren’s Lando Norris in relationship with Luxembourg’s future monarch?

He mutters, “What the — what is happening?”

Carlos sends another message.

CARLOS: This is the best thing that’s ever happened. Can I be your maid of honor?

CARLOS: Wait. Groomsman. Unless you're planning to wear the dress, then honestly I support it.

Lando doesn’t even have the energy to reply.

He swings out of bed, throws on a hoodie, and starts pacing. The cap. The hat. Was it really that big of a deal?

He offered it because she looked a little sun-blind. He thought it’d be cute. A gesture. Flirty. A laugh.

Not an international incident.

There’s a knock on his apartment door.

He opens it.

Zak stands there with the energy of someone who’s been yelling into a phone for two hours straight. Andrea is behind him, looking like he aged ten years overnight.

“You’re trending,” Zak says without preamble. “Not for winning. Not for pole. Not even for crashing. You’re trending because apparently you’re about to marry into a monarchy.”

“I didn’t — what — no,” Lando says, holding his hands up. “I gave her a hat!”

“An engagement hat!” Carlos shouts from inside the apartment, because of course Carlos has let himself in somehow. “The most sacred of all hats!”

Lando glares. “You’re not helping.”

Andrea pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you understand the implications of this, Lando?”

“No! Because it’s insane!”

Zak exhales. “There are diplomatic rumors flying. Press camped outside the motorhome. Questions coming in from Luxembourg’s government channels.”

Lando looks helpless. “But I didn’t do anything.”

Carlos, now lying fully horizontal on Lando’s bed, grins. “You proposed. With headwear.”

“I hate all of you.”

Carlos lifts a hand. “It’s what we do.”

***

By the time Lando makes it to the paddock, he’s wearing sunglasses and a hoodie pulled up like a man on the run.

He gets stopped four times before reaching the McLaren motorhome.

One PR officer actually bows at him, just to be a menace.

Oscar gives him a slow, impressed once-over and just says, “Your Royal Highness,” with a mocking nod before walking away.

He’s never living this down.

The only thing he wants is to find you.

And, as if summoned by the strength of pure panic, there you are. Standing just outside the McLaren garage, mid-conversation with someone from Alpine, sipping from a bottle of water like you own the place. Your hair is tucked into a sleek ponytail. The sun makes your earrings glint.

Lando jogs up to you, breathless.

“Hey! Hey, hi, um, hi.”

You turn, startled. “Good morning.”

“Not really,” he says, lifting his glasses. “What the hell is going on?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“The cap. The hat. The one I put on your head yesterday? Apparently that means I proposed to you. The tabloids are going crazy. Everyone thinks we’re engaged. My mum texted me.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Wait, seriously?”

He pulls out his phone, flicks through the headlines, and shoves it toward you.

You squint at one. “‘Royal Love Blooms on the Grid?’” You snort. “‘Luxembourg’s Heartthrob Duchess Swept Off Her Feet by McLaren Maverick?’”

Lando’s voice pitches up. “Swept off her feet! I literally ran into you with a scooter!”

You start laughing. Not a polite laugh. A full-body, unbothered laugh. Like this is all the most normal thing in the world.

He stares. “Why are you laughing?”

You wipe a tear from under your eye. “Because this is nothing. You should’ve seen the time they said I was secretly dating a Swiss banker who turned out to be my second cousin.”

He pauses. “… What?”

“Or the time they decided I’d renounced the throne to become a goat farmer in Liechtenstein.”

He blinks. “Okay, that one’s kind of iconic.”

You give him a shrug. “This is what happens when you’re born into a monarchy and dare to show emotions in public.”

He stares at you. “You’re telling me you’re fine with this?”

“I think it’s hilarious.”

“Hilarious? They called me your future consort.”

“Are you not?” You ask innocently, sipping your water.

He splutters. “What-”

You grin. “I’m kidding.”

You’re very not kidding. Not in the way that matters.

Because watching him panic like this — watching him trail after you with his hoodie strings bouncing and his voice pitching up with every breath — it’s … oddly sweet.

He cares. Not just about the press. About you. About how this reflects on you. That matters.

You reach over and tug gently at his hood to straighten it. “Relax. The headlines will change by tomorrow.”

“You really think that?”

“No,” you admit. “But that’s what I tell myself when I’m spiraling.”

He laughs despite himself. “You’re way too chill about this.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“You’re literally a royal and you’re less stressed than me.”

“That’s because I’ve had years of training in pretending I’m not screaming inside.”

Lando looks at you. Really looks at you.

There’s this flicker of something in his chest. Admiration. Confusion. Something just slightly more than fondness.

He exhales. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So are you.”

“I didn’t mean to propose to you.”

“Shame,” you say casually, and walk away before he can respond.

He stands there, stunned, as Carlos passes behind him, humming “Here Comes the Bride.”

***

Back in the McLaren motorhome, the chaos continues.

The PR team is in damage control mode. Zak is pacing with a headset. Andrea has three newspapers folded under his arm and an expression that could melt titanium.

But Lando?

Lando is leaning on the windowsill, watching you from across the way as you chat with someone from Mercedes.

Still wearing his cap. Still laughing like you haven’t just caused a minor diplomatic crisis.

And for some reason … he’s not mad.

He just grins, taps the glass once, and mutters, “Yeah, this is totally fine.”

Absolutely fine.

Nothing is on fire. Nothing at all.

***

You know something’s wrong when Martine shows up.

Martine only shows up when things are very wrong. Like, international-incident-meets-centuries-old-protocol wrong. She’s your primary handler, which is a polite way of saying she’s the one who stops you from accidentally tanking Luxembourg’s economy with a bad outfit choice.

You spot her across the paddock: sharp black blazer, sunglasses that mean business, marching toward the McLaren motorhome with the speed and grace of a small, determined missile.

“Oh, no,” you mutter.

Lando, sitting on a folding chair next to you with his helmet in his lap, glances up. “What?”

You nod in Martine’s direction. “That.”

He follows your gaze and immediately winces. “Oh no.”

“She’s here to kill me.”

“She’s probably here to kill me,” he says, standing up like a man preparing to face execution.

Martine stops two feet away, does not greet you. Does not smile. Just removes her sunglasses and levels the two of you with the look she usually reserves for scandalous budget overspending or cousins dating minor celebrities.

She speaks in a voice so tight it might shatter glass. “Well, I hope you’re both having fun.”

You open your mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand. “No. Stop. Don’t speak yet. We’re in crisis mode.”

“Isn’t that a little dramatic?” Lando offers, with a hopeful grin.

Martine turns to him so slowly it’s almost operatic. “Mister Norris, the Luxembourgish Parliament has just issued a formal declaration of congratulations on your engagement. Your faces are on the front page of every major paper from here to Berlin. People Magazine referred to you as the ‘millennial fairytale.’ And — just to really put a cherry on top — your Instagram post from two days ago has now been recirculated as a ‘subtle announcement.’”

Lando swallows. “That post was about McNuggets.”

“Yes,” Martine says. “And you hashtagged it #lovemylife. So now the press thinks the nuggets were metaphorical.”

You press a hand to your face. “Okay. That one’s kind of on you.”

Martine whirls on you next. “Do you understand the implications of this? Because this is not just a PR disaster. This is a constitutional event. We cannot simply say it was a misunderstanding.”

“Why not?” Lando asks, hands outstretched. “Can’t we just say it was, like, a joke? A mix-up? A funny cultural thing?”

Martine takes a deep breath, as if preparing to deliver a death sentence.

“Because,” she says carefully, “in Luxembourgish law, once a declaration has been acknowledged by Parliament and received no formal objection from the heir apparent within the hour, it becomes a matter of record.”

Lando stares. “What does that mean?”

You sigh. “It means … it’s official. As far as the government’s concerned, we’re engaged.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. And then Lando says, very quietly, “Oh, my god.”

Martine nods grimly. “Oh, your god, indeed.”

“I didn’t even do anything!” He protests. “I gave her a hat!”

Martine’s eyes narrow. “Which, in Luxembourg, is equivalent to a pre-marital vow of intent.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s ancient tradition!”

Lando throws his hands in the air. “Well maybe someone should’ve written a pamphlet! ‘Hey, welcome to Luxembourg, don’t give royal women hats!’”

“I should have known,” you say, mostly to yourself. “I knew the hat was going to be a problem.”

Martine exhales and pinches the bridge of her nose. “There is a press conference in two hours. The Grand Duke has already spoken to French media.”

You freeze. “Wait. My father knows?”

Martine shoots you a look. “Knows? He’s celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

“His exact words,” she says, pulling out her phone and reading from a very official-sounding email, “‘I have always dreamed of a son-in-law who drives fast and talks nonsense. This is perfect.’”

Lando, completely bewildered, points at himself. “Is that a compliment?”

You look at him. “Honestly? I think it is.”

Martine puts the phone away. “You both need to keep this under control. Just for a few days. Until the press dies down.”

Lando’s face scrunches. “Wait. Waitwaitwait. Are you saying we have to pretend to be engaged?”

Martine nods once. “Exactly.”

“Temporarily?” You ask.

“For now,” she says. “But you will both need to act engaged. Convincingly. That means appearances. Smiles. Coordination. Possibly an interview.”

Lando looks like he’s going to be sick. “Interview?!”

“Oh, you’re absolutely doing the interview,” Martine says.

You blink slowly. “So … just to clarify. Our options are either to lie to the international press and pretend to be planning a royal wedding or risk sparking a diplomatic conflict between my country and the rest of the European Union?”

Martine smiles grimly. “Correct.”

Lando leans against the nearest wall. “This is a nightmare.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Could be worse.”

“How?”

You grin. “You could’ve actually proposed.”

He groans. “I’m never giving anyone a hat ever again.”

***

The rest of the morning is a blur.

Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing. Everyone from Monaco’s royal family to your mother’s childhood piano teacher is reaching out.

Lando’s friends have renamed their group chat “THE ROYAL CONSORTS.”

Carlos sends a meme of Meghan Markle waving from a balcony, photoshopped with Lando’s face. Lando throws his phone across the room.

Everywhere you walk in the paddock, people are staring, whispering, smiling in that way that means they think they know.

Lando sticks to your side like a man attached by invisible glue.

“This is surreal,” he mutters, not for the first time. “You’re just … fine with this?”

You glance at him. “I’ve been fake-smiling through political dinners since I was ten. This is honestly one of the less stressful things I’ve had to fake.”

He eyes you. “That’s kind of impressive.”

You shrug. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s insane. But it’s also temporary. We do a few appearances, wear some coordinated outfits, and smile for the cameras.”

He groans. “Do I have to wear a sash?”

“Only if you want bonus points.”

He considers. “Does it come in papaya?”

You grin. “Now you’re thinking like a royal.”

He glances sideways at you. “You really think we can pull this off?”

“I think,” you say slowly, “we have no choice. But yeah. We can do it.”

There’s something unspoken between you in that moment. Some flicker of understanding. And maybe a spark of something else.

***

By the time you arrive at the media scrum, the photographers are already in position. Flashes pop. Lenses aim.

You loop your arm through Lando’s, and he looks down like you’ve just handed him a live grenade.

“What do I do?” He mutters.

“Smile,” you whisper back. “And look like you’re wildly in love.”

He takes a breath, then smiles so wide it almost hurts to look at. A little crooked. A little chaotic.

It’s perfect.

He leans toward you. “Like this?”

You nod. “Exactly like that.”

The cameras love it. Shutters go wild. A symphony of clicks.

Someone shouts, “Any wedding date yet?”

Lando opens his mouth to panic.

You answer smoothly, “We’re just enjoying the moment.”

“Have you met each other’s families?”

Lando again looks like he might choke. You reply, “They’re … very supportive.”

“How did the proposal happen?”

Lando starts to laugh, helplessly.

You answer, “It was spontaneous.”

And that’s how the day goes.

Flash after flash. Smile after smile.

And through it all, Lando — your accidental fiancé, your completely overwhelmed co-conspirator — stays right beside you, fingers brushing yours, as if anchoring himself to reality.

You don’t know what’s coming next.

You don’t know how long you’ll have to keep this up.

But when Lando looks at you with that half-panicked, half-awed grin — like he still can’t believe this is happening — you just smile back.

Because somehow, against all odds this royal disaster? Feels a lot like fate.

***

The Grand Prix is over, the champagne has dried, and the press has moved on to whatever other scandal is brewing in the glittering circus of Monaco. And yet … you stay.

You’re supposed to leave, technically. There’s a return flight booked under your name, a motorcade on standby, and a color-coded itinerary that includes words like “debrief” and “post-engagement optics strategy.” But instead of heading back to Luxembourg, you text Martine something vague about needing to monitor the situation on the ground.

She doesn’t push. She never pushes when you use diplomatic language like that.

And so, you stay — in the sunshine, in the noise, in the afterglow of whatever chaos you and Lando have created.

And Lando? Well. Lando leans in. Hard.

It starts with a bouquet. You think it’s from some Monegasque diplomat until you read the note.

For my one true duchess. Long may she reign.

- Your Devoted Fiancé™

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

The next morning, there’s a box of chocolates left on the doorstep of your borrowed suite. Heart-shaped.

The note reads: May these sweets bring you half the joy your smile brings me.

- His Royal Himbo-ness

Then come the messages.

LANDO: Milady, I beseech thee … may I take thee to breakfast?

YOU: Only if thou bringest me hashbrowns.

LANDO: I would brave dragons and tyre degradation for thee.

YOU: Good, because I just saw you stall your scooter outside my hotel.

It’s ridiculous. It’s also … weirdly fun.

You keep telling yourself it’s fake, that it has to be fake. A temporary performance to appease international dignitaries and excitable royal fathers with a love for motorsport.

But then one afternoon, you find Lando outside your hotel with a paper crown from Burger King and a daisy between his teeth.

He bows. “Milady. Thy noble steed awaiteth.”

You snort. “You’re riding an electric scooter.”

“And she runneth on pure love.”

He offers his hand, like you’re a princess in a storybook.

You take it.

***

It’s only when you’re not performing — when the flowers are left without a camera flash or you’re laughing in a hallway while ducking behind a vending machine — that Lando starts to notice it.

The quiet moments.

The way your smile sometimes fades the second people look away. The way you’re constantly being trailed by someone in a blazer holding a tablet. The way your phone buzzes and you flinch like it might explode.

It hits him hardest at the hotel bar.

You’re sitting across from him in some ridiculous formal dress, sipping water like it’s wine because the event is too long and you’re too tired, and someone behind you says, “She doesn’t even look that royal.”

You hear it. He knows you hear it. But you don’t flinch. You just smile, poised and polite, and excuse yourself a moment later. You come back three minutes later, smile reset, posture perfect.

He watches the entire transformation with his stomach twisting into a knot.

“You alright?” He asks gently, when the crowds have thinned.

You glance over. “Of course.”

And he doesn’t push. But something in his chest tugs.

***

The idea comes to him in a flash.

“Hey,” he says the next night, casually leaning against the doorframe of your hotel suite. “Wanna ditch this disaster and do something stupid?”

You arch a brow. “Define stupid.”

“Burgers. Reality TV. My place.”

You blink.

“No press, no handlers. Just us. A comfy couch and some bad choices.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he says. “I just thought maybe … you might want to feel normal for a bit.”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s absurd. It’s reckless. You have a state dinner in forty-five minutes and there are actual diplomats waiting downstairs to make small talk about Luxembourg’s agricultural exports.

But then you look at him — hopeful, earnest, wearing a hoodie that says “QDRNT” and socks that do not match — and you think screw it.

You shut the door behind you.

“Let’s go.”

***

He smuggles you out the back through the hotel kitchens.

“You’ve done this before,” you note, as he expertly navigates a series of corridors.

“Absolutely,” he says. “I once snuck out past curfew during a sponsor dinner to get tacos with Max.”

“And how’d that end?”

“In a minor fire.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

He just grins.

Ten minutes later, you’re sitting in his apartment — barefoot, legs tucked under yourself on the couch, a paper bag of burgers between you.

“You know,” you say, unwrapping one of them, “if this gets leaked to the press, they’re going to think you’re a bad influence.”

He takes a dramatic bite. “Milady, wouldst thou accept this humble offering of ketchup and meat?”

You snort, almost choking on your fries. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you remain seated.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue.

He clicks on the TV and scrolls to a show that looks suspiciously like Love Island, then leans back and stretches his arms behind his head like it’s the most relaxing evening of his life.

“Do you do this a lot?” You ask.

“What, seduce royalty over fast food?”

“No,” you laugh. “Just … be this normal.”

He shrugs. “Normal’s relative, innit? I mean, yeah. When I can. When people let me.”

You nod slowly. “Must be nice.”

He turns to look at you. “You really don’t get much of that, huh?”

You take a sip of soda. “Not unless it’s scripted. Or has a purpose. Even this … it��s not real.”

He shifts on the couch, voice quieter. “It feels real.”

You glance over at him, something flickering behind your eyes. “It does, doesn’t it?”

There’s a long beat. The show drones in the background — someone screaming about being “mugged off” and crying in a hot tub.

And then he says, softly, “Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

“What would you be doing right now if you weren’t, y’know, you? The royal stuff, I mean.”

You pause.

“Sleeping,” you say finally. “Without a schedule. Without worrying if my resting face looks too detached in photographs.”

He smiles, a little sadly. “You’re good at it. The pretending.”

“Too good,” you murmur. “It’s like muscle memory.”

He nods, thoughtful.

Then, in a whisper like a secret:, “I wish I could give you more of this.”

You turn to him fully. “More burgers?”

“More normal,” he says. “More space to just … be. Laugh. Eat crap food and wear ugly pajamas and not have to explain yourself to anyone.”

Something in your chest squeezes.

You don’t say anything.

Instead, you lean over, take a fry from his tray, and say, “You talk too much.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Didn’t mean to-”

“I like it,” you interrupt.

He blinks.

You nod toward the screen. “Shut up and watch trash TV with me.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

He salutes. You hit him with a pillow.

He yelps, dramatically falling sideways onto the couch like you’ve slain him. “Oh no! The duchess has betrayed me!”

You’re laughing now, full-bodied and unfiltered, and Lando watches you like he’s discovered something sacred.

And in that ridiculously expensive Monaco apartment — over lukewarm burgers and cheap television — something real clicks into place.

Something neither of you says out loud. Yet.

***

There’s something wildly disorienting about pretending to be engaged while boarding a private jet with your not-actually-fiancé and his team. Everyone’s in branded hoodies, backpacks slung low, and you are wearing sunglasses too big for your face and eating gummy bears out of Lando’s hand.

It shouldn’t feel this easy. But it does.

Lando slouches into the seat beside you, nudging your knee with his. “You ready to charm the entire paddock again?”

You grin, biting off a red bear. “As long as you don’t run me over with a scooter this time.”

He chuckles. “I make no promises.”

The entire team is still buzzing about Monaco, and Lando’s riding the wave like he was born for it. Every time someone asks about “the duchess,” he beams, slings an arm around you like it’s instinct, and says something utterly absurd like, “She saved me from a life of bachelor mediocrity.”

You elbow him every time. He doesn’t stop.

When you land, everything’s familiar but shinier. More photographers. More interest. More rumors. The press is obsessed, still pushing out think pieces dissecting your “engagement,” articles titled How Luxembourg’s Royal Match Might Save McLaren’s PR Season and Love, Speed, and Statecraft: A Modern Fairytale?

You try not to read them. You try not to notice that people are beginning to look at you and Lando like something real is happening.

But the problem is … it’s starting to feel real.

Especially when he FaceTimes his mother from the garage and yells, “Mum! Look who I’ve got!”

You barely have time to blink before a kind, curious woman appears onscreen, waving excitedly. “Oh, she’s gorgeous! Hello, sweetheart!”

“Hi,” you laugh, suddenly weirdly nervous. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Don’t let him get away with anything,” she says warmly. “He’s always been a cheeky one.”

“Mum,” Lando whines, red in the ears.

You smile. “I’ll keep him in line. Royal decree.”

His mum howls with laughter. “Oh, I like her.”

After the call ends, Lando’s quiet for a second, just watching you like he’s never seen you before.

“What?” You ask.

He shrugs, softly. “Nothing. Just … you’re good with my family.”

You nudge his shoulder. “And you brought a duchess to meet your mum over FaceTime in a dirty motorhome. What a catch.”

He grins. “The best catch.”

It’s easy. Too easy. And that’s what makes the next part harder.

***

You find out about the betrothal preparations by accident.

You’re in your suite, half-watching footage from practice, when your phone buzzes with a message from Martine.

Draft of formal announcement attached. Parliament reviewing wording. Father approved. Event tentatively scheduled for end of month.

You stare at the screen. You knew they were talking. You just didn’t know it had escalated.

The file opens to a beautifully typeset letter with phrases like With deep joy, the Grand Ducal Family announces … and in celebration of the enduring relationship between Luxembourg and the international community …

Your name. Lando’s name. Your actual engagement.

You blow out a slow, quiet breath. “… Right,” you murmur.

Because this was never supposed to get that far. This was supposed to be a joke. A misinterpreted hat and a string of PR saves. Something temporary. Something ridiculous.

And now it’s a royal decree in waiting.

***

You don’t tell Lando right away.

You’re not sure how. Or when. Or even if it’ll matter. Part of you wants to see if he’s catching on.

The problem is — he is. But not in the way you expect.

You catch him in the paddock later that afternoon, pressed up against a journalist with a tight smile and a voice that sounds … off.

“We’re just having fun,” he’s saying. “I mean, obviously we’re fond of each other, but come on, it’s been, what, a few weeks? Everyone’s reading into things too much. It’s not, like … real real.”

You freeze. Your chest does something strange.

“Fake engagement,” the reporter repeats, scribbling fast. “So you’d call it fake?”

“No — well — I mean, it’s a misunderstanding. But like, funny. Silly. Not serious-serious. I’m not actually about to marry-”

He looks up.

Sees you.

His mouth shuts instantly.

You turn on your heel before he can say your name.

***

He finds you later in the hospitality suite, tucked into a corner booth with your legs crossed and your arms folded tight. You’re wearing sunglasses even though you’re indoors. It’s not sunny.

“Hey,” he says, breathless like he ran. “Can we talk?”

You don’t look at him. “You should go.”

“Please don’t be mad-”

“I’m not mad,” you say. “I’m just confused.”

He slides in across from you. “About what?”

You take off your sunglasses slowly, like peeling back a layer of yourself.

“Are you embarrassed?” You ask, quiet but steady. “Of me?”

His eyes widen. “What? No!”

“Because I heard you,” you say. “With the press. Like I’m some PR stunt you’re trying to backpedal.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

“I didn’t think they’d take it this seriously,” he says finally. “I thought we were just having fun.”

Your expression doesn’t change. “Is that all it is to you?”

He fidgets. “I don’t know.”

You let the silence settle like dust between you.

“Do you think I chose to be born into this?” You ask, softer now. “The titles. The politics. The fact that I can’t even order a burger without it being international news?”

“No, of course not-”

“I’ve spent every day of my life playing by someone else’s rules,” you say. “And then this — this accident, this whole engagement — it’s the first time I’ve actually liked the story I’m in. And you’re out here telling everyone exactly how fake it is.”

Lando looks like he’s been slapped. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“Well, you did.”

You stand.

He reaches for your wrist, but you step back.

“I have to go,” you say. “My advisors are expecting me. We’re planning a fake betrothal gala.”

Your voice cracks a little on the last word.

And then you walk away.

You don’t see the look on Lando’s face as you leave. But if you had, you’d see it plain as day:

Regret. Real, gut-punching regret.

***

Lando’s been outside your hotel for thirty-six minutes.

Thirty-six minutes of pacing, kicking the heel of his sneaker against a marble step, and trying to figure out if knocking on the door of a royal suite gets him arrested. Or excommunicated. Or worse — rejected.

He’s holding a paper bag.

Inside is an apology attempt in the form of your favorite milkshake (two straws, vanilla with caramel swirl), a squished pastry from the café you liked down the block, and a note that says I suck but I’d like to stop sucking, please?

He stares at the door. Then knocks, fast, before he can lose his nerve.

When it swings open, you’re there. Barefoot, in an oversized t-shirt and a messy bun. You look tired. And beautiful. And like you haven’t made up your mind about forgiving him.

“You came all this way to give me diabetes?” You ask.

He lifts the bag sheepishly. “There’s also emotional vulnerability in here. Limited edition.”

You lean against the doorframe. “How limited?”

“Like … might expire in fifteen minutes if left at room temperature?”

Your mouth quirks. “Alright, come in.”

He steps inside. There are no royal advisors. No handlers. No headlines. Just you. And the thudding panic in his chest.

“I brought peace offerings,” he says, unloading the bag onto the table like a raccoon presenting stolen treasure. “Pastry. Milkshake. Handwritten note, because I’m a man of old-school charm and no real plan.”

You sit down across from him, legs folded under you. “Didn’t peg you for the note-writing type.”

“Yeah, well, I panicked halfway through and drew a sad face instead of finishing a sentence.”

You pick it up, scan it. Then lift your eyes to his. “You really drew a sad face next to the word ‘unworthy’?”

He winces. “In hindsight, it was maybe too on the nose.”

Silence.

You take a long sip of milkshake. “Why did you say it wasn’t real?”

Lando swallows hard. “Because I freaked out.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He nods. Rubs the back of his neck. Then looks at you, really looks at you.

“You’re a duchess,” he says. “A literal royal. You speak six languages and have a coat of arms, and every photo of you looks like a Vogue cover. And me? I crash scooters into things and get told off by Zak for being late to briefings because I got distracted by pigeons.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Pigeons?”

“Look, they were doing funny head bobs, alright?”

You huff a laugh. He presses on.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t real because I don’t want it to be,” he says, voice low now. “I said it because I didn’t think I deserved it. Deserved you.”

That catches you off guard. You blink. “You think I’d pretend to be engaged to someone I didn’t think was worth my time?”

“You agreed to it because of a hat, Your Highness,” he points out. “Not exactly a high bar.”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, grinning, but there’s something earnest in his eyes now. Less golden-retriever panic, more quiet honesty.

“I meant it when I said I like being around you,” he says. “Not because of the title or the press or the fact that you can probably have me banished. I like you. The person who steals fries from my plate and makes up stories about strangers in cafes and gets this little line between her eyebrows when she’s pretending not to care.”

You glance away, trying to hide the fact that your heart’s doing the cha-cha.

“I was scared,” he adds. “Still am, kinda.”

“Of what?”

“Of messing this up. Of not knowing where the fake part ends and the real part starts. Of it being real and you not wanting that.”

You stare at him. Then lean forward. And kiss him.

It’s not for show. It’s not for the cameras or the press or the legacy of Luxembourg. It’s just for him.

His breath catches. His fingers curl reflexively around the edge of the table like he’s grounding himself.

When you pull back, you’re still close enough to see the freckle on his cheek, the way his eyes dart to your lips like he’s already memorizing the way you taste.

“That,” you say, “was not fake.”

He exhales, stunned. “Good. Because if it was, I was gonna have to dramatically fall to my knees and declare my love in rhyme.”

You snort. “Please don’t.”

“I had a verse ready,” he insists. “Something about you being the queen of my circuit and the pole position of my heart-”

You groan, but you’re laughing now. He grins wide, basking in it like sunlight.

Then your smile fades, just a little.

“But I don’t want to keep pretending,” you say. “Not like this.”

He nods. “Neither do I.”

“I want it to be real,” you say. “Even if that means stepping back from the public part. Even if that means confusing everyone.”

“Let ‘em be confused,” he says. “I just want to be with you. Not the tabloid version. You.”

You sit there for a moment. Letting the quiet fill the space between words.

Then you reach for his hand.

“I have to make some calls,” you say. “Tell my advisors we’re not doing a state engagement tour.”

Lando bites back a smirk. “Damn. I had already picked out a tiara to match my race suit.”

You stand, tug him up with you. “Help me sneak out the back?”

He beams. “Always.”

***

An hour later, you’re both in disguises — hoodies, sunglasses, and the kind of hats you only wear when you’re actively avoiding being recognized.

You walk along the water like two teenagers skipping class. Lando swings your hand between you.

“You know,” he says casually, “I don’t even mind if you tell your family we broke up.”

You glance at him. “What, you want me to text my father hey, sorry, not actually marrying the F1 driver?”

He shrugs. “I mean, if you want. But like, add a smiley face so he doesn’t hate me.”

You stop walking.

“Lando,” you say, turning to face him. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“You sure? He looked like he wanted to adopt me and throw me in a dungeon over video call.”

You roll your eyes. “He likes you. He’s just never had to deal with this kind of scandal before. Luxembourg is … very traditional.”

Lando’s quiet for a second. “Do you ever wish you weren’t royal?”

You hesitate. “Sometimes.”

“Because it’s lonely?”

You nod. “Because it’s … scripted. Every word. Every move. Every smile.”

He squeezes your hand. “Then let’s unscript it.”

You look up at him.

And in that moment — no palace, no cameras, no ancient traditions — you believe it.

This thing between you isn’t part of the plan. But maybe it’s the best part.

***

The Château de Berg looks exactly like a place where people wear sashes unironically.

Lando stands at the base of the grand staircase, fiddling with the cuff of his tux, while you float down the steps like you’ve been doing this since birth — which, frankly, you have.

You’re in navy silk and diamonds. He’s in mild, manageable panic.

“You okay?” You ask when you reach him.

He stares at you. “You look like a Bond girl. I look like I got lost on my way to a wedding I wasn't invited to.”

“You look great.”

“Yeah, great and very much like a commoner infiltrating the kingdom.”

You roll your eyes, looping your arm through his. “You’re my date, remember?”

“Right. Your real date now. Not just the guy who caused a constitutional crisis with a baseball cap.”

“That was a team hat,” you correct. “And technically, it’s a national treasure now.”

He laughs, but there’s a beat of silence as you both step into the gala ballroom.

Because everyone is watching.

Every. Single. Person.

Politicians, nobles, press photographers, distant cousins who’ve probably never spoken to you but now feel emotionally invested in your relationship status. All of them freeze slightly when they see you walk in.

And then Lando does the most Lando thing imaginable. He squeezes your hand. In full view of everyone. No hesitation.

Your spine, trained by decades of royal etiquette, goes rigid for a half second, then softens. You glance at him.

He just smiles.

“Do I bow to anyone?” He asks under his breath.

“You could,” you whisper back. “But that would be weird.”

“So I shouldn’t curtsy either?”

“I swear to God, Lando-”

“Just checking.”

You lead him through the crowd, nodding politely to various dignitaries who eye Lando with expressions ranging from bemused to is that the F1 boy who did the shoey that one time?

When a Luxembourgish minister tries to corner you with questions about heritage tourism initiatives, Lando — beautiful, clueless, brilliant Lando — steps in and distracts him by asking detailed questions about the country’s road safety infrastructure.

He even nods seriously. “Roundabouts are so underrated, man.”

You almost choke on champagne.

Later, after the violinist finishes a performance so somber you briefly feel like you should repent for something, you tug Lando away toward one of the quieter wings of the palace.

He follows without question. “We sneaking out again? Because I don’t think I’m dressed for burgers.”

“Not this time,” you say, leading him through a hall lined with portraits of monarchs in very large ruffled collars.

You open a door.

The room inside is small by royal standards — still the size of a generous hotel suite — but softly lit and quiet. At the center, on a velvet pedestal, rests a crown.

Not a cartoonish, jewel-encrusted monstrosity. But elegant. Heavy-looking. Steeped in history.

Lando freezes. “Wait. Is that-”

“The ceremonial crown,” you say. “For the heir.”

He blinks. “So … yours.”

You nod.

He steps closer, squinting. “It looks really … shiny.”

“That’s the gold.”

“Right. Of course. Just, y’know, very crown-y.”

You raise a brow. “You want to try it on?”

His head snaps up. “Am I allowed to?”

“Absolutely not.”

He grins. “So obviously I have to.”

You gesture to the nearby armchair like a royal game show host. “Then kneel.”

He hesitates. “Like, actually?”

“If you want the crown, yes.”

He kneels.

It’s chaotic, awkward, and completely him — one knee down, then wobbling a bit because his dress shoes have no grip. You bite back a laugh.

“You sure you’re ready for this responsibility, Mr. Norris?”

He places a hand dramatically on his heart. “I solemnly swear to not crash into any world leaders on a scooter.”

You lift the crown carefully from its stand.

It’s heavier than you remember. Or maybe it’s just that Lando’s looking up at you with that dopey grin, eyes crinkled, like he thinks this is the best joke you’ve ever played on him.

You lower it toward his head, pausing just above.

Then say, soft and teasing, “Do you swear loyalty to the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg?”

He blinks.

Then something changes in his expression. Something unguarded.

“I swear loyalty to you,” he says, quiet now.

Your breath catches. And for a moment, it isn’t funny anymore.

You look down at him. Kneeling. Grinning still, but less exaggerated. Less ironic.

And you feel it — the shift. That terrifying, impossible weight in your chest.

You want it to be true. All of it.

Not just the fake engagement. Not just the headlines or the banter or the jokes about tiaras.

You want him.

The chaos. The kindness. The fierce way he holds your hand in front of a room full of people who’ve probably written dissertations on protocol.

You set the crown down beside him.

“Too heavy?” He asks.

You sit across from him. “Too real.”

Lando folds his legs under him, now seated on the floor in full tuxedo, just inches away. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“Because I said something dumb again?”

You shake your head. “Because you said something honest.”

He rests his chin on your knee.

“That’s the thing about crowns,” he murmurs. “They look like jokes until they’re not.”

You meet his eyes.

And maybe he sees something in yours, because he adds, “Hey, I’m not asking you to make me royal. I’m just saying … you don’t have to wear the heavy stuff alone.”

You don’t kiss him this time.

You just lean your forehead against his and stay there, hearts thudding in tandem.

The velvet. The gold. The hush of history around you.

And him.

The boy who kneeled because you dared him to. And meant every word he said.

***

Silverstone is humming.

The air crackles with adrenaline and overpriced beer and the unmistakable scent of burnt rubber. British flags wave like it’s a national holiday — because in a way, it is. It’s Lando’s home race, and every person within a five-mile radius not cheering for Lewis Hamilton is wearing something papaya. The grandstands are alive with chants and cheers. It’s chaos. Beautiful, electric chaos.

And somehow, you’re in the middle of it.

Again.

You’re not in a palace. Not under a chandelier or beside a velvet rope. You're in a paddock full of sweaty engineers and excited children and a camera crew who keeps zooming in a little too often. The sky above is a mess of clouds that can't decide whether to rain or behave. It feels real. Unfiltered. Like the first inhale after you’ve been holding your breath for years.

Lando is glowing.

Not literally. (Although he’s so ridiculously tanned from being outside that he might be.)

He’s just … alive. In his element. Grinning like a kid who got handed the keys to a rollercoaster.

“Mate,” he says to a McLaren engineer, “if we shave 0.2 off sector two, I’ll get you a beer the size of your head. Swear.”

Then he catches your eye across the garage, and the grin softens. Changes. Like he can’t quite believe you’re there.

“You showed up,” he says, walking over. His suit is half-zipped, gloves dangling from one hand, hair a little flattened by a headset.

You raise an eyebrow. “I said I would.”

“Yeah, but sometimes I think you’ve got a kingdom to run or — what do you call it — ancient royal responsibilities?”

You smile. “I rearranged Luxembourg’s strategic policy briefings to be here. So you better win.”

“Oh God,” he mutters. “National pressure.”

You reach into your bag.

He narrows his eyes. “What’s that?”

“A surprise.”

“Is it a scepter? Please tell me it’s a scepter.”

You pull out a hat.

Not just any hat.

It’s a custom McLaren cap — deep orange with black trim, his driver number embroidered in silver thread on the side, and a small, discreet crest of Luxembourg stitched into the underside of the brim.

Lando blinks. “Wait. What — ”

“I had it made,” you say, holding it out. “For you.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “You made me a hat?”

“Technically I designed it. Royal prerogative.”

He takes it reverently, like it might shatter in his hands.

“Try it on,” you say.

He does.

And you reach up, slow and deliberate, to adjust it — placing it gently on his head.

The way he did with you in Monaco.

The way you now know means something in your culture.

It’s not just cute. It’s not just a gesture.

It’s a statement.

There’s a beat.

A collective inhale from the crowd around you, like everyone saw it and knows.

Someone’s camera shutter clicks.

Then another.

Then three more.

Somewhere, a tabloid headline is practically writing itself.

Lando stares at you under the brim.

“You just …” he starts, voice low.

“Balanced the scales,” you finish. “You gave me yours first.”

His mouth quirks up. “This means I’m the Grand Duchess now, yeah?”

“You would make a terrible duchess.”

He scoffs. “I’d be brilliant.”

“You’d try to turn the royal palace into a karting circuit.”

“I would never-” He pauses. “Okay, I would. But like … a tasteful one.”

You both dissolve into laughter.

The kind that catches you off guard and settles somewhere deep in your ribs.

The kind that means this — whatever this is — isn’t just temporary anymore.

***

Later, while Lando’s giving a pre-qualifying interview, a reporter points to the hat.

“Custom cap today, Lando?” She asks with a wink.

He glances toward you, watching from the edge of the pit wall in sunglasses and a smug little smile.

Lando shrugs. “Gift.”

“From the Duchess?”

His face turns ten shades of red. “Maybe.”

“Looks like a pretty serious gesture.”

He scratches his neck, sheepish. “I mean, if you’re lucky enough to get one, yeah … you hold onto it.”

The clip goes viral before the session even starts.

***

After qualifying, he finds you waiting beside the McLaren motorhome, arms crossed, foot tapping in mock impatience.

“You said you’d get pole,” you tease.

“I said I’d try. Which I did. Very hard. Max just exists to ruin my life.”

You loop your fingers through his. “I’m still proud of you.”

“Even with P2?”

“Especially with P2.”

He shifts his weight. “They’re calling it the Reverse Proposal now. On Twitter. The hat thing.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course they are.”

“I’m trending with your country’s name. I’m not even in Luxembourg.”

“Give it a week. You’ll probably be knighted.”

Lando leans closer. “Would you stay?”

“Hm?”

“After the race. Stay in the UK a little longer. I’ll take you to my hometown. My mum’ll feed you way too much and ask if I’m behaving.”

You smile. “And what would you say?”

“That I’m doing my best.”

You brush a hand through his hair, just under the brim of the cap.

“You’re doing more than that,” you whisper. “You’re making me feel like I’m not just … a crown.”

Lando’s eyes soften.

“You’re not,” he says. “You’re everything but that.”

The cameras catch you leaning into him.

Not for show. Not for press.

Just because.

And somewhere, miles away, in a palace covered in polished marble and a thousand years of history, a staffer is already drafting a new press release.

Not for a fake engagement. Not for a tradition accidentally triggered.

But maybe, just maybe …

For the real thing.

***

It starts like a joke.

The kind Lando makes when he’s nervous. Fidgeting with his hoodie strings, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, saying things like “Right, so if this goes terribly wrong, I can still blame the British weather, yeah?”

You’re in London. More specifically, you’re in a hidden garden tucked behind a historic townhouse, the kind with ivy climbing up old brick walls and roses blooming like they’re performing for royalty. (They probably are.) You’re only in town for a few days — official meetings, diplomatic appearances, a quiet dinner with a visiting Luxembourgish minister. Nothing too scandalous. Nothing that would make the papers.

Until now.

You glance at him suspiciously. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird,” Lando says, very much being weird.

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s thirty degrees and I’m in long sleeves.”

“You’re in a hoodie. Like a gremlin.”

“First of all, rude.”

You cross your arms, stepping in front of him on the cobbled garden path. “What are we doing here, Lando?”

His grin flickers. Just for a second.

Then he exhales.

“Okay, right. So. I wanted to do this somewhere quiet. Somewhere just … us.”

Your eyebrows rise.

“Not in a castle. Not in front of the entire European Parliament. Just … with birds and, like, a suspiciously photogenic squirrel over there.”

You blink. “Are you okay?”

He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie.

And pulls out a hat.

Not just any hat.

The hat.

The one from Monaco. The one he placed on your head the day everything spiraled. The one that started a thousand headlines and at least one constitutional debate. The one you lost your mind over when it mysteriously vanished from your closet last week.

“Is that-”

He nods, sheepish. “Yeah. I, uh … borrowed it.”

“You stole it.”

“Temporarily.”

“Lando!”

“I had a plan!”

You laugh, half outraged, half flattered. “You absolute menace.”

He steps closer, holding the cap in both hands now. And suddenly, he’s not fidgeting. Not bouncing. Just looking at you like the rest of the world has gone silent.

“I was gonna get a ring,” he says. “I have a ring. But I thought maybe this … this felt more us.”

You stop breathing.

He takes a breath for you.

“I didn’t know what I was doing back then. When I gave you this. I didn’t know who you were or what that meant or how much that one tiny moment would mess up my entire life in the best way possible.”

You blink fast.

“Lando …”

“And now I do. Know. Everything. I know who you are. I know what you carry. And I know I want to carry it with you.”

He swallows. The cap shifts in his hands.

“So, yeah. This is stupid and not shiny and it’s probably sweaty. But it’s ours.”

Then — slowly, deliberately — he places it back on your head.

And kneels.

Not dramatically. Not performatively.

Just … reverently.

Like a man who understands now what he didn’t back then.

“Will you marry me?” He says. “For real this time?”

Silence.

Except your heartbeat.

And the click of a single camera shutter — because of course someone, somewhere, caught it.

You don’t care.

You kneel, too.

And kiss him.

Right there in the dirt and roses and British humidity.

“Yes,” you say against his smile. “Obviously, yes.”

***

The palace releases a statement two hours later.

Their Royal Highnesses the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess are pleased to confirm the engagement of Her Royal Highness the Hereditary Grand Duchess Y/N Y/L/N to Mr. Lando Norris.

You pass the phone to Lando.

He stares at it like it might explode.

“Oh my God,” he says. “It’s real. It’s really real.”

And then he pulls out his phone.

“You’re not tweeting,” you warn.

“I’m absolutely tweeting.”

You watch over his shoulder as he types.

@LandoNorris: turns out giving someone your hat is a big deal 👀

also turns out i’m marrying the love of my life

brb crying 🧡👑

You groan. “You put emojis in your engagement tweet.”

“Of course I did.”

“I’m going to be monarch someday and you just used the eyeball emoji.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you said yes.”

He turns to the camera crews still filming.

“She said yes, by the way!” He calls out. “Like, for real this time! Sorry to disappoint anyone still holding out for a princess fantasy. She’s mine now.”

You bury your face in your hands.

It’s absurd.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s … perfect.

Somewhere, your father is probably watching the livestream and toasting with vintage champagne. Somewhere else, Parliament is scrambling to schedule a press conference. And somewhere even farther away, an ancient Luxembourgish historian is definitely writing a very dry academic paper titled “The Sociopolitical Implications of Cap-Based Courtship in the 21st Century.”

But all you can see is Lando.

Grinning like the sun.

Yours.

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gillybear17 · 2 days ago

Text

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙

𝗋𝖺𝖿𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝖼𝖾

𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗅 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗍𝗌

𝗍𝖺𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 (closed): @my-name-is-baby @anacamofficial @nemesyaaa @thecoolermaybank @yktayy9669 @deerly-blvd @sqfewrd @blushmimi @barnesboo1967 @aawdrea @drewsswifeyy @lexvenuss @ethanthequeefqueen @rafes4 @beavee11 @wtfisastiles @pinkribboncoco @rafecqmeronslove @popou61 @lmaowhatt @emmaaas-posts @countryclubwhore @cokewithcameron @multisection @mariamadison6-blog @icaqttt @harryzcherry @glenpowellluver @stelleduarte @klarxtr @kieeslove @vex-et-soleil @chillgal135 @drewstarkeyswife-7 @tqd4455 @marinrscomplex @arianagreenblattfanxx10 @loverliner @mirellef2001 @jjmaybankmylovee @defnotayonna @m0netbeauty @idiotussupremus @cyberkitty1 @gublerstylesobrien1238 @highladyofhogwarts @kaorisakamotofan @lil-sparklqueen @thesunflowersociety

a/n: inspired by the fact that i got a new fuggler child yesterday 🩷🩷🩷 also angel canon kiki’s delivery service lover

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gillybear17 · 2 days ago

Text

Rumored Heartbreak

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: After Ruthie makes her believe her relationship with Rafe was all a bet— she runs. But Rafe catches up.

She had only just started seeing Rafe—barely two weeks ago. It was new, a little strange, but in a way that kept her curious. Nice, even. Fun in a way she hadn’t expected from him of all people.

Because Rafe Cameron wasn’t exactly known for being soft. He had a reputation that stretched longer than his shadow—fights, flings, short tempers, and even shorter attachments. He was the kind of guy people whispered warnings about, especially to girls like her. Sweet girls. Trusting girls. The kind of girl who always tried to see the best in people, even when it was buried under layers of smoke and sharp edges.

But this version of Rafe was… different.

He stayed up with her at night, texting until their phones overheated and the sun started to rise. Not just surface-level stuff either—real conversations. He remembered things she told him. Asked follow-up questions the next day like he actually cared, like he wanted to know what made her nervous or excited or sad. And when she rambled—about books, or her favorite kind of music, or random childhood stories—he didn’t tune out. He listened. Really listened, eyes on her like she was saying something that mattered.

And maybe that was what caught her off guard the most.

Because people didn’t believe it. Not her friends. Not even strangers who’d overheard his name. They all said the same thing: Rafe Cameron didn’t do real feelings. He didn’t get attached. He partied, he played, and he left.

They didn’t believe the soft glances he gave her could mean anything. Told her he was probably bored or playing a game or waiting for her to fall first so he could disappear like he always did.

But when he pulled her in a little closer during their late-night talks, when he looked at her like she was something fragile he didn’t want to break—she believed him.

It felt real.

Seemed real.

And maybe that was reckless. But she didn’t question it. Not yet.

The sharp buzz of her phone cut through the quiet, pulling her from a light sleep. She blinked groggily at the screen, disoriented for a second, then fumbled to answer as it rang again.

“Hello?” she murmured, voice still laced with sleep as she brought the phone to her ear.

His voice came through, smooth and familiar. “Were you asleep?”

Her spine straightened instinctively, a sleepy smile tugging at her lips. “No. Why?”

Rafe chuckled—low and amused. “Pretty sure you were. I called you twice and got ignored. Sounds like nap time to me, pretty girl.”

She rolled her eyes, biting back a grin. “Okay, maybe I was. Barely. What’s it to you?”

“Just makin’ sure I’m not boring you already,” he said, clearly grinning on the other end.

She looked down at her hands, admiring the fresh paint on her nails, and tucked her feet under her on the couch. “You’re not. You’re just calling at the most inconvenient times.”

He made a thoughtful sound, the kind she’d already learned meant he was choosing his words carefully. “So what you’re saying is I should’ve come over instead of calling.”

Her laugh was soft. “You would’ve woken me up either way.”

A pause.

Then his tone shifted—still him, still confident, but a little more careful now. “Hey, uh… there’s this dinner thing tonight. At my house.”

She perked up slightly, surprised by the change in energy. “Dinner?”

“Yeah. Just some of the boys, their girls, nothing huge. My dad’s making a whole thing of it, I don’t know. But…” He exhaled, the faintest hint of hesitation in his voice. “I thought maybe you’d come.”

Her heart skipped. Not just because he was inviting her into his world, but because for a second—just a second—he sounded nervous. And Rafe Cameron didn’t get nervous.

“You want me to meet your friends?” she teased gently, but the blush was already creeping into her cheeks.

He scoffed, but it lacked his usual bite. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?” she grinned.

“Like I’m soft or something.”

She let the moment breathe, heart fluttering. “I’d love to go, Rafe.”

Silence hung for a second, almost like he was caught off guard. Then he cleared his throat. “Cool. Yeah. I’ll pick you up around seven.”

“Cool,” she echoed, still smiling when the line went quiet.

And even after the call ended, she sat there for a moment—phone still in hand, nails still drying, butterflies doing laps in her stomach. Rafe Cameron wasn’t soft, not with most people. But maybe that was starting to change.

⸻

As Rafe’s truck eased into the long, winding driveway, her stomach twisted. The house—more like a statement piece perched on the edge of the island—was already lit up and buzzing with movement. Music thumped from somewhere inside, and the soft glow of string lights danced off the parked luxury cars lining the property.

People were already milling about the porch and spilling out onto the front lawn—men in stiff button-ups talking with glasses of bourbon, girls with glossy lips and fake laughs, and groups that clearly knew each other in a way that made her feel immediately out of place.

She inhaled slowly, trying to hide the nerves pulsing beneath her skin.

Rafe stepped out first, rounding the truck to her side and opening the door with ease. Always smooth. Always collected. That signature half-smile was already plastered on his face—his “showtime” look, the one he wore when he had to be the version of himself people expected.

He reached for her hand, linking their fingers casually as if to anchor her as they walked in.

The house smelled like cologne, catered food, and money. Laughter echoed through the open rooms. There were faces she recognized from magazines, from news articles, from whispered gossip—but none she knew.

She stayed close behind Rafe as he navigated the crowd effortlessly, greeting people with nods and sharp grins, tossing a quick joke here and there. She could feel the eyes on her. Curious. Judgmental. Measuring. She wasn’t wearing anything special—just a simple dress and her best attempt at looking polished—but she suddenly felt like a fish out of water.

Then she spotted her—Ruthie.

Leaning against the wall, red cup in hand, that smug grin already pulling at her mouth the moment she laid eyes on them.

It wasn’t friendly.

It wasn’t welcoming.

It was the kind of grin that made her pulse tick up—like she knew something she didn’t.

Her fingers tightened slightly around Rafe’s, but he didn’t notice. Or if he did, he didn’t show it.

He led her into the living room, where a few people were lounging with drinks and music played low in the background. With a gentle tug, he gestured for her to sit on the edge of the deep leather couch.

“I’m gonna go grab us some drinks, alright?” he said, voice low, like it was just for her. His thumb brushed against the back of her hand before slipping away.

“Stay here?”

She nodded, even though her stomach gave a little dip at the idea of being left alone in a room full of strangers.

“Be right back,” Rafe promised, flashing her one last grin before disappearing into the crowd like he belonged there—because he did.

She exhaled slowly, running her hands down the front of her thighs as if trying to shake off the nerves. Her eyes flicked around the room, scanning for a familiar face. There was none.

The cushion beside her shifted slightly, dipping under someone’s weight. She barely registered it at first, still trying to settle the nerves in her stomach, until a voice broke the silence beside her.

“Hey,” the girl said casually. “You’re Rafe’s… well, you’re with Rafe, right?”

She blinked and turned her head, offering a hesitant smile when she realized it was Ruthie. Topper’s girlfriend. Always perfectly dressed, always perfectly smug.

“Uh—yeah,” she replied, unsure where the conversation was headed. “I came with him.”

Ruthie tilted her head, her glossy lips curving into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It was sweet, but too sweet—like candy laced with something bitter.

“That’s what I thought,” she said, her voice light but laced with something she couldn’t quite place. “So how’s that going? What’s it been—like, a month?”

She shifted uncomfortably, brushing invisible lint off her dress to keep her hands busy. “It’s going good. Almost a month, yeah.”

She tried to sound friendly—open, even. Maybe this was Ruthie’s way of being nice. Maybe she just wanted to talk. Might as well make some friends while she’s here.

But Ruthie just gave a soft, humming laugh and leaned back against the couch like she’d just been let in on a private joke.

“If I didn’t already know about the game him and Topper have going on…” Ruthie paused, eyes scanning her face like she was watching for a reaction, “I would’ve thought he was, like, head over heels for you.”

Ruthie laughed again, but this time it was low and chilling—like she was amused by something only she could see.

The words didn’t make sense at first. They hung in the air for a second too long, sticky and cold, like a drink spilled down her back. Her brows furrowed as she tilted her head, trying to make sense of Ruthie’s strange tone.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, her voice laced with confusion. “I—I don’t know what you mean?”

Her eyes searched Ruthie’s face, hoping for a smile, a laugh, something to suggest it was a misunderstanding. But Ruthie just looked back at her with that same unreadable expression—half amused, half pitying. Something about it made her stomach twist.

Ruthie smiled, but it wasn’t kind. It was sharp at the edges, like she enjoyed watching her squirm. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, tone light like they were discussing something casual—harmless. But the words that followed hit anything but soft.

“You know…” Ruthie began, drawing it out like she was savoring it. “The bet that the two of them have going on? Rafe and Topper?”

She blinked, not following.

Ruthie tilted her head, eyebrows raised like she was surprised she had to explain. “To see how many girls Rafe can get to fall in love with him.”

Silence.

For a moment, the noise of the party faded. The music, the laughter, the crackle of the fire—all of it turned into a distant hum in the background. Her heart was suddenly loud in her ears.

Ruthie shrugged one shoulder, like it was no big deal. “I mean, I’m honestly surprised you haven’t told him you know yet. Most girls figure out it’s not worth their time.”

Her chest tightened. She blinked again, but this time it was slower, like she was trying to reset reality. “Wait… what?” she whispered, her throat tightening. “What are you talking about?”

The word bet echoed in her mind, over and over, like it didn’t belong there. Like it had no place near the version of Rafe she knew—the one who rubbed circles into her back when she was nervous, who whispered compliments just loud enough for her to hear, who kissed the inside of her wrist like it meant something.

Ruthie leaned in a little, voice lower now. “You really didn’t know?” she said, with a glint of something cruel in her eye. “Rafe made this whole thing with Topper, like… months ago. Some stupid game to prove he could get any girl to fall for him. Doesn’t matter who she is. How sweet she is. How real she thinks it all feels.”

Her stomach dropped. Cold swept over her skin. “That’s not—” she started, but her voice cracked before she could finish.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Ruthie went on, like she was doing her a favor. “You’re the longest one yet. So, props for that. I think you might actually be winning him the whole thing.”

Ruthie was still talking, but her voice had become a distant hum—background noise to the way her world suddenly tilted. The living room seemed to blur around her, the laughter and music muffled beneath the roar of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.

A bet?

Her mind reeled. Every look Rafe had given her. Every lingering touch. The way he whispered her name like it meant something. Like she meant something.

All of it… fake?

A tightness gripped her chest as realization hit. None of it had been real. Not the quiet drives, not the way he tucked her hair behind her ear, not the way he smiled when she laughed. It was all part of some sick game—another round in whatever twisted competition he and Topper were playing.

Money. Pride. Ego.

Not her.

Not them.

“I—I’m sorry,” she breathed, voice trembling as she rose to her feet, legs unsteady beneath her. “I need to leave.”

She didn’t wait for a response. The room spun as she pushed through the crowd, her hands trembling, eyes burning. She didn’t even realize she’d started crying until the cool night air hit her skin and tears slipped down her cheeks.

The front yard was dimly lit, but she welcomed the quiet. The heavy bass of the party dulled behind her as the door shut, leaving her alone with the crashing weight of betrayal.

Her hand instinctively reached for her phone, desperate for comfort—something familiar, something safe. But when the screen stayed black, her stomach dropped. Dead.

Of course.

She cursed under her breath, pressing her fingers to her eyes for a moment to hold herself together. She’d ridden here with Rafe. The one person she couldn’t face right now. The one person she’d trusted.

She scanned the street, thinking quickly. Her friend lived in a neighborhood not far from here—ten minutes by foot, maybe less if she walked fast.

Heels dangling from her fingers, she padded barefoot down the driveway, gravel biting into her skin with each step. She didn’t care. Not about the dirt on her dress or the chill in the air or the tears still falling.

She just had to get away.

From the house.

From the party.

From him.

From the lie she’d been living without even knowing.

⸻

Rafe weaved through the crowd, careful not to spill the two drinks balanced in his hands. The music thumped around him, bodies brushing past as people danced and talked, but his mind was somewhere else—on her.

A soft smile tugged at his lips, rare and unguarded. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this light, this grounded. She was different. She didn’t flinch at his past or look at him like a ticking bomb. She laughed with him. Talked to him like he mattered. For once, it felt like he didn’t have to perform.

He stepped into the living room, expecting to see her curled up where he’d left her on the couch, maybe talking with someone or scanning the room with that quiet curiosity he found so damn adorable. But the spot was empty.

Rafe’s smile slowly faded.

He blinked, shifting the cups in his hands, then turned, scanning the room. Maybe she got up to use the bathroom. Maybe she ran into someone she knew. But a strange knot started to form in his chest as he checked the kitchen, then the hallway, then the stairwell. No sign of her.

His pace quickened, shoes thudding softly against the hardwood as he made his way through the house.

He pushed open the sliding door to the back porch and spotted Kelce and Topper standing in a cluster near the railing, beers in hand, talking with Ruthie. He walked over, the red Solo cups still in his grasp.

“Hey,” Rafe called, voice steady but clipped. “Have you guys seen her? She was just—” He glanced back at the house. “She was just inside.”

Kelce shook his head. “Haven’t seen her, bro.”

Topper mirrored him. “Nah, she dipped?”

But Ruthie let out a quiet, smug little laugh that made the hairs on the back of Rafe’s neck stand up.

“Oh, she left,” she said casually, swirling her drink. “Guess she finally figured it out.”

Rafe narrowed his eyes. “Figured what out?”

Ruthie shrugged like it was obvious. “The bet, Rafe. The one you idiots made? To see how many girls you could get to fall for you? You know—the one you’re winning.”

Rafe’s brows furrowed. “What the hell are you talking about?” His voice was sharp now, the drinks in his hands suddenly feeling like dead weight.

She rolled her eyes, tone airy. “Don’t play dumb. She knows. I might’ve mentioned it. Oops.”

For a second, Rafe just stared at Ruthie, expression unreadable, like he couldn’t quite process what she’d just said. Then, slowly, he turned to Topper—his eyes narrowing when he saw the guilty look already plastered across his friend’s face.

“What is she talking about?” Rafe asked, voice low but laced with sharp agitation. “What bet?”

Topper sighed and dragged a hand through his hair, visibly squirming. “Look, man—don’t freak out, alright? But I… I might’ve told Ruthie that me and you had this bet going. To see who could pull the most girls.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Rafe’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking as he took a step back, his grip on the solo cups tightening until the plastic crinkled. “Why the fuck would you say that?”

Topper rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding Rafe’s eyes. “So she’d start going out with me,” he mumbled. “Dude, she wasn’t taking me seriously. I thought if she thought we were playing around, maybe she’d let her guard down.”

Rafe stayed silent for a couple of seconds, letting Toppers words register. His chest heaved as the weight of it sank in. The girl he’d been falling for—hell, maybe even in love with—had left his house tonight thinking she was just another name on some imaginary scoreboard. All because Topper wanted to impress someone.

“You better pray she lets me explain,” Rafe muttered under his breath, eyes still locked on the front door. “Because if she doesn’t…I swear to God, man…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

Without another word, he shoved the untouched drinks into Topper’s hands and stormed off through the house, heart pounding, desperately hoping it wasn’t too late.

⸻

Her feet throbbed with every step, the unforgiving pavement digging into her soles. She hadn’t realized just how long the walk would be—or how painful. Blisters had already started to form, and she hadn’t even made it out of the neighborhood. Her heels dangled uselessly from her fingers, no match for the jagged road beneath her, and every breath came out shakier than the last.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, hot and silent. She didn’t bother wiping them away. Embarrassment burned in her chest, tangled up with anger and something even heavier—shame. Everyone had warned her. Everyone. And she hadn’t listened. She had wanted to believe he was different. That Rafe was different.

A sudden, cold drop landed on her shoulder. She froze, tilting her head up to the sky just in time for another to splatter across her cheek. Then another. And another. Within seconds, a soft rain had started to fall, peppering her skin, her arms, her bare, aching feet.

She let out a disbelieving huff, the sound breaking halfway into a sob. Of course. Because somehow, heartbreak wasn’t enough—it had to rain, too. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to shield against the chill, but it was no use. The tears kept coming, blending with the rain, soaking into her hair and slipping down her neck.

She felt stupid. Used. And worst of all, completely alone.

Cars zoomed past her, their headlights blinding and cruel in the rain, casting fleeting shadows across her soaked frame. Her steps had slowed to a miserable shuffle, the pavement digging into her her blistered feet. Every part of her ached—physically, emotionally. All she wanted now was to disappear, or at the very least, be home. Be with him.

But that wasn’t an option anymore. Not after everything.

Another engine grew louder behind her, creeping closer than the rest. She instinctively shifted to the very edge of the road, expecting it to pass like the others. But it didn’t.

The car came to an abrupt stop, tires hissing on the wet asphalt.

The door flew open with force and slammed shut again almost immediately. Her heart stuttered in her chest as she turned, eyes wide, breath caught in her throat.

It was him.

He was storming toward her, his strides long and urgent, a mixture of panic and sorrow carved into every angle of his face. His jaw was tight, clenched so hard it looked like it hurt, and his suit jacket—once perfectly tailored and dry—was now completely soaked, clinging to his frame as the rain poured harder.

“Are you kidding me right now?” he barked, not with anger, but with fear—fear layered beneath his voice like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “What the hell are you thinking, walking out here like this?”

Before she could answer, his hands were already on her, pulling her into his chest like he couldn’t stand the space between them for even a second longer. His grip was tight, too tight, but she didn’t move. Not yet. Not when it felt so good to be wrapped up in him—even if it was just for a moment.

And then the moment broke.

She started to cry again, shoulders shaking, her sobs barely muffled against his shirt. The pain in her chest swelled because she knew this—this—wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

With trembling hands, she shoved against him, creating space where warmth had just been.

“Don’t do that,” she choked out. “Don’t pretend, Rafe. Don’t pretend you care about me.”

The words hit him like a slap, and he staggered back half a step, blinking through the rain that streamed down his face. He looked at her like she’d just taken the air out of his lungs.

“Don’t pretend?” he echoed, breathless. “You think I’m pretending?”

His voice cracked, just slightly, as he stepped closer again, slower this time—like he was afraid she’d disappear if he moved too fast.

“I care about you,” he said, low and rough. “I care about you so fucking much it makes me feel insane sometimes. And whatever Ruthie said—whatever bullshit about some bet or game—it’s not true. It was never true.”

His hand twitched at his side like he wanted to reach for her again, but didn’t know if he was allowed to anymore. His eyes searched her face with quiet desperation.

“I would never do that to you,” he said, voice breaking. “Not you.”

She shook her head, backing away from him, the cold rain soaking her clothes and hair until she was trembling. “I heard her, Rafe. I heard everything,” she whispered, voice cracking. “You don’t have to lie.”

But Rafe didn’t flinch. He stepped toward her again, hands out like he was scared she’d disappear if he moved too fast. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, breaths shallow like he’d been running. Maybe he had. “You didn’t hear me,” he said, softer now. “You heard Ruthie twist shit like she always does. But you didn’t hear me say it, because I didn’t. I never said anything like that.”

She looked down, arms still crossed tightly over her chest. Her lip quivered and the ache in her throat grew heavier. “Why would she say it then? Why would she—why would anyone think it was a joke? That I was a joke?”

Rafe looked like he was in pain—like the words themselves had hit him. His jaw clenched again, but not in anger this time. In guilt. “Because people suck,” he said, almost brokenly. “Because I never should’ve brought you around them. I should’ve known better. I should’ve protected you.”

She let out a bitter laugh, tears still streaking down her cheeks, mixing with the rain.

His face twisted like he wanted to argue but couldn’t. He dragged a hand down his face, pushing wet hair off his forehead. “You have no idea how much I care about you,” he said again, more desperate now. “You think I’d chase you down in the middle of a storm if this was a game to me?”

She chewed on her lip looking down. His hand landing on her waist pulling her closer.

“And if I had—if I had heard her say that shit to your face, I swear to God I would’ve lost it. I would’ve. You know me.”

She blinked, hesitating. She did know him. She knew that flash in his eyes. She knew the unfiltered honesty in his voice when he was like this—raw, heart on his sleeve, drenched in rain but still more focused on her than anything else.

“I don’t care about Ruthie,” he said, stepping even closer now, gently wrapping his hands around her arms. “I care about you. I’ve never brought anyone into my world the way I brought you in, and maybe that’s why they didn’t take it seriously. But I did. I do. I fucked up not noticing sooner, but don’t tell me I don’t care. Because I do. So much that I can’t even think straight when you’re not okay.”

She looked up at him through soaked lashes, her heart pounding, unsure if it was from anger or sadness or the overwhelming relief threatening to crack through her.

He exhaled shakily, brushing a wet strand of hair from her face. “Please don’t walk away from me like this.”

She sniffled, her lip trembling as fresh tears welled in her eyes, and before she could talk herself out of it, she threw her arms around his neck and held him like she never wanted to let go. Like he was home.

Rafe didn’t hesitate—his arms wrapped tightly around her waist, pulling her into him with a desperation that matched her own. His suit jacket was soaked through, rain clinging to every inch of them, but he didn’t seem to care. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her through the storm. She still smelled like something soft and warm—like comfort—even in the middle of all this mess.

“I’m not walking away from you,” she whispered after a long, shaky moment, her breath brushing his ear.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to see her face, and she rested both hands gently on either side of his jaw. Her palms were cold, but her touch was tender, grounding him. Her thumbs brushed along his cheeks as she looked up at him, eyes wide and sincere.

“I believe you,” she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. “And I’m sorry… for running. For not asking you. I should’ve talked to you—”

“Don’t apologize,” he cut her off gently, shaking his head as his hands slid to the small of her back. “You were hurt. I should’ve protected you from all of that before it even got to you. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His voice was hoarse, low and rough from the lump in his throat. The space between them buzzed with everything unsaid. Her fingers tightened slightly on his face, eyes flicking from his to his lips—just once, just enough to make his heart stutter.

And then he leaned in.

Slow at first, like he was giving her the chance to pull away. But she didn’t—she only leaned up to meet him halfway, her breath catching as his mouth finally pressed to hers.

It wasn’t rushed. It was gentle, aching, full of emotion that neither of them had been able to put into words. Her hands slid into his damp hair, and his grip on her tightened like he was afraid she’d disappear again.

There, in the middle of the rain-soaked road, under the gray sky and headlights of his still-running car, they kissed like they meant it. Like it wasn’t fake. Like it had never been a question.

And now it never would be.

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gillybear17 · 3 days ago

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to anyone who sends anon hate: i know that probably takes a lot of energy out of you so here’s a tutorial on something so!! much!! easier!! when you don’t like somone,

simply block them

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gillybear17 · 3 days ago

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i miss you, i’m sorry - matthew tkachuk

matthew tkachuk x fem!reader

summary: you go with your bf to a hockey game; he is unaware of your history with one of the players (please read warnings!)

warnings: abusive bf, violence, strong and derogatory language, angst, a few uses of y/n

word count: 3k

you felt like you hadn’t been able to breathe properly in hours, sitting rigid like a stone next to mike, who’s mood has only deteriorated as the night went on. mike was a diehard coyotes fan, and had brought you to the game with him last minute when his friend had cancelled last minute.

“are you sure none of your other friends would want to go? they would probably have more fun than i would,” you had offered, desperately trying to get out of going.

“they’re all busy,” he replied. “i know you hate hockey, but can you try to have a good time, for me?” he asked sweetly, pulling you into his arms. you weren’t fooled by his tone; you would go and you would enjoy it, you didn’t have a choice.

“okay,” you smiled, and he kissed you softly before going to your shared room to get ready. you sighed, trying to figure out how you were going to make it through this game. you didn’t hate hockey - you used to love it actually, but when you started dating mike you chose to keep that part of your life a secret. it seemed silly at face value, but there was a bigger secret you were hiding from him, and you asked the universe why it had to be the panthers that arizona was playing tonight.

a little less than two years ago, you had dated their star player, matthew tkachuk for almost a year, before the travel and hectic schedule got to be too much for you, and you both decided to take a break. the relationship had been kept pretty quiet thankfully, no traces of it online except for one or two group photos from when you were together still floating around instagram; though you had done all you could to erase any evidence.

if mike found out, you honestly weren’t sure how he would react; but you knew it wouldn’t be good. you had met mike a few months after you and matthew broke up, and he was nice enough, until he wasn’t. he kept up the good guy just long enough for you to move in and become dependant on him, and suddenly you found yourself trapped. things were okay most of the time, but if he got angry, sometimes you got caught in the crossfire. he had only actually hit you once, but he yelled, and would sometimes grab you too hard, leaving you with bruises to cover before he could see them; he had the audacity to say that they made him upset.

he had been in a good mood when you got to the arena, and you were thankful that your seats weren’t too close to the ice, though you shuddered at the possibility of matthew seeing you in the crowd, despite how slim the chance was. you hadn’t seen him since they day you broke up, and as the familiar head of curly hair came out from the tunnel, skating on to the ice as part of the starting line up, your heart felt like it was being twisted in a vice.

you missed him. you missed your friends on the team, having grown pretty close to some of the guys, as well as their girlfriends. you hadn’t heard from any of them since leaving; it was too hard at first, and then it became a safety concern. any connection to your former life meant more risk of mike finding out about matthew, and that couldn’t happen.

“can you at least look like you want to be here?” mike whispered in your ear, and you knew it wasn’t a suggestion. you put on a smile, and thankfully it was good enough, as he turned his attention back to the players on the ice.

the game started off a bit slow, however the panthers had a 1-0 lead at the end of the first, and through the second as well. the coyotes were playing pretty rough, getting quite a few penalties for some dirty hits, all while mike cheered them on, booing the refs anytime they called a penalty on arizona. you watched as one of floridas players, nick cousins, ran into one of the coyotes while he was low on the boards, the hit landing on his shoulders or maybe his head, you couldn’t really tell. another coyote skated up and checked nick face first into the boards; hard. he hadn’t been looking that way and had no warning to protect himself, and you watched in distress as he crumbled to the ice, and you were worried he was unconscious.

nick had been one of your closest friends while you were dating matt, and your heart pounded as you watched him struggle to his feet.

“that pussy folded like a piece of paper!” mike laughed, enjoying every second of him getting hit. floridas players jumped on the guy who had laid the hit on nick, defending their fallen teammate as a fight broke out, sending players from each team into the penalty box. mikes mood dropped with each second of the refs deliberating passed, the officials eventually awarding nearly 20 penalty minutes to forsling for florida, as well as enough penalty minutes to arizona to give the panthers a man advantage.

“that’s fucking bullshit!” he screamed, the crowd of arizona fans not happy about the decision either. you said nothing as mike spilled some of his fourth beer on your lap, just thankful it hadn’t got on his spare coyotes jersey that he had insisted you wear. as the players got ready to continue the game, you looked across the ice, locking eyes with the one person you hoped you could avoid more than anything. something flashed in his eyes as he saw you, but his attention was quickly back to the game as the whistle blew, and soon the second period was over and he was gone down the tunnel for intermission.

the coyotes scored in the third to tie the game, but the panthers got the lead back, scoring twice in close succession. matthew looked to you after putting the puck in the net, and it took everything in you to ignore him. mike was livid at this point, the alcohol not helping in the slightest, and you cringed internally as he grabbed your hand, holding it way too tight.

forsling finally came out of the penalty box after serving 17 minutes, and immediately scored an empty netter, solidifying a 4-1 victory for florida. with 2 minutes left in the game, mike dragged you out to the concession area. matthews eyes noticed your empty seats, and he

“wait here. i gotta piss before we leave,” looking at the long lineup already formed outside the men’s room. the arena was small, and there were limited washrooms, so you had a feeling this was gonna take a while, but you dared not move from your spot against the brick wall.

you could hear the final buzzer go, and the florida players began walking out from ice level, and you realized that they had to walk through the main area to get to the visitors locker room, and your blood ran cold. most of the panthers paid no mind to you, but you held your breath as you saw matthew approaching, praying that he ignored you like the others had.

he thankfully didn’t say anything, but your eyes locked for the second time that night as he passed by, disappearing down the hall and into the locker room. your foot tapped anxiously on the floor, grinding a small piece of gravel under your shoe as you walked mike to hurry the fuck up.

10 minutes went by, and you exhaled in relief as he finally appeared, not even caring about the death grip he took on your wrist as he literally dragged you behind him towards the exit.

“y/n?” a familiar voice called, and you hoped with all you had that mike would ignore it and keep walking. “wait- y/n.” mike stopped, causing you to bump into his back with how fast you were following behind him. he turned around, and you were sure he was quite confused as to why matthew tkachuk was calling after you.

“what the hell do you want?” mike asked, looking matt up and down before turning to you, still holding you tight. “do you know this asshole?”

“no, let’s go home,” you pleaded, but he wasn’t budging.

“you got the wrong girl.” mike shrugged. “shouldn’t you be circle jerking with the other guys in the locker room right now?” he spat, still bitter about his team losing the game.

“i told them to start without me,” matthew joked dryly, and you could feel his eyes on you, however yours were glued to the floor.

“funny,” mike replied. “let’s go,” he pushed you in front of him to leave.

“wait, y/n - please.”

“i’m sorry, you have the wrong person.”

“yeah, chucky,” mike laughed. “you must be thinking of some other whore. i’m sure there’s a lot of desperate chicks around here that would suck your cock though, so stop talking to mine.”

“you really shouldn’t talk about women like that,” matthew threatened, and while his tone sounded calm, you knew he was furious.

“or what? what, you want to fight or something?” mike asked. you noticed a few people gathering to watch, either out of concern or just to see matthew, but you knew this wasn’t going to end well.

“baby, can we please just-“

“shut up!” he shoved you and you fell to the floor, landing hard on your ass, before punching matthew in the face. matthew swung a fist at mikes face, hitting him square in the jaw. your eyes widened in horror as mike swung more drunken punches back at matt, and people backed away from the fight. you looked down the hall to see a familiar face, and you called out to your former friend.

“carter!” his eyes snapped up from his phone and he took out an airpod before he noticed the fight, and he quickly pulled matthew off of mike with the help of security guards that had come to help break up the situation. you stared at the ground in front of you again, feeling like the room was spinning and wishing that the floor would open up and swallow you. security handcuffed mike and escorted him out of the building, while carter and another security officer took matthew back down the hall towards the locker room.

an officer asked you to come with him, and he took you to an empty office room to take a statement about what happened. you just hoped matthew wouldn’t get in too much trouble.

•

when you left the office, there were thankfully little to no fans left in the arena, the hallways eerily empty as you walked towards the door. before you could reach it though, something - or someone - made you pause. you looked back down the hall to the locker room, and with a sigh walked towards it. you knocked on the door, your heart hammering against your ribcage as it opened, one of the team staff looking at you.

“i’m sorry, you can’t be back here-“

“it’s fine. she’s a friend,” carter interrupted her, opening the door to let you in. the room was empty, the team having already left, and you forced yourself to look at carter.

“are you okay?” he asked, and you nodded.

“thank you. i’m sorry-“

“don’t, it’s not your fault.” he opened his arms and you fell into them, hugging him tightly. “chuckys just getting patched up in the medic room. mostly procedure that they have to check him after a fight - usually it only happens during a game though,” he joked, and you found yourself smiling for real for the first time that night.

“is he in a lot of trouble?”

“no more than he normally gets himself into. it’ll be fine, y/n,” he assured you, but you were still worried there might be some legal repercussions. deciding there was nothing you could do about that right now, you managed to push the thought away and sat down on a bench in the locker room.

“you waiting around for him?” verhaeghe asked, and you nodded, eyes on the floor again.

“yeah. i think i’d be a shitty person not to.”

“you could never be a shitty person,” he smiled. “we miss you. chucky especially.” you looked up at him sadly.

“i miss you guys too.”

the medic door opened with a creak, and matthew walked out. you kept your eyes on your feet, counting the laces on your shoes over and over again.

“i’ll see you later,” carter said goodbye to both of you before leaving the room. you didn’t dare look up as matthew walked over slowly and sat down next to you, leaving space between you as his gaze lingered on you.

“you waited,” he said softly.

“yeah…. i don’t think i should have, but i wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“you wanted to make sure i was okay?” he laughed softly. “yeah, i’m okay.” he said, and an awkward silence filled the room. “was he always like that?” he asked gently, and you shook your head sadly.

“nope,” you said bitterly, eyes growing wet with tears. “he was perfect at first. until he wasn’t.”

“i’m sorry.”

“don’t be. it’s not your fault.”

“i still am. you don’t deserve to be treated like that.” you didn’t reply, knowing he was right. “y/n, you haven’t even looked at me.” he hand touched yours on the bench next to you, his touch so soft and gentle it was unfamiliar.

you turned your head towards him, and his heart broke at your sad expression. his lip was split open, red and forming a bruise already. you reached for his face without thinking, pulling your hand back before you went too far.

“what do you want me to say?” you whispered, a tear rolling down your cheek. with the carefulness of someone touching glass, he brushed it off your face, and you closed your eyes, leaning into his touch.

“do you have somewhere to stay tonight?” he asked, somewhat ignoring your question. he didn’t want you to say anything, he just wanted to make sure you were safe.

“i can figure something out,” you said, going through the options in your head; likely a hotel or sleeping in your car.

“please, i would feel a lot better if i knew you were somewhere safe. i have an extra bed in my hotel room-“

“no, matthew. i can’t do this.”

“do what?” he asked.

“this,” you gestured between the two of you. “thank you for protecting me, but i can’t let myself be near you. it’s too hard.”

“please,” his blue eyes looking in yours. the smell of his cologne wafted to your nose, filling you with a sense of safety that only he could ever bring you.

“okay,” you nodded.

•

the drive to the hotel was short and silent, but you felt at ease for the first time all night. the more time you spent with him, the more it felt like no time had passed; like things were back to how they were before. matthew held your hand the whole drive, his thumb drawing little circles on the back of it gently, his touch like a feather.

you got up to the hotel room and he grabbed a t-shirt from his suitcase for you.

“you a coyotes fan now?” he teased, and you laughed. matthew hadn’t realized how much he missed the sound, but did he would do anything to hear it again and again.

“not by choice,” you laughed, pulling mikes jersey over your head, putting the t-shirt over your undershirt you had on.

“did he know about -“

“no,” you shook your head, dropping the jersey in the small garbage can, and matthew cracked a smile. “he probably wouldn’t have liked it very much.”

“i’m sorry, i don’t mean to -“

“it’s okay. i know. how’s your lip?” you asked, still feeling guilty about it.

“it’s not my first split lip. i’ll live,” he smiled.

“is nick okay?” you asked, remembering the nasty hit during the game.

“he wasn’t feeling too hot after that. i’m not sure yet,” he admitted, and you nodded, before covering your mouth as a yawn slipped past your lips. “come on, sleepyhead, let get you to bed.”

you nodded, dragging your exhausted body into the nearest of the two queen sized beds. matthew tucked you into bed, leaning down to kiss your forehead, and you reached for his hand before he could walk away.

“lay with me?” you asked sleepily, knowing it was selfish to use him as a safety net right now; but you felt you would fall apart without him.

“are you sure?” he asked, and you nodded. he crawled into bed next to you, letting you cling to him like a life raft. “you’re safe now. i won’t let anyone hurt you, baby, i promise.”

“i know, matty,” you snuggled into him, everything about him bringing you comfort you hadn’t felt since you left; his scent, his voice, the feeling of his arms around you. “i missed you.”

“god, i missed you to. i don’t want to let you go again.”

“please don’t,” you begged, your eyes wet with tears that fell onto the fabric of his shirt, your fingers gripping it so tight your knuckles hurt. “don’t let me go.”

“i won’t.”

you felt like you were dreaming; what had started as a nightmare turning into the first time you had felt safe in months. you were scared that you would wake up and it hadn’t been real - you would be next to mike in his apartment, the cold draft from the window on your side of the bed would prickle you skin like it always did and you would have to apologize for not having his lunch ready for work.

but instead you would wake up in the arms of someone who actually cared about you, the sun peeking through the cracks of the blinds, casting warmth onto your skin. along with it, matthew brought a light to your life that had been missing for so long, you thought it was lost for good.

matthew pressed another soft kiss to your forehead as you felt yourself falling asleep, knowing you were protected as long as he was next to you.

“thank you matty,” you murmured, barely awake as you nose brushed the side of his jaw, your face tucked into the crook of his neck.

“anything for you.”

disclaimer: all screenshots, events, and/or interactions depicted in this are a work of fiction. i have no association with any parties mentioned

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