#Chat Room Script

[jaime-has-shifted]

707 MY SHAYLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

It got so bad I started replaying his route just to feel something and cried at some of the phone calls. JUST LEMME SHIFT DAMN IT!!!!!!!

[irisinluv]

Isekaied as the Yandere Villain!? Pt 2

Part one

It was almost 2 minutes before I realized I was still dragging the crown prince behind me. I quickly dropped his hand and looked at him, not able to hide the embarrassment on my face. Listen- I’m committed to the bit. I WILL be the crazy jealous fiancé. But… I’m still human ok. I just dragged a full grown man down several halls and a flight of stairs while I spaced out thinking about how I’m gonna buy my cat premium wet food once I get back home to her.

It’s fine, I’m not flustered at spacing out about my cat, my characters just flustered because she’s been holding the hand of the man she’s obsessed with, that’s all!

“Well…. Did you still want to dine and take that walk?”

I expected him to scold me for my mistreatment of Cressida, grow irritated from me dragging him along like this. Instead, he chuckles and threads his arm in mine, and begins escorting me down the hall.

“Absolutely, have you dined outside by the roses yet? There’s this lovely pavilion that I am eager to hear your thoughts on.”

And that’s how I found myself under an impressive array of roses, all trained up and around a cozy dining area, creating a canopy of green and pink over an intimate tea table. The food was equally impressive, I had to keep reminding myself that the other me is used to this lavish lifestyle, to not gawk at the fancy tiny sandwiches and deserts.

“Well? Is everything to your liking? ”

I’m going off script here, how am I supposed to know how the villainess would react to a romantic scene like this?? If my “evil crazy” side isn’t supposed to be directed at him, and she’s usually kinda distant and unsure around him…. That means I should probably respond pretty curtly, polite, yet not really engaging. But…. I’ve already messed that up…. I guess I can be more genuine when it’s the two of us like this. He can think that this version of me is the facade, that I’m pretending to be pleasant, and then will start to see what a jerk “I” truly am when Cressida’s around. Besides…. I almost feel bad for the villainess. She really just seems like she was shy. Who knows- maybe, if given the opportunity, she really would have opened up more. It’s clear she loved the prince, and just didn’t know how to show it. So, with that thought, I made up my mind.

“It’s breathtaking! Roses are my favorite flower, and I’ve never seen so many kinds in bloom at once…. Plus the food and company leave little to be desired.”

There you go- slip in some subtle flirting! I’m not quite sure what time period this is supposed to be, but I get the impression flirting as bit more high class here, and I think I can have some fun with that.

“I’m glad, to be honest I was a bit flustered asking you to dine with me… you caught me quite off guard today, but in a good way.” He reaches his hand across the table and places it on my own, “I’d like to do this more often, you and I. I feel like the confines of our current arrangement have left us practically strangers, despite being engaged for several months already. I’m enjoying just being companionable with you, even if it’s just existing comfortably in the same room.”

Ohhhh, I know I’m the villain in this story but I can’t help but root for him- what a sweetheart! It’s so obvious he’s been lonely, I can’t wait for him and Cressida to fall in love and have a couple of kids that they’ll spoil rotten. And in the meantime…. Maybe I do have a bit of evil in me, because I’m going to selfishly enjoy this handsome man treating me to lunches under roses and reading in cozy libraries while I can.

“I know exactly how you feel your highness. Now, you mentioned a walk?”

We spent the afternoon laughing and chatting, and it felt nice to chat without worrying too much about my role. He asked me about that book I picked out earlier, and listened attentively as I caught him up with where I’m at in the plot. In turn, I asked about what papers he’s been signing, documents he’s been drafting, etc.

The only thing I had to do was send glares to any young ladies we passed, settling my hand on his arm possessively, and I saw their eyes widen and faces disappear behind fans as they whisper to one another. I can picture this illustrated in a manhwa- the nasty princess sinking her claws into the gullible prince… hopefully all these ladies will start gossiping and we can really cement this evil persona of mine now that Cressida’s here.

When we returned to our separate apartments, I explored my rooms a bit until servants came to get me ready for dinner, and I slipped back into the frigid bitch persona. The servant girls dressed me in a slightly stuffy gown, but I had to admit, I looked gorgeous. I sat stiff and straight as they did my hair, forcing myself to be the very picture of cold indifference. I then dismissively thanked them for their help, then sat there awkwardly as they stared at me like I was crazy.

Ohhhh shit…. The original story hadn’t prepared me for this. My character was a villain, yes, but a side character for the most part! How was she supposed to act towards her servants? I went over what I knew- the novel showed the villainess alone quite often, usually obsessing over Eric and plotting/stalking. It showed her with Eric, and how distant and awkward their relationship was when together. And then of course the numerous scenes with Cressida where the Villainess did all sorts of heinous things to the sweet girl. But… it never depicted her with servants, or even any friends or other nobles. Just… Eric and Cressida. Was other me not actually a bitch all the time? Am I being unnecessarily rude right now? Oh god I’m such an idiot.

The story is told through Cressida’s point of view- of course there’s more depth to my own character than I initially thought! The Villianess must be a misunderstood introvert! Unsure of how to act around her crush, she’s fiercely insecure and jealous of this new girl who doesn’t struggle the same way she does. When she notices the prince slipping from her grasp, she acts out against Cressida because she can’t bear to lose Eric!

As someone’s who’s worked minimum wage jobs and struggled with social anxiety most of my life, I try to be nice to the people just working to survive, but here I am acting like these poor women are the dirt beneath my shoe…. Ok. Um. Well they’re still standing there in shock, I can fix this….

“You really did a lovely job… my hair has never looked so gorgeous, you’re truly talented! And I think the prince will be very pleased with this choice of ribbon!”

There- I was nicer, and I brought it back to Eric, so I’m still the lovesick fiancé whose entire world is waiting for her in the dining room. I frowned as the servants scuttled out of the room with hurried excuses, all of them looking like they were about to faint. Damn it… I can’t believe I misread the relationship between us. I probably just ruined their night by being uncharacteristically rude. I’ve gotta learn their names next time…. Maybe ask them to help me eat some fancy pastries as an apology…?

I didn’t know it, but while I was lamenting how wrong I was about the Villainess’ character, the servants were all gossiping to the others about what had just transpired.

“You’re telling me she said THANK YOU!?”

“Yes!!! And then you should have seen how nervous she got! She just rambled, blurting out such a sweet compliment, and she even tied it back to the prince!”

“I had no idea how precious she was… I can’t believe I never realized she’s just shy! In a new place, all alone aside from her new fiancé…. Who I gather she’s got a bit of a crush on! Poor dear.”

“Ohh our sweet girl, I’m sure it must be hard bonding with the prince, when all you do is sit yards apart and hardly speak …”

“Well I may have some news about that… and it’s no wonder she was a bit flustered today, because I saw the two of them in the gardens today! They were both nothing but smiles- absolutely smitten with one another!”

“Such a lovely girl, and we never knew it all this time!”

Apparently, I had it backwards. The real villainess truly was a 2D, basic character. She was insecure and possessive over the prince, bullying Cressida half to remind her who Eric belonged to, half for the fun of it. But she didn’t let on to anyone about the true depth of her love for him. She didn’t gossip to her handmaid, didn’t ask the servants which dress he would like better. Simply acted as if they did not exist, hardly saying a word to them.

While I thought my blunt “thank you” was colder than they were used to, and then tried to smooth things over…. It was more words than they’d heard from me in the whole time I’d lived in the palace. They lapped it up and declared me their own shy little dove after that.

When I arrived to dinner, I realized why daily dinners weren’t exactly a bonding activity for the villainess and Eric. The table was massive, and only held two chairs, one at either end. It felt so…. Cold?

Eric had beat me there, and quickly stood up from his seat, waiting until I sat and a servant pushed in my chair to retake his own seat. He smiled at me and said,

“Good evening, princess.”

He had to project his voice slightly. It wasn’t like he was shouting or being loud, it was just the manner of speaking you use when talking to an elderly relative, clearer, and enunciating better so they could hear you.

I replied back, projecting my voice similarly, and found the conversation was, in fact, more awkward than it had been earlier. We ate our food mostly in silence, occasionally one of us would say something and the other would stop moving their utensils on their plate, listening closer as they ask,

“What’s that?”

By the time dinner was over and we each went to bed, I felt drained. I could have just been louder I suppose- but it’s so hard to keep up a conversation like that. I know we get along- we had chatted all afternoon after all. But some part of me realized it’s probably good to keep a bit of distance between us, even if I’ve rewritten things to be a bit chummier between the two of us. Cressida needs to swoop in and steal him from me… and my job is still to leave that room for her to do so.

It’s hard trying to be someone else, yet also making sure you lead the plot in the right direction- it’s exhausting! I feel like both director and actress!

It’s with this in mind that I launch myself into the softest bed I’d ever felt, and passed out. My first day as princess consort, the Yandere fiancé, complete.

While I was getting acquainted with my feather bed, Eric was speaking with the head waitstaff.

“Yes, tomorrow, would you mind adjusting the seating situation? I’d like for the princess consort and I to be closer together from now on. Yes, and ask my assistant to arrange my schedules like so, I’ve detailed it here. Thank you.”

At the same time, Cressida was recounting her run in with the prince and I to her handmaiden as she finishing unpacking and settling into her family’s guest apartments. Which, unbeknownst to me… was right across the hall.

Series discontinued- sorry my loves. Ik y’all wanted more but the good news is that I’ve seen several really talented authors picking up this idea and executing it wayyyy better than my sporadic mood writing ever could.

[sixeyesonathiel]

what happens when satoru gojo fakes vulnerability and someone responds with actual care?

a/n: reader using a male avatar so she doesn't get underestimated and satoru using a female avatar to scam his way through life is literally the silliest dynamic i’ve ever cooked up. like hello??? gender who??? one’s silently carrying the whole server with raw skill and the other’s sobbing in sparkles for loot he doesn’t even need. peak clownery. I LOVE THEM.

satoru didn’t play the game to be noble. he played to win.

he lounged on a mossy ledge in aethergate online’s emerald forest, legs swinging above luminous roots, beams of late afternoon light dripping through the tree canopy like syrup. his avatar—a petite girl with tousled silver hair in a wispy bob, watery blue eyes wide with a kind of fragile wonder—sat delicately beside him, barefoot, skirts artfully dirtied, wand trembling in her small hands. she looked like she’d burst into tears if you so much as raised your voice.

and she was him.

he’d picked the flattest chest size the game allowed, for maximum "innocent lost fairy" effect. her voice—filtered through a pitch-tuned modulator—was airy and lilting, like a tearful anime side character two seconds from fainting. her idle animations were rigged to sparkle when she wasn’t doing anything. a helpless deer stuck in traffic. a damsel in distress.

who also happened to be capable of obliterating an elite raid squad with one broken staff and an accidental crit chain.

in real life, satoru slouched deep into his gaming chair, hoodie collar bunched beneath his chin, white hair curling in a sleepy cloud around his head. his bangs hung low over a pair of gleaming, mischief-fueled eyes behind the visor. he stretched, knuckles cracking, before lazily adjusting the mic attached to his cheek. a bowl of half-finished cereal sat nearby, forgotten. his room glowed faintly with neon strips and a flickering holographic map of the game world plastered to one wall.

he was, objectively, the worst.

and today, he was feeling particularly theatrical.

the forest shimmered around him—twilight casting gold against the thick moss, background players flitting through with cloaks trailing behind, the soft ding of system notifications blending into birdsong. a sprite child NPC chased a floating pet butterfly near the stream, while two players argued over loot nearby, their chat bubbles popping like comic panels. satoru squatted in an overgrown fox den, triggering a scripted ambush, and let a swarm of level thirty wolves drag his health bar down to red. he screamed through his girl voice like a starlet in an old movie. “aah~ not againnn~ i’m sooo scaaared~ someone heeelp~!”

just in time, the brush behind him rustled.

you stepped out.

no fanfare, no slow-mo entrance. just calm, heavy steps. armored boots pressed moss flat as you walked into the fray, blade already swinging. three clean arcs. no wasted motion. the wolves fell without even a snarl. your avatar—broad-shouldered, practical, with short dark hair and a jawline like it was carved by someone very tired—stood tall against the dappled light.

satoru’s avatar blinked slowly up at you. perfect mark.

he mashed the sparkle emote.

“waaah~ thankyuuuu~ i was totally gonna diiie~ you saved meee~ teehee~”

you stared. then crouched, dropping a low-tier potion by his feet.

his real grin stretched wide. “ehhh? you’re sooo nice~ i ran out of everythiiing~ do you maybe have a few moreee?”

you paused. then dropped three more. silent.

he squealed for real. in real life, he kicked his feet against the desk.

“i love you,” he breathed through the mic, voice mod still on. but you just nodded once.

and left.

or tried to. satoru scrambled after you like a glittery barnacle. every time you stopped to check your map, his dainty avatar would sit cross-legged behind you, hands folded in her lap. if you set traps, he’d walk directly into them with the most tragic whimper you’d ever heard.

you always helped.

he couldn’t believe how easy it was.

on the third day, he managed to scam your epic raid-earned sword out of you with a long, high-pitched plea and a sparkly spin.

“n-noo~ i feel sooo baddd~ i’m scamming youuu~!!!” he cried, while pressing confirm before you could blink.

and you just... nodded.

no mic. not once had he heard your voice.

but you always turned to face him. always healed him. always gave a little wave at the end of a dungeon. sometimes you’d do a silly dance emote if he pretended to cry hard enough.

he was on top of the world.

until the boss hunt.

he was half-tempted to ghost you when the invite came in. but... he liked the attention. and the freebies. so he showed up, sparkles and all. actually tried a little. even dodged once or twice.

afterward, when the rare loot dropped, he waited for you to start dividing it.

instead, you traded it all to him. the legendary cloak. the mount egg. the enhancement cores. he stared at the trade window, then at your avatar. you stood still, like a sentry carved from obsidian.

his fingers hovered over the confirm button.

“w-wait, are you sure? i don’t— i don’t deserve all this—”

he flicked on the sparkle emote again, panicking.

but you only bowed gently. then waved.

then disappeared.

he stared at the empty space where your avatar had been.

“…what the hell,” he muttered, voice modulator still on.

then, real voice: quiet, almost pouting. “what the hell.”

he sat down in the same mossy spot, skirt fluttering in the still forest air. around him, players sprinted past in the distance, gear clinking, birds chirped lazily, a low-level bard sang off-key to a party of two, while an animated slime NPC bounced in slow circles nearby. the world went on, coded and infinite.

satoru stayed frozen.

then, slowly, he typed.

“did u mean to give me all that stuff?”

an hour passed. the sky dimmed from golden dusk to violet evening. fireflies blinked in and out between fern leaves. his cereal had gone completely soggy.

then:

“yes. u looked happy.”

his visor fogged a little. his fingers paused on the keyboard.

he didn’t log off for another four hours. just sat there, tiny legs swinging off the ledge, face pink.

slightly smiling.

[temporary-dysphoria]

Banging my head against a wall - why isn't rural healthcare adequate or sustainable whhhhyyyyyyyyyy

[dollyzdaydreamz]

sam winchester x fem!reader

tramp sammy stamp

description: your tattoo artist friend suggests doing a 'random' henna tattoo on your lower back out of boredom. when you return to the motel, your semi-permanent tramp stamp practically turns sams brain into mush. reader has 'sammy' on her lower back aaa (::>_<::) warnings: no nsfw, but slightly suggestive, fluff. spn masterlist

You and the boys were on a hunt in your hometown, so you figured you’d give your childhood friend a visit. Sam and Dean were oblivious to the fact that she knew you were a hunter. The poor girl had been caught up in one too many of your half assed lies and near death experiences when creatures had decided to hunt you back; so naturally, the secret had to get out somehow.

Her tattoo studio was tucked between a shuttered record shop and pawn store on the edge of town, its windows fogged by condensation. It was dim, but cozy in its own way. The walls were a patchwork of old band posters, ink designs pinned like sketches in your hunter journal, and a few faded Polaroids of past clients who’d braved bolder choices.

You were curled up on a faded leather couch in the front room, a chipped mug of hot chocolate cooling in your hand.

She was finishing a walk-in tattoo, leaving you to your thoughts, until your phone buzzed quietly on your thigh.

Sammy (2:43 PM)

Just checking in. You doing okay?

You smiled and gave him a call, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Sam echoed on the other end, his voice soft and familiar. There was a quiet rustle. Paper maybe, or an old book, then a sigh. “Just wanted to make sure you got there alright.”

“I did. She’s finishing up a piece. I’m just chilling here waiting,” You reply. "It was snowing a little last time I checked. You keeping warm?" He asked. “Yeah. Hot chocolate’s questionable, but it’s hot.” you chuckled softly.

He huffed a short laugh, and you could picture him, probably hunched over an old lore book, elbows on the table, sleeves rolled up.

“That’s good.” A pause. You could hear Dean faintly in the background, and the distant creak of motel floorboards. “I miss you.”

That pulled at something quiet inside you, making you smile, “I’ll be back soon.”

“Alright,” he murmured. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will. Bye Sammy.”

You ended the call just as your friend stepped back into the room, tugging off a pair of gloves. She eyed your expression with a grin.

“Sammy? That your guy again?”

You nodded. “Just checking in.”

She grinned, amused, “He’s the moose, right?”

You lifted a brow, “Moose?”

She smirked. “Tall, broad shoulders, hair like he lives in a forest?”

You paused, “Huh, I suppose he does look like a moose.”

She plopped down in the armchair across from you. “Yeah, I've see him and his brother around town. He seems good for you.”

You exhaled slowly, “He is. He’s smart and sweet. Sometimes it’s like he’s thinking five steps ahead but never makes you feel behind.”

“Bagged yourself a fellow nerd.”

“Yeah,” You sigh dreamily, “A cute nerd.”

She chuckled before leaning back, tapping her chin, “You bored?”

You shrugged, “A little. Why?”

“Wanna let me give you a henna tattoo?”

You hesitated, then gave a faint smile. “Ah, why not?”

“Dealer’s choice?”

You nod, "Yeah. I mean I trust your artistic instinct." She perked up at that, "Let's do one on your lower back! Like a cute little tramp stamp?"

“Go ahead," You shrug. "Something small though.” 

You shifted to lie down on your stomach, pulling your blouse up just enough to give her space to work. The cool touch of henna paste startled you at first, but the process was slow and relaxing, the way she always was when she had a brush in hand.

She didn’t tell you what she was painting. Just chatted with you idly and occasionally adjusted your shirt. When it finally dried and she wiped off the excess, she handed you a mirror and let you see it.

A delicate bunny and moose, outlined with just enough detail to make them whimsical, sat in the small of your back. Above them, written in careful script: Sammy.

“You know what? This is the most wholesome tramp stamp I’ve ever seen.” You laughed quietly. “Why the rabbit?”

She grinned. “Hm, I guess you remind me of one. And like I said, that Sammy of yours is obviously a moose.”

You glanced back in the mirror, the figures sweet and strangely personal. “It’s adorable, thank you.”

“Anytime.”

By the time you two finished catching up it was getting late. 

As you gathered your things, your friend caught a peak of the tattoo and snickered,

“Something funny?” You sassed, slipping on your boots and looking back to her smug expression.

“Sammy's gonna love it,” She whispered as she pulled you into a hug. 

“Shut up,” You grumble, though you hugged her tighter anyway.

By the time you returned to the motel, the sky had dulled into twilight, the clouds washed in violet and gray. The scent of motel soap clung faintly in the air, and you could hear the bathroom fan running. Dean was probably washing up, taking advantage of the steam showers the receptionist was raving out. Sam was sat at the table, a book open in front of him, lamp light catching the edges of his hair.

He looked up as you came in. That quiet smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Hey. Have fun?” He asked, voice soft, eyes already on you like you’d been gone longer than just a few hours.

You nodded, toeing off your boots. “Yeah. She just wanted to catch up for a bit.”

“Mm.” His eyes lingered on you, then dipped back to the book, fingers absently turning a page. “Can you grab that old journal from the top shelf? The leather one with the green spine.”

You crossed the room, lifting your arms to reach the shelf. The hem of your shirt rose slightly with the motion.

And that’s when you heard it.

A sharp inhale. The sound of paper crinkling under a suddenly too-tight grip.

You turned, journal in hand. Sam was staring, not in the way he meant to, more like his eyes had found something and were refusing to let go. His mouth parted slightly, brows drawn like he couldn’t quite process what he’d just seen.

“Sam? You alright?” you asked, beginning to worry that he’d seen some sort of vision. 

He blinked fast, dragging his eyes up to yours like he was trying to catch up. “What? Yeah—I’m fine,” he said, voice wavering. He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze to the book like it could ground him. His leg had started bouncing.

You nodded, still unconvinced, but you didn’t wanna push it. You crossed the room to hand him that book he wanted, before getting ready for bed.

A few minutes later, you lay on his bed, facing him to get some shut eye, it was weird, but sometimes just watching work or do something quietly helped you fall asleep.

“Hey—did you...get a tattoo or somethin’?” he asked after a moment.

You glanced over your shoulder, then remembered, “Oh. Not a real one, it’s just henna,” you shrugged. “We were bored, so she gave me one.”

“Oh,” he nodded, lips pressed together like he didn’t trust them to say more. But his fingers fiddled with the corner of the page, restless.

So it was the tattoo that rattled him...

You felt a little grin tug at your lips, wanting to revel in the attention a little more. So you got up, padded toward him and lifted your sleep shirt just enough to show him the full thing, “Do you like it?”

Sam blinked, mouth opening, but nothing came out for a second. "Sammy?"

He cleared his throat when you turned back around, eyebrows quirked at his dazed expression.

“Yeah, it’s hot—or cute. If that’s—what you were going for…” He sputtered.

“Thanks,” you bit back a laugh. "So when are you gonna finish up?" You asked, sitting on his lap to push the brown locks out of his face, grinning at the way his shoulders slumped and his eyes closed, seemingly melting into your hands. "Mm, I don't know, soon," he murmured, face tilting to give your wrist a little kiss. "Could've gotten a real tattoo in all the time you've been sitting here," you chuckled. Sam's head was nearly lolling back, sleep beginning to overtake him as you continued to gently stroke his hair when you leaned into his ear to speak again, “I was never into tramp stamps but, I don't know, this one’s like my little Sammy stamp,” You whisper. His big brown eyes shot open. You could practically hear the gears grinding in his head as he tried to process what you just said. You weren’t sure if it was the nickname, the location of the tattoo, or the casualness in your voice, but something short-circuited in that big beautiful brain of his.

You leaned down, lips almost brushing his.

And then—

You pulled back with a soft yawn, blinking sleepily as you got up off his lap. “I think I’m gonna get some shut-eye.”

Sam stared up at you,

"Wha—Seriously?” his eyes narrowed in disbelief.

You stifled another yawn, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning too obviously. “Yeah, it’s late and I’m tired.”

He gave you a flat, betrayed look, the corner of his mouth twitching in spite of himself. “You—” He scoffed, falling back against the chair back, “You planned that, didn’t you?” He was met with silence as you settled on the bed with your arms folded under your chin. The hem of your shirt rode up again, but you didn’t bother adjusting it, resting your cheek on your arm with a barely concealed smile and close your eyes. You let him stew in it, content in the knowledge that your little tattoo was doing exactly what your friend hoped.

Sam tried to read. Really, he did. But he kept tapping the same sentence with his pen. He felt his gaze drifting again, never quite landing, but never quite staying away either.

His thoughts were a mess.

Yeah, maybe it would fade, but it was his name. On your lower back. In a spot usually reserved for something���private.

And you looked so damn content. Like it didn’t even occur to you that it might be even the slightest bit suggestive.

…this ones like my little Sammy stamp

He groaned under his breath, before rubbing the back of his neck and staring at the page harder, “Sammy stamp...” he muttered with a huff, "Christ."

A few hours passed and Sam was finally calmed down. Dean had long since emerged and flopped onto the far bed, snoring within minutes. Sam finally shut the lore book, brain too fried to keep going.

Sam turned, and there you were. Curled into his bed, face smushed into the arm tucked under your cheek, the other draped loosely off the edge.

He moved quietly, slipping in behind you. The mattress dipped under his weight as he settled in, his body curving gently against yours. His hand brushed your back lightly, the way that usually helped you stay asleep. Then his fingers dipped to trace the soft shapes adorning the small of your back.

He hadn’t really looked at the design earlier, been too busy short-circuiting over his name. But now, in the moonlight peeking through the curtains, he saw what was etched below his name: a little rabbit, leaning up to a moose. 

Sam's fingers gently pressed on the animals. He tilted his head, it sorta reminded him of the two of you. Then he huffed in amusement as the realization hit him, of course it was you and him.

He tucked his nose into your shoulder and closed his eyes, the steady rhythm of your breathing slowly pulling him under, falling asleep behind you with a little smile on his lips.

don't be shy, lmk what you think ! `(*>﹏<*)′ justice for tramp stamps frl, if i could get a tattoo, i'd get one there. they can be so dainty and cuttte. i'm still working on the fairy!reader fics for sam and dean + some requests i've gotten :)

[vettelsvee]

Hi love! For your tortured poets department, can I request endgame from the reputation album, lando being the driver please please 🙏

END GAME | Lando Norris

Lando Norris x Friend with benefits Piastri!Reader

SUMMARY: You were used to have random hookups just for fun, including with Lando Norris himself. It's not until he decides to lock both of you up on his driver room and talk about your weird relationship that you don't realize that, deep down, you're willing to settle down your mind and start a dating him ↳ REQUESTED: Yes! Thanks for requesting and hope you like it 💖 Part of REPUTATION in MY TORTURED DRIVERS DEPARTMENT

WORD COUNT: 2745

WARNINGS: Slightly +18 at the end (sorry for leaving it there ☺️), mentions of friends with benefits, spelling with multiple people, angst, curse words

VEE'S NOTES: Haven't written Lando in a very, very long time, so hope you like this one! University and my mental health are killing me but you know what? Writing is what keeps me going (and specially your comments have been a boost of serotonin for me lately). Also... the 2k special is already living rent free in my mind and I can't wait to achieve the goal to post it 😭 I wanna give spoilers now so... you know 🤓 ↳ TALK TO ME / REQUESTS! | FORMULA 1 MASTERLIST

© VETTELSVEE (2025). please, do not steal, copy or translate my works. thanks for reading!

"You finally decided to show up at a race. I was starting to think you only liked having me naked in your bed behind your brother’s back."

You smiled at the screen, playing with your fingers as you thought how could you answer Lando. Your relationship was based purely on sex, moreover sexting, with barely any real conversations whenever you met, moans and orgasms speaking for you both instead.

You had never felt the need to go beyond that, to involve feelings in your relationship, or at least that’s what you had made clear to Lando before sleeping with him the very first time. You also let him know that, besides him, there were other guys with whom you had no commitments whatsoever.

However, it was with Lando that you spent most of your time. The others were nothing more than a safe escape, an easy way out when the Brit wasn’t around.

"Be grateful that I even came," you finally replied. "And don’t flatter yourself. I came to see my brother, not to make you come before a race."

You hesitated, wondering if your reply was harsh enough to keep him from getting any ideas and, more importantly, to stop him from insisting on meeting up. You weren’t sure how, but you wanted to end that strange relationship before it spiraled out of control because, whether you wanted to admit it or not, you had started to feel something for him.

Yes, just a few weeks ago, you had one of your usual encounters with a friend of one of your best friends. But everything fell apart when, right before reaching your climax, you couldn’t help it: you moaned Lando’s name instead.

That was what made you question what exactly you felt for Norris and why the label of friends with benefits seemed to be fading away.

"Don’t play dumb, Piastri. See you at the motorhome. You know exactly where."

You huffed. Of course, you knew exactly where you’d be meeting. After all, ever since your brother became a Formula 1 driver, you had visited his teammate’s personal room more than Oscar’s.

With a sigh, making sure neither your mother nor your sisters were nearby, you got up, grabbed the plastic cup that still had a bit of coffee left, and walked with as much determination as you could muster toward McLaren’s motorhome, finishing your drink along the way.

As you walked, mentally preparing a script in case things got tense with Lando, you greeted the people you knew, or at least those who knew you as Y/N Piastri. Lewis was genuinely happy to see you and even stopped to chat, but you excused yourself, saying you had already made plans. Fernando gave you a knowing look, as if trying to figure out what exactly you were about to do with a certain driver.

Even your brother crossed paths with you at the entrance to McLaren’s motorhome. You managed to lie to him, partially, saying Lando had asked you to take a few pictures of him before the race.

Oscar gave you a strange look, then rolled his eyes, offered a small smile and told you to enjoy whatever it was you both were about to do.

You said nothing, but you knew your twin brother well enough to realize he already had a pretty good idea of what you were up to with Norris. Not that you tried too hard to hide it.

When you reached Lando’s room, you didn’t even have to knock. The door opened instantly, revealing a slightly tired-looking Lando with a cup in his hand. His race suit was already on but zipped only to his waist, leaving the top half hanging loose. His team cap was still on, though it didn’t last long since he took it off and tossed it aside within seconds.

He grinned from ear to ear, like he had been waiting for you with far too much anticipation.

"Come in. Make yourself at home," he said with that mischievous tone you were so used to hearing, though something about it felt slightly different this time.

You walked inside without hesitation, crossing your arms and ignoring him, except for the occasional sideways glance to see if he would do or say something before you did. Unfortunately, he didn’t.

"If you wanted a quick fuck before the race you could’ve just said so, you know?"

"I don’t think today’s the best day to fuck you and let everyone hear," he replied. "At least, not yet. Today, we’re going to talk."

"We don’t talk, Lando," you shot back, feeling an internal alarm go off. "And when we do, it’s just to ask about the safe word of the day, what we want to do to each other, and how close we are to coming."

"Well, maybe it’s time we started talking, don’t you think so?"

His answer took you completely by surprise. Your gazes remained locked on each other, and you felt the atmosphere grow tense.

For the first time in a long while, there was no excuse you could use to avoid that conversation with Lando. Maybe the fact that you had been ignoring him for the past few weeks was enough to make him realize that there was a chance—however small—that things had changed between you two.

You took a deep breath, trying to calm the growing sense of unease settling in your chest. Lando kept looking at you with that same intensity he always did, except this time… it was different. It wasn’t the first time you found yourselves in a situation like this, where there were a thousand unsaid things hanging between you, waiting to be voiced. But it was the first time, at least on your part, where feelings were involved beyond pure physical desire.

"I don’t think there’s anything to talk about," you said as nonchalantly as possible, but your tense posture betrayed you.

Lando set his cup down on the table beside him. Then, he sat on the edge, crossing his arms again, and reached for your hands only for you to pull away and take a step back.

"I think you know exactly what we need to talk about," he replied calmly. His voice was lower than usual, and you felt the heat grow between your legs. You shook your head, feeling guilty and doing your best to push away that sudden, but familiar, awakening in your body.

"You’ve been avoiding me, Y/N. And don’t tell me you haven’t, because you were in Monaco and never called me to meet up… to see each other," he added, his voice laced with something unreadable. "In fact, we usually sext almost every day, and you didn’t even bother to tell me what  new lingerie set you bought for when you came over."

"I didn’t tell you I was coming to Miami either."

Your reply, rather than making you sound indifferent, exposed you completely. Lando raised an eyebrow, as if he had caught you red-handed. That was when you realized you had seriously screwed up.

"I haven’t been avoiding you, Lando. I’ve just been busy," you insisted.

"Busy? You mean busy by ignoring me?" He scoffed, ironic. His expression turned much more serious now, and you started to worry about where this might lead. "Tell me the truth, Y/N. What’s going on? What’s happening with you?" he emphasized.

You averted your gaze, pretending to take interest in the room’s decoration, a room you already knew by heart. You knew you couldn’t keep dodging the topic, but you also had no idea how to confront it without changing everything you had so far. It was impossible to put into words what you felt for Lando, not when your relationship had always been purely physical. And especially not when there was a real chance you were just confused… and, well, you couldn’t forget the possibility that he might only see you as his hookup.

"Nothing’s wrong," you finally responded.

"I thought we were always honest with each other," Lando sighed, running a frustrated hand through his hair.

You felt your throat tighten. It was hard to breathe. You had been honest, at least when it came to the unrestricted desire between you, to touching each other without attachments, to seeking comfort in one another without questions that went beyond your wildest fantasies. You had avoided anything personal.

But now, you were slowly breaking the unspoken rules that had kept you in perfect balance until this moment.

"I’ve been busy, Lando, and the last thing I wanted was to deal with you, alright?" you insisted, trying to sound as convincing as possible. "Things should have stayed the way they were until, according to you, I started ignoring you."

"No, Y/N, things aren’t like that," the Brit denied, shaking his head. He stepped closer, cornering you against the wall. "If you don’t want to face something because you’re afraid of rejection, just tell me. But, for fuck’s sake, don’t act like I did something wrong, because you’re killing me."

"Lando…"

"Stop insisting that nothing is happening between us, when that’s exactly what makes me think the opposite."

His confession caught you completely off guard. His words—clear, direct, and without a hint of sarcasm, threw you off… especially because you knew he was right.

You felt the urge to run, to disappear, to pretend none of this had ever happened. Most of all, you wanted to deny yourself any romantic thought you had ever had about Oscar’s teammate.

When you lowered your gaze, Lando moved back slightly, giving you space and making sure he didn’t overwhelm you more than you already seemed to be. You sighed, trying to relax once again, but before you could say anything, he spoke first.

"Tell me nothing’s wrong between us, Y/N Piastri," he said softly. "If nothing has really changed, if everything is the same between us… dare to look at  me in the eyes and say it."

Your chest tightened. You couldn’t run away, not when Lando had you emotionally cornered, teetering on the edge of an explosion. Your breathing was unsteady, heavy. Your mind screamed at you to find an excuse, anything that would let you stay true to yourself regardless of what happened next.

Lando waited, unmoving, his blue eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made you tremble for the first time in your life—without him even touching you. It was the first time he had shown himself to you like this: so vulnerable and yet so determined at the same time.

"Nothing is wrong between us, Lando Norris," you finally whispered, forcing the words out, ignoring both your heart and the boy standing in front of you.

"Say it again, but this time, look me in the eyes."

He didn’t move an inch. He knew you were lying; your posture gave you away—the way you avoided his gaze, the way your fingers toyed with the hem of your shirt and your accreditation pass…

You squeezed your eyes shut tightly. You had no choice… at least, not entirely.

Lifting your gaze, you met his blue eyes once again. Your lips parted slightly, ready to try and let out a lie convincing enough for both him and yourself.

But it was impossible. You couldn’t keep doing this, not when, deep down, and no matter how hard you tried to deny it, you felt something more than just pleasure for Lando Norris. The fear of rejection… it terrified you. The thought of him turning you away, of losing what you had with him, was unbearable.

"Lando…"

"You don’t have to say it if you’re not ready," he interrupted. "But please… stop pushing me away. Stop making this to us."

"It’s just…"

Nothing. No matter how much you tried to explain yourself, to find a logical enough reason for your sudden ghosting, you couldn’t.

"It’s just what, Y/N?" the Brit pressed. "Are you afraid to take a risk? To admit something because you’re scared of what might happen next? Because you don’t want to change the life you’ve had until now? Because you want to…?"

Lando forced himself to stop. He ran his hands through his hair, exasperated, turning his back to you. Guilt hit you immediately, your body trembling as the storm inside you began to break free. The driver rubbed his face, frustration radiating from him. This was exhausting him. You were exhausting him, to the point where he was starting to doubt his own feelings. Feelings that had started to grow the moment he realized it hurt when you ignored him, when you didn’t even send him a simple "Hey."

"I wish this were different, Y/N," he finally murmured, his voice thick with emotion as he turned to face you again. "I wish you didn’t make me feel like this. I wish I could just be content with what we had before and pretend none of this was happening…"

Your stomach twisted painfully. That was exactly what you had been thinking, the very reason you had pulled away from him and from whatever this was. You had ignored the fact that your feelings for Lando Norris had become something much stronger—maybe they had been there for far longer than you were willing to admit.

"Lando, listen" You tried to step closer, but he pulled away.

"No, Y/N, no," he said bitterly. "I tried convincing myself there was a reason you were ignoring me, acting like I was nothing to you, and then it hit me that I really want you as more than just someone to fuck."

"That…" you struggled to say, stepping toward him. This time, Lando didn’t stop you. The sincerity in your eyes, the way you looked both calm and nervous at the same time, made him realize he had to trust his instincts. And that was exactly what they were telling him.

"That’s what I wanted to tell you," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper, but Lando still heard you. "That’s why I kept you on standby for two weeks… I knew this would change everything, that you’d react badly, that we’d end up fighting, and I… I didn’t know how to face the possibility of you rejecting… this."

Lando stared at you in surprise before a sad smile crept onto his lips.

"Y/N… I’ve always been good at reading signals, but this has been driving me fucking crazy."

"And you think it’s not been making me feel the same?" you shot back, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders.

Lando stepped closer, taking your hands in his. You didn’t resist, feeling how the both of you tensed at the contact. His lips inched toward yours, and when they finally met, the kiss was so fierce, so full of passion, that you ended up straddling him on the couch, moving against him, desperate to feel him. Even though you both knew there was still a race in two hours.

"I don’t want to touch you like this, Y/N," Norris whispered against your ear as you left small bites along his neck. "Y/N, stop it babe…"

"I don’t wanna be just another ex-love to you, Lando…" you murmured between kisses, still searching for friction between your bodies.

"And I don’t wanna miss you like your other lovers do, babe…"

This time, Lando gripped your waist firmly, flipping you onto the couch beneath him. His eyes never left yours as he carefully lifted your shirt and started massaging your breasts over your bra.

"I wanna be your end game, Y/N," Lando breathed, unable to tear his gaze away from you.

Your breath came out in shallow pants, and you felt like you were teetering on the edge. Your hands gripped the unfastened gear around his waist, tugging lightly to keep him close.

"Then prove it."

"I have a race in two hours, love…" he murmured, his voice rough as he pressed his forehead to yours, his arousal growing.

"Then you better be quick," you teased, running your hands over his abs beneath the fireproof. "Especially if you don’t want Osc to hear us…"

"You’re gonna be the death of me one day, Y/N Piastri," Lando groaned as he trailed his fingers up your thighs, lowering himself before you. "Now, open your legs for me... You deserve a punishment after being such a bad, bad girl these past few days…"

[crushpunky]

paparazzi catches actress!reader’s baby bump

masterlist | actress!reader masterlist

this is based off an ask that i thought was just too cute to pass up and takes place in the distant future lol. as far as fics go, this is probably the farthest i will write in the realm of pregnancy, ie i wont write about babies and stuff. warnings for pregnancy + nausea/vomiting

Y/n was beginning to feel cooped up, growing tired of staying in Drew and hers’ home. It wasn’t that she hated her company (Drew and Charleston), it was more that she was starting to get annoyed by the monotonous alternation between watching tv, reading over scripts, and scrolling through her phone. Maybe it was just pregnancy hormones, maybe it was just good old boredom. Either way, she needed to get out.

The first trimester of her pregnancy had been rough, y/n often waking up to waves of nausea that stranded her in the bathroom for hours, huddled over the toilet. The process of pregnancy was already stressful within itself, and adding the public’s opinions would only make it harder, so Drew and y/n decided to keep it between themselves for as long as possible. Once y/n was far enough along, they started telling their friends and family, the love reserved for their child that had previously been kept between just the two of them growing each and every day.

“Drew!” Y/n shouted as she stood from her spot on the couch with a groan. Drew came into the room quickly, a worried look on his face as he quickly looked her up and down. Now that she was well into her second semester, y/n’s bump had really begun to grow, making it a bit more difficult to hide with the baggy clothes she’d worn during the earliest stages of her pregnancy.

“What? Are you ok?” Drew quickly came to her side, a hand resting on her stomach. As much as she loved Drew, she had to admit that her pregnancy had turned him into even worse of a nervous wreck than he had been before. Every movement or sound that could even be construed as “weird” had Drew checking on her, a gentle hand roaming to her growing stomach.

“Yes,” y/n giggled as she tugged her cropped t-shirt down. “I’m gonna take Charleston out on a walk and stop at Claire’s.”

“Oh, just give me a second—” Drew scrambled back into their bedroom as y/n tugged on a light jacket, checking in the mirror that her exposed stomach was adequately covered despite the warmth outside.

“I’m fine, I can go by myself.” Y/n sighed, tugging on a baseball cap and grabbing Charleston’s leash, the dog excitedly trotting around her legs.

“Nope, I’m coming with you.” Drew emerged from the bedroom, taking Charleston's leash and pressing a quick kiss to y/n’s before reaching down to help her put on her shoes.

“Drew, I can do things by myself.” Y/n said, placing her hands on her hips as Drew tied her tennis shoes.

“I know. I’m just tryna treat my girls right.” Drew grinned, pressing a quick kiss to her growing bump before straightening up.

“You’re so convinced they’re gonna be a girl.” Y/n laughed lightly as Drew opened the front door, Charleston quickly jumping outside into the Carolina sun. Y/n stepped out next, Drew locking the door behind them as y/n stretched her legs with a groan, trying her best to minimize her pregnancy waddling as they began down the sidewalk.

The two of them walked side by side, Charleston trotting in front of them as they chatted. Once they reached down town, the streets grew more busy, filled with tourists and locals milling between the shops. Every so often they’d hear a giggle or see a wave, a fan noticing them but too afraid to approach, before carrying on with their walk. They continued down the sidewalk until they finally reached Claire’s, the two of them walking up to the window.

“Hey guys, long time no see!” The barista greeted, taking their orders and chatting with them as they waited. As they stood, y/n could feel herself growing warm from the unrelenting Carolina sun. Too engrossed in her conversation with Drew and the barista, as well as Charleston’s milling about, y/n didn’t even think anything as she unzipped the front of her jacket, the loose fabric billowing in the soft breeze. The fans who had been waiting in line behind them, however, let out small, shocked gasps before speaking excitedly to each other. Y/n turned at the noise, smiling lightly before turning back to Drew, who handed her her drink.

“Thank you so much, have a good rest of your day.” Y/n thanked the barista, Drew grabbing his drink. Y/n took a sip, a satisfied groan leaving her lips that caused the two of them to start laughing, Drew’s hand finding its spot around her waist. His fingers instantly met the warmth of her skin, Drew’s eyes widening as he looked down to see her exposed stomach. Y/n followed suit, looking down before hastily wrapping her jacket tightly around her body, only making her bump more prominent through the thin fabric.

“Shit, I wasn’t even thinking! I was hot and—” Y/n groaned, chewing at her lip as she looked around frantically, praying nobody had noticed.

“Hey, hey it’s ok.” Drew said, his hand soothing gently down her side before handing her his coffee. She took it, sighing deeply as he quickly reached down and zipped her jacket back up.

“No it isn’t! We were going to make this a whole reveal, surprise thing and I just fucking ruined it! Those girls in line definitely saw and—” y/n rambled, running her free hand through her hair messily.

“Hey, look at me.” Drew said, stopping the two of them in their tracks as he pulled her off to the side of the sidewalk. Charleston looked up between them curiously as y/n felt tears beginning to sting at her eyes, her mind racing at a million miles a minute.

“It’s ok, a’ight? I don’t care about that, I just care that you’re ok and that baby’s ok.” Drew whispered, his hands smoothing down her arms. 

“Are you ok?” Drew asked.

“Yes, but—-” y/n sighed.

“Is baby ok?” Drew said, his hands moving to rest on the sides of her stomach. Y/n looked at him, a small smile on her face.

“Yes.” Y/n nodded. Drew grinned, pressing a kiss to the top of her face before pulling her into his side.

“That’s all we need to worry about, ok baby?” Drew said, his words helping to calm down y/n’s pounding heart. She was ok, the baby was ok. That was all that mattered, not the whispers online or judgement of others.

“Thanks, Drew.” Y/n sighed, resting her head on Drew’s shoulder. He pressed one more kiss to her head before they continued their walk home, the secret they had been keeping now seeming to weigh a little less with each step.

Once they finally made it back to their house, y/n sat back down on the couch with a groan, her feet aching from all the walking and standing. Drew sat down next to her, taking her feet into his lap as he began to rub them gently. Y/n smiled, taking her phone out to countless notifications from friends, family, and her team on just about every possible platform.

“Well, shit.” Y/n sighed, opening one of the notifications and showing it to Drew.

Drew looked at her phone, nodding slowly before his eyes flicked back to y/n’s.

“At least you look hot in it.” Drew said with a shrug before returning his focus back to where he massaged y/n’s feet. Y/n laughed, kicking his leg lightly.

“Well at least I don’t have to worry about dressing like Adam Sandler to get coffee anymore.” Y/n grinned, Drew lifting his head and smiling back at her.

Later that afternoon, after talking with their publicists, the two of them decided it was finally time to make things official. With a final deep breath, they hit post:

[kerryshifts]

a detailed guide on scripting !

if you decide to do so … this is just how i do it, not forcing.

act i , the basics.

who are you? name. surname. nickname. place of birth. date of birth. current age. status (student? employed? / blood status if applicable) species (supernatural or human?) height. weight. race. ethnicity. nationality.

appearance. hair colour. hair texture. hair type. eye colour. eyebrows. breath smell. skin. scent. lip taste if you want.

clothing. what do you like to wear? t-shirts. pants&jeans. skirts if you want. shoes. nails if you want. are you known for your style? accessories.

childhood. from what kind of family you were born? where did you grew up? any childhood friends? favourite cousins? how did you become what you are now? (if famous / supernatural)

( if you are an adult. ) did you go to university? if so, what masters do you have? how was your experience? what was your first job? your teenage years? any ex or first love? are you still friends with people from high school?

present. your personality. main traits. your hobbies. your passions. if you have collections, write them down. if you like to read, what kind of books you love? how do others view you? if supernatural, are you part of a prophecy (if so, explain your role in this prophecy, and why you are part of it)

extras. social media. powers if you have them. if hogwarts, write your wand.

act ii , the extension of you.

friends. who are they? how did you met? how is your relationship with them? do you have any friendgroups? group chats?

family. talk about them. do you still live with them? how is your relationship with them? any sibilings? favourite cousins? does your aunt spoil you… or a grandparent, maybe.

relationships. do you have a partner? if so, talk about them. how did they treat you? how did you met? any cool or sweet dates? if you are still not together, how will you (general or detailed). if you don’t have a s/o, any past relationships? any rumours? does someone have a crush on you?

pets. what’s their name and age? how did you adopt them? what’s your relationship? does the pet trust you?

extras. do you have any hater or fan… or both? any mortal enemy? if so, your past with them, the start of your animosity.

act iii , education.

school. name of the school? is it private, or for certain type of supernatural creatures? are they divided in houses? if so, what’s yours? where is the school located? the vibe? kind of students admitted to the school? does it have a motto? if it’s a boarding school, describe your room/dormitory. and your school uniform.

subjects. timetable. what subject do you take? how are the teachers? did a certain teacher adopt you and your friendgroup? who is your favourite? favourite subjects? how are you doing in all of your subjects? where do you go for break/lunch?

events. any formal? parties? or secret societies?

extras. does the school have a mystery you want to solve? any extracurricular activities like sports? clubs?

act iv , patriotic stuff.

city. talk about where you are from / live. any special or secret places for you? favourite hangout spots? memorable locations for you? the vibe of the town.

house. or apartment. entry hall. living room. bathroom(s). bedrooms. your bedroom. kitchen. laundry room. garden. office? extras room like library etc if you want. where is it located?

( if you have a fantasy dr. ) your kingdom. your castle. private chambers. overall vibe of your kingdom… its name, story, rulers, any magical creatures? or religion? any festivity? kingdoms near you? places you want to have in your kingdom.

act v , rules.

safety and stuff like that.

[strangersteddierthings]

Jealousy Looks Different On You

[Part One] ✨ [You Are Here] ✨ [Part Three] ✨ [Final Part]

Steve can be a jealous man. He can be.

Just not in the same way that Eddie seems to thrive on it. Steve doesn't have a right to jealousy outside a relationship, so even if he feels jealous, he'll never act on it.

He thought it was just one of the many ways Eddie and he were incompatible romantically.

It was the same song and dance when they'd go out. Eddie would drag someone onto the dance floor and spend most of the dance making eyes at Steve until his catch of the night got jealous enough to pull Eddie out of eyesight.

Steve is used to that. That's the routine.

Except.

Well, except Eddie's broken the routine now, hasn't he?

Flipped the entire script by saying the things Steve has wanted to hear for years. I wouldn’t have rejected you and Jesus, Steve, you’re the only one I’ve really wanted.

Steve knows Eddie well enough to know that Eddie believes he's telling the truth or believes he really does want what he's saying to be the truth.

And now, sitting in silence in the back of a taxi that Eddie's gotten them, Steve can't bring himself to hope about it. Eddie's not a liar, as far as Steve knows, but that doesn't mean he actually wants Steve. Not for real. Not in the long run.

Steve can't give Eddie all the things Eddie seems to enjoy most. He's heard enough about Eddie's sex life to know they aren't super compatible in that department. And as far as he knows, Eddie's never even had a relationship. Just one-night stands and friends with benefits situations, which, y'know, Steve's not judging him about because Steve had all that once, too.

And maybe it's shitty of him to think but because Eddie's never been in a long-term monogamous relationship, Steve's not sure that one between them will work.

Okay. It's a lot shitty for him to think.

There's no real basis for Steve to think this other than that everything Steve wants out of a relationship, Eddie's shown him he wants the exact opposite.

Maybe Steve's just thinking shitty thoughts because it's easier than hoping that this might work.

The ride to the apartment is awkward only for Steve. They can't exactly talk about liking each other romantically in the back of a taxi where a stranger can clearly hear them, so they don't. Instead, Eddie chats up the cabbie about everything and anything that comes to his mind and Steve sits with just his thoughts.

Which are not being kind.

God, he's kind of a shitty person, isn't he?

Steve lets them both into the apartment and it feels different now. It's not like Eddie's never been in Steve's apartment. Hell, he's been sleeping in his old room for this whole 'break from the LA stress' he's taken. Has been here three days already, so this isn't even the first time this week that Steve's let them both into the apartment.

It's just different now that Eddie knows. Steve's been living his life with the assumption that Eddie knew but now he knows and everything is different.

"You, uh, want a beer?" Steve asks as he toes off his shoes, stalling because he doesn't know how to start this conversation. Isn't even sure he wants to because having this conversation means there is no going back. He won't be able to unsay these things, Eddie won't be able to unhear them. It'll be out there. All his hurt and love and fear and hope.

"Steve," is all Eddie says, in a tone that says 'we need to talk'.

So, Steve swallows thickly, nods, and heads for the living room. It's so stupid but he suddenly feels exposed, so he picks up a throw pillow from the couch before he plops onto it. He turns completely sideways, back to the armrest of the couch and legs crossed, pillow in his lap to act as a barrier of some sort. Something to feel less exposed.

Eddie takes longer to join him because, unlike Steve, he'd gotten completely done up for the bar and that includes full lace up combat boots that he can't easily slip out of.

Eddie finally joins him in the living room, pausing when he sees Steve before he moves to sit on the couch, one leg folded under him and the other on the floor. He leaves a respectable foot of distance between them and Steve's not sure if he's disappointed by that or not.

There is a tense silence that falls on them, neither brave enough to really begin the conversation that could be the end of everything.

"Steve, I- I don't even know where to start, man," Eddie finally says, running a hand through his hair.

"Me either," Steve says, looking down and picking at the pillow. "You were the one who said we needed to talk."

"Because we do?" Eddie sounds confused. "I, fuck man, I basically accused you of being in love with me and you confirmed it. We gotta talk about that."

Steve frowns because he doesn't agree. They don't have to talk about it. As far as Steve was concerned, they've been successfully not talking about it for years. Nothing has really changed from Steve's perspective. "What's there to talk about?"

"That you love me! And that I was, am, in love with you, too! That feels like a big deal!" Eddie cries, voice not loud enough to bother the neighbors yet but he can easily get that way. "You- why don't you seem as happy about this as I am?"

"Because I'm not," Steve says, stern and biting as he finally looks up from the pillow. "How am I supposed to be happy about this? This is going to change everything between us. Everything! And I've been- I've made peace with how this wasn't- with how things were between us."

Eddie stares back at him, eyes wide and mouth agape in his shock. It takes him a moment to recover. "I don't... understand. Why, why aren't you happy? Of course this will change things between us, but you make it sound like it'll be for the worse? I thought-"

"What? You thought you'd tell me you love me too and I'd jump into your arms?"

"Well, kinda," Eddie starts, but Steve doesn't want to hear it.

"I can't! Eddie, I can't. I'm not- I-I get that you, that you've just realized I loved you, but I've been living with the assumption that you already knew. I thought you knew for years. And now you're sitting here, telling me that you've felt the same. What, this whole time?"

"Yes! For longer, probably!" Eddie argues back, anger and hurt mixing on his face. "I've never known you to not go after the person you want, so why did you say anything sooner?"

"Why didn't you!?" Steve shouts, feeling the heat of tears in his eyes. He throws the pillow at Eddie and jumps from the couch to pace the living room. "We lived together for years! And I watched as you brought home guy after guy after guy. I listened as you waxed poetry about the perfect man for you; a fellow metalhead who would want to go to concerts with you, someone who'd play DnD with you and enjoyed your other nerd things, and-and-and," Steve stutters over the word, fighting back making a sobbing sound because it's one thing to let Eddie see his tears; it's an entirely different thing to let him hear the whole sob-fest Steve's fight back. "And a laundry list of all the kinks they have to b-be into so you don't get bored. I- God, you'd laid out your incredibly long list of standards that I didn't fit before I'd even realized I liked men. That I liked you! Why would I even try when I already knew I'd never measure up?"

He's pacing still. Movement helps him push the urge to cry down and makes the tears dry up. It takes him a while to realize that there's been no answer from Eddie. So, Steve finally gets his emotions under control and turns to look at the couch, to see Eddie's response.

He's not expecting to see tears falling down Eddie's own cheeks and wearing a face of heartbreak and regret.

[felassan]

Sylvia Feketekuty: "To celebrate DA day, I've made a bluesky account that I'll keep active for a few days to talk about my work on Inqusition or Veilguard! After a few days I'll lock the account, because I'm not a social media person. Happy to talk until then though. I want to say straight off: the reception to Emmrich, Manfred, the Mourn Watch, and the Grand Necropolis has been heartwarming for all of us who worked on those people and places. Thank you all very much!" [source, two]

Rest of post under cut due to length and spoilers. [Post Two, Post Three]

Sylvia Feketekuty: "In the meantime, I do want to talk about a couple of things I saw floating around regarding Emmrich: 1. Emmrich being 52 or 50. I think people got 50 from data mining a character file, but we can't do a ranges in those files. As in, I couldn't input 50-60, it had to be a whole number. I put down 50 as an early ballpark, then went more accurate in later audition scripts. 2. Fifty-two is a old number I threw into an early document before his art or character was totally final. (And which caused another developer a headache because they thought it was accurate, I never updated it. Sorry about that.) 3. "Wait, how old is Emmrich then?" Once I saw his final character art, I felt more mid to late 50s. MAYBE early 60s. But unless we specifically state a character's age in the game, it's all malleable. I honestly would just adjust it to your impressions unless stated otherwise. 4. I've also seen comments on how weird it is for Emmrich to act like there's an age-gap in the romance if your Rook is around his age. And you're right. 5. The reason is because Rook WAS younger when those scenes were written and worked on. I felt it'd be odd if I never addressed the May-December aspect, especially as it hooks into some of Emmrich's worries. 6. By the time that shifted, it was really too late to change without catastrophic repercussions to the excellent cinematics and music and other things that depend on line delivery and timing. 7. To be clear: you can feel how you want about the age gap coming up at all! But that's how the discrepancy came about. 8. "Is there a way to reconcile Emmrich acting like my Rook is way younger than him if they're not?" Great question! I have several suggestions: -Accept it's an error. (True, but unexciting) -Emmrich considers a gap of 3-5 years scandalous. (Funny, albeit a bit cartoonish.) -The Mourn Watch has perfected swapping out organs, and Emmrich is nervously hiding that he's way older than he looks out of vanity. (Untrue, but funny.)" [source thread]

User in reply to point 6. above: "I'm personally glad it was too late to change because their argument about it is genuinely my favorite scene in the entire game! 😭💕 It's such an important moment to me" / Sylvia: "Thanks! That one was one where I was all sweatily trying to balance things out, with tone, with pacing, etc. Really glad it came together for you. (Cine and the actors did heroic things there to get it feeling just so!)" [source]

More snippets:

Emmrich's favorite ice cream flavor? Rum raisin [source]

Lots of people on the dev team shared the vision of having a bunch of gothic weirdness in that pocket of Thedas [source] (Necropolis/Nevarra)

Sylvia "especially liked writing the Mourn Watch origin, it was fun to write a fellow nerd for Emmrich to chat with" [source]

Sylvia poured some personal worries and fears into writing Emmrich [source]

On Vorgoth and their nature: "I'm a little leery of saying anything, partly because I'm cowardly avoiding publicly defining anything more until/if I ever need to. And partly because I did want them to be a fresh unknown. Sorry!" [source] "I'm glad you like Vorgoth, but I'm afraid I don't have much for you that isn't in the game. I deliberately wrote them so as to leave room, if we ever revisited them, or for Vorgoth to remain mysterious, if we did not. I'm sorry if that's not a very satisfying answer!" [source] "I will say, it was fun to throw in a few lines about Vorgoth's art collection. Their passion for it is sincere and deep. (I wanted all the Watchers to have a little non-death related hobby or interest, because they can be so singularly focused.)" [source]

Dwarven Mourn Watcher is a rare origin combo for Rook so Sylvia wanted to call it out [source]

On the outcomes of Emmrich's quest: "I tried really hard to make the options equally viable, and more up to the player's interpretation or preferences of what it would mean for Emmrich in their view. It's been interesting seeing reactions to it, which hinge sometimes on various single lines pushing people one way or another!" [source]

"The Grand Necropolis is always eager and ready for a new member of the Mourn Watch to grace its ranks." [source]

User: "I loved Emmrich's view on death and what his personal quest ultimately went on to say about the nature of death itself, and how the beauty of mortality lies in its impermanence and unpredictability." / Sylvia: "I really wanted to dig into those themes, and everyone in cine and art and level design and editing and the whole team honed in exactly on the vibe. The floral stuff especially, I was so thrilled when I played through the Memorial Gardens' with the art and lighting in." [source]

User: "I experience thanatophobia and that first conversation w/ Emmrich was so affirming and helped me describe my own anxiety to others" / Sylvia: "Thanks, the thanatophobia was, as you may've guessed, a personal experience for me too. I'm glad it was something that helped a little." [source] "I suspect that phobia is way more common than people think, and part of the reason Emmrich talks about it was to express that sentiment out loud. I find it helps sometimes just to acknowledge it." [source]

What languages does Emmrich speak other than Trade? "I think he'd be familiar with Tevene, since there's surely many, many old texts about magic written in that language. Kind of like a doctor that knows latin through their work. I also named that MW alphabet "tomb-script", though I'm not sure if it has a spoken component or not since it never came up in-game. If it does, he'd be able to speak that for sure." [source, two]

User: "Playing as a Mourn Watch Rook has been an absolute delight!!!" / Sylvia: "Thank you so much, I really liked writing those branches of the dialogue. Since Emmrich's so focused on necromancy, it was fun having a Rook who could be both casual and knowledgeable about it." [source]

User: "In your opinion, what outcome do you prefer for a romanced Emmrich (lich/non lich)?" / Sylvia: "Interesting question! To be honest, I'm afraid to answer it properly in case anyone takes my answer to be a canonical one. I really wanted either path to feel equally interesting/correct for whatever you decide fits your Rook's relationship with Emmrich. (We're also in the strange waters of meta-reasoning. I GAVE Emmrich his fear of death-Sorry Emmrich!-which makes me feel a little culpable for that, even though he's entirely fictional. And that might prey on my mind when trying to decide. A very odd experience!)" [source, two]

What music genres would Emmrich be into? "Classical music is very much playing to type for Emmrich, but I feel it's also correct. He'd enjoy a nice concerto or an organ recital. Or, if he's feeling daring, a bold new Orlesian opera! But I don't think his tastes are too outré in that area. That said, I saw someone post something like "Leave Emmrich alone, let him attend the Depeche Mode concert" while listening to Depeche Mode's "Violator", for the first time, which made me laugh. (Great album. If he could get over the shock of synths, Emmrich might enjoy "Waiting for the Night".)" [source, two]

When writing Emmrich the devs wanted to try and hit the gothic romance vibe [source]

Does Emmrich mix his own fragrance/cologne? Does he ever vary it by the season? "I think Emmrich goes to some of the many perfumers that have set up shop in Nevarra City around the Necropolis, just because he trusts their judgement and expertise. I hadn't considered him varying it by season, but that's very fun! I certainly think he has more than one bottle of scent." [source]

User: "How does Lich Emmrich have sex?" / Sylvia: "I don't mind the question! But my answer's a bit boring: I generally stay at arm's length on the more explicit romance stuff, just because if it's not stated or shown in-game, I don't want to bring in a canonical answer that might affect what people imagined. My general preference for romantic scenes that get physical is to leave blank space somewhere, so players can imagine what happens next. It's not the ONLY way to do it, I think there's legitimate artistic reasons to go more explicit. But that's how I approached Emmrich (and before him Josephine.)" [source, two]

User: "The scene with the fade glow where he touches your hand haunts me in the best way" / Sylvia: "Aw thank you. Our animators and audio people made that scene way better than I could've hoped! They took such care with everything there. I want to say that little eye-peep from Rook was added in by one of them, which was the perfect touch." [source]

User on Emmrich: "i’m curious whether you think he’d prefer dogs or cats (or both, or neither)" / Sylvia: "I think he'd consider cats and dogs a little too noisy and messy for his tastes. Not like a nice, quiet plant or skeleton! (Weirdly, I actually had a scrap of banter going over this exact subject at one point. It got tightened down to the exchange with Harding about the pig he used to hug when he was a kid.)" [source, two]

Sylvia was trying to tease Nevarra with the Tevinter Nights story Down Among the Dead Men [source]. "It was really fun to tease the Necropolis, so to speak, in TN, and I'm grateful we got to actually let players through its gates at last." [source]

User: "if Rook chooses to save Manfred and keep Emmrich mortal, what would Emmrich wish to become of his body once he did pass on?" / Sylvia: "Good question. I think he'd want to remain active and useful in death. A guide for other Mourn Watchers, or posted as a mystic guide somewhere dangerous, or perhaps an oracle in the library." [source]

User: "when and how was it decided that Emmrich would be romanceable? I remember reading that he would not be a romance option." / Sylvia: "I'm not sure where that came from, because I pitched him and then shortly after that we decided the entire cast was romanceable. That was fairly early on in the development of Veilguard, as I recall it. (Could've been a crossed wire?)" [source]

Trick Weekes: "Sylvia wrote the fantastic Emmrich "the Vol-carnage" Volkarin and everything that happens in Nevarra while dealing with a lead writer whose attitudes about corpses and undead are... not dissimilar from Taash's." [source] / Sylvia: "I still remember when you gave the very accurate feedback "I think we need to give players whose Rooks aren't into corpses some roleplaying choices to express this" and I was all "Ohhh yeaaaaaah." (Thank u Trick, you were right)" [source] / Trick: "Specifically, being able to express this without locking themselves out of the content! (For non-Sylvia folks) Given my issues with corpses, Emmrich as a whole was SUPER Not For Me, so I gave one caveat and then said, "For the rest of my critique, I will be impersonating his target audience." [source]

Sylvia on the secret origins of Manfred: "After I pitched Emmrich, I started jotting down notes and thoughts on his plots, his quirks, all that kind of stuff. It was very early on Veilguard, anything was still possible. We were chatting in the writer's room about it one day, and I think we'd just seen some early concept art for Emmrich. And our lead writer Trick Weekes joked that Emmrich looked like a man who'd have a skeleton named Manfred. And I laughed and went "Yeah he does!" And then I thought about it. It's wild in retrospect, but that one comment spurred a train of thought that led to the core of Emmrich's arc. He may've ended up a very different character without it! tl;dr: I stole it from Trick." [source, two, three, four]

"I got to play with a pretty free palette when defining the way Emmrich and the necromancers view death and spirits. But I tried to keep it within the confines of existing lore. That's one reason why that scene where Emmrich talks about Manfred to Harding goes into "the eternal question" of whether a soul actually returns with the dead or not. Nevarra has distinct beliefs, but I thought it'd be interesting if its people argue over their interpretations of those beliefs." [source, two]

"the other writers also suggested a bit later on that the big choice dig more into Emmrich's philosophies. Initially, it was more personally focused on his fears, which made it 'relatable' but pettier. Without that correction, I think it would've been weaker, I totally needed the team push." [source]

"I have a few guides to graveyard symbology, and it's so packed with references and meaning." [source]

User: "Did any of your own fears & experiences, make it into the writing of Emmrich? If yes, is it information you’re comfortable sharing with us? If it’s too personal to give any details, that’s fine as well. Also, across the other games, who do you think Emmrich will get along with best?" / Sylvia: "some of his fears are absolutely personal. The reflexive-compulsive panic over death is something I'm very familiar with, and I wanted to explore that through him. Because I suspected it was not uncommon, and worth examining. The question of who he'd get along with from the other games is surprisingly tough! Because without asking the other writers about their characters, I wouldn't know for sure. So I can only really speak to Josephine with surety. That said: -I think Josephine would be polite, and grow to like him, but would never entirely be over the ostentatious necromancy. -I think Emmrich meeting Sera would be the funniest match." [source, two, three]

"Peter Cushing was also one of my go-tos as an example of what I wanted Emmrich to be." [source]

"(Huge shout out to all the animators and level designers making Manfred run, quite literally. Like 95% of his personality lives in his movement, I think they nailed it.)" [source]

On Emmrich: "I tried to put a lot of passion and sincerity in his love for the dead, and I admit the Necropolis was THE big place I wanted to see in Thedas myself ever since reading about it in a codex." [source]

User: "Thank you for letting him have that cemetery dream date!" / Sylvia: "Having the date in the cemetery was one of the first things I wanted when thinking about the romance." [source]

"Josephine was the first time I was entrusted with a new character and a new romance at once, and that'll always be special to me." [source]

User: "How much input did you have in Emmrich's appearance in the podcast?" / Sylvia: "In the podcast, none myself. I believe it was handled by a third party but reviewed by a few people at BW, I don't know too much past that. (We did provide a descriptor and character rules. Stuff like "Emmrich never swears" and "always says amongst" and broader, more thematically useful things.)" [source]

User on Emmrich: "Are you planning any other external-media stories for him?" / Sylvia: "Thanks very much, The Flame Eternal has a special place in my heart for being the first time Emmrich got to be center stage in a story. (And very flattering to hear about the cross stitch. That's so cool!) I can't speak to any external-media plans, I'm afraid. That's not an implied hint about anything existing or not, it's just literally outside what I'm allowed to chat about. It'd be fun to do something like that again though!" [source, two]

"I must give full credit to Nick Borraine, Emmrich's voice actor. He got the compassion and tenderness the character needed right away." [source]

"And glad him being closer to your age resonated, I really wanted someone older out on an adventure. No reason that has to stop at any age IMO." [source]

User: "do the mourn watcher/nevarra in general raise their pets after they die to keep them around? like a dog skeleton with a whisp in it?" / Sylvia: "To be honest I hadn't thought out this one, but it's a very good question. I'm not sure how common that would be, or even if it's permitted to have pets running around the family crypt. (I definitely thing people would WANT to do it.) You know, I think I'm going to have to leave this one in the vague quantum foam of the future. I think I'd want to not only double check existing lore, but answer that in-game (or in a book or etc.) if we ever need to. (Hope that's not too much of a cop out. Sometimes I like to leave questions I'm not sure about alone, because until it's in an official game or story, it doesn't quite count.)" [source, two, three]

User: "as someone who shares emmrich's anxiety about mortality, getting to spend time with him, and in the grand necropolis and with the mourn watch, was genuinely soothing" / Sylvia: "Thank you, I'm glad he was a comfort. It's a familiar fear for me too, and I'd hoped he would connect that way with people very much." [source]

On the giant ribcage 'ceiling' in the Necropolis: "sadly, even I don't know all the mysteries of the Necropolis. (Which is to say it's a very cool bit of art but has no stated origin yet. Could be a large dragon, a giant...or something weirder!)" [source]

On TN story Luck in the Gardens: "It was nice change up, writing in first person and with someone so rascally. I've got an enduring affection for the Lords after writing Hollix, the scamp." [source]

User: "I just love his genuine enthusiasm for everything he does. If the other party members had fan clubs Emmrich would be the president of each and I love that for him" / Sylvia: "Thank you! I really wanted him to embody a kind of expansiveness and generosity of spirit, to stand in contrast to the eeriness of his abilities." [source]

User: "What was your inspiration for Josie?" / Sylvia: "My girl! When I came on to Inquisition, there'd already been work done on setting up the spine of the main plot, and figuring out the overall cast. But one of the advisors was a little murkier. It just said "Diplomat" on the white board. We knew we wanted someone in that position, but not who. So in a game where you were out exploring, killing demons, etc., but also had a big organization to run? I immediately wanted to make a Diplomat firmly there for you. Somebody you could hand the keys to the entire Inquisition to while you were out, and know it'd be in good hands. I also thought it'd be fun to have someone from Antiva, since that area wasn't covered yet by anyone in the cast. And I needed her to be polished, smooth, but heartfelt, because of that aforementioned trust. And that was the core of Josephine! Her voice actor, Allegra, brought her to life with such lovely charm, and hearing those early sessions also helped me further hone her tone." [source, two, three, four]

"Our music supervisor Ron Dazo hit it out of the park with Emmrich's music IMO. And so glad you liked Hezenkoss! Just very fun to write as a character." [source]

User: "Did any specific watcher raise MW Rook?" / Sylvia: "Good question! I kind of left that one alone because I wasn't sure if I wanted to let Rook define that themselves, or leave it open, and also I'd have wanted a full conversation on it. In the end that was a little out of scope so I left it unsaid. Which is to say that it COULD be Vorgoth who helped raise your Rook. And that stands until/unless we give a definitive answer (or let you choose from a range of answers) one day." [source, two]

"It was such a pleasure for all of us to finally get to explore the Necropolis, I am very glad we got to throw open the gates." [source]

User: "I was wondering if there were any Mourn Watch details you wished you had more time to explore? I was so struck by some of the ethical implications in your stories" / Sylvia: "Geeze, now that's a question. I mention it with Emmrich, but there's some resentment over the power the Watchers hold as THE mortalitasi of the Grand Necropolis, between them and the other orders. There's something to that situation I liked. There's also questions of how they select people for the order. What their standards are, how closely they work with benign spirits. And how they cultivate those relationships. How deep does that go? I also mentioned in a codex "the lives and bodies of those who tamper with the undead of the Necropolis are forfeit unto the Mourn Watch." which is pretty chilling. What's that punishment like, exactly? And in general, writing about anything weird or unexplained in the Necropolis brought me much enjoyment, and it would be fun to dig around how the Mourn Watch deals with (or what they want out of) all these mysteries and entities." [source, two, three, four]

"Geeking out with Emmrich about spooky stuff was a delight to write." [source]

"I liked writing someone older this time, it was something different for me and rewarding in some unexpectedly different ways. (And thanks especially for the nice words on DAtDM - I was very excited to introduce people to the Mourn Watch there!)" [source]

"Ah, tomb-script. I named it but it was our concept artists who went developed it with the hexagon shape-language of the Mourn Watch, which I loved. Conceptually: I think it's used purely an occult or sacred language. Something for the graves, or books on magic, but not everyday things." [source]

"Some trans people kindly offered their help with some feedback on some of the romance lines and others, which absolutely made them much better." [source]

"Trick Weekes actually wrote a ton of the banter where Emmrich inquires into qunari artifacts and customs, and Taash talks about what it was like to grow up under a scholar. I really dig the dynamic they unearthed between the two there." [source]

User: "Do you remember what was written in the script to describe ✨this✨ moment? [link]" // Sylvia: "Lol. I miiiiiight? Let me look at my notes. Ah hah, I do! My note says that Emmrich "takes a second, surprised." And then he's touched afterwards." [source, two]

Sylvia: ""i hope it's not too late, but were there any designs in mind for what Nevarra City looks like?" Not too late! We've got a few sketches in the World of Thedas books, but that's it. If the team ever went back to Nevarra City proper, I'd imagine the art team would want to do a deeper dive." [source]

Sylvia: "(Glad you liked Myrna in particular. My first Mourn Watcher everyone got to know!)" [source]

Sylvia: "I'm glad to hear getting to know Emmrich has been of some comfort." [source]

[cornsoupflavour]

New Collaboration (Twice NSFW Smut)

⚠️18+ ONLY - MINORS DNI⚠️

TWICE Mina Myoi x Sub!Male Reader

Tags: 4.5k words, age-gap, multiple creampies, possible breeding/impreg

While at a popular variety show, you found yourself backstage waiting for your cue. It was a chance for you to perform alongside your favorite artists and one of them was Mina from TWICE. The atmosphere was tense, a mix of adrenaline and nerves. You'd only seen her through watching other variety shows or managing to catch brief glimpses of her at awards shows. But there she was, standing amongst the other TWICE girls.

You could see the rest of them leave for the bathroom as Mina stayed behind to watch over their belongings and their cue. You decided that this was your moment to make the connection. You walked up to her, braving through your nerves and fear.

"Hey, I'm Y/N," you said, extending your hand to Mina. She looked up from her script, her eyes wide as she recognized you. She smiled warmly, shaking your hand. "Nice to meet you in person. I'm Mina. I've been following your debut for a while and I'm a huge fan of your work."

You smiled, your cheeks turning a bright red. Mina Myoi, popular idol from TWICE knows of your work? Your eyelids fluttered, slightly taken aback by her open admiration. "Y–You know about me? I'm so honoured! I'm such a big fan of you...r work with TWICE and MiSaMo!" Nice save.

Mina giggled at your obvious nervousness and the two of you began chatting. The topics ranged from the things you'd be doing on the show to what you think of the industry so far. The nerves set in as you realized how close you were to performing. You found yourself gradually moving closer to her. Mina appeared to be doing the same, her eyes locked onto yours, neither of you aware of the distance between you closing.

The sound of a bell ringing in the distance broke the trance, signaling that it was time for you to take the stage. You took a deep breath, glancing at Mina before giving her a confident nod. "Good luck," she whispered, a playful smile on her lips as the other TWICE girls returned to stand around her.

You gave her a nervous but thankful smile and sauntered off, the butterflies in your stomach fluttering wildly. As the show went on, you subtly glanced at Mina a few times, her beauty somehow shining through all eight other members. It was as if no one else existed for those very brief moments. You admired how she commanded the stage, the energy she radiated. The feeling only grew as you made your way backstage after your performances.

"You were amazing out there!" Mina congratulated, rushing over to you as soon as you were both backstage. She hugged you tightly, her scent enveloping you as she lifted you off the ground slightly. "I'm so proud of you."

You blushed, the sincerity in her eyes warming you from the inside out. As the other TWICE girls went to rest in the designated backstage room, Mina stayed with you. The two of you sat down in a secluded area and ended up chatting for hours. 

Your heart swelled as you struggled to contain yourself. You got to, not only talk with your all–time favourite idol, but she hugged you really nice and tight too. As the night began to wind down, you found yourselves alone, the cast and crew dispersing to prepare for their next filming. That was when the topic of age differences came up naturally.

"So, you're, what, 19?" Mina asked with a playful grin. You nodded, chuckling at the surprise on her face. "And here I thought you were a little older. You're quite mature for your age."

"T–Thank you," you replied with a humble smile. "You're...?"

"The ripe age of 27," Mina said, resting her chin on her hand as she looked at you. "But I guess it's the experience that counts, right?"

"27?! No way! I could've sworn you were my age," you teased before continuing, "but yeah, you could say that." You couldn't help but let your gaze linger on her face for a while. Such smooth skin... such pretty lips... You stared at her for a considerable amount of time before snapping out. "You've been in the industry a while, and I could learn a lot from you."

Mina's eyes sparkled, and she leaned in closer. "Anything you want to know, you just have to ask." Her lips grazed your earlobe, sending shivers down your spine as she whispered, "And sometimes lessons are best learned by doing."

The closeness between the two of you was undeniable, and the air around you felt heavy with tension. You subconsciously leaned towards her as she did the same. The scent of her perfume mingled with the lingering smoky scent of the stage, creating an intoxicating mix. You could feel your heart racing, the heat in your cheeks increasing, turning them red.

Mina's hand brushed against yours, and your eyes met, locked in a heated gaze. Both your lips were inches away from one another, something in you just wanted to pounce forward and claim her in a deep and passionate makeout. The weight of the moment was suffocating, yet exhilarating. The silence stretched, and the tension built, growing thicker by the second.

Just as your chest tightened, and it felt like your heart would pound right out of your chest, the sound of voices echoed through the backstage area, snapping you both out of your trance. Mina quickly leaned back back, the grin on her face replacing the intensity that had been there just moments before.

"Guess I better get going," she said, straightening her outfit. "The girls are gonna get cranky if I leave them for too long... but you've got a bright future ahead of you. I'm looking forward to seeing what you do next."

She gave you a final warm smile before she slipped away, leaving you standing there, your mind reeling with the encounter. The memory of Mina's voice, her touch, the intensity of those stolen moments would linger, pushing you to dream and fantasize about what could be. Your admiration for your favourite idol might have just developed into a full blown crush.

Months passed, and you found yourself 'crossing paths' with Mina at various events. Crossing paths in the sense that you'd steal brief glances at her while in a massive crowd.  But each time, the lingering eye contact and flirtatious smiles sent your heart racing. You found yourself always glancing toward her, trying to catch a glimpse of her in between your own performances. There was something about her that drew you in, and you wondered if it was mutual.

After one of M Countdown's award shows, you found yourselves waiting backstage once again. The anticipation of the night's events, and the memories of your previous encounter, made your nerves skyrocket. Mina spotted you and walked over with a bright smile, separating herself from the rest of TWICE momentarily. Her confidence commanded the space around her.

"Oh my, you look amazing tonight," she complimented, her eyes looking you up and down before settling and on yours and never leaving. "It's been a while since we've seen each other. How have you been?"

"I've been doing pretty well," you said, feeling your cheeks heat up. "A little busy, but it's been great. How about you?"

Mina laughed softly. "Y'know, same old, same old. But I'm glad to see you doing well. You've got a lot of fans out there rooting for you."

"Likewise for you too. Hell, I'll always root for you... and TWICE... yeah."

Mina let out a sultry giggle as the two of you began chatting about various things, from the music you both enjoyed to the latest scandal in the industry. Mina's hand brushed against yours as she gestured, and a jolt shot through you, making you wish that contact would linger. You could feel the tension build between you, the air thick with unspoken desires.

"You know, we should do something together," Mina suggested, her voice soft and sultry. "A collaboration, maybe. I bet it would be amazing. Fans might like that as well, what do you think?"

"T–That would be incredible, I'd love to," you stammered, your heart pounding wildly in your chest. Your eyes met hers, and the intensity was palpable. You could feel every nerve in your body tingling, as if electrified by her presence.

A few more comments were exchanged, small jokes shared, and the tension between the two of you grew. Mina leaned in closer, her lips brushing against your ear. "I think I'll be staying up late tonight, and the girls are gonna be out... Want to join me?"

Your breath hitched, and you could only manage a nod, your mind reeling at the possibility. The heat between you was almost unbearable, and it felt like the world had slowed down, leaving the two of you to exist in a bubble.

"Excellent, I'll see you back here once the place has cleared up a little~"

The conversation ebbed away, replaced by the chaos and noise of the after–event. The weight of the moment hung in the air, heavy and thick, as Mina departed with a wink and a smile.

The night continued to unfold, and you found yourself seeking her out, unable to shake the pull she had on you. Your heart raced with anticipation as you waited for the event to come to a close, dying to deepen connection with her.

The event finally came to an end, and the guests began to disperse, leaving behind the echoes of their laughter and conversations. You met with Mina at the decided spot before she led you back to the hotel she was staying at. Her hand clasped yours as you walked through the empty halls.

"I think a collaboration between us could work perfectly," Mina said as she unlocked the door to her hotel room, gesturing for you to enter. "You have quite the unique sound, and I think our voices would mesh well together."

As you crossed the threshold, the room was dimly lit, the only light filtering in from the city skyline outside. Mina closed the door behind you, the quiet of the moment hanging in the air.

"Have a seat and we could talk about it. Could I get you anything to drink?" she suggested, motioning to the couch. You shook your head as you sat down, your heart thudding in your chest.

"So... what kind of vibe are you going for?" you asked, trying to keep your mind focused on the task at hand, the desire for her still palpable.

"Hmm... How about something that showcases both our styles," Mina replied, taking a seat beside you. "Maybe, a mix of hip–hop and R&B. The lyrics could focus on breaking free from societal expectations and finding one's true self. The chorus should be catchy yet poignant, with a hard–hitting beat."

The two of you continued to discuss ideas, concepts, and possible producers for the collaboration. The conversation flowed effortlessly, your minds mingling as easily as your bodies seemed to desire. As you talked, Mina's hand crept closer to yours, her fingers brushing against yours every now and then.

"Okay! Now that that's settled, I'm really excited to get started on this," you said, the passion in your voice reflecting your feelings for the project, as well as the woman beside you.

"Me too," Mina replied, her voice low and sultry. "Let's celebrate the start of our collaboration~"

Her hand found yours and her thumb began to trace circles on the back of your hand, the contact both calming and arousing. You could feel the heat radiating from her touch as she leaned in, her lips inches from yours. Your eyes were locked on her lips... something about them looked so... delicious... 

"To new beginnings," she whispered before pressing her lips to yours. The kiss was soft, tender, and as it deepened, it grew more intense. Mina's hand traveled up your arm, her fingers lightly brushing against your neck.

You could feel her breasts pressing against your chest as she climbed atop you, the heat of her body igniting a fire within you. As the kiss continued, her hand slid under your shirt, tracing gentle circles on your skin. The pleasure from her touch sent shivers down your spine, and you could feel your body responding to her touch, your arousal growing with each passing moment.

"Are you ready for our next chapter?" Mina asked, her breath hot against your ear as she nibbled on your lobe.

Your body ached for more, more of this stunning older woman you've admired for so long. The beginning of this new chapter had you both on the edge, ready to embark on a journey of passion and collaboration.

Nodding, you surrendered yourself to the moment, your body eagerly responding to Mina's touch. She guided your hand to her breast, letting you feel her firmness through her top. Her nipple hardened against your touch, the silky texture of her shirt doing little to dampen the sensations.

"Mhmm, just like that," Mina moaned softly, her fingers deftly undoing the buttons of your shirt. She peeled it away, her eyes fixated on your body as she revealed it to her.

The heat between the two of you grew, and Mina's lips trailed down your neck, leaving a trail of kisses and nibbles that sent shivers through your spine. You let out a soft moan, your body arching into her touch, the need for more becoming almost unbearable.

"So responsive," Mina whispered, her voice laced with desire as she began to unbutton your pants, her nimble fingers sliding beneath the waistband.

"God– fuck, Mina–" you let out a loud moan as her hand found you, her touch adding fuel to the fire already burning bright within you. She began to stroke you through your underwear, her thumb teasing the tip. The rhythm of her strokes increased, and you found yourself writhing beneath her touch, unable to contain your pleasure.

"Mina..." you groaned, your voice thick with arousal. "I want more..."

With a wicked smile, Mina stood up, pulling you with her. She guided you to the bed, her hand stilling on your chest as she undressed. The sight of her slowly freeing from her clothes was intoxicating, and you let out a low, appreciative moan.

"Mina... The woman that you are..." you exhaled, your voice pleading.

"Patience, my dear," she said, her voice sultry and full of promise. "I have a feeling our collaboration will be a hit."

With that, she climbed onto the bed, leaving you hanging, eager for more. The anticipation and the teasing had you on the edge, desperate for the physical expression of your newfound partnership.

Mina laid herself down on the bed, her body twisting and turning ever so slightly, making your cock visibly harder and harder each second. She seductively sat up and beckoned you with her finger, inviting you closer. You climbed onto the bed next to her, your eyes taking in the sight that is Mina Myoi.

"Come here, baby," Mina whispered, her voice a seductive purr. "Let's make some music together."

You couldn't resist, moving closer, and before long, your lips met hers once more, the kiss deepening, your tongues entwining. Mina's hand found its way to your now hard erection, gripping it firmly, her thumb gliding over the head.

"Oh, Y/N, you're such a good boy. You've been waiting for this, haven't you?" she purred, her voice a mix of lust and admiration. "I can't wait to feel you inside me."

You fumbled with your pants, quickly shedding them and your underwear. The anticipation built, and you found yourself hovering over her, your cock at the entrance of her wetness. Mina's legs wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, her eyes never leaving yours.

"Please, I need you– Mommy Mina needs you, baby," she moaned, the vulnerability and desire in her voice sending shivers down your spine.

Slowly, you began to enter her, the tight warmth enveloping you. Mina's moans grew louder, filling the room. The age gap between the two of you seemed to melt away, replaced by the shared experience of lust and desire. Within seconds, you had bottomed her out.

"Fuck– I didn't think you'd be this big, Y/N. I can feel your cock throbbing inside me," she cried out, her nails digging into your back. "Harder!"

You complied, beginning to thrust into her, the rhythm growing more intense as you both found your pace. You could feel the slick wetness enveloping you, the pleasure building with each movement. Mina's moans grew louder, her head thrown back, her body arching to meet your thrusts.

"Oh, Y/N, baby, you feel so good," Mina moaned, her voice thick with lust. "You're so hard... So deep... Ravage my pussy, baby~"

Her hands found your chest, fingers tracing circles, eliciting a shiver from your spine. She began to rock her hips, her movements rough and desperate. But after a while, she made you slow down. It was as if she was savoring the sensation, prolonging the inevitable.

"Mina, you feel amazing," you groaned, your voice rough with desire. "I–I need more of you."

Mina's movements grew more urgent, her hips slamming back against yours. You could feel your own body responding, the pleasure building once more.

"God, Y/N, I'm close... Don't stop, Y/N," she urged, her voice breathless. "Give it to me."

Mina's body shuddered against yours, the intensity building between you both. Her movements grew more frenzied, her moans more desperate. You could feel the pressure inside you, the need to release, to fill her, to claim her as your own.

"Y/N– gnnnngh... Y/N... oh, fuck... I'm so close," Mina cried out, her voice thick with lust.

You could feel her pussy tightening around you, squeezing every inch of your length, spurring you on, driving you closer to the edge. The room filled with the sounds of your bodies connecting, the wet slap of skin against skin, the cries of pleasure.

"Mina, I can't hold back," you groaned, your voice thick with desire.

Mina's nails dug into your back, her body arching, inviting you to take her to the precipice.

"Y/N, give it to me, fill me up," she urged, her voice thick with need.

With a final, powerful thrust, you let go, your release spilling into her, the pleasure washing over you like a tidal wave. Mina's body followed, her own climax hitting her like a freight train, her body convulsing, her release coating your length.

"Oh, Y/N, yes, I'm cumming– Y/N! FUCK!" she cried out, her body arching, her nails digging into your back some more. "Fuck, yes, that feels so good."

The two of you clung to each other, your bodies trembling, the waves of pleasure crashing over you. Mina's breathing grew heavy, her body still quivering from the intensity of her orgasm.

"That was... wow," she panted, her voice thick with satisfaction.

You found yourself wrapped in her embrace, the two of you still joined, the sweat glistening on both your bodies. Mina's hand found your cheek, her thumb brushing away a droplet of sweat.

"Y/N... that was amazing," she breathed, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. "...but I need more. Mommy Mina needs more~"

Before you could even catch your breath, Mina rolled you onto your back, her body straddling yours. She began to grind her hips against you, her wetness coating your still–hard cock. The sight of her, the feeling of her body against yours, sent shivers down your spine.

"I want to feel you all night," Mina purred, her voice dripping with lust. "You're going to breed me, baby. Make me a real mommy, alright?"

Her words sent an electric jolt through you, the idea of impregnating this woman, this idol, almost too much to bear. Mina positioned herself above you, her wetness enveloping your cock as she sank down onto you.

"You're so big for me, baby... I'm so full," she moaned, her breasts swaying above you as she began to ride you leisurely, her eyes never leaving yours.

"Mina–" you gasped, your voice thick with desire. "Please, don't stop–"

Mina's hips began to move faster, her moans growing louder, filling the room. You could feel the pleasure building once more, the thrill of being at her mercy intoxicating.

"Mina, I'm so close... Fuck– you're so tight," you warned, your body tensing with anticipation.

"Cum for me, Y/N," she ordered, her voice a mix of desire and command. "Give it to me. Fill me to the brim."

You couldn't resist, the order sending you over the edge. Your hips bucked against her, the pleasure cascading through you as you came once more, filling her even more deeply than before.

"M–MINA~!" you cried out, your body trembling. As you both came down from the high, Mina's body shuddered, releasing her own pleasure in waves. Her juices coated your cock, the warmth and tightness of her pussy as she came almost overwhelming. You could feel her squeezing you, milking your cock as she rode out her orgasm.

"Oh god, you're incredible..." Mina panted, her eyes locked with yours, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of her climax.

"Mina... I... mmf..." you whispered, your own breath coming in ragged pants.

But before you could fully recover, Mina's hand found your softening cock, stroking you gently until it began to harden once more. Her eyes were filled with lust, the desire for more evident in every line of her body.

"You're not done with me yet, are you?" she purred, the promise of more in her voice.

You exhaustedly shook your head, your cock returning to its hardened stature. Mina took the lead, turning over, her body arching, inviting you to take her from behind.

"Get on your knees, baby," she commanded, her voice a mix of lust and desire. "Fuck me like the breeding stallion you are."

You obeyed, positioning yourself behind her, your cock meeting her wet entrance once more. Mina's nails dug into the sheets as you began to thrust into her from behind, the new angle setting off a fresh wave of pleasure.

"Oh god, yessss~ Y/N, you feel so good... fuck me... impregnate me," Mina moaned, her voice thick with lust.

Her words sent shivers down your spine, the taboo nature of the idea driving you wild. The thought of breeding Mina, this stunning woman, filled you with a primal drive.

"Mina, I'm going to cum again–" you warned, your voice thick with pleasure as you began to thrust harder, faster.

Mina's moans grew louder, more desperate. "Cum inside me, baby. Anhh... Fill mommy up~"

You didn't need any further encouragement. Your thrusts grew more frenzied, the pleasure building once more. The room was filled with the sounds of your bodies connecting, the wet slap of skin against skin, and the cries of pleasure.

"Oh, god, Mina–!" you cried out, your body trembling as you poured yourself into her once more.

As your release filled her, Mina's body shuddered, her own pleasure peaking, the waves of orgasm washing over her.

"Oh, Y/N, baby, yes... Y/N, you're going to make me a mommy, aren't you? I can feel it in every thrust. I'm all yours, baby~ Take me." she cried out, her body arching as she came.

"You're mine," she whispered, her body still straddling yours. "And I'm yours..."

"But I want more," she continued, her voice thick with lust. "I'm not done with you yet, Y/N."

Mina disentangled herself from your embrace, her eyes filled with desire as she shifted to straddle you, sitting on your lap. Her hands roamed over your chest, her lips finding yours in a passionate kiss. You could taste the lingering sweetness of their previous lovemaking, sending shivers down your spine.

"I want you inside me again, Y/N," Mina breathed, her voice heavy with lust.

You were so obviously drained and tired... But Mina Myoi is asking YOU for a god–knows–what round... You'd be insane to turn that down... You helped her lower herself back onto your cock, the familiar warmth enveloping you as she took you in. This time, Mina chose a more sensual pace, rocking her hips in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Her breasts swayed with each movement, her nipples hard as they brushed against your chest.

"Oh, Y/N, you feel so good– Just like that–" she moaned, her voice thick with desire. "Your cock is perfect."

Mina leaned forward, trailing kisses along your jawline, her lips finding your earlobe, whispering sweet nothings in your ear. The sensation only served to heighten the pleasure of her movements.

"I want to feel you deep inside me, Y/N. Breed me like the wild animal you are. Bottom. Me. Out."

The words sent a jolt through you, the primal desire to claim her as your own pulsing through your veins. You reached up, grabbing Mina's hips, helping you both find a faster, more vigorous pace.

"Mina, I... I'm getting close again," you warned, your breath coming in ragged pants.

Mina's moans grew louder, her body arching with each thrust. "Don't stop, Y/N. Fill me up. Knock me up, baby~"

You couldn't hold back any longer. Your thrusts grew more urgent, the pleasure building once more. Mina's nails dug into your chest as her own climax approached.

"Oh, god, Y/N, I'm... I'm cumming– I'M CUMMING~!" she cried out, her body tensing, her pussy tightening around you as her release washed over her.

You couldn't hold back any longer. With a final, powerful thrust, you bottomed her out once more as you proceeded to cum inside her, the sensation of flooding her to the brim spurring you on.

"Oh fuck– Mina–!" you cried out, your body trembling.

The two of you clung to each other, riding out the aftershocks of your pleasure. Mina collapsed against your chest as you flopped backwards onto the bed. Her breathing was heavy, her body still quivering from the intensity of her orgasm.

"Let's just lay here, Y/N," she whispered, her hand reaching up to caress your cheek. "Let's just enjoy each other for now... You made Mommy Mina very happy today..."

You wrapped your arms around her, pulling her into a hot, passionate makeout, savoring the taste of each other's lips.

As the two of you lay entwined, sweat glistening on your bodies, your hearts beating in unison. The bedroom was filled with the sounds of your breathing, the aftermath of your passionate encounter settling around you. And in that moment, there was nothing but the two of you, basking in the afterglow of your shared passion.

[Let me know if you want a part two or if you want me to make this a long running story. And let me know who else you'd want to see a fic about.]

[ New Collaboration Pt. 1 – See Pt. 2 ]

[januaryembrs]

oblivious!reader x downbad!spencer who’s not even nervous to flirt with reader anymore cuz she just doesn’t get it (probs older episodes spence)

CLUELESS | Spencer Reid x reader

description: Spencer's got a crush, too bad you're entirely clueless to his dilemma. (S3!Spencer in mind)

length 1.2k

At first he’d thought it was the world’s gentlest form of rejection, how you would dodge his questions, barely bat an eye at him laying himself bare for you, thought that maybe you were pretending not to see the way his hands shook and voice quivered to save him some face. 

“I-I was wondering if you wanted to go see Zodiac at the movie theatre?” He stammered, obsessively tucking his hair behind his ear because it felt like it was ticking his cheeks, or perhaps that was just some residual sweat gathering on his temple because you were just so pretty when you looked at him like that, your eyes wide and excited, waiting for him to finish speaking because you always loved to listen to him, “I was thinking we could try comparing it to the actual case and figure out how accurate their hollywood version of it is,” 

Your face lit up like the fourth of July, and your smile was blinding, “Oh, I love the movies! It’s going to be so fun, Spence!” You chirped, whirling around in your desk chair to meet Emily’s bored stiff expression as she scrolled through her computer, “Em, Spencer wants us to go see Zodiac, you in?” 

Spencer paled, because that was not what he’d meant by we whatsoever. It wasn’t that he held anything against Emily, nor JJ or Penelope as they were quickly roped into the plans as well, he just hadn't had them in mind when he thought to ask you out on a date. From what he could tell you hadn’t escaped spending time with him alone on purpose. He just hadn’t quite been specific in his question, it was an easy mistake to make. 

But you looked so excited as you organised who was getting what snacks, quickly dibsing the seat slap bang in the middle of everyone so you wouldn’t feel like anyone got left out. He thought his chest stuttered when you grabbed his hand and asked if you could sit with him since he’d remember the most about the original case, and you’d need his big brain for the little game he had planned. 

Spencer agreed, instead of trying to make it clear what he’d meant by his original question, because he hated disappointing people and the other girls seemed just as thrilled to go see the movie as you were. It wasn’t until Morgan slapped him on the back with a chuckle, having watched the whole thing from his own desk that Spencer felt truly dumb. 

“You’re going to have to try better than that, pretty boy,” He exclaimed, and Spencer bit his lip in thought, “Try asking her to do something in a way that leaves no room for confusion, girls like it when you’re direct,” 

And he nodded vehemently, because dating advice from Morgan was usually sound and bulletproof, how else would would he have garnered the ladies man reputation?

Direct, he could be direct. Sure, Spencer could be direct. 

He swallowed heavily just thinking about it. 

–

“These are for you,” Spencer jumped in before you could get sidetracked by chatting his ear off about the squirrel you’d nearly ran over on your way to work, and your expression flitted into surprise. 

He handed you the big bunch of pink roses and baby’s breath, and your mouth cracked into a smile immediately. “Oh, Spencer, these are beautiful, you shouldn’t have. My birthday’s not for another week,” 

“And I booked us a table at that Thai place on your block that you always get- wait birthday?” Spencer stumbled over his script, the words he’d been practising all morning coming to an effective halt as he realised once again his intentions had flown right over your head. And yet before he could set his record straight, just like you had last time, you’d jumped at the chance of spending time with him without understand just what you were agreeing to. 

“I love Thai food, that’s so thoughtful of you, Spence,” You said, hopping up out of your chair to give him a bear hug around his lithe waist, the flowers still tightly in the palm of your hand. He reciprocated, even if his expression was a terrible mix of frustration and confusion. 

It was like someone had cast some sort of spell over his words so that he’d never be able to ask you out on a date, like he was trying to speak in a dream, the words never really coming out. You weren’t dumb, not by any means, you could be a little naive sometimes, but never cruel. Spencer had no idea what the answer was. He guessed he was right back at square one.

–

“I don’t know man, I tried asking her to the movies, she thought it was a group thing. I tried taking her out for dinner, she thought it was for her birthday, I even asked if she wanted to come over to mine and she thought I meant a sleepover. What’s romantic about pillow forts?” Spencer sighed, leaning his head into his palm as he watched you swan around the office without a single inkling of his affections, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I had fun at every one of them, but I just want there to be more. Maybe she just doesn’t feel the same,” 

“Don’t lose hope, pretty boy,” Derek comforted, the seemingly appointed love Guru that had had to witness two weeks of Spencer’s advances get sidelined. He followed Reid’s gaze to where you hummed a song to yourself as you collected files from Emily’s desk to take them over to your own. He bit his lip in thought, “I don’t think it’s personal, honest, I don’t think she means anything by it. You just need to be clearer,” 

“Clearer?” Spencer said with raised brows, using a single prod of his converse to swivel himself around to face you, and your expression perked into a smile just from seeing him. Derek watched the two of you closely, his theory all but game set and match as you seemed genuinely excited to see their resident genius who was convinced there was nothing there, “That shirt is really cute on you. It makes your eyes look really pretty,” Spencer said, in his most direct tone possible, because the nervousness seemed to dissipate when he knew you wouldn’t pick up on his intentions. The only sign you’d heard him at all was the way your fingers ruffled his hair affectionately. 

“Aw, thank you, Spencer,” You said, a little bounce in your step as you passed his desk to your own, running a gentle hand over his arm, where his blue striped shirt bunched around his biceps, “I like your purple one the best, but this one’s quite handsome too,” You replied, grabbing the other wad of papers from your drawer without much of a reaction and heading up the stairs to Hotch’s office, and he turned back to Morgan, throwing his hands up in exasperation. 

Morgan laughed, shaking his head and yanking his cup of coffee towards him, “She’ll figure it out some day, lover boy. I give it a month, tops,” 

And Spencer huffed, wheeling himself back to his desk, his eyes naturally trailing up to the large window that divided them from Hotch’s personal space, the two of you discussing something jovially as if you were none the wiser to his internal predicament. 

He made a note to wear his purple shirt more often.

[raileurta]

Miko forced to move back to Japan au:

Bulkhead and wheel jack kidnap Miko

Bulkhead would have a moral dilemma over this, Wheeljack is already making long term plans to keep her on his ship, and Miko would be not so subtly trying to get herself kidnapped.

This is how I imagine it comes about:

Jack and Raf just so happen to be in Japan so they decided to call up Miko's household to see if they could come over as a surprise. Miko's mom picks up and she's delighted to invent them over. While she technically didn't say anything weird they still got a bad vibe from her. Miko's recent texts they've both had gotten felt a little scripted and out of character which made them more wary.

Both of the boys were equipped with some little cameras disguised as pins to let the autobots see Miko. There definitely was an argument of privacy from both Optimus and Magnus but they eased up when Wheeljack pointed out the kids would be meeting with adults they didn't know. Yes they were Miko parents but....... you never know. :)

--------------------------------------------------

They arrive with some presents in very clean clothes and pressed button ups. Both of them had heard from Miko that her parents were a little strict and were very into presentation. And well the present didn't hurt their chances. They knocked a few times, after waiting a few seconds Miko's mom would answer the door. If someone were to personify the word clean and put together that's how you would describe Miko's mom. While a little on the small side she had this aura that would make anyone feel small. She politely invited them into her "humble abode." Which was definitely not all humble as the woman's house bordered on being called mansion. They walked through a long corridor decorated with various trophies and art. The autobots and humans admiring them alike. Raf looked up closer to a particularly beautiful painting that caught his eye; it depicted a nature scene of a grand waterfall in the middle of a forest, at the bottom was a gold plague that read "Miko Nakadai's River of peace."

Raf was both caught off guard and impressed. Back at base Miko always just drew the Autobots and various other vehicles in crayons or colored pencils. The drawings weren't bad per say but compared to this the skill level was striking. He was pulled away from the painting by Jack urging him to not get distracted again. After a few more minutes of walking they came into a dinner esc room where a familiar face was standing in front of a large tab. But something was wrong with Miko, her hair was perfectly straightened, down and missing it's iconic pink dye, she was in very formal clothing that you could mistake for a private school outfit, worst of all were her yellow eyes.

They looked so dead with no spark of the girls usually burning hurricane of passion. Jack wasn't with the autobots but he knew they were expressing the same horror in their faces he felt. Struggling to keep the alarm off their faces Miko walked up to them and greeted them politely with a bow. They hastily returned it not waiting to seem rude.

They sat down at the table and they were quickly served food by servants. Jack tried to strike up a conversation with Miko about what she's been doing trying to elevate the growing pit in his stomach. Miko responded with the school work she was working on, painting, and practicing piano. It felt like too Jack Miko had rehearsed this response a thousand times already. Which dude nothing but grow more of his dread.

What proceeded was less of a friendly chat and more of a detective integrating them. Miko's mom prodded about their academics, if they knew any instruments, what they did in their free time, and what future jobs they were pursuing. She seemed pleased with Raf's answers but not so much with Jack's. Once dinner was concluded Miko's mom sent Raf and Miko up to the second floor to give him a tour while Jack had to stay there for a talk. As soon as they were out of sight Miko's mom turned to him with a strained smile and said, "It was lovely to have you come over and the present was thoughtful but I'm afraid I won't be you allowing you to see my daughter anymore."

Jack tried to ask what he did wrong but was cut off when two large men started to escort him out of the house. The autobots were helpless but to watch as Jack was practically thrown out of Miko's mom house. Jack quickly went into a nearby forest and was ground bridged back to base. They made Raf's camera full screen and watched it with anxiety.

--------------------------------------------------

Miko listed off the rooms still in a drone like fashion while Raf tried to figure out what was wrong with her. As soon as the pair entered a random bathroom Miko quickly locked the door behind them and her mask dropped.

"Raf you got to get me out of here! I can't stand being here anymore! If I have to spend another day in this torture house I swear to Primus I'm going to wake up Unicron himself and destroy the Earth." Miko whispered yelled.

"What-?! What's going on? Why are we whispering???!" Raf slightly panicked replied. With Miko's penchant for unimaginable chaos she probably could wake Unicron and Raf really doesn't want the Earth to blow up.

"Long story short my parents broke up, had a nasty divorce, my Mom was the one to keep me, then became mega strict and now I'm slowly suffocating to death."

"Okay- why are we locked in the bathroom then??"

"That woman got ears and eyes on the back of her head and like a bazillion hidden cameras with microphones in the house." Miko said.

Looking at her Raf could see she was terrified, Miko was never scared, she was nervous and frightened but never scared. But right now in front of him he could plainly see the fear in her whole body.

"If she's really that bad why haven't you gone to the police or cps? I'm sure they cou-

"DON'T YOU THINK I'VE TRIED?!"

"I KEEP TRYING BUT NO ONE BELIEVES ME OR IT'S NOT 'ILLEGAL' AND I JUST CAN'T- I just can't keep doing this a-nymore......."

Miko started to breakdown and fully sob at that point.

Wheeljack having seen enough started to head to his ship to kidnap rescue Miko. Bulkhead knowing what he planned to do tried well, to "stop him." Wheeljack just looked at him and he didn't say anything but his optics said everything.

"Do you really want to stop me?" They seemed to convey.

Bulkhead looked at the screen with his crying charge and put down his outstretched servo. Optimus and Ultra Magnus picking up on Wheeljack's plan also tried to stop him. There was tons of yelling and possible physical violence. It was put to an end when Miko called out to the Autobots. Raf had told her about the camera and now she was gripping the boy's shirt looking straight into the lens.

"Bulk? Guys? If you can hear me GET ME OUT!!! I don't care how you do it; I'll even be one of your guys human pets in a terrarium the decepticons were always talking about if it gets me out of this hell hole." Miko desperately pleaded.

Pure silence in the base.

--------------------------------------------------

Cut to Miko happily snuggled up to Bulkhead's face in the jackhammer with Ultra Magnus in the back filling out adoption papers while Wheeljack talks about his latest adventures. Even Ultra Magnus (who definitely is a girl dad) couldn't ignore Miko's pleas. So they flew to Miko's prison at night and had her get her things together and left a note that may or may not imply she ran away. Teenagers do that all the time and it's definitely not at all kidnapping if they just do happen to have been in the same area when Miko left. It's also not kidnapping if they take her on a little ship ride.

Yep definitely not at all kidnapping. ;D

[demie90s]

please do caitlin clark x hyper femme reader that attends her game! maybe reader isn’t super tall but always wears heels so same height, has custom jackets, etc

𝐂𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐢𝐧 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

All Eyes On You

MASTERLIST, MORE

Summary: You’ve been showing up to every game in custom jackets, heels, and lip gloss sharp enough to cut through tension. You don’t hoop, but you’re a problem. Especially for Caitlin, who can’t seem to stop looking your way.

Genre: Slow tension, flirtation, soft build, off-court vibes

Warnings: Mild language, flirtatious energy, one-sided pining (but mutual 👀)

Word Count: ~ 0.4k

Vibe: Femme power, ‘you’re on my mind mid-game’, heels louder than your thoughts energy

You didn’t need to go to every game.

You weren’t one of those obsessive fans with season tickets and group chats about stats. You had a life, a schedule, plans. You showed up when it made sense. But when you did show up? You showed up.

Black heels. Tight jeans. A cropped varsity jacket custom-made just for the moment—white and gold satin, her number embroidered near your heart in sleek black thread: #22. A little sparkle stitched under it, subtle but loud enough if someone looked too long. And they always looked too long.

Especially her.

Caitlin noticed you before you ever said a word.

At first, it was just curiosity. You didn’t dress like the rest of the crowd. You didn’t cheer like them either. You weren’t loud. You didn’t jump and scream. You leaned back in your seat, legs crossed, watching like you knew something. Like you were scouting her. Or challenging her. And maybe that was why she looked at you too long the first night.

And the next. And the one after that.

It became a thing. If you were in the building, she’d know before tip-off. Could feel it. The way her focus tightened. The way her passes got sharper. The way her game got just a little more electric—like she was performing for someone, but didn’t want anyone to know.

She didn’t even know your name. Until one night—mid-season—you weren’t there.

She’d been looking. Scanning the same section she swore you always sat in. But nothing. No heels. No hair. No sly little smile. And for the first time all season, her game was… off. Her rhythm shook. Her shots missed. Her mood? Gone.

“Rough night?” one of her teammates asked in the locker room.

Caitlin shrugged. “Yeah. I guess.”

No one asked why. But if they looked close, they’d see her glance toward the stands one last time before leaving.

You didn’t come back until two weeks later. This time, in a black trench coat and a new custom piece. Gold chain, thin and sleek, the pendant resting just at your collarbone: C22.

She saw it when you stood.

And she didn’t miss a single shot after.

Y’all didn’t talk until after the season ended.

Post-game meet-and-greets were usually a blur, but that night she walked straight over to you. Not a word. Just stood in front of you, hands on her hips, sweat still clinging to her neck.

“Nice necklace,” she said, trying not to grin.

You tilted your head, playful. “You earned it.”

That’s how it started.

Messages. Banter. Video calls. A slow unraveling. You never pushed. You let her come to you. And she did. Every time. With stories about practice, little updates about film breakdowns, inside jokes from games you’d barely watched. You’d ask what she was wearing, just to fluster her. She’d ask what you were cooking, knowing damn well you were ordering Uber Eats.

Then came the first gift.

She opened her locker one day to find a new jacket—deep maroon, her initials stitched into the lining. Hidden on the inside collar, where only she’d see it, was a small embroidered script: “All eyes on you.”

No note. Just that. But she knew.

You didn’t have to show up all the time. That was never your thing. But whenever you did?

She played better.

The team noticed. Fans noticed. Commentators started asking who you were. Someone on Twitter dubbed you “the mystery muse in stilettos.” And Caitlin?

Caitlin stopped denying it.

“Who’s that in the stands tonight?” a reporter asked post-game once, nodding toward you.

Caitlin’s answer was simple, easy. “She’s mine.”

[hamilton-here]

Oooh what about journalist!reader and engineer!reader? Love your stories admin 💖💖💖

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝐵𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑒

Authors Note: Hey Guys! Here's another request. I do have a engineer story coming at some point so stay tuned. Thank for the kindest. Hope you enjoy. Praying for Ferrari! Lots of love xx

Summary: A journalist and Lewis Hamilton fall in love, secretly at firstuntil he kisses her on live TV after winning for Ferrari.

Warnings: slight swearing

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes @piston-cup

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The press room was chaos the kind that made rookies sweat, and veterans roll their eyes and tighten their grips on half-dead voice recorders.

A hundred voices tangled in the air, bouncing off scaffolding and the aluminium frames of hastily assembled walls. Phones were thrust upward like weapons. Hands flailed. Someone knocked over a folding chair, but no one even blinked. Reporters barked names like auctioneers each hoping to snag a moment, a word, anything they could spin into a headline before it hit the paddock group chats.

You sat in the back row, unbothered, untouched by the noise.

Your espresso had long gone cold. It didn’t matter you weren’t drinking it for warmth. It was habit. Anchor. Ritual. You tapped your pen against your notepad slowly, rhythmically, as the chaos unfolded around you like a badly scripted reality show.

Same circus. Different weekend.

Drivers would file in, sweat barely dried, trying to sound fresh and focused while their PR reps hovered with schedules printed to the second. Half of them would repeat the same three soundbites. A few would try too hard. And Lewis Hamilton?

Well. Lewis never needed to try at all.

You didn’t look up when the energy in the room shifted but you felt it. It was unmistakable.

The hum of cameras grew louder. Voices pitched higher. The tension in the air pulled taut like wire. And then—

He entered.

Not like most drivers did. There was no nervous twitching or sideways glances at their handlers. No stiff posture or rushed smiles. Lewis walked in like the building belonged to him. Like time slowed to match his stride.

Sunglasses on. Ferrari-red fire suit immaculate. The fabric caught the overhead lights and shimmered just slightly tailored within an inch of its life, clinging in all the right places. He didn’t smile. Not yet. His expression was neutral, bordering on bored.

Until his eyes found you.

It was almost comical, the transformation. His face lit up. One corner of his mouth curled first, followed by the other, forming a grin so familiar you’d practically developed an allergy to it. Bright. Charming. Annoyingly irresistible.

“Ah,” he said loudly, drawing the attention of half the bullpen, “my favourite journalist.”

You didn’t bother looking up. “I’m every driver’s favourite until I ask the second question.”

He laughed. A rich, velvety sound. Smooth enough to bottle and sell.

And then, like gravity forgot everyone else in the room, he walked closer towards you dodging a flurry of outstretched microphones, waving off a desperate PR rep mouthing, Lewis, the schedule-

He didn’t care.

He reached the partition in front of you and leaned on it, casual, but intentional. Close. Too close. The scent of him hit first clean, woodsy, expensive. Whatever cologne it was, it made your brain skip.

“You missed me,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

You clicked your pen once. Twice. “No,” you said, still scribbling in your notebook. “I missed the coffee in the McLaren motorhome. Stronger. Less sweet.”

He clutched at his chest with mock offence. “Wow. Brutal.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“You always are. That’s why I like you.”

You finally glanced up, slowly, eyebrow raised. “Tell that to the quote you tried to retract last time.”

“That wasn’t me,” he said with a grin. “That was past me. He was reckless.”

“You were twenty minutes younger.”

“Time is a construct.”

Your sigh was theatrical. “So is your humility.”

He laughed again, then leaned in, voice lowering just enough to make you aware of the proximity. “Admit it,” he said. “Your whole weekend’s just a little duller without me in it.”

You met his gaze, deadpan. “Are you under the impression you’re interesting?”

“I’m not just interesting,” he said, flashing teeth. “I’m fascinating.”

You let your pen pause on the page. “Fascinating like a car crash, maybe.”

“Ouch.”

“Don’t worry,” you said, reaching for your cold espresso. “Most crashes are the highlight of the broadcast.”

He gave a full belly laugh then head thrown back, hand braced on the divider like he might fall over if he didn’t. Cameras clicked wildly, phones recorded every second. You already knew TikTok would have this cut, captioned, and shipped to hundreds of “Hamilton x Hardball” fan accounts before the day was over.

You shifted your notebook just slightly, cool as ever.

“Ready for your actual interview,” you said. “Or are we still in your delusional version of reality?”

He tilted his head. “What if I prefer the delusional version?”

“Then you should talk to Red Bull’s strategy team. They live there.”

The laugh that escaped him was softer this time. Less performance. More real. His smile lingered, just a fraction too long.

He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned a bit closer. “You’re really not going to let me win, are you?”

You stared at him like you were bored. Like your pulse wasn’t going haywire. “Nope. But I’ll let you talk. For now.”

“Lucky me.”

You straightened, lifted your voice just enough for the recorders to catch. “Let’s start with something simple. Q2. Sector 3. You locked up at Turn 11. Radio said something about grip issues. Are we blaming the car or the man today?”

The room went still. Everyone was listening.

His expression flickered just briefly. Then the smirk returned.

“Straight to the throat,” he murmured. “God, I’ve missed this.”

You didn’t blink. “You’ll miss the podium tomorrow if Ferrari doesn’t sort that balance.”

He licked his bottom lip, the way he always did when he was deciding whether to flirt or focus. “Bit of both. Car wasn’t behaving like I wanted. And yeah, maybe I pushed harder than I should’ve. I wanted to see how far I could take it.”

You raised a brow. “And the plan to fix it?”

“Can’t give all my secrets away,” he said, with a wink.

Another camera flash.

“I’m not asking for secrets,” you replied, voice dry. “I’m asking for accountability.”

He exhaled through his nose. “You always hit where it counts.”

“Good,” you said. “I aim for the heart.”

A beat passed. Then he leaned in again, this time with a different glint in his eyes softer, teasing, but unmistakably genuine.

“I’ll give you the full scoop,” he said. “Off the record. Over dinner.”

You sighed. “Keep dreaming, Hamilton.”

He grinned like a man who already was. “I do. Every night.”

A collective oooh rose from the nearby reporters. One of them dropped their phone. A PR assistant broke through the crowd, expression frazzled and whisper-shouting about timing and post-session obligations. Lewis held his ground until the last possible second.

As he was pulled away, he turned to look at you one more time.

A wink. A smile. A promise.

You shook your head, scribbled something into your notebook, and muttered under your breath, “Golden retriever energy. With a PR team.”

The journalist beside you leaned in, wide-eyed. “You do realise half the internet thinks you two are secretly dating, right?”

You flipped a page calmly. “Good. Let them keep fantasising.”

And still, every race weekend without fail he found you.

Even if you never called it chasing, he always did.

You were halfway down the paddock, cutting through the midday haze and the thick scent of Pirelli rubber, your heels clicking rhythmically against the asphalt. The air buzzed with post-qualifying energy team radios crackling, cameras flashing, fans yelling from behind barricades like their voices could carry miracles.

You clutched your notepad under one arm, voice recorder in hand, the strap of your media pass digging slightly into your neck. The Red Bull hospitality suite loomed ahead like a steel-and-glass spaceship, all chrome finishes and deep navy accents. Everything about it screamed precision and control even the PR team posted outside looked like they’d been handpicked from a Scandinavian runway show.

Max Verstappen had ten minutes slotted for interviews. Ten. No more. And the list of journalists waiting for him was longer than the pit lane. If you missed this window, you’d have to crawl back into the rotation with an apology email and a fake smile. And you hated crawling. Especially for Max.

You were just a few strides away. Almost there.

Then came the voice. Smooth. Familiar. Teasing.

“Red Bull, huh? Didn’t take you for the traitorous type.”

You didn’t have to turn around.

“Go away, Hamilton.”

The footsteps behind you didn’t stop. Of course they didn’t. In fact, they got closer. Uncomfortably close.

“That’s no way to talk to your favourite seven-time world champion,” he replied, tone dripping with mock offence.

You finally turned, just enough to throw him a glare over your shoulder.

And there he was. Lewis Hamilton.

Dressed in full Ferrari red, the fire suit unzipped halfway down his chest, revealing the sweat-damp base layer clinging to his skin. His race boots scuffed just enough to look like he’d actually worked that morning. His cap tilted slightly, curls tucked beneath it, grin wide and infuriatingly smug.

He walked beside you like you were glued at the hip, like he belonged in your orbit—like he was allowed to waltz into your space just because he wanted to.

“I’m working,” you said, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from letting his presence rattle you.

“So am I,” he shot back, shoving his hands in his pockets like this was a Sunday stroll through the paddock. “Part of the job is being nice to the press.”

You narrowed your eyes. “This isn’t being nice. This is harassment.”

“Oh please,” he said, clearly enjoying himself. “If I were harassing you, you’d know it. This is just…” He let the word hang, searching the air theatrically. “Charisma.”

You barked a laugh. “That’s what you’re calling it now?”

“That’s what they call it,” he said, nodding toward a nearby group of junior reporters who were very clearly watching the two of you like it was the latest season of Drive to Survive. One of them nudged another, mouthing something that looked a lot like They’re doing it again.

You groaned softly. “You’re turning my job into a meme.”

“I’m giving it flavour,” he said with a wink.

“You’re giving me a headache.”

Lewis leaned in just a fraction, close enough that you could smell his minty breath and a touch of cologne that was expensive. “I bet you say that with a smile when I’m not around.”

You didn’t blink. “I bet you say that line to every woman who walks past your garage.”

He placed a hand over his chest, mock wounded. “Wounded. Again. You really know how to break a man down, huh?”

You stopped walking. Spun on your heel so fast he nearly collided with you.

“What exactly do you want from me, Hamilton?” you asked, voice low, tight, sharp around the edges. “You’ve got a world-class car, a million fans, and a team press officer who’s probably already drafting an apology email because of this detour. So why the hell are you following me to the Red Bull paddock like a lovesick intern?”

He didn’t flinch.

If anything, he smiled wider. But it wasn’t as cheeky now. It was more intentional.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, eyes narrowing. “You’re jealous.”

“Jealous?” he repeated, scoffing like you’d accused him of baking cupcakes in secret. “Why would I be jealous? It’s not like Max is charming or witty or well, me.”

You stared at him, heart thudding louder now, stubbornly uninvited.

He stared right back, and for a brief, unexpected second the grin slipped.

Just a flicker. Barely a blink. But enough.

“I just don’t like sharing your attention,” he said, the words quieter, almost like they cost him something. “Especially with him.”

Your breath caught chest tightening before your brain could catch up.

And then—

“Hi—hi!” A young comms assistant appeared beside you in a flurry of nervous energy and tablet-clutching. “Max is ready for you now. Sorry, we’re running tight on time.”

You nodded, forcing your features back into something polished. Professional. Detached.

“Coming,” you said.

You started walking again, this time briskly, trying to shake off the heat crawling up your neck.

Lewis didn’t follow.

But just before you reached the steps to the suite, his voice floated toward you like a final warning or a promise.

“Dinner. Still on the table.”

You didn’t look back.

“Only if it’s not Ferrari catering,” you called over your shoulder, your voice steadier than your pulse.

His laugh followed you down the walkway, full-bodied and reckless, like he knew exactly what kind of chaos he was leaving behind.

Inside the hospitality suite, the air conditioning blasted your skin, but it did nothing to cool the burn under your collar.

You reached Max, shook his hand, and launched into your first question with a rehearsed smile.

But your heart was still hammering fast, uneven, annoyingly hopeful.

Because Lewis Hamilton had never played fair.

And despite every instinct, every boundary, every moment of journalistic decorum…

You didn’t really want him to. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Later that night.

The hotel ballroom pulsed with soft jazz, champagne flutes, and the dull thrum of tired engines still echoing in your ears. The post-qualifying media reception was glamorous in a muted, corporate sort of way dim chandeliers overhead, sponsor logos glowing from screens lining the walls, and the gentle rustle of expensive clothing trying not to wrinkle.

You were tucked into a booth at the edge of the room, laptop open, notes scattered, half a glass of wine untouched beside you.

You weren’t here to network. You were here to work to file quotes, shape analysis, write the kind of sharp yet digestible piece your editor liked to call “clickable without being desperate.” And if you wrapped it up tonight, you might actually sleep before the race tomorrow. Might.

Your attention was fixed on your screen, the cursor blinking back at you, taunting. You paused your typing just long enough to scribble a detail in your notebook something Max had said about tire degradation that could use a dramatic twist.

Then, a voice cut through the noise like velvet through smoke.

“Didn’t take you for the wallflower type.”

You froze.

No. No, no, no.

You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was.

But you did.

Lewis Hamilton stood beside your table, hands in his pockets, head tilted, eyes trained on you like he’d been looking for you since he walked into the room. He was no longer in his race suit now dressed in tailored black trousers and a deep burgundy shirt that should’ve been illegal in this lighting. Sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. Watch glinting. Smile lethal.

“Didn’t know you were invited,” you said, slowly closing your laptop.

“I wasn’t,” he said, unapologetic. “Heard there was a party. Didn’t realise it was invitation-only.”

“It is,” you said pointedly.

He slid into the booth opposite you without asking.

“Then I guess I’m crashing,” he said, reaching for your wine glass and taking a sip without hesitation. “You really need better taste in Pinot.”

You stared at him, equal parts exhausted and flustered. “Lewis.”

He met your gaze evenly. “That’s my name.”

“Don’t you have, I don’t know, a team debrief? A massage therapist? A manager to annoy?”

“They’re all very busy. I figured I’d come annoy you instead.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “I’m working.”

“You’re always working,” he said, softer now. “Even when you’re trying not to be.”

There was a beat of silence between you thick, charged, unspoken.

He leaned back against the booth, watching you like you were some riddles he couldn’t quite solve.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he added. “About not liking to share your attention.”

You glanced down at your notes, pretending to be disinterested. “Don’t make this a thing, Hamilton.”

“Too late,” he said. “It already is.”

You didn’t want this. Not here, not now. Not when your article was half-finished and your reputation barely balanced on the edge of objectivity.

But still, you asked, against your better judgment: “Why me?”

He blinked, as if the question genuinely surprised him. Then he leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice lower.

“Because you don’t flinch when I push. You give it back. And you see right through the noise. You don’t care about the headlines, or the car, or the team colours. You care about the truth. That’s rare.”

Your throat tightened, but you kept your tone flat. “That truth goes in my article tomorrow.”

He smirked. “Then make sure you quote me right.”

“Off the record,” you said, narrowing your eyes.

He lifted both hands in surrender. “Fine. Off the record.”

You stared at him. And for the first time in a while, you didn’t feel like a reporter and a driver on opposite sides of a line.

You felt like two people circling something dangerous and undeniable.

Then he stood, sliding out of the booth and adjusting his sleeves.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” he said, stepping away. “But dinner’s still on the table. And I’m a much better cook than Ferrari catering.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

You watched him melt back into the crowd, his presence lingering like a fingerprint on your wine glass.

Your hands hovered over the keyboard, the article blinking back at you.

And then, without thinking, you typed one sentence you hadn’t planned to include on your phone.

Lewis Hamilton doesn’t play fair. But maybe that’s what makes him worth watching.

You hit save.

And maybe just maybe you let yourself smile.

The race was over, but the tension hadn’t left the air.

Ferrari had secured a podium. Red Bull took the win. The champagne had been sprayed, the anthem played, and still, the paddock buzzed like a live wire as teams started packing down, cameras still rolling, and reporters shuffling between media pens, trying to catch every last usable soundbite before the feed cut to commercial.

You stood just outside the press pen, notebook in hand, voice recorder clipped to your collar. You were supposed to be focused. Professional. Detached.

But it was him again.

Lewis Hamilton grinning like the devil knew a secret, his Ferrari race suit tied at his waist, sweat-damp curls sticking out beneath his cap was drifting dangerously close to your section of the paddock, talking to Sky, joking with mechanics, and glancing at you way too often for it to be innocent.

You pretended not to notice.

But you did notice the way his smile changed slightly when he looked at you. Like it was private. Like it was meant just for you.

You were mid-sentence, jotting down something from Max’s interview, when you heard it:

“Looks like I’m not the only one who had a good race.”

Your pen froze.

You turned.

Lewis was right there.

Too close.

You stepped back slightly. “Shouldn’t you be doing debriefs or plotting world domination?”

“I was,” he said, eyes scanning your face. “But I got distracted.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Try harder.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “You always this grumpy post-race?”

“I’m always this grumpy when I’m being flirted with in front of three camera crews.”

He glanced around nonchalant, confident, knowingly and shrugged. “Let them look.”

“They are looking,” you hissed, lowering your voice. “And half of them have Twitter open right now.”

“Good,” he said, a flicker of something bolder in his tone. “Maybe they’ll finally stop pairing me with that pop star I haven’t texted in eight months.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He tilted his head, stepping just close enough that his words felt like heat on your skin. “I don’t flirt with anyone the way I flirt with you.”

You hated the way your stomach flipped.

You hated it even more when you caught the corner of a Sky Sports camera panning in your direction.

You stepped sideways, trying to shield your face behind your notebook. “Lewis, this isn’t—”

“Relax,” he murmured. “You’re the only one who thinks I’m not serious.”

That shut you up.

Because for a second just a split second it didn’t feel like flirting.

It felt like a line he meant.

You stared at him, pulse hammering, breath shallow, throat tight.

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to just above a whisper. “Come on. I made the podium. Don’t I get a kiss?”

Your breath caught.

You weren’t sure if it was the boldness of the ask or the very real, very smug look on his face as he said it right there in front of a handful of media staff, a couple of Ferrari crew members, and one very stunned Sky presenter clearly trying not to react on camera.

You blinked slowly, schooling your features. “Not unless you want that kiss turned into an HR complaint.”

He grinned. “I’ll risk it.”

You rolled your eyes hard enough to strain something, but you were fighting a smile. You could feel it faint, traitorous, tugging at the corners of your mouth.

Then, mercifully, someone called his name probably his press officer, furious.

He didn’t move.

Not right away.

Just looked at you, gaze steady, something soft curling beneath the charm.

Then he smiled again genuine this time and stepped back.

“I’ll let you go back to being cold and terrifying,” he said. “But I’ll see you tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Media dinner. Don’t pretend you forgot.”

You had forgotten.

Shit.

Before you could respond, he was gone walking backwards at first, grinning like he’d just scored pole position.

You watched him go, flustered beyond repair, heart doing double-time behind your press badge.

And then your phone vibrated.

A message from your best friend:

“Girl. You and Hamilton are on every F1 gossip thread. Again. 👀 I told you they’d catch on.”

You groaned.

Clicked the link.

There it was already reposted by three accounts: a clip from the paddock, where Lewis leaned in to talk to you. The way he smiled. The way your jaw clenched like you were trying not to smile back.

The caption?

“If this isn’t flirting, I don’t know what is.”

You closed the app.

Shoved your phone into your pocket.

And for once, you didn’t deny it.

A few hours later you arrived at the venue.

The restaurant buzzed with low chatter, soft jazz curling through the air like cigarette smoke. Flickering candlelight danced off polished cutlery and wine glasses, casting everyone in flattering shadows. Waiters glided through the space like chess pieces, placing tiny sculptural appetisers on pristine white plates. The PR teams had pulled out all the stops long tables, imported wines, and menus that required Google Translate.

You were seated between two motorsport journalists you vaguely liked, your recorder tucked away for the night, a half-full glass of champagne sweating at your elbow. This dinner was supposed to be harmless networking, laughing at polite jokes, asking the occasional softball question and calling it a night.

Then he walked in, Lewis Hamilton.

Black suit. No tie. The collar open, revealing just enough to stir something that had no business waking in the middle of a professional event. His presence soaked into the room like honey slow, warm, unmistakable. And the worst part?

He was looking directly at you.

Like he’d known where you were before he even stepped through the door.

He should’ve gone to the other table. There were three others. He should’ve.

But of course, he didn’t.

“Evening,” he said, pulling out the empty chair beside you like it had always belonged to him. “Is this seat taken?”

You didn’t even look up. “It was.”

“Not anymore,” he replied smoothly, already lowering himself into it. He shrugged off his jacket in a single fluid motion, hanging it on the back of the chair, and leaned slightly into your space, elbows grazing the white tablecloth. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You gave him a sideways glance, careful to keep your voice low. “This is a work event.”

“Exactly.” He grinned, shameless. “I’m working.”

“On what?”

“You.”

The journalist across from you choked on his water.

You sighed, closing your eyes for just a second. “Lewis.”

“Yes, darling?”

You turned to him now, slowly, giving him your sharpest, most disinterested stare. “Try not to embarrass yourself tonight.”

He held up both hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m simply enjoying the evening. The food. The company.”

“The company was better before you got here.”

He laughed under his breath, the sound dark and rich. “Yet you haven’t moved.”

You took a sip of champagne to avoid answering. He watched you do it with that same infuriating tilt to his head, like he was already two steps ahead of you and enjoying the wait.

Around you, conversation hummed of race strategy, tire degradation, who’d be switching teams next season but Lewis didn’t care. He made the right comments to the right people, just enough to be polite, but his real attention stayed on you.

Every word. Every pause. Every glance.

“You always frown when you’re trying not to laugh,” he said casually, somewhere between the foie gras and the main course.

“I’m not trying not to laugh.”

“Liar.”

His knee brushed yours under the table light, accidental, then deliberate. You moved away.

He followed.

The breadbasket made its rounds. Lewis handed it to you silently. You reached for it, and his fingers lingered just long enough for your skin to touch. Warm. Intentional. You didn’t pull back, but your pulse stuttered.

He noticed.

“You look good tonight,” he murmured. Just loud enough for you to hear.

“It’s a black dress, Hamilton. Calm down.”

“It’s not the dress.”

You stared down at your plate. “Do you ever turn it off?”

“Not when I’m trying to win.”

You finally turned to look at him. And there it was the challenge in his eyes, that unshakable confidence, wrapped in something slower, darker. Something not for show.

He wasn’t just trying to rattle you.

He wanted you to feel it.

He wanted you.

“Save it for the podium,” you said, voice cool, just as the dessert was set down in front of you.

But he didn’t back down. He just smiled wider. A slow, lazy, satisfied kind of smile the one that meant he already knew how this game would end.

Just as your spoon dipped into the brûlée, he leaned in again, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours.

“Still thinking about that kiss?”

You nearly dropped the spoon. Heat flared in your chest and climbed up your neck like wildfire.

Across the table, one of the journalists arched a brow. “Everything alright?”

“Fine,” you said too quickly, adjusting your posture.

Lewis stretched an arm across the back of your chair, not quite touching you, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him. Your spine went rigid.

The rest of the meal blurred together, a hazy mix of candlelight, half-listened conversations, and the constant awareness of the man beside you. You kept your face neutral. Your laugh controlled. Your answers professional.

But Lewis? He kept chipping away.

A glance that lingered too long. A low joke whispered in your ear. A comment about how your lipstick hadn’t smudged yet.

He was relentless. And maddeningly composed.

By the time the final plates were cleared, and people began to drift into the lounge for drinks, your jaw ached from clenching.

You stood abruptly, grabbing your clutch. “I need air.”

Lewis stood too, like it was instinct. “I’ll come.”

“You won’t.”

“I’ll still follow.”

He did.

Out through a glass door and into the garden terrace, where string lights dangled from old stone archways and ivy crept down the walls like a secret. The city glowed just beyond the wrought-iron gates golden and glittering. The night air was cooler than you expected, brushing over your skin like a sigh.

You stopped when you reached the edge of the garden, turning sharply to face him.

“What is wrong with you?”

He halted just short of you, eyes gleaming in the low light. “I just wanted to see how long you could pretend not to want me back.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Because the truth was burning at the back of your throat and if you said anything now, it would come out all at once. Too much. Too raw.

He saw the hesitation.

He knew.

Still, he waited. No smile now. Just eyes locked on yours, steady and silent.

“You gonna keep pretending?” he asked, voice low, intimate.

The words landed like a touch.

Your heart thundered in your ears. Your mouth was dry. And still – still you didn’t move.

But you didn’t walk away either.

Your silence stretched between you like thread pulled tight. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think not with him this close, not with his words still echoing in your chest like a secret you didn’t want anyone else to know.

“I’m not pretending,” you said finally, voice barely more than a whisper.

“Oh?” His brows lifted just slightly. “Then what is this?”

You shook your head once, slow and unsure. “This is a problem.”

He stepped in. One breath closer.

“Why?”

You swallowed hard. “Because you make it impossible to think straight.”

He smiled, softer now. No smirk. No smugness. Just truth.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Then we’re even.”

And he didn’t touch you not yet but he didn’t have to.

Because the war was over.

And you both knew exactly who had surrendered first.

The night had softened around you, the city glittering in the distance as the cool air kissed your bare shoulders. After the terrace confrontation or confession, if you were honest with yourself you hadn’t gone back inside. You��d needed a second to breathe, to steady your pulse, to remind yourself who you were before Lewis Hamilton decided to crawl under your skin and stay there.

You didn’t expect him to wait for you.

But when you turned the corner of the restaurant, clutching your phone and quietly Googling the nearest ride-share, he was already standing by a sleek black car out front. Jacket back on, tie still nowhere in sight. Leaning casually against the passenger door, like he knew you’d come this way.

“Your driver?” you asked, not stopping.

“Yours,” he replied, standing upright. “Figured you’d rather not make small talk with a stranger tonight.”

You hesitated.

It was tempting. Too tempting. Every cell in your body was begging for stillness. Quiet. Just a little more time to figure out what the hell had just happened on that terrace.

“I don’t need rescuing,” you said softly.

“I know,” he said, just as soft. “Still offering.”

You exhaled through your nose. “Fine. But no more lines.”

He opened the passenger door for you with a small smile. “Not a single one.”

The leather seats were warm. The car smelled like clean soap and something subtly spicy probably his cologne. He slid into the driver’s seat, glancing at you once as he started the engine.

“You, okay?” he asked.

You nodded. “Just decompressing.”

He pulled onto the quiet street, the city lights stretching out through the windshield like constellations. For a few minutes, neither of you spoke.

And for once, Lewis didn’t fill the silence.

Instead, he let it settle between you, calm and unforced.

“I wasn’t always like this, you know,” he said eventually, eyes still on the road.

“Like what?”

“Relentless. Always chasing.” A pause. “I used to be quieter.”

You looked at him then, catching the gentle curve of his jaw in the soft dashboard light.

“What changed?”

He shrugged; one hand relaxed on the steering wheel. “Life. Racing. Pressure. Winning makes you loud. Losing makes you louder.” He glanced at you. “But you make me want to be quiet again.”

Your throat tightened.

“That’s not fair,” you said, turning back to the window.

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t come here for this. I came here to do my job. Stay invisible. Be… untouchable.”

“You’re anything but invisible.”

“Exactly the problem.”

He was quiet again. You thought maybe you’d said too much.

But then he pulled up at a red light, and with one hand still on the wheel, he turned his head and looked at you. Really looked at you.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he said simply.

You blinked. “This?”

“This whatever it is. The pull. The spark. That kiss we’re both still thinking about. I’m not trying to win anymore. Not with you. I just want to know you.”

You sat still for a moment, processing it. Processing him.

And for the first time since you’d met him, you let yourself stop bracing.

“I grew up splitting weekends between two houses,” you said, voice quiet. “Learned early on not to take up too much space. Or expect consistency.”

He didn’t interrupt. Just listened.

“I wanted to be a lawyer,” you continued. “Or a detective. Something sharp. Something that made people pay attention when I walked in a room not because I was loud, but because I mattered.”

“You do.”

You turned your head. His eyes were still on you.

“You don’t even know me,” you whispered.

“I’m trying,” he said. “If you’ll let me.”

The light turned green, but neither of you noticed until the car behind gave a gentle honk. Lewis drove on in silence, but it wasn’t awkward now it was something like understanding. Like the edges between you had softened.

When he pulled up to your building, he didn’t kill the engine right away.

You looked at him. “You really meant it?”

“Every word.”

You didn’t kiss him. You didn’t need to.

You just sat there, staring at him like maybe for once you didn’t have to keep your armour on. His eyes held yours, soft and steady, like he was memorising this version of you. Not the one from the paddock, not the one at the media event. Just you.

And then without asking he leaned in just slightly, one hand rising between you.

You held your breath.

He gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers barely grazing your cheek. The touch was feather-light, reverent. It made your stomach twist in that dangerous, beautiful way the one that felt like falling, but somehow felt safe too.

His gaze lingered on you for a beat longer.

Then he leaned forward and pressed a soft, warm kiss to your cheek.

Not rushed. Not suggestive.

When he pulled back, there was the smallest smile on his lips quiet, earnest.

“Goodnight,” he said, voice low.

Your hand was already on the door handle, but you paused for one more second, letting your fingers brush the inside of your wrist where he’d touched you earlier. You could still feel it.

Your heart thudded.

“I’ll think about it,” you said, lips curling into a smile you didn’t bother to hide.

And this time, he was the one left watching you walk away.

Speechless.

Hopeful.

And, maybe, just a little bit undone. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Few days later.

You were mid-sentence, microphone steady in hand, nodding along as the Alpine team principal launched into a detailed explanation about tire degradation and long-run pace. Your expression was the very picture of professionalism neutral, attentive, practiced. You’d done this a hundred times, maybe more. Ask the question, listen carefully, nod thoughtfully, deliver the follow-up. Keep your tone measured, your face steady, your personal space a fortress.

But what you didn’t know what you couldn’t possibly see was that just behind you, out of the camera’s frame, Lewis Hamilton had silently appeared.

And he was making faces.

It began subtly: a slow arch of his eyebrow, an exaggerated tilt of his head as if hearing something utterly baffling. When the team principal mentioned the word “strategy,” Lewis’s eyes widened in mock astonishment, then he pulled out a slow, theatrical yawn that looked entirely too genuine. The cameraman caught on quickly and stifled a laugh, trying hard to keep his composure.

Lewis was relentless. He leaned forward and blinked slowly, deliberately, like he was struggling to stay awake during a particularly dry lecture. Then, with the precision of a seasoned comedian, he made a grimace so over-the-top it was borderline cartoonish exactly the “this guy again?” look you imagined everyone in the paddock had perfected by now.

You, however, were completely oblivious. You stayed locked in your role: nodding, listening, responding your face an expert mask of concentration.

That is, until the Alpine principal’s eyes flicked to your shoulder mid-answer and twitched in amused recognition.

You caught the shift immediately.

“Everything alright?” you asked, a faint furrow in your brow.

“Uh yeah. Just…Hamilton’s behind you,” came the awkward reply.

Without hesitation, you twisted on your heel, your gaze sharpening.

There he was Lewis, way too close for comfort, grinning like a mischievous child caught in the act. His jacket hung casually off one shoulder, his tie undone, eyes sparkling with mischief.

He gave you a cheeky little wave.

You raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Are you twelve?”

“Emotionally? Probably,” he replied, utterly unbothered by your glare.

“I’m working.”

“I know,” he said, voice low and sincere, “and you’re very impressive.”

He leaned in a little closer, voice dropping to a stage whisper only you could hear, “But also, incredibly serious. Someone had to loosen things up.”

You shook your head, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of your lips and turned back to the mic.

“I’m so sorry,” you said apologetically to the team principal. “He wasn’t invited.”

Lewis gasped dramatically behind you. “Wow. Cold.”

“Security,” you said without missing a beat.

The room chuckled the crew letting out quiet laughter, the team principal himself cracking a smile.

Lewis wasn’t done. He leaned forward again, just close enough so only you could hear.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly.

You didn’t turn. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t let your guard down.

But your voice, when you answered, was warmer than it had been moments before.

“I figured.”

A slow, mischievous smile spread across his face as he took a small step closer. His voice lowered even more, drawing you into a private moment despite the camera still rolling and the surrounding crew stifling their laughter.

“You know I’ll only stop pestering you if you finally agree to that date,” he said, eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

Your lips twitched, trying to keep things professional. It was impossible.

“The date,” you echoed, voice low but still clear enough for the mic to pick up, the word hanging between you like a secret.

“Yeah. You. Me. Somewhere quiet. No cameras. No interviews.”

Your eyes flicked sideways toward the camera lens. The cameraman gave you a barely concealed grin, like he was in on the joke.

“And you think I’m going to say yes to that?” you teased, voice dripping with playful challenge.

Lewis’s grin deepened, his breath just a whisper against your cheek. “I think you want to.”

You took a slow breath, feeling your heartbeat rise not from nerves, but from the thrill coursing through you.

“Fine,” you said, your tone mixing mock solemnity with genuine warmth, “Yes. You win.”

The team principal shook his head, laughing softly. The cameraman gave an enthusiastic thumbs up.

The live feed continued unabated.

The media was definitely going to lose their minds.

And you?

You let yourself enjoy the moment, the subtle shift in the air around you.

The spark had been struck.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe something unforgettable was just beginning.

The moment you said yes, a subtle ripple passed through the crew. The cameraman’s grin turned into a barely contained chuckle. The Alpine team principal exchanged a knowing look with his engineers, shaking his head with a smile like this paddock had just gotten a lot more interesting.

Back in the broadcast van, the producers caught the exchange live, and their immediate reaction was audible through the comms laughter, surprised whistles, and a few rapid-fire messages about clipping that moment for social media.

Within seconds, the paddock’s social feeds lit up. Journalists whispered into their phones, fingers flying over keyboards. “Did you see that? Hamilton’s charm offensive is officially on air,” one tweet read, while another teased, “Who’s got the popcorn? The new Hamilton romance saga starts now.”

You caught Lewis watching you out of the corner of your eye, his smile almost smug but utterly genuine.

As soon as the interview wrapped, Lewis slid in beside you with a relaxed ease, as if he belonged there, despite the chaos his presence always seemed to bring.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” he said quietly, voice a velvet rumble only you could hear.

You glanced at him, a slow smile spreading across your face. “Don’t get too cocky. I’m just giving you a head start.”

He laughed softly, eyes bright with mischief and something warmer, something like anticipation.

“Fair enough. But now that the world knows, I guess we’ll have to make it a date worth remembering.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart wasn’t in it. “No pressure.”

He winked, and just like that, the playful game between you had shifted into something deliciously real.

The days after that on-air moment felt like stepping into a secret world one that existed just between you and Lewis, away from the prying eyes, vibrant cameras, and relentless headlines.

At first, there was nothing official. No announcements, no social media posts, no whispered rumours swirling in paddocks or paddock cafés. Just stolen mornings spent over strong black coffees at quiet cafés tucked away behind the circuits places where nobody recognised you, or if they did, they respected your space. Casual texts that lingered longer than necessary, filled with playful banter, inside jokes, and late-night messages that made your heart beat a little faster.

You’d joked about that live interview the way he’d teased you into agreeing to a date, the way his eyes twinkled with mischief just before he whispered the words that made your pulse skip. At the time, it had felt like a dare, a game. But the truth was, neither of you had imagined it would start so quietly, so carefully, so deliberately off the radar.

Lewis was thoughtful, almost protective of the fragile bubble you both had created. He understood how quickly the public could turn something beautiful into a circus. So, he made sure your moments together were shielded from the glare of cameras and the noise of speculation. It was a rare kindness, and you treasured it.

Some afternoons, you found yourself slipping into the garage, pretending to review notes, while he adjusted the car’s settings nearby. You caught him stealing glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking, a soft smile tugging at his lips. Those quiet minutes surrounded by the scent of rubber and fuel felt intimate, a world apart from the chaos of race day.

Other times, you met at the hotel gym, the hum of treadmills and clinking weights your only soundtrack. You’d exchange quick smiles between sets, sharing fleeting moments of normalcy amid the madness. The staff who passed by barely spared a glance, the invisible shield your secret relationship created.

You learned the small things about him the way he preferred his coffee black and strong, the soft hum he made when lost in thought, the way his smile deepened and eyes softened when he caught you off guard with a quiet compliment whispered just for you. You found yourself letting your guard down, shedding the layers of professional distance you’d built over years of interviews and cameras.

It wasn’t always easy. The pressure to stay hidden gnawed at you sometimes, a restless ache beneath the surface. The fear of being discovered brought a thrill and a tension that only made those moments sweeter. There were times your heart hammered in your chest when you heard footsteps approach unexpectedly, or when a photographer lingered too long in the distance.

But those stolen moments with soft smiles exchanged in the shadows, whispered conversations over coffee, the brush of his hand against yours as you passed were yours alone.

One afternoon, several weeks after your whispered “yes to date” on live TV, Lewis caught you just as you were about to leave the paddock. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the bustling scene, but when he stepped into your path, the world seemed to hush. He looked casual, in a simple T-shirt and jeans, but the way his eyes locked on yours was serious, the kind of serious that made your breath catch.

He cleared his throat, a slight nervousness in his smile. “So,” he said, stepping closer, lowering his voice so only you could hear over the din, “how about we make that date official? Not just a maybe or a secret but a proper night out. Just us.”

Your heart skipped a beat, a mixture of nerves and excitement swirling inside you like a summer storm.

“Just us,” you echoed, feeling the weight and warmth of the promise in those words. A slow smile spread across your face despite the fluttering in your chest.

He nodded, his smile widening, the familiar spark returning to his eyes. “No cameras. No distractions. Just a night where you don’t have to be the professional interviewer, and I don’t have to be the driver.”

You glanced around, suddenly aware of the usual chaos of the paddock fading into the background, leaving only the two of you suspended in that moment.

“I’d like that,” you said softly, meaning every word.

“Good,” he replied, voice low and steady. “Because I’ve been waiting to ask for weeks.”

That night, as you walked away with your pulse still racing, your mind replayed the moment over and over. You knew, deep down, this was only the beginning.

Weeks passed, and your time together grew richer with each secret meeting, each shared smile. You both moved slowly, carefully, savouring the quiet intimacy that only those first days of something new can hold.

One evening, you found yourselves sitting side by side on a balcony overlooking the city lights, the noise of the world far below and forgotten. The air was warm, scented with jasmine and night blossoms. You watched as the city flickered to life, streetlights blinking on like stars pulled from the sky.

Lewis reached out then, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. His gaze held yours steady, full of something deeper than you’d felt before.

After a comfortable silence, Lewis turned slightly, searching your eyes as if looking for permission.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said quietly. “About us. About this whatever it is.”

You smiled, fingers curling around his hand.

“I want to stop hiding,” he continued, voice steady but vulnerable. “I want to be with you not just these secret moments, but all of it. The good, the messy, the loud, everything.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, eyes glistening.

“So,” he said, a slow smile tugging at his lips, “would you be my girlfriend? Officially. Publicly. Me and you, no secrets.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, a warmth flooding your chest.

“Yes,” you whispered. “I want that too.”

His smile grew, radiant and real, as he pulled you into a gentle, lingering hug.

For the first time in a long time, you felt completely seen. Completely free.

Because even if the world wasn’t ready yet, you were.

Ready for whatever came next. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

A month after dating -

The atmosphere was electric.

The Ferrari garage pulsed with energy, a blur of red, roaring voices, and champagne spraying like rain in the late afternoon sun. Mechanics and engineers embraced, team members shouted in celebration, and fans along the barriers screamed Lewis’s name like it was gospel.

It was his first win with Ferrari and the paddock hummed with a kind of high that only came when history was being written in real time.

You should have been swept up in it, too. And in a way, you were. But you were still at work mic in hand, earpiece live, standing just outside the McLaren motorhome and trying to stay composed for your post-race segment.

You were interviewing Lando Norris, who’d crossed the line in second, still flushed from the race and smiling wide, his race suit unzipped down to his waist. He was rambling playfully, his accent warm and teasing.

“I mean, I almost had him,” Lando said, chuckling. “But you know Lewis...Give him a car that breathes, and he’ll make it sing.”

You grinned, trying to focus. “Well, if today’s anything to go by, the Ferrari anthem might be on repeat for the rest of the season.”

“Looks like it,” Lando replied with a pointed glance over your shoulder. “Speaking of the man himself…”

You blinked, confused, following his gaze—

And then you felt him.

Strong arms wrapped around your waist from behind, warm and grounding. A familiar scent sweat, champagne, and just the slightest hint of his cologne washed over you in an instant. You froze, the microphone dipping slightly in your hand.

Your eyes widened as the realisation hit. Lewis.

He didn’t say a word at first, just pulled you flush against him in a moment so casual and effortless that it made your heart stop. Your breath hitched, and your body tensed before instinctively relaxing into the comfort of him.

Then his lips brushed your cheek. Soft, slow, intimate. A kiss that wasn’t rushed or hidden. It lingered like a promise. Before pepper kissing your face…

On live television.

In front of thousands. Maybe millions.

Lando burst into laughter. “Well, alright then.”

The cameraman wavered, unsure whether to keep filming or pan away, but it was too late. The moment was caught. Burned into the feed. Sent out into the world in crisp, clear definition.

You turned in Lewis’s arms, stunned. Eyes searching his, your brain trying to catch up. Your heart was hammering in your chest, both thrilled and absolutely panicked.

“We’re live,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said calmly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I figured it’s time.”

Your jaw nearly dropped. Time? You had been careful. So careful. The private dates, the whispered conversations in corners, the inside jokes behind closed doors. You had walked this tightrope for months he, a global icon; you, the ever-neutral journalist.

But Lewis?

He looked completely unbothered. Happy, even.

“I’ve waited long enough to show this,” he added, lowering his voice for only you to hear. “You’re not just some secret I want to keep. Not anymore.”

The producer’s voice crackled in your earpiece, asking what the hell just happened, but you didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Your face burned with heat, and your fingers trembled slightly where they clutched the microphone. But your chest, your heart was full.

When you finally stepped away from the camera, the chaos had already begun.

By the time you made it backstage, your phone had exploded. Notifications filled your screen in a dizzying scroll text from colleagues, friends, your editor in all caps. Twitter was in absolute meltdown. Instagram reels were already cutting together fan reactions. TikToks analysed the hug in slow motion, zooming in on the kiss, the way your face lit up.

“Lewis Hamilton confirms mystery girlfriend live on air.”

“Ferrari’s golden boy and the F1 journalist he’s been flirting with for months—finally official.”

“The way he hugged her. The way she froze. The cheek kiss. I’m sobbing.”

#HamitonHasHer was trending within the hour.

Clips of past interviews resurfaced. Fans shared moments they swore they saw sparks how he always seemed to smile a little wider when talking to you, how your questions were often met with teasing, how his eyes had always lingered a little too long on your face.

People had guessed, sure. But no one had known.

Until now.

You sat in the media centre later that night, dazed. Your laptop open but untouched, your phone still buzzing with alerts. A dozen F1 journalists were speculating on podcasts and YouTube videos, analysing every moment between you and Lewis from the past year.

And then, a text from him:

“Dinner? Just us. No cameras. I’ll pick you up in 20.”

You smiled, a little breathless.

It didn’t matter what the world said now. You weren’t a mystery anymore.

You were his.

And for the first time, he was yours publicly, unapologetically and forever caught in the glow of victory and something deeper than just a race.

[endless-ineffabilities]

chemical override (11)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

a/n: after a lil bit of a break, chem ov has returned! More of the drama, the yearning, and the tension is served here, for your pleasure <3

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

Following the reader's unfortunate accident, tensions run high between the two men vying for her heart. The cast get together to celebrate Ewan's birthday, and things go exactly as you would expect. And then some.

Ewan has never been the most active in the cast group chat. It does amuse him some, especially when Tom and Rhys get into those selfie battles of theirs, when all throughout the day, the chat would be flooded with deliberately posed pictures of the two pulling the most ridiculous faces in increasingly absurd locations.

It's a place for playful jabs, catching up, sharing updates. Light banter all around.

Which is why Ewan's heart nearly jumped out of his chest when the latest message came. He had been on location in LA, running through the script for his film when he received the notification. He’d ignored it at first, never one to reply promptly anyway. But a flicker of instinct – or maybe he felt it, felt you – made him check. 

Phia informed the group that you had an accident.

“... and it was during stunt training, but she’s fine and is in the hospital now…”

Everyone was encouraged to visit if they could or send their well wishes. 

Ewan’s mind reeled. Fine? What the hell does that mean? Fine could be a scratch or it could be… Fuck.

He read the message over and over until they blurred together. He knew he was willing the words to change like some idiot. You had to be okay. Nothing bad could happen to you.

Phia had just casually dropped the bombshell. She might as well have said, “Hey, how is everyone, good? Oh, by the way, she almost died but it’s cool.”

Ewan knew none of it was Phia’s fault, but that didn’t stop him from feeling an overwhelming irritation. What did ‘fine’ even mean? If he threw his phone across the room like he wanted, would that be fine?

He felt nauseous with worry as he dialled whoever he could – anyone who might give him more than just that damn word. Time went by torturously slowly, the only thing repeating in his head was the image of you – broken, unconscious, or worse – until Phia finally confirmed that it wasn’t life-threatening. 

He had to calm down, according to her. You are being taken care of, and are set to make a swift recovery.

But even then, it wasn’t enough.

Because it was you.

“Love… you’re awake.”

Sitting beside your hospital bed, Ewan gets a good look at you – finally awake but still too fragile for his liking. He hadn’t slept properly, and he feels like a whole mess. 

You blink slowly, your eyes meeting his. “Ewan?”

He feels like breathing again after being underwater for far too long. He can’t help the awkward smile that tugs at his lips. “Hey, darling. You look like you just fought a dragon.”

You start to laugh, but it quickly turns into a wince, and you relax back into the pillow. “Oh, jeez, don’t make me laugh. My head hurts.”

He quickly reaches for the glass of water on your bedside table and offers it to you. “Sorry, my bad. I’ll be my usual, stoic, boring self then.”

“You’re never boring, Mitchell.” You roll your eyes, before taking a sip.

He can’t help but watch you closely, as if you might vanish if he looks away. “Phia told the whole cast about your accident in the group chat. Did you know that?” he said, trying to keep things light.

“Oh great,” you mumble. “Did Rhys send one of his motivational selfies?”

“Well,” Ewan smiles. “He did. Said something about you ‘getting back in the saddle’ while he posed with a horse. It was inspirational, honestly.”

Ewan hadn’t felt anything when he saw that, consumed with thoughts of you, but now he feels free to let amusement wash over him. Now that he’s with you.

You roll your eyes again, softly smiling. “Of course he did. Well, I appreciate it.”

You are okay, which means Ewan is okay.

He knows just how in love he is with you. Even though you’d broken things off for his sake, even though the boundaries had blurred. Then friends with benefits. No strings. Except those strings had tightened around both of you, slowly suffocating the pretense until it collapsed. And now here you both were – again. With the issue of his PR looming like a goddamn stormcloud, and there is no running from it. 

He clears his throat. “You scared the hell out of me, you know?”

Your expression softens as you look at him. “I’m sorry. But I’m okay, really.”

He sighs, running a hand through his unruly dark blonde hair. “I didn’t know what I’d find when I got here. And Phia, bless her, has a knack for delivering life-altering news like she’s talking about what she had for breakfast.”

“She means well.” You smile, shaking your head.

“Yeah, darling, but next time, let’s just skip the part where you end up in a hospital bed, okay?” He reaches for your hand, his voice wavering slightly. He hates how vulnerable he sounds, but there’s nothing he can do to hide it.

“Deal.” You give his hand a playful shake, but your tone is sincere. 

Ewan glances down, his jaw tightening. He wants to ask if things can finally go back to the way they were – to you being his. He’s already yours anyway. 

But instead, he swallows hard and forces a lighthearted tone. “You know, if I had been there to teach you how to ride the Buck, then this never would have happened.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh really, Mitchell? I’m pretty sure you almost got thrown off once.”

Ewan scoffs, giving you his best offended look. “Almost doesn’t count, darling. I’ve practically mastered it now. I do ride the biggest and fiercest dragon in the realm, remember?”

“I said don’t make me laugh,” you say, giving him a pointed look. 

He leans forward, his smirk widening. “I’m just saying. I could’ve saved you from all the stale hospital food. I mean – ” There’s a familiar flicker in his expression. With his head tilted downward, he looks at you through his eyelashes. “ – I have seen you ride, and you’ve got skill, but you do need my help.”

Your mouth falls open at his audacity. “Mitchell! When have you been this smug?”

“Only you have seen the full range of my talents,” he teased.

“Oh really?” you counter. “I did hit my head, so maybe I forgot all about them.”

“Recover quick, and I can jog your memory.”

He can feel the pull – he’d always felt it – and the familiar ache creeps back into his chest, stronger than ever. He wants to reach for you and close the gap. But instead, he buries it beneath a smirk.

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that.”

“Good. I’ll even throw in a few tricks. You know, to keep things interesting.”

“You said it, Mitchell,” you snort softly.

His gaze lingers on you, and the playful banter stalls, replaced by something heavier. And before he can stop himself, he leans close, hovering over you. 

“I’m glad you’re okay, darling,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.

You don’t respond, but you don’t need to. The way you look at him, the way your eyes soften, says enough. He hesitates for just a moment, his hand brushing gently against yours before he leans in further.

Gently, he presses his lips to your forehead, the touch light and lingering. When he pulls back, his face is close to yours, his gaze searching as if he is waiting for something. An answer. A sign. Anything to tell him where this was going.

There is something in your expression that seems like the same yearning that he has been unable to fight for so long.

“I’ll be here,” he whispers, the heavy significance of the words settling. “Whenever you need me.”

It’s your third morning at the hospital, when Phia, Liv and Tom burst into your room like a gust of fresh air, their loud voices echoing out in the hall.

Phia’s holding an extravagant bouquet of flowers – so big it practically obscures her face – while Liv balances a tray of coffees, her smile bright and warm. Tom walks in last with a massive balloon arrangement, the centre one reading GET WELL SOON in neon colours. 

“Look who’s alive and kicking!” Tom announces, waving the balloons around. “For a while there, we thought Alyna was going to have to be recast!”

Liv elbows him sharply in the ribs, then sets the coffees down on your bedside. “Tom, honestly.”

You can’t help the grin that creeps onto your face. “Yeah, right. As if there could ever be a better Alyna.”

Ewan sits by your bed, arms crossed, watching the group with quiet amusement. But the second Phia notices him, she arches a brow and points at him with a no-nonsense look. “Mitchell. Go home. Shower. Sleep. You look like death cooked over.”

Ewan’s brow furrows, and he opens his mouth to protest, but Phia cuts him off with a stern glare. “I’m not asking. I’m telling.”

He glances down at you, his expression conflicted, but you give him a small, tired nod. “You probably should. You’ve been here the whole time.”

Ewan hesitates, but then sighs, resigned. “Alright. But I’ll be back soon, darling.”

Phia nods, pleased. “Good. And don’t come back until you’ve slept at least eight hours… darling.”

Ewan shoots her a mock glare, then leans down toward you, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “See you in a few hours,” he murmurs softly, his voice just for you.

You nod, watching as he leaves the room, your heart sinking just a little. As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, Phia turns to you with a smirk. “He’s so whipped.”

Your cheeks flush instantly. “He’s just… worried.”

“Worried?” Tom scoffs, dropping into a chair beside Phia. “Right. I’m sure that’s all it is.”

“Please,” Liv chimes in, smiling knowingly. “He’s been practically glued to your side since you woke up.”

You shift uncomfortably, trying to deflect. “Yeah, well, after everything, we’re just… friends.”

Phia arches a brow. “Friends? You guys stopped being just friends since the age of the fucking dinosaurs, doll.”

You open your mouth to argue, but Liv interrupts, sliding you a cup of water from the tray. “Alright, we’ll stop harassing you – for now. Let’s talk birthday plans instead.”

At the mention of birthdays, guilt twists in your stomach. Ewan’s birthday had been in March, just a few weeks ago. You had known, but with the mess of the overall situation, it had slipped by.

“I completely forgot his birthday,” you murmur, the guilt weighing heavy. “I should’ve done something.”

Liv squeezes your hand gently. “You’ve had a lot on your plate. I’m sure he understands.”

Tom leans forward with a grin. “That’s why we’ve got a plan to make up for it. Joint birthday bash.”

Phia nods, her eyes twinkling. “For Ewan, Fabien, and Freddie. We’re thinking a trip to Spain, some villa, maybe a pool party, lots of sunshine. It’ll be a proper holiday for everyone.”

“Wait, what?” You blink, surprised by the sudden reveal of such an elaborate plan.

Liv grins. “Yeah. We’ve already started organising it. It’ll be in mid April, just after you’re up and moving again. A real joint celebration for the three of them.”

Tom gestures grandly. “Fabien’s excited. Lord Freddie’s thrilled to be celebrated, you know how he is. Ewan – well, he doesn’t know yet, cause all he thinks about is you.”

The idea sounds incredible – a break in Spain with the cast, a chance to relax and celebrate together. Especially after your on-set slipup. But the more they talk, the more conflicted you feel. Being in the same place with both Ewan and Matty… would be something indeed. 

Ewan is still to be in a carefully curated PR relationship, all for the sake of his movie. You dislike it, though you understand it, that relentless Hollywood game of optics. But the thought of spending time with him at a secluded villa in Spain – away from cameras, prying eyes, and staged appearances – sends your heart racing. You know Ewan. He’d see it as an opportunity. A chance to be close to you, to slip back into old habits, to erase the distance that the PR relationship has forced between you.

There would be no cameras, no script to follow – just the two of you in the same space, and you already know what that would lead to.

The memory of the masquerade ball is still fresh in your mind. That one night, where the lines had blurred so easily. You’d been wrapped in the heat of his arms, the press of his body against yours, the intoxicating thrill of being with him without anyone knowing.

And then there is Matty. Sweet Matty who is too charming for his own good. You had started seeing him casually, trying to convince yourself you could make it work, and you can’t deny the pull he has on you. How easy it all could be. Being with him feels like standing with the warm embrace of sunshine. 

You love Ewan. You want Matty. Thousands of girls would scramble to be in your position – the one who captured the boys’ affections. You, the one lying there in a hospital gown, with a broken ankle and head gauze.

So glamorous. So desirable. 

Tom’s voice cuts through your thoughts, bringing you back to the present. “So, Spain. Swimming, sunbathing, a giant villa – what do you think?”

You blink, catching up to the conversation. “I think… I’m in.”

Phia grins widely. “Good. Ewan’ll be thrilled you’re coming.”

Liv smiles. “We thought the party could be a way for everyone to unwind, you included. No pressure.”

No pressure. But you know there is pressure – at least, there is for you. You’ve been avoiding it, dancing around the feelings you can’t admit to yourself, let alone to Ewan. And Matty – kind, supportive Matty, who doesn’t deserve to be caught up in your mess.

“Yeah, no pressure,” you say softly, but the words feel hollow.

Phia stands up suddenly, clapping her hands together. “Alright, enough of this emotional nonsense. Let’s talk logistics – birthday cake! We’re doing three layers, one for each of the boys.”

Tom dryly says, “I offered to get Martha to bake it, but we decided against it because her specialty is burnt-charcoal waffles.”

Phia shoots him a deadpan look. “They were practically concrete. Love her though!”

Liv laughs, shaking her head. “We’ll leave the cake to the professionals, thanks.”

As the conversation shifts to party details and farfetched ideas, your mind drifts. You try to stay focused, but your thoughts keep circling back to the same place – Spain, the party, Ewan and Matty. The idea of being around them for days, in a relaxed holiday setting, feels both exciting and terrifying. 

You know it’s not just a party. It’s a ticking time bomb.

Ewan’s footsteps echo in the sterile hospital hallway, his grip tight on the bouquet he’s brought for you – your favourite flowers, carefully chosen. As per Phia’s orders, he had gone home and slept a good 10 hours, being more exhausted than he must have realised. The day after, going back to you was the only thing that came to mind, and he was out the door in no time.

As he rounds the corner toward your room, his steps falter at the sight of someone else approaching. 

Matt.

His tall frame is impossible to miss. He saunters down the hall from the opposite direction, holding a similar bouquet in one hand and a gift bag in the other. Ewan feels the tension twisting in his stomach as Matt’s eyes meet his across the corridor. 

For a moment, the hallway falls into an eerie silence, the air thick with an unspoken challenge. Neither of them says a word as they approach the door to your room at almost the same time, both armed with flowers, both here for you. 

“Ewan,” Matt greets first, his voice low, almost amused.

Ewan nods, keeping his expression neutral. “Matt.”

Ewan’s eyes flick to the flowers in Matt’s hand, and a bitter taste rises in his throat. Matt isn’t just another visitor, he’s the guy who’s been with you while Ewan is forced to sit on the sidelines. 

“You’re here again,” Matt comments, breaking the silence. “Not that I’m surprised.” 

Ewan raises an eyebrow. “And why wouldn’t I be? She needs support.”

Matt’s eyes narrow slightly, and his smile is tight. “I get that. But I’m here now too. She’s got plenty of support.”

Ewan feels a flicker of annoyance, his grip tightening on the bouquet. “You think that’s all it is? Just showing up with flowers and pretending you know what she needs?”

Matt’s jaw clenches, but he keeps his cool. He knows better than to cause a scene in the middle of a public hallway. “And you think you’re the only one who cares about her? The only one who knows her? She and I – we’ve been spending plenty of time together. I’ve got some idea of what she needs.”

The possessiveness in Matt’s tone is unmistakable, and it sets Ewan on edge. He steps closer, his eyes locked on Matt’s. “You’ve only been dating her for a few weeks, mate. But we’ve been through things that you couldn’t even begin to understand.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard all about your history. But let’s be real – if you were so good for her, why’d she end things with you? Why’s she with me now?”

Ewan feels a sharp pang at the reminder, but he doesn’t back down. “If you think things are over between me and her, then you’re mistaken. It will never be over. Maybe you’re a convenience. Someone for the moment.”

Matt takes a step forward, closing the distance between them. “A convenience? Right. I don’t see you making any moves to change the situation. You’ve been content to sit back and watch while I’ve been with her. Maybe you’re the one who’s convenient, yeah?”

Ewan’s jaw tightens, his heart pounding in his chest. He knows Matt’s right, in a way – he’s been stuck, unable to break free from the PR relationship that’s kept him and you apart. But that doesn’t make what Matt’s saying any easier to swallow.

“The way I see it, you’re just a distraction,” Ewan says, his voice sharp, laced with bitterness, “a way for her to forget what she really wants.”

Matt’s eyes flash with anger now, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “And what she really wants is you, is that it? Tell me, Ewan, if you’re so sure she’s still in love with you, why hasn’t she said anything? Why hasn’t she kicked me to the curb and come running back?”

The words hit harder than Ewan expects, and for a moment, he falters. He knows you still love him – he can see it in the way you look at him, the way you can never quite let go. But Matt’s right. You haven’t made a choice. And now here they are, two men standing in a hallway, both fighting for something that feels just out of reach.

Ewan steps even closer. “You think just because you’re in the picture now, I��m going to step aside and let you have her? Not a fucking chance, mate.”

Matt takes a deep breath in an attempt to collect himself. It’s clear to him that Ewan isn’t going to loosen up easily. Especially not when he’s being provoked. “I’m not asking you to step aside. But unless she tells me otherwise, I’ll keep showing up. So maybe you should get used to that.”

Ewan looks away, his voice lowering. “We… both… care about her. I’m not denying that. But don’t fool yourself. She hasn’t made her choice yet.”

“Maybe she hasn’t.” Matt holds his gaze. “But I’m here, and I’m willing to wait. Are you?”

The hallway feels suffocating, the weight of their words heavy in the air. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Ewan speaks again, his voice softer but no less intense.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Matt nods once. “Neither am I.”

They stand there in silence for a moment, the unspoken agreement settling between them. It’s a temporary truce, but they both know this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Finally, they turn toward your room, the door looming in front of them like a gateway to another battle. Ewan’s heart pounds as he pushes the door open, stepping inside, with Matt close behind.

You’re awake, sitting up slightly in bed, looking both surprised and nervous as you see the two of them enter together.

“Well, this is… unexpected,” you say, your voice tinged with humour as your eyes dart between the two men.

“Hey,” Matt says with an easy smile, walking over to place his flowers on the table by your bed. “Thought I’d stop by, check in on you.”

Ewan follows suit, setting his bouquet down next to Matt’s, though his gaze stays fixed on you. “And I came back, as promised.”

“Funny that you show up at the same time.” You glance between them, your brow raising. 

Matt chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, we didn’t exactly plan it.”

Ewan forces a smile, trying to keep things light. “Just making sure you’re not causing any more trouble, darling.”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Oh, I’m definitely the troublemaker here.”

Ewan sinks into the chair by your bed while Matt leans against the windowsill, arms crossed. For a brief moment, it almost feels normal. Almost.

“Phia mentioned Spain,” Matt says after a beat, his voice casual, but there’s an edge to his tone. “The birthday trip.”

You nod eagerly. “The joint birthday for the lads.” Your eyes flicker to Ewan. “I feel terrible for missing your birthday last month.”

Ewan shakes his head, his expression softening. “You had a lot going on. Don’t worry about it.”

The casual mention of his birthday tugs at your heartstrings. You hadn’t forgotten exactly, but things had been so complicated. Now, though, guilt gnaws at you.

“I’ll make it up to you,” you say sincerely, looking at Ewan, and the way his eyes hold yours makes your heart skip a beat.

“Yeah, the villa should be fun,” Matt chimes in, but there’s something sharp in his tone. “But we have to be sure you’re in tip top shape first, love.”

“I’ll be the one in the bikini and a leg cast,” you joke. 

The conversation drifts into lighter topics – memories of on-set pranks, silly cast antics – but there’s an underlying tension, like a storm brewing just beneath the surface. It’s almost like watching a film in slow motion, each moment dragging longer than it should, with none of you willing to say what you’re really thinking.

After a while, Ewan checks his phone, his brows knitting together. He glances at you, a reluctant sigh escaping his lips. “Darling, I need to head out. I’ve got a meeting with my manager to sort out the filming schedule.”

You nod in understanding. “You did leave LA pretty quickly. I don’t want you getting in trouble because of me.”

Ewan’s gaze softens. “It’s not trouble,” he says quietly. “Not when it’s for you.”

As he walks to the door, he pauses and looks back at you, his expression unreadable. He hesitates, then takes a few steps back toward the bed, leaning down to kiss your forehead gently. The gesture is tender, and it leaves a warmth in its wake that lingers long after he’s gone.

“Rest up, darling,” he murmurs before turning to leave.

You’re left with Matt, the silence between you more comfortable and less tense than it was with Ewan. He moves from his spot by the window and sits down in the chair Ewan just vacated. He offers you a gentle smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “He cares about you a lot, you know,” he says.

“I know,” you reply softly.

Matt smirks, his cheekiness resurfacing. “Almost as much as I do.”

The atmosphere eases after that, Matt joking about the cast’s upcoming trip to Spain, trying to make you laugh. After a while, your body begins to give in to exhaustion, your eyes growing heavy. He notices and encourages you to rest, and you doze off before long, the soft hum of his voice lulling you to sleep. 

But just as you slip into that hazy space between wakefulness and dreaming, you hear Matt’s voice again, quieter now, like he’s talking to himself. Or maybe to you, thinking you’re already asleep.

“I know you still love him,” he says softly, the words almost painful to hear. “I can see it every time you look at him. It’s obvious.”

Your heart tightens in your chest, but you keep your breathing steady, pretending to stay asleep.

“I don’t blame you,” Matt continues, his voice rough with emotion. “He’s good for you, isn’t he? You’ve got history. I knew what I was getting into when we started this… whatever this is. But I can’t help it. I see myself falling in love with you, and it terrifies me.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, and your eyes burn behind your closed lids. You want to say something, anything, but you don’t. You lie there, frozen, letting Matty’s confession hang in the air between you.

“You don’t have to choose me,” Matt whispers, almost as if he’s resigned to his fate. “But I… I certainly wouldn’t mind it if you do, love.” He laughs bitterly at the end, then turns serious once more. “We could… we could be happy.”

His voice cracks slightly, and it takes everything in you not to react. You hadn’t realised just how much this meant to him, how deeply he felt. He always seemed so easygoing, so casual, and now you see that there was more beneath the surface. So much more.

You lie still, pretending to sleep, as Matt gently brushes a strand of hair from your face. “I’ll be here, if you want me,” he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. 

You chose yourself, selfish as it might have been, and you would make the same decision again if given the chance. You needed to do that; you owed it to yourself. You also sought companionship and a shot at happiness with him. But that hadn’t been final. 

No matter who it will be in the end, someone’s heart is going to break. 

Your ankle is forgotten, your concussion a trifling thing.

Because the weight of that choice is a much heavier burden to bear.

The villa in Spain is like something out of a dream, nestled in the rolling hills of Mallorca. Its white stone walls gleam against the deep blue backdrop of the Mediterranean, the ocean stretching endlessly in the distance. The courtyard is lined with blooming florals and tall cypress trees. It’s the kind of place that makes you forget about the rest of the world, even if just for a moment, and let go of everything that’s complicated and heavy.

But not for Ewan, who sits alert under the shade of a large patio umbrella by the pool, clad in only his navy blue swim trunks. His sunglasses are perched on his nose, as he pretends to read a script – his attention is elsewhere. 

They track you, where you’re surrounded by the girls, all of them fussing over you like a flock of mother hens. Your fracture boot is propped up on the sun chair, crutches leaning nearby. 

Ewan smiles to himself when you laugh at something Liv says, your face lighting up completely. He's relieved that you’re able to relax after everything. But underneath that relief is something else – something that coils even tighter every time he glances at Matt nearby.

Matt’s never far, either. Ewan notices it. Of course, he notices. How could he not? The way Matt hovers just on the edge of the group, never too close to seem overbearing but always there. It’s the same thing Ewan’s doing, and it’s infuriating because he knows exactly what it means. 

Ewan watches as a shirtless Matt hands you a cold drink, his hand brushing yours for a second longer than necessary. You look up, smile gratefully at him, and Ewan feels the sharp sting of it, like a jab to the ribs. He clenches his jaw and forces himself to look away, his grip tightening on the already tattered script in his hands.

“Mitchell, my boy,” Freddie says, plopping down in the chair beside him. “You’ve clearly got a thousand-yard stare going on underneath those shades. You alright?”

Ewan shrugs, trying to play it off. “Yeah, just… thinking.”

Freddie is unconvinced, but he doesn’t push. “It’s our celebration in paradise, mate. You should think about getting a drink in you. Pretend to have fun before Tom ropes us all into some ridiculous pool game.”

Ewan huffs a laugh, grateful for the distraction, but it’s short-lived. His eyes drift back to you, watching as Phia ties a sun hat around your head, joking about protecting ‘the merchandise,’ while Liv adjusts the chair to make sure you’re comfortable. You’re surrounded by care, by laughter, and yet… Ewan can’t shake the need to be near you. To be the one making sure you’re alright.

He hates the way Matt looks at you, like he’s got some claim, like he knows what’s best for you. He doesn’t know you. Not like Ewan does. He hasn’t been through the heartbreak, the sleepless nights, the mess of trying to hold it together when everything was falling apart. He hasn’t watched you fight through everything, hasn’t seen the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you love.

Matt is there, sure, but Ewan has been there.

He wants to go over, tell the girls to give you some space, be the one to take care of you himself. But he doesn’t. Not with Matt there, standing just close enough to remind him that you’re not his to take care of. Not anymore. 

“Careful, mate,” Fabien materialises from the side, a drink in hand. “You keep looking at her like that, and it’s gonna get messy.”

“It’s already messy,” Ewan replies, clicking his tongue. He shifts in his seat, trying to focus on the script in front of him, but it’s pointless. He watches as Matt crouches down beside you, leaning in to say something quietly. You laugh, and the sound hits like a white-hot surge to his veins – an instinctual, possessive reaction he can’t suppress. 

Ewan doesn’t want to cause a scene. It’s a holiday, after all – everyone’s in good spirits, and you finally look like you’re getting some much-needed rest.

But before he even realises it, he’s already halfway across the courtyard, his steps brisk and determined. 

“Hey,” Ewan says when he reaches you, his tone light, almost forced. “Mind if I join?”

Matt straightens, settling in the chair next to you. “Well, look who finally decided to come over. Thought you were just going to lurk all day.”

You shift in your chair, adjusting your fracture boot, letting Ewan sit next to your outstretched legs. “I’m fine, by the way. If that’s what this is about.”

The girls are now watching intently in their respective sun chairs, pretending to sip their drinks but clearly enjoying the show. You’re caught between rolling your eyes and laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all.

Ewan casts a quick glance at your ankle boot, the tenderness in his gaze flickering just for a moment before he locks eyes with Matt again. “I’m just making sure you’re not overwhelming her. She might need her space,” he says.

Matt raises an eyebrow, his casual posture not matching the edge in his voice. “Space? Mate, that’s rich coming from the guy who’s crowding her chair right now.”

Phia snorts into her drink, earning a stern look from Liv, but it’s too late. The tension is starting to draw a crowd, and even Fabien and Freddie are craning their necks to watch. Freddie whispers something to Fabien, who laughs, clearly entertained.

Instead of rising to the bait, Ewan exhales sharply and forces a smile. “Just making sure my… friend is comfortable.”

Liv arches an eyebrow. “My god, friend, is it? Please don’t tell me I’m your friend too.”

Emma freely chortles at Liv’s remark, while Phia doubles over in glee.

You interject with a sigh, waving your hands between them. “Okay, enough. I love a good ego battle as much as the next girl, but seriously – this is supposed to be a holiday. Can we not do this?”

“Honestly, you two,” Phia says, “I thought I already made it clear – she’s my girl.”

The tension cracks as the group erupts into laughter, and even Ewan and Matt can’t help but smile. 

“Alright, alright,” Ewan mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Truce. For now.”

Matt smirks, extending a hand mockingly toward Ewan, who rolls his eyes but shakes it briefly before turning his attention back to you. His gaze softens as he catches your eye. “Just… don’t overdo it, yeah?”

You raise an eyebrow, smiling. “I’m the one in a boot. Trust me, I’m not going anywhere fast.”

Emma’s enjoying the scene, calmly sipping on their negroni sbagliato. “Honestly, with the way things are unfolding, this drama could end up being better than the show.”

Before anyone can throw in another comment, Ewan’s phone vibrates in the pocket of his trunks. His expression darkens briefly when he glances at the screen. It’s his manager, but she knows not to disturb him on holiday unless it’s urgent. “I’ve got to take this. I’ll be right back.” He catches your eye for a brief moment before stepping away.

The world of Hollywood is no stranger to scandal, but this one is poised to shake the industry to its core.

Bruce Haversham, the powerful executive behind some of the biggest film projects in recent decades, had been untouchable at the very top of the mountain. Until now.

The news broke late in the afternoon, first as a whisper across social media before exploding into full-blown coverage on every major network. Accusations of sexual harassment and assault came pouring in, one after the other, each more damning than the last.

By the time the story hit the major outlets, it was clear that Bruce Haversham’s reign was over.

In New York, where he had been arrested, footage of him being escorted from his apartment in handcuffs circulated widely. The headlines were merciless: Hollywood Titan Falls, The End of Bruce Haversham’s Empire, A Predator Unmasked.

For Ewan, this is more than just a story on the evening news. It’s personal.

It was Bruce who masterminded the PR relationship that drove a wedge between Ewan and the one he truly loves. 

Now, everything changes. Bruce Haversham is out. Effective immediately. 

The path ahead wouldn’t be easy – far from it – but now, at least it is a path Ewan can walk freely. 

His mind races as he drops the call, the flood of information almost too much to process at once. Talk about a late birthday gift.

The relief hit him fast, like a cool rush of air. But it is immediately followed by something else – confusion, uncertainty. What now? What does this mean for him, and for you?

Matt had swooped in, offering you comfort and companionship, complicating things further. He cares about you, Ewan knows that. And from the outside, it makes sense – you and Matt seem good together. 

But Ewan knows better. Deep down, he is certain – absolutely sure – that what you and he shared isn’t just good. It was right. You and him… you are perfect together.

Ewan’s free from his strings, and all bets are off. 

It’s all or nothing this time. 

💌 next chapter

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Some notes in the margins...

The rest of the holiday will take up most of part 12! Ewan can actually properly enjoy himself now 😉

Don't think it'll be that easy! Darling's tied to Matty too, in a way. And after that confession? Damn it, Matthew, you sly loverboy you.

How far will Ewan go? And will Matty double down on his efforts? It's all chemical. It's all overriding. 🤷🏻‍♀️💙