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caelum-in-the-avatarverse · 10 months ago

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Fandom can do a little gatekeeping. As a treat.

So I finally decided to archive-lock my fics on AO3 last night. I’ve been considering it since the AI scrape last year, but the tipping point was this whole lore.fm debacle, coupled with some thoughts I’ve been thinking regarding Fandom These Days in general and Fandom As A Community in particular. So I wanna explain why I waited so long, why I locked my stuff up now, and why I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m a-okay with making it harder for people to see my stories.

Lurkers really are great, tho

I’m a chronic lurker, and have been since I started hanging out on the internet as a teen in the 00s. These days it’s just cuz I don’t feel a need to socialize very often, but back then it was because I was shy and knew I was socially awkward. Even if I made an account, I’d spend months lurking on message boards or forums or Livejournals, watching other people interact and getting a feel for that particular community’s culture and etiquette before I finally started interacting myself. And y’know, that approach saved me a lot of embarrassment. Over the course of my lurking on any site, there was always some other person who’d clearly joined up five minutes after learning the place existed, barged in without a care for their behavior, and committed so many social faux pas that all the other users were immediately annoyed with them at best. I learned a lot observing those incidents. Lurk More is Rule 33 of the internet for very good reason.

Lurking isn’t bad or weird or creepy. It’s perfectly normal. I love lurking. It’s hard for me to not lurk - socializing takes a lot of energy out of me, even via text. (Heck it took 12 hours for me to write this post, I wish I was kidding--) Occasionally I’ll manage longer bouts of interaction - a few weeks posting here, almost a year chatting in a discord there - but I’m always gonna end up going radio silent for months at some point. I used to feel bad about it, but I’ve long since made peace with the fact that it’s just the way my brain works. I’m a chronic lurker, and in the long term nothing is going to change that.

The thing with being a chronic lurker is that you have to accept that you are not actually seen as part of the community you are lurking in. That’s not to say that lurkers are unimportant - lurkers actually are important, and they make up a large proportion of any online community - but it’s simple cause and effect. You may think of it as “your community”, but if you’ve never said a word, how is the community supposed to know you exist? If I lurked on someone’s LJ, and then that person suddenly friendslocked their blog, I knew that I had two choices: Either accept that I would never be able to read their posts again, or reach out to them and ask if I could be added to their friends list with the full understanding that I was a rando they might not decide to trust. I usually went with the first option, because my invisibility as a lurker was more important to me than talking to strangers on the internet.

Lurking is like sitting on a park bench, quietly people-watching and eavesdropping on the conversations other people are having around you. You’re in the park, but you’re not actively participating in anything happening there. You can see and hear things that you become very interested in! But if you don’t introduce yourself and become part of the conversation, you won’t be able to keep listening to it when those people walk away. When fandom migrated away from Livejournal, people moved to new platforms alongside their friends, but lurkers were often left behind. No one knew they existed, so they weren’t told where everyone else was going. To be seen as part of a fandom community, you need to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known, etc. etc.

There’s nothing wrong with lurking. There can actually be benefits to lurking, both for the lurkers and the communities they lurk in. It’s just another way to be in a fandom. But if that is how you exist in fandom--and remember, I say this as someone who often does exist that way in fandom--you need to remember that you’re on the outside looking in, and the curtains can always close.

I’ve always been super sympathetic to lurkers, because I am one. I know there’s a lot of people like me who just don’t socialize often. I know there’s plenty of reasons why someone might not make an account on the internet - maybe they’re nervous, maybe they’re young and their parents don’t allow them to, maybe they’re in a bad situation where someone is monitoring their activity, maybe they can only access the internet from public computer terminals. Heck, I’ve never even logged into AO3 on my phone--if I’m away from my computer I just read what’s publicly available.

I know I have people lurking on my fics. I know my fics probably mean a lot to someone I don’t even know exists. I know this because there are plenty of fics I love whose writers don’t know I exist.

I love my commenters personally; I love my lurkers as an abstract concept. I know they’re there and I wish them well, and if they ever de-lurk I love them all the more.

So up until last year I never considered archive-locking my fic, because I get it. The AI scraping was upsetting, but I still hesitated because I was thinking of lurkers and guests and remembering what it felt like to be 15 and wondering if it’d be worth letting a stranger on the internet know I existed and asking to be added to their friends list just so I could reread a funny post they made once.

But the internet has changed a lot since the 00s, and fandom has changed with it. I’ve read some things and been doing some thinking about fandom-as-community over the last few years, and reading through the lore.fm drama made me decide that it’s time for me to set some boundaries.

I still love my lurkers, and I feel bad about leaving any guest commenters behind, especially if they’re in a situation where they can’t make an account for some reason. But from here on out, even my lurkers are going to have to do the bare minimum to read my fics--make an AO3 account.

Should we gatekeep fandom?

I’ve seen a few people ask this question, usually rhetorically, sometimes as a joke, always with a bit of seriousness. And I think…yeah, maybe we should. Except wait, no, not like that--

A decade ago, when people talked about fandom gatekeeping and why it was bad to do, it intersected with a lot of other things, mainly feminism and classism. The prevalent image of fandom gatekeeping was, like, a man learning that a woman likes Star Wars and haughtily demanding, “Oh, yeah? Well if you’re REALLY a fan, name ten EU novels” to belittle and dismiss her, expecting that a “real fan” would have the money and time to be familiar with the EU, and ignoring the fact that male movie-only fans were still considered fans. The thing being gatekept was the very definition of “being a fan” and people’s right to describe themselves as one.

That’s not what I mean when I say maybe fandom should gatekeep more. Anyone can call themselves a fan if they like something, that’s fine. But when it comes to the ability to enjoy the fanworks produced by the fandom community…that might be something worth gatekeeping.

See, back in the 00s, it was perfectly common for people to just…not go on the internet. Surfing the web was a thing, but it was just, like, a fun pastime. Not everyone did it. It wasn’t until the rise of social media that going online became a thing everyone and their grandmother did every day. Back then, going on the internet was just…a hobby.

So one of the first gates online fandom ever had was the simple fact that the entire world wasn’t here yet.

The entire world is here now. That gate has been demolished.

And it’s a lot easier to find us now. Even scattered across platforms, fandom is so centralized these days. It isn’t a network of dedicated webshrines and forums that you can only find via webrings anymore, it’s right there on all the big social media sites. AO3 didn’t set out to be the main fanfic website, but that’s definitely what it’s become. It’s easy for people to find us--and that includes people who don’t care about the community, and just want “content.”

Transformative fandom doesn’t like it when people see our fanworks as “content”. “Content” is a pretty broad term, but when fandom uses it we’re usually referring to creative works that are churned out by content creators to be consumed by an audience as quickly as possible as often as possible so that the content creator can generate revenue. This not-so-new normal has caused a massive shift in how people who are new to fandom view fanworks--instead of seeing fic or art as something a fellow fan made and shared with you, they see fanworks as products to be consumed.

Transformative fandom has, in general, always been a gift economy. We put time and effort into creating fanworks that we share with our fellow fans for free. We do this so we don’t get sued, but fandom as a whole actually gets a lot out of the gift economy. Offer your community a story, and in return you can get comments, build friendships, or inspire other people to write things that you might want to read. Readers are given the gift of free stories to read and enjoy, and while lurking is fine, they have the choice to engage with the writer and other readers by leaving comments or making reclists to help build the community.

And look, don’t get me wrong. People have never engaged with fanfic as much as fan writers wish they would. There has always been “no one comments anymore” wank. There have always been people who only comment to say “MORE!” or otherwise demand or guilt trip writers into posting the next chapter. But fandom has always agreed that those commenters are rude and annoying, and as those commenters navigate fandom they have the chance to learn proper community etiquette.

However, now it seems that a lot of the people who are consuming fanworks aren’t actually in the community.

I won’t say “they aren’t real fans” because that’s silly; there’s lots of ways to be a fan. But there seem to be a lot of fans now who have no interest in fandom as a community, or in adhering to community etiquette, or in respecting the gift economy. They consume our fics, but they don’t appreciate fan labor. They want our “content”, but they don’t respect our control over our creations.

And even worse--they see us as a resource. We share our work for free, as a gift, but all they see is an open-source content farm waiting to be tapped into. We shared it for free, so clearly they can do whatever they want with it. Why should we care if they feed our work into AI training datasets, or copy/paste our unfinished stories into ChatGPT to get an ending, or charge people for an unnecessary third-party AO3 app, or sell fanbindings on etsy for a profit without the author’s permission, or turn our stories into poor imitations of podfics to be posted on other platforms without giving us credit or asking our consent, while also using it to lure in people they can datascrape for their Forbes 30 Under 30 company?

And sure, people have been doing shady things with other people’s fanworks since forever. Art theft and reposting has always been a big problem. Fanfic is harder to flat-out repost, but I’ve heard of unauthorized fic translations getting posted without crediting the original author. Once in…I think the 2010s? I read a post by a woman who had gone to some sort of local bookselling event, only to find that the man selling “his” novel had actually self-published her fanfic. (Wish I could find that one again, I don’t even remember where I read it.)

But aside from that third example, the thing is…as awful as fanart/writing theft is, back in the day, the main thing a thief would gain from it was clout. Clout that should rightfully go to the creators who gifted their work in the first place, yeah, but still. Just clout. People will do a lot of hurtful things for clout, but fandom clout means nothing outside of fandom. Fandom clout is not enough to incentivize the sort of wide-scale pillaging we’re seeing from community outsiders today.

Money, on the other hand… Well, fandom’s just a giant, untapped content farm, isn’t it? Think of how much revenue all that content could generate.

Lurkers are a normal and even beneficial part of any online community. Maybe one day they’ll de-lurk and easily slide into place beside their fellow fans because they already know the etiquette. Maybe they’re active in another community, and they can spread information from the community they lurk in to the community they’re active in. At the very least, they silently observe, and even if they’re not active community members, they understand the community.

Fans who see fanworks as “content” don’t belong in the same category as lurkers. They’re tourists.

While reading through the initial Reddit thread on the lore.fm situation, I found this comment:

[ID: Reddit User Cabbitowo says: ... So in anime fandoms we have a word called tourist and essentially it means a fan of a few anime and doesn't care about anime tropes and actively criticizes them. This is kind of how fandoms on tiktok feel. They're touring fanfics and fanart and actively criticizes tropes that have been in the fandom since the 60s. They want to be in a fandom but they don't want to engage in fandom

OP totallymandy responds: Just entered back into Reddit after a long day to see this most recent reply. And as a fellow anime fan this making me laugh so much since it’s true! But it sorta hurts too when the reality sets in. Modern fandom is so entitled and bratty and you’d think it’s the minors only but that’s not even true, my age-mates and older seem to be like that. They want to eat their cake and complain all whilst bringing nothing to the potluck… :/ END ID]

“Tourist” is an apt name for this sort of fan. They don’t want to be part of our community, and they don’t have to be in order to come into our spaces and consume our work. Even if they don’t steal our work themselves, they feel so entitled to it that they’re fine with ignoring our wishes and letting other people take it to make AI “podfics” for them to listen to (there are a lot of comments on lore.fm’s shutdown announcement video from people telling them to just ignore the writers and do it anyway). They’ll use AI to generate an ending to an unfinished fic because they don’t care about seeing “the ending this writer would have given to the story they were telling”, they just want “an ending”. For these tourist fans, the ends justify the means, and their end goal is content for them to consume, with no care for the community that created it for them in the first place.

I don’t think this is confined to a specific age group. This isn’t “13-year-olds on Wattpad” or “Zoomers on TikTok” or whatever pointless generation war we’re in now. This is coming from people who are new to fandom, whose main experience with creative works on the internet is this new content culture and who don’t understand fandom as a community. That description can be true of someone from any age group.

It’s so easy to find fandom these days. It is, in fact, too easy. Newcomers face no hurdles or challenges that would encourage them to lurk and observe a bit before engaging, and it’s easy for people who would otherwise move on and leave us alone to start making trouble. From tourist fans to content entrepreneurs to random people who just want to gawk, it’s so easy for people who don’t care about the fandom community to reap all of its fruits.

So when I say maybe fandom should start gatekeeping a bit, I’m referring to the fact that we barely even have a gate anymore. Everyone is on the internet now; the entire world can find us, and they don’t need to bother learning community etiquette when they do. Before, we were protected by the fact that fandom was considered weird and most people didn’t look at it twice. Now, fandom is pretty mainstream. People who never would’ve bothered with it before are now comfortable strolling in like they own the place. They have no regard for the fandom community, they don’t understand it, and they don’t want to. They want to treat it just like the rest of the content they consume online.

And then they’re surprised when those of us who understand fandom culture get upset. Fanworks have existed far longer than the algorithmic internet’s content. Fanworks existed long before the internet. We’ve lived like this for ages and we like it.

So if someone can’t be bothered to respect fandom as a community, I don’t see why I should give them easy access to my fics.

Think of it like a garden gate

When I interact with commenters on my fic, I have this sense of hospitality.

The comment section is my front porch. The fic is my garden. I created my garden because I really wanted to, and I’m proud of it, and I’m happy to share it with other people.

Lots of people enjoy looking at my garden. Many walk through without saying anything. Some stop to leave kudos. Some recommend my garden to their friends. And some people take the time to stop by my front porch and let me know what a beautiful garden it is and how much they’ve enjoyed it.

Any fic writer can tell you that getting comments is an incredible feeling. I always try to answer all my comments. I don’t always manage it, but my fics’ comment sections are the one place that I manage to consistently socialize in fandom. When I respond to a comment, it feels like I’m pouring out a glass of lemonade to share with this lovely commenter on my front porch, a thank you for their thank you. We take a moment to admire my garden together, and then I see them out. The next time they drop by, I recognize them and am happy to pour another glass of lemonade.

My garden has always been open and easy to access. No fences, no walls. You just have to know where to find it. Fandom in general was once protected by its own obscurity, an out-of-the-way town that showed up on maps but was usually ignored.

But now there’s a highway that makes it easy to get to, and we have all these out-of-towner tourists coming in to gawk and steal our lawn ornaments and wonder if they can use the place to make themselves some money.

I don’t care to have those types trampling over my garden and eating all my vegetables and digging up my flowers to repot and sell, so I’ve put up a wall. It has a gate that visitors can get through if they just take the time to open it.

Admittedly, it’s a small obstacle. But when I share my fics, I share them as a gift with my fellow fans, the ones who understand that fandom is a community, even if they’re lurkers. As for tourist fans and entrepreneurs who see fic as content, who have no qualms ignoring the writer’s wishes, who refuse to respect or understand the fandom community…well, they’re not the people I mean to share my fic with, so I have no issues locking them out. If they want access to my stories, they’ll have to do the bare minimum to become a community member and join the AO3 invite queue.

And y’know, I’ve said a lot about fandom and community here, and I just want to say, I hope it’s not intimidating. When I was younger, talk about The Fandom Community made me feel insecure, and I didn’t think I’d ever manage to be active enough in fandom spaces to be counted as A Member Of The Community. But you don’t have to be a social butterfly to participate in fandom. I’ll always and forever be a chronic lurker, I reblog more than I post, I rarely manage to comment on fic, and I go radio silent for months at a time--but I write and post fanfiction. That’s my contribution.

Do you write, draw, vid, gif, or otherwise create? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you leave comments? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you curate reclists? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you maintain a fandom blog or fuckyeah blog? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you provide a space for other fans to convene in? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you regularly send asks (off anon so people know who you are)? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you have fandom friends who you interact with? Congrats, you're a community member.

There’s lots of ways to be a fan. Just make sure to respect and appreciate your fellow fans and the work they put in for you to enjoy and the gift economy fandom culture that keeps this community going.

#ao3 #lore.fm #fanfiction #fandom history #gift economy #caelum rambles

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foone · 7 months ago

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Full disclosure ahead of time: I'm trans, and not a fan of Harry Potter, as you might guess. However...

My favorite thing about the writing of Harry Potter is how the first book is set several years earlier for no reason. It's set in 1991 and came out in 1997

Then because of how the books came out over many year and each book is a year later in the story, the last book ends up being set in 1997 and published in 2007, a full decade later.

This would be an interesting writing exercise if it was at all used by J. K. Rowling, but it's not. This very specific dating of the books, and increasing dated setting is just there so that Rowling can make repeated anachronistic errors because she forgot her characters aren't living in the modern day.

There is no upside to definitively setting Harry Potter in the near past: nothing comes of it in a way that'd be impossible to do if the books were set in a vague present. All setting them in the past does is let Rowling repeatedly make mistake, like having Dudley get a Playstation for his birthday.

In the 1997 she wrote that in? Perfectly reasonable present for a kid! In the summer of 1994 this scene is set it? Fucking impossible. The PS1 wouldn't be out in Japan until that December, and wouldn't be released in Europe until the next year, after his NEXT birthday.

And it's like... This is just the most well known of the anachronisms. There's an endless parade of them solely because she decided to set the books in specific years, a choice which gained her NOTHING! This doesn't happen because the final battle needs to happen at the millennium for prophecy reasons, or because she needs her characters to meet up with real life people who were dead or otherwise unavailable by the time the books were written, it's just some story element she picked and then never for one second thought about the consequences.

(Another retroactively funny mistake caused by this is that she ends up having a character inadvertently misgender Margaret Thatcher of all people, because they call the previous prime minister "he", and the because the scene is set in 1996, the prime minister is John Major, so the previous one should be Thatcher, but she's clearly thinking the current PM would be Tony Blair, and the previous one would be John Major)

I dunno. It feels like there's something meaningful in how J. K. Rowling made a clearly bad decision once and hasn't thought about any of the negative effects of her decision, standing by and doubling down on it, no matter how much it doesn't help her or anyone. It just seems like this might be a metaphor for something.

But who can really say?

(that last line assumes you're using dark mode)

#cw harry potter #cw margaret thatcher

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pucksandpower · 7 months ago

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Do-Over

Logan Sargeant x Andretti!Reader

Summary: Logan drowns his sorrows after being dropped by Williams and passes out in 2024 … he wakes up slightly hungover and very much in 2022 (aka the time travel fix-it fic)

Logan’s hands are shaking.

He’s staring at the email on his phone, reading it over for the third time, hoping the words will somehow rearrange themselves into something different. But they don’t. The screen doesn’t lie, and neither does the cold, detached tone of James Vowles.

Logan, I’m sorry to inform you that Williams Racing has decided to terminate your contract effective immediately. Your performance this season has not met the team’s expectations, and the decision has been made to move forward without you for the remaining races. We believe this is in the best interest of the team as a whole. You’ll find the details of the termination and the necessary steps moving forward in the attached document.

His eyes blur, and he forces himself to blink, trying to hold it together. He knows what this means — his F1 career, the thing he’s worked for his entire life, is over. And it’s not ending with a bang, but with a fucking email.

A knock on the door snaps him back to the present. He looks up, swallowing hard as James walks in without waiting for permission, just like he always does.

“Logan,” James begins, his voice calm, almost clinical. “We need to talk.”

“I got the email,” Logan mutters, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Is this really how it’s going to end?”

James’s face is unreadable. “We’ve discussed this at length. The crashes, the lack of progress … it’s just not working out. The engineers and mechanics are frustrated. We’ve been more than patient.”

Logan feels a wave of anger rising in his chest, but he pushes it down. He knows it won’t help. “So that’s it? Nine races left, and you’re just … dropping me?”

“It’s not an easy decision,” James replies, crossing his arms. “But we have to think about the team. We can’t afford any more setbacks.”

“Setbacks,” Logan echoes, almost laughing at the absurdity of it. “That’s all I am to you? A setback?”

James hesitates, his expression softening for just a moment. “Logan, you’re talented, but this sport is ruthless. You know that.”

“Don’t,” Logan snaps, his voice sharp. “Don’t try to soften the blow now. You could’ve at least told me in person, before sending the damn email.”

James sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I know it seems cold, but this is the reality of Formula 1. You’ll land on your feet. You’ve got potential.”

“Potential,” Logan mutters under his breath. “That’s not going to get me back in a car, is it?”

There’s a tense silence, the weight of the situation pressing down on both of them. Logan feels like the walls are closing in, the air in the room growing thicker with each passing second.

“I’m sorry,” James says finally, and for the first time, he sounds genuine. “I really am.”

“Yeah,” Logan replies, his voice hollow. “Me too.”

James lingers for a moment, as if searching for something else to say, but there’s nothing that can fix this. Nothing that can make it right. Finally, he nods and leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.

Logan stands there, staring at the door, his mind racing. This can’t be happening. It feels like some kind of nightmare, one he can’t wake up from. But the harsh reality is setting in. It’s over. All those years, all that effort, and it’s over just like that.

He sinks down onto the couch, his head in his hands. His chest feels tight, like he can’t get a full breath. He needs to get out of here, but he has no idea where to go. Where do you go when your dreams have just been crushed?

His gaze falls on the bottle of whiskey sitting on the small kitchen counter. He bought it a few years ago, intending to open it after a win that never came. The irony isn’t lost on him.

Logan pushes himself up and walks over to the kitchen, grabbing the bottle and a glass. He hesitates for a moment, then shrugs and puts the glass back. What’s the point of pretending there’s any dignity left in this?

He twists the cap off the bottle and takes a long drink, the burn of the alcohol offering a brief distraction from the pain gnawing at his insides. He leans against the counter, staring out the window at the darkening sky. How the hell did it come to this?

He’s replaying every mistake, every missed opportunity, every race where he could’ve done better. It’s a torturous cycle, one that he can’t escape. He takes another drink, then another, hoping to drown out the thoughts, to numb the ache in his chest.

But it doesn’t work. The alcohol just makes it worse, amplifying the guilt and the regret. He feels like a failure. No, he is a failure. The team didn’t even have the decency to let him finish the season. That’s how little they think of him.

The room starts to blur around the edges as the whiskey takes effect, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. He’s spiraling, and he knows it, but he doesn’t care. This is the only way he knows how to cope, the only way to forget, even if it’s just for a little while.

Hours pass, or maybe minutes — he’s lost track of time. The bottle is nearly empty now, and he’s slumped on the floor, leaning against the kitchen cabinets. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone. What’s the point?

The apartment is silent except for the occasional sound of cars passing by outside. It’s eerie, this quiet, and it makes the emptiness inside him feel even more profound.

Finally, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. The screen is cracked from a previous fall — one of many — but it still works. There are messages from friends, from his family, but he doesn’t open them. He knows what they’ll say. They’ll be supportive, encouraging, but it won’t change anything. They can’t fix this.

Instead, he opens his camera roll and scrolls through the photos. Pictures of him in the car, of the team, of moments that once meant everything to him. Now they’re just reminders of what he’s lost.

He stops on a photo of himself, taken just after he signed with Williams. He looks so damn happy, so full of hope. He barely recognizes that person now.

“What a joke,” he mutters to himself, his voice slurred. “What a fucking joke.”

He takes one last drink from the bottle, then tosses it aside, not caring as it rolls across the floor. He feels the darkness closing in, pulling him under, and for once, he doesn’t fight it. He lets it take him, lets it drown out the pain, the regret, the fear.

And as he finally drifts into unconsciousness, the last thought that crosses his mind is that maybe — just maybe — he deserves this.

***

Logan wakes with a start, his head pounding, the taste of stale whiskey thick on his tongue. He groans, squeezing his eyes shut against the assault of the light streaming through the windows. His whole body feels like it’s been put through a blender — sore, achy, heavy. But it’s not just the hangover, it’s the weight of everything, of what happened yesterday.

He takes a deep breath, bracing himself as he sits up, his hands pressing into the bed beneath him. Except, the texture’s wrong. It’s not the rough fabric of his apartment’s couch or even the smooth, cool sheets he’s used to.

Logan’s eyes snap open, and he looks around, confusion crashing over him like a cold wave. He’s not in his apartment. The walls are different — cleaner, the color a familiar light blue he hasn’t seen in years. The bed is narrow, uncomfortable, with plain white sheets. There’s a desk pushed against the far wall, a locker in the corner with his name printed on it in block letters.

This isn’t his apartment. This is … his driver’s room. The one he used when he was driving for Carlin in Formula 2.

“What the hell …” Logan mutters, running a hand through his hair, trying to make sense of it. He must still be drunk. Or maybe he’s dreaming. But no — he can feel the dull ache in his temples, the dryness in his throat, the uncomfortable press of the mattress beneath him. This is too real to be a dream.

But it doesn’t make any sense. The last thing he remembers is passing out in his apartment after finishing nearly a whole bottle of whiskey. He was a mess. He is a mess. But here he is, waking up in a place he hasn’t seen since 2022, a place that shouldn’t exist in his present reality.

Panic starts to set in. He fumbles for his phone, which is miraculously still in his pocket. The screen lights up, showing the date and time.

September 10th, 2022.

His heart stops. That’s impossible. It’s been two years. Two years since this date. His mind races, trying to piece together what the hell is happening, but nothing fits. He’s not in 2024 anymore. Somehow, he’s back in 2022.

It’s the only explanation, but it’s insane. None of this is possible. It’s not even like those vague dreams where everything’s familiar but distant. This is his life two years ago, down to the worn fabric of the team jacket hanging on the back of the door.

Before he can spiral any further, there’s a sharp knock at the door. Logan barely has time to react before it swings open, and Gary Catt, his manager, strides in with his usual briskness, already talking before the door is fully open.

“Logan, I just got off the phone with Jost Capito,” Gary says, his voice all business, not noticing Logan’s stunned expression. “Williams wants you. They want to lock you in for next season. It’s the best possible scenario. This is it, Logan — this is what we’ve been working toward.”

Logan feels like he’s been hit by a freight train. This conversation — he remembers it. It happened. Gary, standing in this very room, telling him the exact same thing, with the exact same excitement in his voice. The memory is vivid because it changed everything. It was the start of his F1 career. And also … the start of everything that led to that email.

“Logan?” Gary’s voice cuts through the fog in Logan’s mind, pulling him back to the present. “Are you even listening? This is huge, mate. You’re going to be in F1.”

Logan’s throat is dry, his mind racing with possibilities, with consequences. He remembers how he felt the first time he heard these words — pure elation, followed by a rush of nerves. But now, with the knowledge of what’s to come, all he feels is dread.

This is his chance to change things. To make sure it doesn’t end the way it did yesterday. He’s been given a do-over, a second chance, and he can’t afford to mess it up.

Logan takes a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. “Gary,” he says, his voice rough from sleep and the alcohol, “I don’t think I should take the offer.”

Gary stops mid-stride, turning to face Logan with a look of utter disbelief. “What did you just say?”

“I don’t think I should take the offer,” Logan repeats, more firmly this time, even though his heart is pounding in his chest. “It’s too soon.”

“Too soon?” Gary looks at him like he’s just sprouted another head. “Logan, this is Williams. It’s F1. There is no such thing as ‘too soon’ when an opportunity like this comes around. What are you talking about?”

Logan stands up, pacing the small room, trying to gather his thoughts. How does he explain this without sounding completely insane? He can’t tell Gary what he knows — what he’s seen, what’s happened. But he also can’t go down the same path again. Not when he knows where it leads.

“I just … I don’t think I’m ready,” Logan says, finally turning to face Gary. “If I rush into F1 now, it could end badly. I need more time. More experience.”

Gary’s expression shifts from disbelief to concern. “Logan, listen to yourself. You’ve been preparing for this your whole life. You’re as ready as anyone can be. If you pass this up, there’s no guarantee another chance like it will come along. You know that.”

Logan shakes his head. “I know it sounds crazy, but … I have a feeling that if I take this now, it’ll be a mistake. A big one. I’ll end up in a situation where I’m not able to deliver, where the pressure is too much. And that’s not good for anyone — me, the team, my career.”

Gary is silent for a long moment, studying Logan with an intensity that makes him squirm. “Where’s this coming from? You were over the moon about this before. What changed?”

Logan hesitates, searching for the right words. “I just … I’ve been thinking a lot about the future. About what I want my career to look like. And I don’t want to be one of those drivers who gets rushed into F1 and then crashes out because they weren’t ready. I want to do it right. I want to be fully prepared.”

“You don’t get to be fully prepared in this sport,” Gary says, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. “This is Formula 1. It’s sink or swim, and you know that. You’re not going to get a better opportunity than this, Logan.”

Logan feels a knot of frustration tightening in his chest. He knows Gary is right, in a way. This is F1. It’s not supposed to be easy. But he also knows that if he takes this offer, if he goes down the same road, it’ll end in disaster.

“I get that,” Logan says, his voice firm. “But I’ve made up my mind. I’m not going to take the seat. Not this time.”

Gary stares at him, his expression a mixture of shock and confusion. “Logan, this could be career suicide. You understand that, right?”

Logan nods, swallowing hard. “I do. But I’d rather take that risk than go into something I know I’m not ready for and crash out in a blaze of failure. I can’t do that. I won’t.”

Gary runs a hand over his face, clearly struggling to comprehend what’s happening. “This isn’t like you. You’re not one to back down from a challenge. Why are you doing this?”

Because I know how it ends, Logan thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud. Instead, he takes a deep breath and says, “Because I want to do this right. I want to have a long career in F1, not a short one that ends in disappointment. And to do that, I need to be smart about the choices I make now.”

Gary lets out a slow breath, clearly conflicted. “This is … I don’t even know what to say, Logan. You’re turning down a seat in F1. That’s not something you do lightly.”

“I’m not doing it lightly,” Logan assures him, though his heart is racing. “I’ve thought about this a lot, and it’s the right decision for me.”

There’s a long silence as Gary processes this. Logan can almost see the gears turning in his head, the calculations, the weighing of options. He knows how hard this must be for Gary to accept — hell, it’s hard for Logan to accept, and he’s the one making the decision. But he has to stick to his guns. He has to believe that this is the right choice.

Finally, Gary lets out a resigned sigh. “Alright, Logan. If this is really what you want, I’ll back you. But you need to understand the risks. This could close doors for you. Big ones.”

Logan nods, his stomach twisting with anxiety. “I know. But I also know that if I take this now, it could end up closing even more doors in the long run.”

Gary studies him for a long moment, then gives a slow nod. “Alright. I’ll let Jost know. But don’t expect him to be happy about it.”

Logan feels a mixture of relief and dread. “I won’t. But thanks, Gary. I know this isn’t easy.”

Gary gives him a tight smile, still clearly grappling with the decision. “No, it’s not. But you’re the one driving the car, Logan. Just make sure you know what you’re doing.”

Logan nods, watching as Gary turns and leaves the room, the door closing softly behind him. He stands there for a moment, taking in the silence, the surrealness of what just happened. He’s just turned down a seat in F1. The one thing he thought he wanted more than anything. But as the anxiety ebbs, a new feeling takes its place — determination.

This time, things are going to be different. He’s going to do it right, even if it means making the hard choices. Logan takes a deep breath, feeling a strange sense of calm settle over him. This is his second chance, and he’s not going to waste it.

***

The 2023 F2 season ends in a flurry of champagne, confetti, and flashing cameras. Logan stands on the top step of the podium, the P1 trophy clutched in his hands, a grin splitting his face. He’s done it. He’s proved to everyone — most of all to himself — that he was ready. This time, he didn’t rush, didn’t let the pressure consume him. And it’s paid off. He’s the Formula 2 Drivers’ Champion.

But as the celebration winds down and reality sets in, Logan faces a new challenge. Despite his victory, the F1 grid is full, and F2 champions can’t return to the series. He could take a reserve role, bide his time, wait for a seat to open up. But that’s not what he wants. He’s not willing to spend another year on the sidelines, waiting for an opportunity that may never come.

So when the offer from IndyCar comes, Logan doesn’t hesitate. He’s heard the stories — about the speed, the fierce competition, the thrill of racing on ovals. It’s not Formula 1, but it’s still racing at the highest level. And right now, that’s what he needs.

The decision surprises everyone. The media buzzes with speculation, but Logan remains focused. He knows what he’s doing. This is a new path, one that he’s chosen for himself, not because it was expected of him. He’s determined to make it work.

A few weeks later, Logan finds himself in the heart of Indianapolis, standing outside the office of Mario Andretti. The legendary name still carries a weight of history and reverence, even in this new world of racing. It feels surreal, like stepping into a different era of motorsport.

Inside the office, Mario is all business. The contract is laid out on the table between them, a simple piece of paper that represents Logan’s future. Mario goes over the details with the kind of thoroughness that only comes from years of experience, but Logan can barely focus. His mind is racing, thoughts darting between the past season, the unknown future, and the thrill of what he’s about to embark on.

“Everything looks good?” Mario asks, breaking Logan from his thoughts.

Logan blinks, then nods, forcing himself to concentrate. “Yeah, it’s perfect.”

Mario slides the pen across the table. “Then let’s make it official.”

Logan takes the pen, feeling the weight of the moment as he signs his name at the bottom of the contract. It’s done. He’s an IndyCar driver now.

Mario nods in approval, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smile. “Welcome to the team, Logan. We’re excited to have you.”

“Thank you,” Logan says, meaning it. This is a new beginning, and he’s ready for it.

They shake hands, and Mario stands, motioning towards the door. “I’d love to chat more, but I’ve got to head out. My granddaughter’s picking me up for lunch.”

Logan heads out of the office, his mind still reeling from the whirlwind of emotions. He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice the person rounding the corner until it’s too late. They collide, and Logan’s first instinct is to reach out, steadying the person as they stumble backward.

“Whoa, I’m so sorry,” he blurts out, his hands gripping her arms as he helps her regain her balance.

“It’s okay,” you reply, laughing softly as you look up at him. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

Logan’s breath catches in his throat as he looks down at you, the apology dying on his lips. You’re beautiful — stunning, even — with eyes that seem to sparkle with life and a smile that’s warm and inviting. For a moment, all he can do is stare, struck by how perfect you seem, like someone who’s stepped straight out of a dream.

“You alright?” You ask, tilting your head slightly as you study him.

Logan snaps out of it, quickly releasing his hold on you and stepping back. “Yeah, sorry again. I didn’t see you there.”

The door to Mario’s office opens, and the man himself steps out, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the scene. “Everything okay out here?”

You turn to your grandfather, smiling brightly. “Just a little bump, Grandpa. Nothing to worry about.”

Mario’s expression softens as he looks at you, the sternness replaced by affection. “Good. I don’t want anyone getting hurt before lunch.”

You laugh, the sound light and carefree, and Logan finds himself smiling along, despite the awkwardness of the situation.

“Logan,” Mario says, turning to him, “I’d like you to meet my granddaughter.”

Logan’s heart skips a beat. This is Mario’s granddaughter? Of course, she is. It makes sense now, the confidence in your stance, the way you carry yourself. You’re part of a racing dynasty, just like Mario.

“Logan Sargeant,” Mario continues, introducing him to you. “He’s going to be racing with us next season.”

You offer him your hand, your smile never faltering. “It’s nice to meet you, Logan. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Logan takes your hand, feeling a jolt of electricity as your fingers brush against his. “Uh, yeah. Nice to meet you too.”

You glance at Mario, then back at Logan. “We’re heading out for lunch. You should join us.”

Logan’s mind goes blank for a second, and all he can do is blink at you, trying to process what you just said. “Lunch? With you and … Mr. Andretti?”

You laugh again, and Logan thinks it might be the best sound he has ever heard. “Yeah, with us. Unless you have somewhere else you need to be?”

“No, no,” Logan stammers, trying to regain some composure. “I’d love to join you.”

Mario claps Logan on the shoulder, his laughter booming through the hallway. “Looks like you’ve made an impression already, kid. Come on, let’s get out of here before the press catches wind of this.”

Logan nods, still somewhat dazed as he follows you and Mario out of the building. His mind is a whirlwind of thoughts — about the contract he just signed, the new chapter he’s stepping into, and now, about you. He can’t quite believe his luck. Not only is he starting a new adventure in IndyCar, but he’s also just met someone who, in the span of a few minutes, has completely captivated him.

As they walk to Mario’s car, Logan steals glances at you, trying to be subtle but failing miserably. You seem so at ease, chatting with your grandfather, your laughter punctuating the conversation. There’s a lightness about you, a warmth that’s infectious, and Logan finds himself drawn to it, to you.

“Logan,” you say, turning to him as you reach the car. “So, what made you decide to join IndyCar? It’s not every day an F2 champion makes that leap.”

Logan pauses, caught off guard by the directness of your question. “Well, uh,” he begins, trying to find the right words, “I guess I just wanted something different. F1 wasn’t an option, and I didn’t want to sit around waiting for a seat to open up. IndyCar seemed like the right challenge. Something new, but still competitive.”

You nod, clearly intrigued. “That makes sense. It’s a bold move, but I think it’ll pay off.”

“Bold,” Logan repeats, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is,” you assure him, your eyes sparkling. “I admire people who take risks. Especially when they’re as calculated as yours seems to be.”

Mario clears his throat, a knowing grin on his face as he watches the two of you. “Alright, kids, enough shop talk. Let’s get some food.”

You and Logan exchange a smile before sliding into the back seat of the car. The conversation flows easily, despite Logan’s initial nerves. You ask him about his time in F2, what it was like racing on the different tracks, how he handled the pressure. Logan finds himself opening up more than he expected, the words coming easily under your encouraging gaze.

Mario chimes in every now and then, adding his own insights, but it’s clear he’s content to let the two of you do most of the talking. He watches with an amused glint in his eye, as if he’s already figured out something that Logan is just beginning to realize.

By the time you reach the restaurant, Logan feels like he’s known you for much longer than the short time you’ve actually spent together. There’s an ease between you that he’s rarely felt with anyone else, a connection that seems to have sparked almost instantly.

Inside the restaurant, Mario insists on taking the head of the table, leaving you and Logan to sit across from each other. As you settle in, you continue to ask Logan questions, but now they’re more personal — what does he do outside of racing? What’s his favorite movie? Does he have any hidden talents?

Logan answers as best he can, though he’s still reeling a bit from how quickly this day has turned into something he never expected. He’s just signed with IndyCar, but more than that, he’s sitting across from someone who makes his heart race faster than any car ever could.

“You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Logan,” Mario says suddenly, breaking into the conversation. “I’ve seen a lot of young drivers come and go, but you … you’ve got something special. Just keep your focus, and you’ll go far.”

“Thank you, Mr. Andretti,” Logan says, his voice sincere. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

“Call me Mario,” he replies with a wave of his hand. “We’re family now, after all.”

Logan smiles, feeling a warmth spread through him at the word “family.” It’s strange, how quickly things have shifted, how he’s gone from a solitary driver trying to make his way in the world to someone who might actually belong here, in this new place, with these new people.

As the lunch continues, Logan finds himself growing more comfortable, the initial awkwardness fading away. You keep the conversation lively, sharing stories about your grandfather, about your own life, and Logan can’t help but be drawn to your passion, your intelligence, your warmth. It’s clear that you’re not just Mario Andretti’s granddaughter — you’re your own person, with your own dreams and ambitions.

Eventually, the meal winds down, and Mario excuses himself to take a phone call, leaving you and Logan alone at the table. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, but charged, filled with the unspoken things neither of you have quite put into words yet.

“So,” you say, leaning forward slightly, a teasing smile on your lips, “what do you think of Indy so far?”

Logan grins, feeling a boldness he didn’t expect. “Well, it just got a whole lot more interesting.”

You laugh, your eyes twinkling with amusement. “I’m glad to hear it. I have a feeling you’re going to fit in just fine here.”

“Yeah,” Logan says, his voice softening as he looks at you, really looks at you. “I think I am too.”

You hold his gaze, the connection between you growing stronger with each passing second. For a moment, the world outside seems to fade away, leaving just the two of you, caught in this moment that feels almost like fate.

Before the silence can stretch too long, Mario returns, his phone call finished. He glances between the two of you, his eyes twinkling with a knowing look that makes Logan’s ears burn. “Ready to head out?”

You nod, standing up and giving Logan one last, lingering smile. “It was nice meeting you, Logan. I’m sure we’ll see each other around.”

Logan stands as well, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. “Definitely. I’m looking forward to it.”

As you and Mario head out of the restaurant, Logan lingers for a moment, watching you go. He can’t quite believe what just happened, but one thing is certain — his life just got a lot more complicated, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

As he walks out into the bright sunlight, Logan can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face. He’s taken a leap into the unknown, and it feels like the start of something incredible.

***

The roar of the crowd is deafening, vibrating through the very core of the Speedway as Logan crosses the finish line first. It’s the 107th running of the Indianapolis 500, and he’s just won it. The realization hits him like a tidal wave, almost knocking the breath out of him. He’s an Indy 500 champion. In his rookie season, no less.

The engine growls as he coasts to a stop, and for a moment, all he can do is sit there, hands trembling on the steering wheel. His heart pounds in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins, and he lets out a breathless laugh, disbelief and elation mingling into something indescribable.

“Logan Sargeant wins the Indy 500!” The announcer’s voice echoes through the speakers, barely audible over the cheers of the crowd. He hears it, but it still feels surreal, like something out of a dream.

The pit crew rushes over, the celebration already in full swing as they haul him out of the car. He’s immediately surrounded by a sea of people — team members, media, officials — everyone wanting a piece of this historic moment. But through it all, there’s one thing on his mind. One person.

You.

He’s searching the crowd, trying to spot you among the chaos. His vision is blurred with sweat and tears, but then he sees you — pushing your way through the throng of people, a look of pure joy on your face. You’re clapping, laughing, your eyes shining with pride, and all Logan can think is how he needs to get to you.

But first, there’s tradition to uphold.

One of the crew hands him the iconic bottle of milk, the symbol of victory. Logan takes it, still in a daze, and tilts it back, taking a long swig. The cold liquid is refreshing, cutting through the heat of the moment, and he can’t help but laugh as he lowers the bottle, milk dripping down his chin.

Without hesitation, he lifts the bottle above his head and pours the rest over himself. The milk runs down his face, soaking into his race suit, and the crowd goes wild, the noise level somehow reaching new heights. He feels on top of the world — unstoppable, invincible.

And then he spots you again, closer now, just on the edge of the crowd. Logan doesn’t think, doesn’t pause to consider anything else. He just moves, pushing through the throng of people until he’s standing right in front of you.

You’re smiling up at him, eyes bright with something that makes his heart race faster than it did on the final lap. Before he can stop himself, Logan reaches out, pulls you in, and kisses you.

It’s the kind of kiss that’s been building for months — the culmination of all the moments, all the glances, all the unspoken words between you. You taste like the victory he’s just claimed, like the adrenaline that’s still pumping through his veins, like everything he’s been chasing since he first set foot in this world.

When you finally pull back, you’re both breathless, milk dripping from Logan’s face and onto yours. You laugh, and the sound is the sweetest thing he’s ever heard.

“You’re lucky I’m not lactose intolerant,” you tease, licking the milk from his lips with a grin that’s both playful and suggestive. “But honestly? It’d be worth it even if I was.”

Logan laughs, a deep, full-bodied sound that comes from a place of pure, unfiltered happiness. He feels like he’s floating, like nothing in the world could possibly bring him down from this high. Not now, not ever.

“Best win of my life,” he says, his voice rough with emotion, still holding you close, as if afraid that letting go might make this moment disappear.

You tilt your head, still smiling up at him with those eyes that have captivated him from the start. “I’d hope so,” you say softly. “You just won the Indy 500.”

He shakes his head, a playful grin on his face. “No, I mean this.” He gestures between the two of you, the words hanging in the air, heavy with meaning.

For a second, you just stare at him, the noise of the crowd fading into the background, the world narrowing down to just the two of you. And then you’re laughing, throwing your arms around his neck, pulling him into another kiss.

This one is softer, sweeter — less about the heat of the moment and more about the connection between you, the way everything just seems to fit when you’re together. Logan loses himself in it, in you, in this moment that feels like the culmination of everything he’s ever wanted.

When you finally break apart, the noise of the crowd floods back in, the celebration continuing around you. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters except the way you’re looking at him, like he’s the only person in the world.

“Come on,” you say, tugging him towards the podium. “You’ve got a trophy to collect.”

Logan follows, still holding onto your hand, not willing to let you go just yet. The team is waiting, cheering him on, and as they hoist him up onto their shoulders, Logan realizes that this — this moment, this feeling — is what he’s been racing for all along.

Standing on the podium, the trophy in his hands, Logan looks out at the sea of faces, at the fans cheering his name, at the team celebrating their victory. But his eyes find you in the crowd, and that’s where they stay.

You’re smiling up at him, and Logan knows, deep down, that this is just the beginning. The beginning of something incredible, something he never saw coming but can’t imagine living without.

As the anthem plays and the confetti rains down, Logan lifts the trophy high, his heart full to bursting. He’s done it — he’s won the Indy 500. But more than that, he’s found something, someone, who makes all of it mean so much more.

And as he looks down at you, standing there with that bright, beautiful smile, Logan knows that he’s not just a champion. He’s the luckiest guy in the world.

***

The soft hum of the office fills the silence as Logan sits across from Mario, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. The past year has been a whirlwind — plenty of IndyCar wins, that unforgettable victory at the Indy 500, and the life he’s built with you by his side. It’s been everything he didn’t know he needed, but now, as he sits in Mario’s office, there’s an air of something significant, something life-altering in the way Mario looks at him.

Mario clears his throat, leaning forward on his desk, hands clasped. “Logan,” he begins, voice steady, serious. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking — planning, actually — and I need to talk to you about something important.”

Logan’s heart skips a beat, the weight of Mario’s words sinking in. He nods, leaning forward slightly, feeling the anticipation coil tight in his chest. “What is it?” He asks, voice steady despite the flurry of nerves.

Mario takes a deep breath, then looks Logan squarely in the eye. “We’re buying Haas F1 Team. The deal’s already in motion, and we’ll be restructuring everything from the ground up to make our entrance into Formula 1 in 2026.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. Logan’s breath catches in his throat, and for a moment, he’s not sure if he’s heard Mario correctly. “Formula 1?” He echoes, almost disbelieving. His mind races, a thousand thoughts colliding at once. “You’re serious?”

“As serious as it gets,” Mario replies, his expression unwavering. “I’ve wanted this for a long time, Logan. And now, with everything coming together, it’s finally happening. But here’s the thing-” he pauses, his gaze locking onto Logan’s with an intensity that leaves no room for doubt, “I can’t think of anyone better suited to lead this team as our driver than you.”

The words hit Logan like a freight train. He stares at Mario, unable to speak, his heart thudding wildly in his chest. Formula 1 has always been the dream, the pinnacle of everything he’s worked for. The chance he thought he’d lost — twice, if he counts the strange twist of fate that had brought him here in the first place.

“Logan, I know this is a lot to take in,” Mario continues, his tone softer now, understanding. “But I believe in you. You’ve proven yourself time and time again, in F2, in IndyCar — hell, you won the Indy 500 in your first season. And I know you still have that fire for F1. This is your shot, kid. And I want you to take it.”

Logan feels the lump in his throat as Mario’s words sink in. The room seems to close in around him, the gravity of the moment pressing down like a physical weight. He’s had a lot of success in IndyCar, more than he ever imagined, and it brought him you — his reason to smile, his anchor in the storm. But Formula 1? That’s the dream he’s never fully let go of, even when he tried to convince himself otherwise.

He swallows hard, forcing the words out past the emotion threatening to choke him. “I-I don’t know what to say,” he admits, his voice thick. “I mean, this is … I didn’t think I’d ever get another chance like this.”

Mario smiles, the kind of smile that’s equal parts pride and encouragement. “I know it’s a lot, Logan. And it’s not an easy decision, especially considering everything you’ve built here in IndyCar. But I have no doubt in my mind that you’re the right person for this. You’ve got what it takes to succeed in F1, and I’m not just talking about talent. You’ve got heart, determination, and the ability to learn from your mistakes. That’s what makes a champion.”

Logan’s mind races, the possibilities spinning out in front of him. He thinks about everything he’s worked for, everything he’s achieved. And then he thinks about you — how you’ve been there with him through it all, supporting him, believing in him even when he doubted himself.

He takes a deep breath, his decision already forming in his mind, solidifying with each passing second. “Okay,” he says, meeting Mario’s gaze head-on. “I’ll do it. I want this, Mario. I want to prove to myself that I can do it right this time.”

Mario’s grin widens, and he stands up, offering Logan his hand. “Welcome to Andretti F1 Team. We’re going to do great things together.”

Logan shakes his hand, the reality of it all starting to settle in. He’s going to be a Formula 1 driver again. It’s terrifying, exhilarating, everything he’s ever wanted all over again. As he stands there, absorbing the magnitude of what’s just happened, he feels a strange mix of emotions — elation, fear, anticipation, and something else that he can’t quite name.

Mario walks him to the door, still talking about the next steps, the plans they have for the team, but Logan’s mind is half-focused on something else, someone else. As the door swings open, the conversation comes to a halt. The sight that greets them both brings a grin to Mario’s face and a burst of laughter from Logan.

You’re standing there, your ear pressed to the door, looking guilty as hell when you realize you’ve been caught. You straighten up quickly, trying to play it off, but the blush spreading across your cheeks gives you away.

“Eavesdropping, huh?” Logan teases, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. There’s a lightness in his voice that wasn’t there moments ago, the news already settling into a place of excitement rather than apprehension.

You bite your lip, trying to suppress a smile, but failing miserably. “I, um … I might have been curious,” you admit, your eyes twinkling with mischief.

Mario chuckles, shaking his head. “Looks like we’ve got a new team spy, Logan. Better watch out.”

Logan can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. He steps out of the office, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close. “You know, you didn’t have to spy,” he says, his voice dropping to a softer tone. “I would’ve told you everything.”

You look up at him, your smile fading slightly as something more serious takes its place in your eyes. “I just … I wanted to know if it was good news,” you say quietly. “I know how much F1 means to you.”

Logan feels his heart clench at your words, at the sincerity in your voice. You’ve always understood him, always known what drives him, what keeps him going. He cups your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. “It’s great news,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m getting a second shot at F1, and I’m not going to mess it up this time.”

Your smile returns, bright and full of the same determination he feels. “I know you won’t,” you say confidently. “You’re going to do amazing things, Logie. And I’ll be right there with you.”

Logan’s chest tightens with emotion, the intensity of the moment overwhelming him. He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’m so lucky to have you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with gratitude. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You laugh softly, the sound like music to his ears. “Good thing you won’t have to find out,” you reply, your tone teasing but laced with affection.

Logan’s heart swells, and before he can stop himself, he lifts you off your feet, spinning you around in a circle. You yelp in surprise, then burst into laughter, the sound filling the hallway.

He sets you down gently, your laughter fading into a soft smile as you look up at him. There’s a moment of quiet, the world around you fading away as the reality of what’s happening sinks in. Logan leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s both tender and passionate, a promise of what’s to come.

When you finally pull back, breathless and smiling, Logan feels a sense of calm settle over him. Everything is falling into place, and for the first time in a long while, he feels like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

With you by his side, he knows he can face whatever comes next.

“Ready to take on the world?” You ask, your voice light but your eyes serious.

Logan grins, squeezing your hand. “As long as I’ve got you, I’m ready for anything.”

And with that, he leads you down the hallway, the future stretching out before him, bright and full of promise.

***

The sun is barely up, casting long shadows across the Albert Park Circuit, but the air is already alive with anticipation. It’s the first day of preseason testing for the 2026 Formula 1 season, and the paddock is buzzing with the usual mix of excitement and nerves.

Teams are unpacking crates, engineers are huddled over laptops, and the unmistakable scent of burning rubber is already in the air. But for Logan, walking through the paddock with you on his arm, it feels like stepping into a dream — one he’s worked too damn hard to make a reality.

He adjusts the collar of his Andretti jacket, the weight of the moment not lost on him. This is it. His second chance — though, thanks to the bizarre twist of fate, no one else knows it’s his second. Everyone around him sees a rookie, an American hopeful making his debut with Andretti’s new F1 team. But Logan knows better. He’s here with experience that no one can fathom, and he’s determined not to waste it.

As you walk beside him, your hand resting lightly on his arm, he can’t help but steal a glance at you. There’s a brightness in your eyes, a mix of pride and excitement that mirrors his own. “You okay?” He asks, squeezing your hand gently.

You look up at him and smile, the kind of smile that makes his heart do a little flip. “I’m more than okay,” you reply. “I’m with you, and we’re about to watch you live your dream. What could be better than that?”

Logan grins, feeling a warmth spread through his chest. You’ve been his rock through everything — the highs, the lows, the strange, unexplainable journey that brought him back here. He’s never been more certain that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

As you make your way through the paddock, heads turn. It’s not just because Logan is here with the legendary Andretti team, but because of the woman at his side. He catches a few curious glances, some surprised, others appreciative, and he can’t blame them. You’re a sight to behold, and he’s proud to be walking in with you.

But then, out of the corner of his eye, Logan spots a familiar face. Oscar Piastri, decked out in McLaren colors, is standing near the entrance to the pit lane, chatting with a few team members. It’s been years since they last spoke properly — back when they were both climbing the ranks in the junior series, fighting tooth and nail for every inch of track.

They were close once, but life pulled them in different directions — Oscar to McLaren, Logan to IndyCar. And now, here they are, both in Formula 1, albeit on different paths.

Logan feels a wave of nostalgia, and before he can overthink it, he’s steering you in Oscar’s direction. As you approach, Oscar looks up, and for a split second, there’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes before it melts into a wide, genuine smile.

“Logan Sargeant,” Oscar says, his Australian accent as thick as ever. He steps forward, hand outstretched, and Logan takes it, shaking firmly. “I’ll be damned. You actually made it.”

Logan chuckles, the sound more relaxed than he feels. “Yeah, I guess I did. It’s been a long road, but here I am.”

Oscar’s smile widens, his grip on Logan’s hand lingering for just a moment longer. “It’s good to see you, mate. I was wondering when you’d show up in F1. Figured you were having too much fun in IndyCar to come back.”

“There was a lot to love about IndyCar,” Logan admits, glancing at you with a fond smile. “But F1 was always the dream, you know? Couldn’t pass up a chance like this.”

Oscar nods, understanding clear in his expression. “I get it. And with Andretti, no less. That’s a hell of a team to start with. You’re going to shake things up around here, I can tell.”

Logan shrugs, trying to play it cool even as his heart pounds with the reality of it all. “That’s the plan. But enough about me. How’s life at McLaren? You guys ready to give us a run for our money?”

Oscar laughs, the sound light and easy. “Always. McLaren’s been working their asses off, and I’m feeling good about this season. But don’t think I’ll go easy on you just because we’re old friends.”

Logan grins, feeling the competitive spark that’s always driven him reignite. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. Besides, it’s been a while since we’ve gone wheel-to-wheel. I’m looking forward to it.”

Oscar’s gaze shifts to you, his curiosity evident. “And who’s this?” He asks, his tone polite but genuinely interested.

Logan’s grin softens as he looks at you. “This is my better half,” he says, his voice filled with affection. “She’s the one who keeps me sane.”

You smile at Oscar, offering your hand. “It’s great to finally meet you, Oscar. Logan’s told me a lot about you.”

Oscar shakes your hand, his smile warm and welcoming. “All good things, I hope.”

“Mostly,” you tease, throwing Logan a playful glance.

Logan laughs, feeling a lightness in his chest he hasn’t felt in a while. It’s good to be here, good to be surrounded by the familiar banter and camaraderie that he’s missed. He knows the road ahead is going to be tough — F1 is nothing if not ruthless — but with you by his side and old friends welcoming him back, he feels more ready than ever to face whatever comes his way.

Oscar steps back, his gaze shifting between the two of you. “Well, I’d better let you guys get settled in. But hey, we should catch up properly later. Maybe grab a drink after testing?”

Logan nods, appreciating the offer. “Definitely. It’s been too long.”

As Oscar walks away, Logan watches him for a moment, the memories of their shared past mingling with the excitement of the present. It’s surreal, being here again, but this time with the weight of everything he’s learned, everything he’s fought for.

You tug gently on his arm, pulling him out of his thoughts. “What are you thinking about?” You ask, your voice soft and curious.

Logan smiles down at you, squeezing your hand. “Just how different things are now,” he admits. “But in a good way. I’ve got a second shot at this, and I’m not going to waste it.”

You nod, your eyes shining with the same determination he feels. “And I’ll be right there with you, every step of the way.”

Logan feels a swell of emotion, gratitude, and love that he can’t quite put into words. Instead, he leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The two of you continue walking, the sounds of the paddock fading into the background as you focus on each other. The day ahead is full of unknowns — testing, strategy meetings, the inevitable pressure of proving himself — but with you by his side, Logan feels ready for anything.

As you make your way to the Andretti garage, the team members greet Logan with nods and smiles, and he can see the mix of curiosity and expectation in their eyes. They’re all in this together, building something new, something that has the potential to be great. And Logan is determined to be the driver they need, the one who can lead them to success.

You squeeze his hand, drawing his attention back to you. “You’re going to do amazing, Logan. I can feel it.”

He smiles, the confidence in your voice bolstering his own. “Thanks. I’m just glad you’re here with me.”

“Always,” you reply, your gaze unwavering.

As the day progresses, Logan finds himself falling into the rhythm of the paddock. The familiar sounds of engines roaring to life, the chatter of engineers discussing data, the focused intensity that permeates every corner — it’s like he never left. But this time, there’s a new layer to it all, a sense of belonging that he didn’t fully grasp the first time around.

He exchanges nods and brief conversations with other drivers as they pass by, some offering congratulations, others sizing him up as the new competition. It’s all part of the game, the unspoken dance of respect and rivalry that defines the sport. But through it all, Logan keeps you close, your presence grounding him in the midst of the chaos.

As the day draws to a close, Logan finds himself back in the garage, the car stripped down and the team poring over the data from the day’s sessions. He’s tired, the kind of exhaustion that comes from both physical exertion and mental focus, but it’s the good kind of tired — the kind that tells him he’s exactly where he needs to be.

You’re standing nearby, chatting with one of the engineers, your laughter mingling with the sounds of the garage. Logan watches you for a moment, a smile tugging at his lips. You’ve always had a way of fitting in, of making everyone around you feel at ease, and he’s grateful for that — for you.

As if sensing his gaze, you look over at him and smile, that familiar warmth in your eyes. You make your way over to him, and when you reach him, Logan pulls you into his arms, holding you close. The noise of the garage fades into the background, leaving just the two of you in this moment.

“You did great today,” you say.

Logan holds you a little tighter, resting his chin on the top of your head. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he murmurs.

You pull back slightly, just enough to look up at him, your eyes filled with a mix of pride and affection. “You’re the one out there driving, Logan. But I’m glad I can be here for you.”

He smiles, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your lips. “It means everything to me that you are,” he whispers.

For a moment, the chaos of the garage and the world outside fades, leaving just the two of you standing together, ready to face whatever comes next. Logan knows the road ahead won’t be easy, but with you by his side, he’s more than ready to take on the challenge.

***

The media room is buzzing with the usual pre-race energy, a mix of nerves and excitement crackling in the air as the drivers settle in behind the table. Logan’s seated between Oscar and Charles, the bright lights overhead casting sharp shadows across their faces. The backdrop behind them, plastered with sponsor logos and the official F1 emblem, feels almost like a stage, the press in front of them the audience waiting for their performance.

Logan shifts in his seat, glancing down at the bottled water in front of him. The press conference has been the usual mix of questions so far — how the cars are handling, expectations for the season, the general camaraderie between the drivers. But there’s an undercurrent, a sense that something more pointed is coming.

A journalist from the back finally stands, her voice clear and direct as she catches Logan’s attention. “Logan,” she begins, holding her recorder up, “there’s been some observation that every time you see James Vowles, your expression seems to … change. Almost like you’re not too thrilled to be around him. Any comment on that?”

There’s a moment of silence in the room, a collective breath held. Logan feels the gaze of every person on him, including the drivers beside him. He lets out a quiet laugh, trying to play it cool, but he can’t help the way his mind flashes back to the last time he’d faced Vowles, the man’s condescending tone, the cold dismissal that had sent him spiraling.

Oscar shifts beside him, giving him a sideways glance, probably wondering where this is going. Logan catches the edge of his own reflection in the shiny surface of the table and forces his expression into something neutral, even though the old bitterness is clawing its way up from the pit of his stomach.

“Bad vibes,” Logan says finally, his voice carrying just enough humor to keep it light, though there’s an unmistakable edge to it. “That’s what my girlfriend would say. He just … gives off bad vibes.”

There’s a ripple of laughter through the room, the tension breaking slightly. But the journalist isn’t done yet. “Bad vibes? Care to elaborate on that?”

Logan shrugs, trying to brush it off with a casualness he doesn’t quite feel. “You know, it’s one of those things. Sometimes you just don’t click with someone, right? It’s nothing serious.”

Charles, on his other side, leans into his mic, flashing a grin. “You’re not going to make us all paranoid about our vibes now, are you?”

The room laughs again, and Logan takes the opportunity to sip his water, hoping the moment will pass. But he can feel the weight of the past pressing against him, the memories of how it all went down before he’d found himself in this second chance. He knows better than anyone that this sport is a game of perceptions, of how you carry yourself, and he can’t afford to let the past taint his future.

Another journalist jumps in, steering the conversation toward safer waters — questions about the new car, how he’s adjusting to the Andretti team. Logan answers on autopilot, the usual lines about feeling confident, about how the team has been amazing. But in the back of his mind, he’s still thinking about that flash of disgust he couldn’t hide, the way his skin prickled when he saw Vowles earlier that day.

When the press conference finally wraps up, and the drivers are ushered out of the room, Oscar hangs back, falling into step beside Logan as they head toward the paddock. “So,” Oscar starts, keeping his voice low, “bad vibes, huh?”

Logan lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “You know how it is,” he says, trying to keep it light, though he knows Oscar can see right through him.

Oscar just nods, not pushing any further, and Logan’s grateful for that. They walk in silence for a moment, the din of the paddock growing louder as they approach, engineers and team members bustling around them.

“Honestly, mate,” Oscar says after a beat, “if anyone’s going to bring some good vibes into F1, it’s you. I’m glad you’re here.”

Logan glances over, and there’s sincerity in Oscar’s expression that makes Logan’s chest tighten, the weight of everything he’s carried with him lightening just a bit. “Thanks, Oscar. That means a lot.”

They reach the Andretti motorhome, where you’re waiting for Logan, your eyes lighting up the moment you spot him. He feels a warmth spread through him at the sight, a reminder of what really matters.

You push off the wall you’d been leaning against, falling into step beside him. “So, how’d it go in there?”

Logan smirks, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as they walk. “Let’s just say my reputation for honesty might have gotten a bit more solidified.”

You tilt your head up at him, a teasing glint in your eyes. “That bad, huh?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Not bad, just … honest.”

You glance at Oscar, who’s still walking beside you, and give him a knowing look. “He always has to make things interesting, doesn’t he?”

Oscar grins, nodding in agreement. “Never a dull moment with this one.”

As you make your way back into the motorhome, Logan feels the tension of the day starting to ebb away. The familiar scent of coffee and fuel, the low hum of conversations around him, and the comforting presence of you by his side — it all feels right. Despite everything, he knows this is where he belongs.

Once inside, the motorhome offers a brief respite from the chaotic energy outside. The team is prepping for final checks, and Logan knows he should be focusing on the task ahead, but there’s something nagging at him, a need to explain himself, to make sure you understand.

You catch the way his brows furrow slightly, the way his grip on your shoulder tightens for a moment before he lets go. “What’s up?”

He hesitates, running a hand through his hair, looking for the right words. “I just … I don’t want to come off like I’m carrying a grudge or anything. That comment about Vowles — it probably sounded harsher than I meant it.”

You step closer, your hand finding his, grounding him. “Logan, it’s okay. Everyone has people they don’t vibe with. It doesn’t mean anything more than that.”

He nods, the tightness in his chest loosening as he looks into your eyes, seeing the unwavering support there. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”

You smile, squeezing his hand. “It’s a gift. Plus, you make it easy.”

Oscar clears his throat, and both of you look over to see him trying not to grin. “I’m going to leave you two to it. Just don’t forget we have a race to focus on.”

Logan laughs, shaking his head as Oscar heads out. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll be right out.”

When Oscar’s gone, Logan turns back to you, his expression softening. “Thanks for being here. Really.”

You lean up, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “Always.”

As you both make your way out to the garage, the sounds of the team preparing for the weekend reach your ears, and Logan feels that familiar rush of adrenaline, the anticipation of what’s to come. The memory of the press conference, of Vowles, fades into the background. What matters now is the race ahead, the chance to prove himself once again, and the knowledge that whatever happens, you’re right there with him.

He glances over at you as they approach the car, and you catch him staring, raising an eyebrow in question. “What?”

Logan just smiles, shaking his head. “Nothing. Just thinking about how lucky I am.”

You roll your eyes, though there’s a smile playing on your lips. “You better believe it, Sargeant. Now, go out there and show them what you’ve got.”

He nods, feeling more centered than he has all day. With a final squeeze of your hand, he steps into the garage, ready to take on whatever comes next, knowing that no matter what happens on the track, he’s already won in the ways that truly matter.

***

The roar of the engines reverberates through the paddock, a constant hum that thrums in Logan’s chest as he steps into the Andretti garage. It’s yet another race weekend, and the energy is electric, a mix of anticipation and nerves hanging in the air.

The team is buzzing around him, mechanics fine-tuning the car, engineers buried in data, but Logan’s focus is on the familiar figure leaning casually against the back wall, arms crossed, watching the hustle with an almost serene smile.

Logan stops in his tracks, eyebrows raising in surprise. It’s not that Mario isn’t around — he’s a constant presence in the team, always keeping an eye on things — but he usually doesn’t show up this early in the weekend, and certainly not with that look on his face.

It’s a smile Logan recognizes all too well, a mix of pride and mischief that means only one thing: Mario knows something that everyone else doesn’t, and it’s going to shake things up.

Logan weaves his way through the garage, sidestepping the organized chaos until he’s standing in front of Mario. “You look like you’re up to something,” Logan says, crossing his arms to mirror the older man’s posture. “What’s going on?”

Mario’s smile widens just a fraction, his eyes glinting with a secret. “Now, what makes you think I’m up to anything, kid?”

Logan chuckles, shaking his head. “Because I know that look. You’ve got news.”

Mario doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he pushes off the wall and motions for Logan to follow him to a quieter corner of the garage, away from the prying eyes and ears of the rest of the team. Logan follows, his curiosity piqued. Whatever Mario’s about to tell him, it’s big.

When they’re sufficiently out of earshot, Mario leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You remember how I told you a while back that we were working on something big for the team?”

Logan nods, his interest fully captured. “Yeah. What’s up?”

Mario’s smile turns almost wicked. “Well, it seems that James Vowles and Williams think they’re going to secure Adrian Newey for next season.”

Logan’s eyes widen slightly. Newey is a legend in the sport, the kind of designer who can turn a good team into a championship-winning one. If Williams were to get him, it would be a game-changer. “Wait, you said they think they’re going to get him?”

“Exactly.” Mario’s grin is practically gleeful now. “What they don’t know is that Adrian’s already in talks with us. In fact, we’re just about ready to sign the deal.”

Logan lets out a low whistle, the magnitude of the news sinking in. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious. By this time next week, Adrian Newey will be working for Andretti.”

Logan can’t help the wide smile that spreads across his face. This is huge, a move that will send shockwaves through the paddock. With Newey on board, Andretti’s chances of becoming a front-runner in F1 just skyrocketed. “I can’t believe it,” Logan says, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s going to change everything.”

Mario nods, satisfaction evident in his expression. “It’s a big deal, no doubt about it. But we’ve still got work to do. We can’t get complacent, not with what’s at stake. But this … this is a big step in the right direction.”

Logan’s mind is already racing ahead, thinking about what this means for the team, for his own career. The idea of driving a car designed by Newey is almost surreal. “When are you going to announce it?”

“Not until everything’s signed and sealed,” Mario replies. “But once it’s done, we’ll make sure the whole world knows. And Williams … well, they’re in for a nasty surprise.”

Logan laughs, the sound coming out more exhilarated than he intended. The idea of one-upping Vowles, especially after everything that’s happened between them, is deeply satisfying. “I can’t wait to see the look on Vowles’ face when he finds out.”

Mario pats Logan on the shoulder, the gesture filled with a camaraderie that Logan has come to cherish. “Neither can I, kid. Neither can I.”

As they walk back towards the main part of the garage, Logan’s mind is still reeling from the news. He’s been focused on the present, on making sure he performs at his best every time he’s out on the track, but this … this opens up a whole new realm of possibilities. With Newey on board, there’s no telling what they can achieve.

When you spot him from across the garage, the look on his face must give away that something’s up because you immediately make your way over, your expression curious. “What’s going on?” You ask as soon as you’re close enough.

Logan glances around, making sure no one is within earshot, and then leans in, his voice low. “Mario just dropped a bombshell. Andretti’s about to sign Adrian Newey.”

Your eyes widen in shock, and Logan watches as a grin spreads across your face, mirroring his own excitement. “No way. That’s … huge!”

“I know,” Logan says, still barely able to believe it himself. “This changes everything.”

You reach out, placing a hand on his arm, your voice filled with pride. “You’re going to be driving a car designed by Newey. Do you realize how amazing that is?”

Logan nods, the reality of it finally sinking in. “Yeah, I do. It’s … I can’t even put it into words.”

You laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “You don’t have to. I can see it on your face.”

For a moment, Logan just stands there, soaking it all in. The garage is still bustling around them, the team oblivious to the monumental news that’s just been dropped in their laps. But Logan knows that soon enough, everything is going to change. This is the kind of move that can define a career, that can take a team from being contenders to being champions.

But more than that, it’s a chance for redemption. A chance to prove to everyone — including himself — that he belongs here, that he’s capable of more than anyone ever gave him credit for. The past is behind him now, and with you by his side, and Newey in the garage, the future looks brighter than ever.

Logan glances over at you, seeing the pride and excitement in your eyes, and feels a surge of gratitude. For the second chance he’s been given, for the team that believes in him, and for you, the person who’s been there through it all.

“We’re going to do something amazing, you know that?” Logan says, his voice filled with conviction.

You nod, your smile soft but full of certainty. “I know. And I can’t wait to see it.”

Neither can Logan.

***

Logan’s heart is still pounding from the rush of the race as he stands on the podium, feeling the weight of the Miami sun on his shoulders. The crowd roars below him, a sea of red, white, and blue as far as the eye can see, their energy pulsing through his veins. He can hardly believe it. A podium at his home race, in front of a crowd that feels like family, is something he’d dreamed about since he was a kid.

He turns, looking out over the crowd, his eyes scanning for you. You’re there, as you always are, standing with the Andretti team, your smile brighter than the sun. The mechanics are cheering, patting each other on the back, but Logan only has eyes for you. It’s like everything else falls away — the noise, the cameras, the pressure of the season — all of it fades into the background. All that matters is the way you’re looking at him, like he’s your entire world.

He takes a deep breath, the realization of what he’s about to do washing over him. His hands shake, just slightly, as he reaches up and touches the chain around his neck, feeling the weight of the ring that’s been hidden there for weeks, waiting for this moment.

Without another thought, he drops to one knee, right there on the podium. The world seems to stop as he looks up at you, the crowd going silent in his mind. He hears the sharp intake of breath from the Andretti crew, sees the shock on your face as you register what’s happening.

“Hey,” he says, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. “I … I don’t know if I can put into words what you mean to me. You’ve been with me through everything — the wins, the losses, the crazy twists and turns. And I can’t imagine going through any of it without you by my side.” He pauses, the weight of the moment sinking in. “So I guess what I’m trying to say is … will you marry me?”

Your eyes widen, and for a second, you’re frozen in place, staring at him in disbelief. Then, as if breaking free from a spell, you laugh, a sound that’s pure joy, and nod vigorously. The next thing Logan knows, you’re being lifted onto the podium by the mechanics, tears of happiness streaming down your face as you launch yourself into his arms.

“Yes,” you say, your voice trembling with emotion. “Yes, of course, I will!”

The crowd erupts into cheers, the noise deafening as Logan slides the ring onto your finger. He pulls you close, his lips finding yours in a kiss that tastes like victory, love, and everything good in the world. The mechanics are going wild, chanting your names, and someone — Logan thinks it might be Mario — pops open a bottle of champagne, spraying it over everyone.

It’s chaotic, it’s perfect, and it’s a moment that Logan knows he’ll remember for the rest of his life. As he holds you close, feeling the warmth of your body against his, he realizes that this — right here, with you in his arms, and his home crowd cheering around him — is the true victory. The rest is just a bonus.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes. “You know,” he says, his voice low so only you can hear, “I always knew I was lucky. But this … this is something else entirely.”

You smile, the kind of smile that makes his heart skip a beat, and lean in to kiss him again. “We’re both lucky, Logan,” you whisper against his lips. “And this is just the beginning.”

***

The paddock is buzzing with activity, the hum of engines and the chatter of mechanics creating a familiar symphony that Logan finds oddly comforting. It’s the start of another race weekend, but this one feels different. There’s an undercurrent of excitement in the air, a mix of nerves and anticipation that has nothing to do with the cars or the track.

Logan slips away from the Andretti garage, his eyes scanning the bustling paddock as he makes his way toward the Williams garage. He’s done his best to stay clear of them ever since re-entering Formula 1, but today is different. Today, he has a reason to be there — a reason that brings a small, almost mischievous smile to his lips.

The Williams garage is a flurry of motion, mechanics and engineers huddled over laptops, surrounded by toolboxes and tires. The sight brings a wave of nostalgia crashing over Logan, but he quickly pushes it aside. He isn’t here for a trip down memory lane.

Spotting Alex Albon near the back, Logan weaves through the chaos, his steps light and easy despite the tension he can feel crawling up his spine. Alex is engrossed in a conversation with his race engineer, but when Logan steps up, he looks up in surprise.

“Logan!” Alex greets, his face splitting into a wide grin. “What are you doing here? Slumming it with the backmarkers?”

“Something like that,” Logan replies, his tone light as he pulls a small, cream-colored envelope from his jacket pocket. He hands it to Alex, who takes it with a curious tilt of his head. “Figured I should deliver this in person.”

Alex flips the envelope over, his eyes widening slightly as he reads the names printed in elegant script on the front — his and Lily’s. He breaks into a grin, already understanding what it is before he even opens it.

“No way,” Alex says, pulling out the invitation and quickly scanning the details. “You’re really doing it, huh? Getting hitched?”

Logan chuckles, feeling a warmth spread through his chest at the thought. “Yeah, we are. And we’d love for you and Lily to be there.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Alex replies, his grin softening into something more sincere. “Congrats, man. You two are great together.”

Logan nods, grateful for the genuine well-wishes. He’s about to say something else when a flicker of movement catches his eye. Glancing up, he sees James Vowles standing a few feet away, his expression unreadable as he watches the exchange between Logan and Alex.

For a brief moment, the past rushes back — the frustration, the disappointment, the sense of being discarded like a broken part. Logan feels a familiar pang of bitterness, but he quickly tamps it down. He isn’t that person anymore. He’s moved on, and he’s got better things — better people — in his life now.

Still, he can’t help himself.

He meets James’ gaze head-on, his smile shifting into something a bit more pointed, more deliberate. “Oh, James?” He says, his voice carrying just enough to be heard over the noise of the garage. “Seems like your invitation must’ve gotten lost in the mail. Real shame.”

James’ eyes narrow slightly, his jaw tightening, but he doesn’t respond. The tension between them is almost tangible, thickening the air around them. Logan holds his gaze for a moment longer, then shrugs exaggeratingly before turning his attention back to Alex.

“Anyway, hope to see you there,” Logan says, clapping Alex on the shoulder before stepping back. “Tell Lily we’re looking forward to it.”

“Will do,” Alex replies, still smiling but with a touch of unease as he glances between Logan and James.

Logan doesn’t linger. He turns on his heel and strides back through the garage, the small, satisfied grin still tugging at his lips. He can feel James’ eyes boring into his back, but he doesn’t care. Let him stew, Logan thinks. He’s got more important things on his mind.

As he exits the garage and steps back into the sun-drenched paddock, Logan takes a deep breath, feeling lighter, freer. The thought of the wedding, of you waiting for him back in the Andretti garage, fills him with a sense of contentment that he never thought he’d find in the world of Formula 1.

He spots you before you see him, standing with Mario and a few other Andretti team members, animatedly talking about something. Your laughter rings out over the noise of the paddock, and Logan feels his heart swell with affection.

It’s funny how things work out, he thinks. How life has a way of surprising you, of turning things around when you least expect it. He’s come a long way from that lost, angry kid who thought he’d never get a second chance. And now, here he is, standing on the cusp of a future that’s brighter than anything he could have imagined.

He picks up his pace, eager to get back to you, to tell you about the exchange with Alex and the little jab he couldn’t resist throwing at James. But as he draws closer, you turn and catch sight of him, your face lighting up in a way that makes his breath catch in his throat.

“Hey, you,” you call out, stepping away from the group to meet him halfway. “Did you get it done?”

Logan nods, a grin spreading across his face. “Yeah, I did. Alex and Lily are in.”

“And Vowles?” You ask, a knowing glint in your eyes.

Logan chuckles, slipping an arm around your waist as he leans in to press a quick kiss to your lips. “Let’s just say … he didn’t make the cut.”

You laugh, the sound pure and full of joy, and it’s the best thing Logan’s heard all day. “Good. You don’t need that kind of negativity at our wedding.”

“No, I don’t,” Logan agrees, feeling a rush of relief that you’re by his side, making even the most awkward encounters bearable. “And anyway, we’ve got more than enough people who actually care about us.”

You nod, your expression softening as you look up at him. “Yeah, we do. And I can’t wait to celebrate with them — with you.”

Logan feels a warmth spread through him, the same warmth he’s felt ever since the day he realized just how much you meant to him. It’s a feeling that never gets old, no matter how many podiums or victories he racks up. Because at the end of the day, it’s moments like this — simple, shared moments with you — that matter the most.

As the two of you head back toward the Andretti garage, Logan can’t help but think about how far he’s come. From the chaos of that first season in Formula 1, the heartbreak of being dropped, to the wild success of his time in IndyCar, and now, back in the sport he loves, with you by his side.

He knows there will be more challenges ahead — there always are in this world. But for now, he’s content to focus on the here and now, on the love he’s found and the life he’s building with you.

And as you walk together through the paddock, the sun casting long shadows on the ground, Logan can’t help but feel like the luckiest guy in the world. Not because of the cars, or the fame, or even the victories, but because of you — because you’re the one thing in his life that makes all the twists and turns worth it.

And he wouldn’t trade that for anything.

***

The roar of the crowd is deafening, a wall of sound that crashes against Logan as he stands on top of the podium. His hands grip the trophy tightly, the cold metal grounding him as the reality of it all sinks in. He’s done it. Logan Sargeant, the kid from Florida who almost lost everything, is now the World Drivers’ Champion.

The first American to do so since Mario Andretti himself.

He’s fought hard for this moment, clawed his way back from the brink of obscurity, and now here he is, at the pinnacle of motorsport. The champagne sprays around him, but all Logan can focus on is the sight of you, beaming up at him from the edge of the podium. You’re standing beside Mario, who’s wearing a grin as wide as Logan’s ever seen. You’re bouncing on the balls of your feet, hands clasped together, eyes sparkling with a mix of pride and joy.

He barely registers the other drivers beside him, the interviews, or the flashes of cameras. Everything narrows to you and the overwhelming sense of accomplishment swelling in his chest. You’ve been there through it all, from the moment he took that leap of faith into IndyCar, to the sleepless nights before his first season back in Formula 1. Every high and every low has led to this, and you’ve never wavered.

Logan can’t help the way his gaze shifts slightly to the left, where James Vowles stands at the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. There’s a tightness to his expression, a bitterness that Logan recognizes all too well.

But as much as he’d love to revel in that small victory, he finds that he doesn’t care. Not really. The vindication is sweet, sure, but it pales in comparison to the sight of you and the emotions radiating from you like the warmest of suns.

You notice him looking at you, and you blow him a kiss, laughing when he pretends to catch it, holding it to his chest. There’s no place he’d rather be than right here, right now, with you by his side.

The ceremony starts to wrap up, and as the photographers move in closer for shots, Logan can see Mario nudging you forward. You’re waving your hands at your grandfather, as if to say no, you’re fine where you are, but Mario’s having none of it. The mechanics and team members part to let you through, and Logan watches with an ever-growing smile as you finally make your way up onto the podium.

When you reach him, Logan pulls you into his arms without hesitation, lifting you off your feet as the crowd goes wild. He spins you around, feeling the way you cling to him, your laughter ringing out in his ear.

“You did it,” you say when he finally sets you down, your voice thick with emotion.

“No,” Logan corrects, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “We did it.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s no hiding the way your eyes glisten. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you love me for it,” Logan teases, leaning in to press his forehead against yours.

“Yeah,” you whisper, “I really do.”

The moment is interrupted by Mario clearing his throat, and Logan turns to see him holding a bottle of champagne, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Now, are we celebrating or what?”

Logan laughs, grabbing the bottle and popping the cork, spraying the contents over you and Mario, who both shout in surprise. The rest of the team quickly follows suit, and soon, the podium is a chaotic mess of laughter, champagne, and pure, unfiltered joy.

As the celebrations continue around him, Logan takes a step back, watching the scene unfold. His heart swells with a sense of contentment he’s never felt before. He’s always been driven, always had his eyes set on the next goal, the next race, the next win. But standing here, with you by his side, he realizes that he’s found something even more important than all of that.

He’s found a home.

A family.

And he’s never letting go.

The night carries on in a blur of congratulatory hugs, media obligations, and team celebrations. But as the crowd starts to thin and the energy begins to mellow, Logan finds himself sitting on the edge of the podium, his legs dangling off the side. The cool night air brushes against his skin, the sounds of the city in the distance providing a soft backdrop to the dwindling celebrations.

You find him there, sitting in silence, and without a word, you join him. You lean into his side, and he wraps an arm around you, pulling you close.

“It’s still sinking in,” Logan admits after a while. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this feeling.”

You tilt your head up to look at him, your eyes filled with warmth. “You’ve earned it, Logan. Every single bit of it. Don’t ever doubt that.”

He nods, resting his chin on top of your head. “It just feels … surreal. Like I’m living in a dream.”

“Well, if this is a dream,” you say, a mischievous smile playing on your lips, “then it’s one I never want to wake up from.”

Logan chuckles softly, his heart swelling with affection. “You and me both.”

The two of you sit there in comfortable silence, watching as the final remnants of the celebration begin to fade. The stadium lights dim, and the night sky takes over, a blanket of stars twinkling above you. It’s peaceful, a stark contrast to the chaos of the day, and Logan can’t help but feel grateful for this quiet moment with you.

“I used to think winning was everything,” Logan says after a while, his voice barely above a whisper. “That nothing else mattered as long as I crossed the finish line first.”

“And now?” You ask, your tone gentle, inviting him to continue.

“Now I know that it’s not just about the win,” Logan replies, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “It’s about the journey. The people who stand by you, who lift you up when you’re down, who make the victories sweeter and the losses bearable. It’s about finding something worth fighting for, and never letting go of it.”

You smile, your fingers intertwining with his. “Sounds like you’ve learned a lot.”

Logan nods, turning his head to look at you. “I have. And it’s all because of you.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I think you’re giving me too much credit.”

“Not at all,” Logan says, his voice firm. “You’ve been my rock, my anchor. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

You look at him, your eyes shining with unshed tears. “Logan …”

“I mean it,” he says, his voice gentle yet unwavering. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You don’t respond with words; instead, you lean in, capturing his lips in a soft, lingering kiss. It’s a kiss filled with promises, with unspoken words, and with a love that has grown stronger with every challenge, every victory, every moment shared.

When you finally pull away, Logan rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his heart full. “I love you,” he whispers, the words carrying the weight of all he feels.

“I love you too,” you reply, your voice just as soft, just as full of emotion.

The world fades away as the two of you sit there, wrapped up in each other. Logan knows that there will be more challenges ahead, more races to win, more obstacles to overcome. But as long as he has you by his side, he knows that he can face anything.

Because, in the end, it’s not just about the racing. It’s about the people who make it all worthwhile.

And for Logan Sargeant, that person is you.

As the night deepens and the city quiets, Logan realizes that this is just the beginning. The beginning of a new chapter, a new journey, with you right beside him. And whatever the future holds, he knows one thing for certain:

He’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

And with you, he’s already won.

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mythology-void · 1 year ago

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okay so I was doing a Research™️ about ancient Greek etymology as one does and I found some Things that made me want to Violently Claw My Arms Off please allow me to force feed you my discoveries

So there are 2 words for "not" in ancient Greek, depending on the context: ou and mē. Having introduced himself in the Cyclops episode as " ou tis", or No-man, he then stabs Polyphemus in the eye. When Polyphemus' brothers come to check on him, they say this:

"... surely no man [mē tis] is carrying off your sheep? Surely no man [mē tis] is trying to kill you either by fraud or by force?"

Right after this, after the other cyclopes ditch Polyphemus, Odysseus's inner monologue goes something like this:

"Then they went away, and I laughed inwardly at the success of my clever strategem [metis]." (pronounced mEH-Tis)

Now, there's a difference between mē tis and metis. [mē tis] (pronounced mEH-Tis with a space between the syllables) is the literal translation for "no man". Metis is a word for extreme intelligence/cunning, which is something Odysseus is famous for.

Now, there are several examples of abuse of metis/intelligence in the Odyssey, but I think the juxtaposition between [mē tis], or the concept of anonymity, and metis, or extreme intelligence, is REALLY interesting. Odysseus's adoption of the title "No-man" was characteristic of metis--it was a really smart move that simultaneously hid him from the cyclops and avoided any future consequences. It was a highly effective strategy all wrapped up in a nest little package with a bow on it.

But when he revealed himself as Odysseus of Ithaca, effectively throwing off No-man (anonymity and [mē tis]), that was characterized as idiocy--he's essentially doxxed himself, and now he's doing to (spoiler alert) get tossed around the Mediterranean by Poseidon for the next 10 years.

This is really interesting because it lets you see the parallels/codependency between metis(intelligence) and humility. When Odysseus refused to allow himself to go unnoticed (hubris) he suffered for it. BUT when he declined instant glory/satisfaction (kleos) in order to achieve the long term goal of survival, he was rewarded with Athena's favor (pay attention. This part is important).

And this situation repeats itself MULTIPLE TIMES in the Odyssey--the EXACT SAME THING happens near the end of the book, with the suitors. When. Odysseus is dressed as a beggar and the suitors/Antinious are abusing him, he ACTIVELY CHOOSES not to react--he doesn't stand up and rip off his disguise and start hollering "TIS I, ODYSSEUS OF ITHACA! FEAR MY WRATH"

No. He sits there patiently and waits. He plans and schemes and quietly orchestrates their downfall without alerting them of it. Why? Because he learned his lesson the first time this happened. He buried his rage and adopted what was, according to Grace LA Franz, a more feminine form of metis, weaving a web of destruction for his enemies that ultimately resulted in their total annihilation (see Weaving a Way to Nostos: Odysseus and Feminine Metis in the Odyssey by Grace LaFranz). His patience allowed him to win the whole prize--no questions asked, no 10-year-long-business-trip strings attached--just the sweetness of a full victory. And he is, once again, rewarded with Athena's favor--both in the battle with the suitors and in the aftermath (cleanup/reuniting with Penelope).

This really reinforces the idea in the Odyssey that Odysseus's defining characteristic is not just his intelligence--it's his ability to learn from his mistakes. He used what he learned at the Lotus Eaters Island against Polyphemus--the Lotus Eaters drugged his men, so he drugged Polyphemus. He used what he learned from Circe and Polyphemus against the suitors--Circe used false sweetness and honeyed words to lure his men into a trap, so that's exactly what he did to the suitors. His hubris on Polyphemus' island cost his whole crew their lives, so he intentionally left well enough alone until the right time. He didn't just learn from his failures--he turned them into BATTLE STRATEGY.

i don't care what anyone says that is completely totally and objectively awesome

#Odysseus is a certified baddie 112% of the time #he's literally the coolest you can't convince me otherwise #there's a reason that literally everyone has a crush on him #even the lesbians #its the wordplay. his words #read me a poem in iambic pentameter you bloody stinky man #literally everyone: his sad wet vibes and dark undereye circles have captivated me entirely #odysseus #the odyssey #tagamemnon #odysseus x penelope #telemachus #epic the musical #the cyclops saga #odysseus of ithaca #poseidon #etymology #ancient greece #ancient history

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ms-demeanor · 2 months ago

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Hey friend! So while I'm incredibly skeptical, I'm not strictly against alternative medicine, like you are. I saw you mention reiki, and thought you might geek out on this article like I did:

https://web.archive.org/web/20200308195914/https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2020/04/reiki-cant-possibly-work-so-why-does-it/606808/

It's called "Reiki Can't Possibly Work. So Why Does It?" and I highly encourage reading the whole thing. It first of all thoroughly debunks a lot of the claims reiki practitioners make but it also details all of the studies that have proven its effectiveness and provides what I find a pretty compelling explanation: that much of modern western medicine is stressful and traumatizing. Of course laying in a quiet room with the lights dimmed while a kind person sits with you and wishes for you to be well is effective. It reduces stress and all of the negative biological processes it triggers, which promotes healing.

The article mentions that for years we didn't understand the mechanism by which acetaminophen worked - we just knew it did. I knew a man who was really into "chakra therapy" in the 90s where he had a set of colored sunglasses that, supposedly, would rebalance one's out-of-whack chakras through light therapy. He found that attending to his throat chakra, yellow, helped him sleep better. Years later, formal studies found that yellow lenses filter blue light and can help regulate circadian rhythms.

When I was really little, my uncle sold magnet therapy products (which claimed to promote circulation?? I think??). I had a huge meltdown at a family reunion and no one could get me to calm down. My uncle put a blanket full of magnets on top of me, and I immediately relaxed. Imagine my surprise hearing that story for the first time as an adult who now uses a weighted blanket for stress.

I agree that people need to be really careful about these practices, about getting scammed, and especially about herbal supplements that can have dangerous interactions. I also think there's an extent to which you can analyze the risks and benefits and say, "Okay, I have no idea why this works but it does and there's no major downsides."

Hey so I get a bit heated in this response but I want you to know that I approached this ask in good faith because I know you and I know that we have a lot of the same values and interests and this touched a nerve that was not at all your fault and once I get past the direct response to the article I think I come off a little less. Um. Like the aggression there is not directed at you, it's directed at the article and at one person mentioned in the article specifically who is part of why my reaction to the article is so not good. But I promise after the last bullet point I come off as less reactive, I think. (I'm also publishing this publicly because I think it may be helpful for people to see how CAM stuff often gets away with a veneer of skepticism-that-isn't-actually-skepticism - the article claims to be skeptical but then makes a ton of assumptions and cites some truly mind-bogglingly bad sources that a lot of people won't recognize as bad if they don't have a hair trigger trained by far too much time on the bad CAM parts of the internet).

I've actually read that article a few time times, and would like to do a quick rundown on why I find it unconvincing:

She doesn't cite any decent studies on reiki; one that she does cite is just a self-reported questionnaire response from 23 people in 2002.

While we don't know the exact mechanism of action for acetaminophen, we do know that it does work - it measurably reduces fever and in double blinded RCTs produces reproduceable results in reducing certain kinds of pain. The Science Based Medicine authors cited in the article who called for an end to studies on reiki did so both because there is no plausible mechanism of action for reiki (specifically as energy work, not as 'being in a room with a patient person who listens to you') and because there is no good evidence that it works. (And they wrote a follow-up to the Atlantic article; I like SBM but it's quite sneery, as are most of their write-ups of reiki). When Kisner asks "why should this be different?" when comparing reiki and acetaminophen, the answer is: because there is not only no plausible way that reiki *could* work, there is not any good evidence we have that it works better than placebo.

"Various non-Western practices have become popular complements to conventional medicine in the past few decades, chief among them yoga, meditation, and acupuncture, all of which have been the subject of rigorous scientific studies that have established and explained their effectiveness." This one sentence needs probably twenty or so links in response, suffice it to say that western medicine has emphatically not established and explained the effectiveness of AT LEAST acupuncture and the casually credulous way Kisner accepts that acupuncture is effective (effective FOR WHAT?) throws some serious doubt on her ability to assess these kinds of things.

The title of the article is "Reiki can't possibly work, so why does it?" and that's probably the Atlantic's fault more than Jordan Kisner's fault, but she doesn't ever demonstrate that it works. She says she got a buzzy feeling after her training, she says that patients at the VA were asking for reiki as treatment for pain and sleep disorders, she says that people remembered "healing touches" from parents and loved ones and that the same mechanism might be what makes reiki 'work.' She says that reiki "has been shown by various studies that pass evidentiary muster to help patients in a variety of ways when used as a complementary practice" and the two studies that she includes that weren't just a questionnaire were 1) a non-blinded study of heart rate variability post heart attack where the reiki arm involved continuous interaction with a trained nurse and the other two arms involved resting quietly or classical music (so relaxation as a result of additional focused attention by attentive medical professionals could account for this? Why was the control for this study not having a med student sit and hold the patient's hand?) and 2) a study of patients who sought out reiki who were surveyed after treatment and noted improvement on one of twenty mental or physical markers (this study is like, GOLD for an example of a bad study; no control, self-selected participants who believe in the efficacy of the intervention, exceptionally broad criteria for a positive result - I find it really really really challenging to grant any credence to someone who confidently cited this as an example of reiki "working")

Near the end of the article she says "At the same time, this recalled the most cutting-edge, Harvard-stamped science I’d read in my research: Ted Kaptchuk’s finding that the placebo effect is a real, measurable, biological healing response to “an act of caring.” - if she read any of Ted Kaptchuk's research she didn't link to it; what she did link to was a 2018 New York Times profile of him and Kathryn Hall, researchers at Harvard's Placebo Studies and the Therapeutic Encounter program. Being any flavor of journalist and citing Ted Kaptchuk as your source for cutting-edge, institutionally-backed science is disqualifying.

I now need to do some yelling about Ted Kaptchuk.

For clarity: I have as much medical training as Kathryn Hall and Ted Kaptchuk, which is to say: None.

Hall is a microbiologist with a PhD in Public Health, so she at least a background in science. Kaptchuk is an acupuncturist with a BA in East Asian studies and a doctorate in Chinese medicine - notably NOT a medical degree; he was forced to stop calling himself a doctor and had papers retracted after enough people questioned whether the school he claimed he attended even existed and the documents he presented to claim that he was an "OMD" were conclusively translated and did not have any indication that the granted a medical degree of any kind - Science Based Medicine was involved in investigating this because they've been comprehensively anti-quack forever and Ted Kaptchuk has been a quack forever (after recieving confirmation from the government of Macau that Kaptchuk's alma mater was not a medical degree granting institution SBM STILL gave him the benefit of the doubt and had people translate his documentation for final confirmation).

He is also an author on of one of my most beloathed ever studies, which showed that sham acupuncture, placebo, and albuterol all produced the same effect on patient-reported well-being, coming to the conclusion that patient reports can be unreliable and that "placebo effects can be clinically meaningful and can rival the effects of active medication in patients with asthma." That fucking line, that stupid goddamned line, gets cited in every piece of woo bullshit about how acupuncture or chiropractic or some scam-ass diet all work, I've run into this study while looking through at least twenty bibliographies and it is one of the biggest, reddest flags that whoever is writing the paper you're reading is full up on some bullshit. Because, see, the paper found that "placebo effects can be clinically meaningful and can rival the effects of active medication in patients with asthma" in terms of *patient-reported* markers, but the fucking study found that only albuterol produced an actual effect in lung function. Here's the sentence BEFORE the one that gets cited all the time: "Although albuterol, but not the two placebo interventions, improved FEV1 [forced expiratory volume in one second - the measure for lung function used in the study and used to diagnose asthma] in these patients with asthma, albuterol provided no incremental benefit with respect to the self-reported outcomes." It doesn't matter if the patient *feels* better if they can't actually breathe! It doesn't fucking matter - feeling better but still having poor breathing leaves you more vulnerable to dying of a fucking asthma attack! I hate this goddamned study so fucking much and it's used all the time to claim that placebo can be just as effective as medicine for making people FEEL better but, like, they're still sick even if they feel better! I HAVE HAD PEOPLE CITE THIS STUPID FUCKING STUDY TO ME AS EVIDENCE THAT I DON'T CARE ENOUGH ABOUT TREATING MY FUCKING ASTHMA BECAUSE I DON'T GET ACUPUNCTURE TO TREAT MY FUCKING ASTHMA. If sham acupuncture makes you feel better when you've got the flu but doesn't lower your fever or make you less contagious, you shouldn't act like you don't have a fever or aren't contagious this study makes me INSANE.

Okay done yelling.

I think this look at placebo in the midst of her article about reiki is really interesting because it's very common for CAM practitioners to claim that it's as effective as placebo - which just means that it's not effective. This is a great explanation from The Skeptic on why placebo isn't and can't be what Kaptchuk, Hall, and the like claim. It's also interesting to me that Kisner didn't choose to link to a 2011 New Yorker profile of Kaptchuk that is somewhat less rosy about his placebo studies and includes this absolutely crushing statement: "the placebo effect doesn’t appear to work with Alzheimer’s patients. Trivers suggests that this is because most people who have Alzheimer’s disease are unable to anticipate the future and are therefore unable to prepare for it."

But to the actual point of the ask: I honestly think it's fascinating how much CAM success probably rides on "well did you listen to the patient and pay attention to what was wrong with them and sympathize with them and help them lay out plan that made them feel like they had some agency in this exceptionally frustrating situation (chronic illness, newly diagnosed issue, totally undiagnosed issue) that they're dealing with?"

I know part of why people with chronic illnesses turn to CAM is because they're ignored and dismissed by allopathic practitioners who are largely looking for horses, not zebras - this is one of the reasons that I'm really big on reminding people that (at least in the US) DOs are fully licensed physicians who use a holistic and patient-centered approach so if you are someone with a chronic illness who has had trouble getting diagnosed or had trouble getting doctors to believe you, swapping your MD for a DO as a primary care physician might be really, really helpful to you.

But the flip side of that is that is that I worry deeply about the question of where harm starts; the example with your uncle is really great because you do have a solid instance of something working but for totally the wrong reason (pressure being the mechanism that actually helped, versus magnets being the reason given by the person who did the treatment). Some of this stuff has very little likelihood of causing direct harm, but has the distinct possibility of having indirect harms, which people in the anti-CAM space generally divide into two categories, treatment delay and unnecessary costs (opportunity costs, monetary costs, wasted effort, etc.)

I'm going to step outside of your specific example and look at magnet therapy generally, which really is a spectacular thing to focus on because it honestly doesn't have any direct harms; nobody is allergic to magnets, the kinds of magnets used aren't strong enough to interfere with medical devices, it's even safer than the whole "well herbalism is sometimes just a cup of tea" thing because there are "safe" teas that can do real harm to large populations! But simply being around magnets is not going to hurt anyone (unless they're swallowed; nobody swallow magnets please).

One of the things that I think goes under-discussed when talking about placebo and CAM is that the people trying the alternative solutions desperately WANT the alternative medicine to work (I suspect that this is why the self-selected study of reiki patients has such a significant finding). They are pulling for it; they may be looking at it as a last resort, or they may be hoping that it will work to avoid a treatment that is more frightening, expensive, or inaccessible. I think this actually contributes a lot to the delay of care that we see with CAM.

The absolute worst case harm I can imagine from magnetic therapy is delaying treatment. Let's suppose we've got a diabetic patient with gradually increasing peripheral neuropathy; they have reacted poorly to gabapentin in the past and are looking for something more natural, and they hear from their chiropractor that magnet therapy can be used to treat neuropathy. They buy some compression socks with "magnetic and earthing properties" and sleep in the socks. Whether through the compression controlling some edema or through the simple desire for the socks to work, they feel some relief from the nerve pain they were experiencing and decide that this is a success. The socks work! They continue wearing the socks with occasional pain, but less than before. However, because they are focused on the lack of pain, they don't notice that it's accompanied by increasing numbness. The numbness significantly increases their risk of injury to their feet, which significantly increases their risk of amputation.

It probably sounds like catastrophizing to say "using magnets could lead to amputation" but honestly I don't think it's that far out of the realm of possibility (every time I post on this topic I get flooded with the saddest stories in the world about people whose loved ones died because of delayed treatment for cancer or heart disease).

The second category of harm is cost, which is honestly pretty minimal with magnet therapy, as long as you aren't spending $1049 on a magnetic mat

or paying a chiropractor to give you magnetic treatments. For some other medically harmless treatments like reiki, cost is the thing that I worry about - while I was looking up information related to the article I found that people are charging anywhere from $60 to $225 a session, and selling multi-session packages for thousands of dollars - and if someone thinks that something works, even if it only works by being in a soothing space where someone cares about you - they'll pay for it.

I'm aware that all of this is also extra complicated because of the cost and lack of access to allopathic medicine - a chiropractor broke my spine because I could pay her $60 per appointment but I couldn't pay $125 to see an MD when I didn't have insurance. People who are sick are going to look for treatment; people who have been denied treatment or dismissed by doctors are going to look for alternative treatments.

But man, I really wish I'd spent that sixty bucks on half of a doctor's appointment because the chiropractor didn't know about the benign tumor that I had that weakened the structure of that particular bone when she did her adjustment; it also didn't make the pain go away, it made a different pain start and get worse because it turns out I was having debilitating muscle spasms that then had a bone injury added in on top.

(Chiropractic, for the record, goes with chelation therapy and many many many many cases of herbalism where it's NOT just cost or delay; people claim these treatments are harmless and they are not. They can do tremendous harm).

But yeah I'm not going to deny at all that all of this would be a hell of a lot better if people (especially marginalized people) didn't have to jump through hoops to prove to a doctor that something is wrong with them, and didn't have to do so in an appointment that attempts to cram whole person care down into fifteen minutes, and didn't have the possibility of bankrupting you. Interacting with allopathic medicine is a nightmare and I totally understand why people want to look outside of it for treatment.

I've just heard too many horror stories and seen too much predatory CAM to cut much of it any slack.

At the end of the SBM response to the Atlantic article, the author (I can't remember if it's Gorski or Novella) makes the point that reiki is a spiritual practice, and that we've known for a long time that spiritual practices can improve a person's well-being in a number of ways; they can reduce anxiety, they can provide community, they can give people a space to feel and express emotions that they certainly aren't going to be able to process in a doctor's office. Spiritual practices can be wonderful, and we know there are a lot of people who they can help. But they aren't medicine, and attempting to replace medicine with them (which I don't think that most reiki practitioners are trying to do, to be fair, but which Ted Kaptchuk DEFINITELY is in trying to 'harness the power of placebo') is a disservice to people who need an inhaler instead of acupuncture.

Also, and I know this was not your point but I have to bring it up because people ask about it whenever discussions of placebo come up:

The placebo effect is not treatment. The placebo effect, whether achieved through deception or when someone says loud and clear "this is a sugar pill" does not improve an illness, but it may improve how a patient *feels* about an illness. In some cases, this may as well be the same thing - if you're dealing with muscle pain because you're stressed and no matter what you do it doesn't go away because your shoulders are always up around your ears and you're grinding your teeth and you're sleeping poorly, then literally just talking to someone who is in an office and says "this is a sugar pill, go ahead and take it" may make your muscle pain feel better, but it isn't going to reduce your stress and it isn't going to last, and if your muscle pain is because you're feeling angina as a result of a partially blocked artery then it SURE AS FUCK is not going to make you better and may mask symptoms that were a warning sign of a much more serious problem. People who are sick deserve actual treatment, and placebo is not treatment, which is part of why Ted Kaptchuk makes me want to tear my hair out.

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hwnglx · 3 months ago

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pick a pile - what makes you attractive?

welcome back lovely reader! let's take a peak into what makes you so attractive. breathe slowly, take your time and use your intuition to go with the pile that speaks to you the most. remember to take what resonates, and leave what doesn't. 𓆩♡𓆪

˖ ࣪ ⊹ ꒰ঌ pile 1 ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

you're attractive, in the way you're interested in creating these meaningful and emotional connections to people.

you aren't the type of person who feels the need to place yourself above anyone, in order to feel good about yourself. your desire for balance and harmony in your relationships makes you highly attractive.

the way you're able to put yourself in other people's shoes, and approach them with empathy, is wonderful. you give them this precious feeling of being understood.

you're a person who has very comforting energy, and a soothing effect on others. someone who brings the calm after the chaos, and hope into situations that seem lost.

spirit keeps showing me this image of a bandaid.

your attractiveness lies in your gentleness. in your ability to mend and heal.

the fact that you've been through so much, but this inner spark of hope inside you still remained bright and dazzling in the end, makes you very special.

it's likely that a lot of you aren't fully aware of this, but your existence is dazzling, and extraordinary in many people's eyes.

you stand out. you're unique.

there's something about your presence that shines differently, compared to the people around you. it's almost like a butterfly that can't see the beauty of its own wings.

i believe a good amount of you, have gone through your own losses and heartbreaks in the past.

it's likely you went through different cycles, and various impactful stages in your life where you were forced to adapt and adjust. unexpected situations which caught you off guard and resulted in you needing to pick up the pieces by yourself.

but the way you've been able to bounce back, and still find this inner courage to keep going, despite the hurt, is impressive.

i believe you've come to a point where you've been able to move away from that state of sorrow, and turned it into something that fuels your power.

your ability to bravely deal with the things that life unexpectedly throws you head on, makes you very attractive.

you still have a more sensitive heart, and your core will always be a little soft and sweet deep down; but your character has gained a lot of strength throughout the years.

this is something you radiate to the outside now. your inner power makes you incredibly attractive.

you look at the things you've been through till now, as experiences which have shaped you immensely, and turned you into the person you are today.

a lot of you are also likely to be outspoken, and pretty straightforward. you like getting to the true core of topics, and aren't afraid to voice things others might shy away from.

your attractiveness lies in your ability to balance these two coinciding sides in you; one that is full of empathy, warmth and a kind heart, and one that is self-sufficient, ambitious and courageous.

˖ ࣪ ⊹ ꒰ঌ pile 2 ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

you're attractive, in the way you relentlessly work towards fulfilling your own dreams and goals.

you're willing to put in consistent effort, in order to build yourself the dream life you desire so badly.

i just don't see you liking to rely on anyone else to do the work for you. you're very self-sufficient, and recognize that in order to get to a place of satisfaction and contentment within yourself, you have to be the one to make the effort. there's nothing like enjoying the fruits of your own labor.

a lot of you are very sure of what you want for yourself. some of you might actively manifest, by imagining and picturing how you want your life to be.

creating moodboards on pinterest or something. creating folders of style inspiration, or interior design inspirations. this is how i want to be dressed, this is the place i want to live in.

you're not gonna be someone who throws the towel and gives in, just because someone else might label your dreams as impossible, or unrealistic.

it's almost like you'll tell them “well, i'll show you then”

you have high aspirations, standards and expectations towards yourself, as well as others, which makes you even more attractive.

you just do not settle for anything less than what you want.

people can't get to you too easily. you're guarded and careful about who you let in closely.

many people are likely to look at you as a person they can't quite decipher or fully figure out at first; someone whose facade they'd like to look beyond.

the fact that you aren't an open book who's constantly accessible and available twenty four seven, makes you highly attractive to others. you cautiously keep them at an arm's length, and people might have to work for your attention.

there might even be some people envious of you.

envious of the fact that you're so self-reliant, independent, and in no need of anyone's help or guidance in life.

and although you give off a more detached and colder vibe to some people on the outside, people who actually know the true you, are aware of how sweet and empathetic you can in fact be. you just have a genuine heart deep down.

you're likely to be someone with a lot of depth and layers, and the closer people get to knowing you in your entirety, the more they get to see of your more complex, introspective and sensitive sides.

you might be much more emotional, romantic and dreamy than what meets the eye at first; and this is likely to draw a lot of people to you.

like “wow, i didn't know you had this side to you”

there's this type of reversal charm, where you might pleasantly surprise some people with how soft you can actually be at times, compared to the first impression they had of you.

some of you might literally have an rbf, but a beautiful smile that brightens and lights up your face in a whole new way.

you also give me very very creative energy. i feel like you love to express yourself beautifully, in many artistic ways. and you see art as a way to live out your most authentic self.

˖ ࣪ ⊹ ꒰ঌ pile 3 ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

you're attractive, in the way you lead with your heart.

it's likely that you're a person who nurtures a strong connection to their vast and rich emotional world. you're someone who genuinely cares.

like.. i don't think you even know how to just not care about things, and go through life in a nonchalant “meh” way. most of the time, you're very chalant. (ㅜ same!)

this makes you much more attractive than you might realize.

you can easily get emotionally invested in plenty of your endeavors; whether that's your relationships, the choices you have to make, the different situations life throws in your way.

you feel everything in a deep and profound manner, and this makes you unique.

reason why i believe you might not be fully aware of this, is because you seem to have the tendency to see yourself as more lacking than you actually are.

you're likely to be a person who's very humble at their core. an eternal student of life.

someone who tries their best to grow continuously and better themselves through every situation they get confronted with; especially the disappointments, regrets, losses.

you're eager to pull the lesson out of every experience in life, and sincerely want to learn from your mistakes.

despite criticism hurting you sometimes, you're still trying your best to improve yourself through it all.

this hard-working, grounded, down to earth and modest energy makes you incredibly attractive.

i think you're slowly but surely trying to let go of certain limitations you habitually set yourself till now. you might've felt trapped in your mind and stuck for a good while, but you're progressively coming out of that place.

despite the exhausting struggles you've been through till now, you're still standing strong!

your endurance, resilience and inner strength makes you immensely attractive.

yes you're wounded, yes you don't see yourself as perfect, but you're still ready to fight. you are a true warrior.

even with your naturally modest character, i don't see you as a person who allows people to step all over them anymore. you're starting to learn to be more strict and clear with your boundaries.

people might see you as someone who's becoming more guarded and closing yourself off, but to you, it's what's necessary to protect yourself.

you're attractive in the way you're becoming more and more aware of your true worth and your value.

you shouldn't let people look at your inner softness as weakness anymore.

on the contrary, it makes you incredibly strong and attractive, if you confidently embrace that side of you. i can see you stepping into your true power, once you learn to acknowledge your qualities more.

it's very likely for the things you yourself see as your downfalls, to be your actual strengths. you might just see yourself in a negative light way too quickly.

for example, your emotionality and sensitivity doesn't have to be a flaw. it can be your asset. it makes you special.

not everyone is capable of emotional connection the way you are. not everyone has the ability to be so genuinely loving, caring and sincerely empathetic the way you are.

don't constantly see yourself for what you aren't, for what you lack, for what you can't do. but see yourself for what you are and what you have, what you can indeed do!

note; i was definitely the most passionate about this pile because i have to admit, i relate so much 🥹 sending you all my support and hugs sweet reader

#kpop tarot #pac reading #pac #tarot reading #tarot community #tarot #personal reading #pick a card #pick a pile #pick a card reading

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glossdebut · 4 months ago

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study break | MYG

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x fem!reader

✧ SUMMARY: Yoongi was an extremely effective tutor, until he wasn’t. As it turns out, dating the person who is singlehandedly responsible for bringing up your Fundamentals of Music Theory grade isn’t the smartest move in the world.

✧ TAGS: college au, smut, fluff

✧ WARNINGS: oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, slight overstimulation

✧ AUTHOR'S NOTE: okay, so this is NOT price of fame chapter two, nor is it the seokjin fic that i’ve been teasing for weeks. this is instead a secret third thing, inspired by my own post that has been living rent free in my brain for the past couple of days. i promise POF2 and the seokjin fic are both coming, but i had to get this out before i lost my damn mind. not beta read, so feel free to inform me of any mistakes i missed. P.S. i know the header isn’t debut yoongi, don’t fucking @ me about it!! i had this photo on hand ):

✧ WORDCOUNT: 2.2k words

Yoongi was an extremely effective tutor, until he wasn’t.

As it turns out, dating the person who is singlehandedly responsible for bringing up your Fundamentals of Music Theory grade isn’t the smartest move in the world.

Things were so much easier when you—wrongfully—assumed he was an asshole. At least then, the arrangement was clear: you met him in the library, tried not to get annoyed at what a know-it-all he seemed to be for an hour, and then went back to your dorm with a slightly easier method of memorizing the circle of fifths under your belt. It went on like that for weeks. Quick and effective, mostly painless.

But then, when awkward small talk developed into genuine interest, you got to know him.

You learned that the reason he never takes notes in class is because he doesn’t have to. He taught himself all of the basics of music theory years ago, could’ve tested out and moved on to a more advanced class, but he wanted an easy A in his course load. You learned that he’s a music business major. He likes it just fine, but it’s really a means to an end. You learned that he writes his own raps, performs them at underground shows with a group of friends some weekends, that that’s what he really wants to do. You learned that he’s not an asshole and he’s just shy, that he’s been working up the courage to ask you out all semester.

You learned even more about him on your first date.

Such as: he’s the self-proclaimed master of grilling meat, and he’ll load up your plate for you before he even thinks of feeding himself. He may act like he’s not interested in going to the noraebang, but with just the slightest bit of insistence from you he’ll fold like a piece of paper. He thinks it’s cute when you snatch his snapback right off of his head and put it on your own. Even cuter when you fumble through a verse of Epik High’s ‘Love Love Love,’ squealing happily when he joins in.

And: he kisses like he’s got something to prove. Knows all the right ways to use his tongue. Makes a low noise in the back of his throat when you do something he likes. Isn’t the slightest bit shy about pulling you into his lap, nor about slipping his hand into your panties right there, Epik High forgotten in favor of making you cum around his skilled fingers.

So. Yeah.

Yoongi is no longer an effective tutor, because instead he is a fucking distraction.

You’re supposed to be studying. You had been studying, both of you putting up a valiant effort for a full hour and a half. But just as you’d gotten a firm grasp on the seven musical modes—Ionian, Dorian, Phrygian, Lydian, Mixolydian, Aeolian, Locrian—-Yoongi was whining, insisting on taking a break. You tried to put up a fight, but you’re especially weak when Yoongi gets all sulky, soft pink lips pulled into a pout.

Notecards tossed aside, your fifteen minute study break quickly devolves into half an hour of making out on Yoongi’s bed. As soft music filters into his dorm room from his laptop, you lose track of time with his tongue sliding against yours, the occasional sting of his teeth on your bottom lip because he knows you like it. When you feel his erection pressed against your hip it quickly becomes very clear that you’re both done studying for the time being.

The way Yoongi kisses you never fails to make you crazy. His lips on yours are gentle but commanding at the same time, his hands in your hair holding your head exactly where he wants it as he licks into your mouth like he owns it. When he pulls away, you barely have a chance to catch your breath before he’s trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. Your hips rock up against his, desperate for friction.

“Baby,” Yoongi murmurs against your skin. His hands slide down from your hair to gently tug at the waistband of your jeans, an index finger circling teasingly around the button. “Wanna eat you out. You want that?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, gasping when he nips at the underside of your jaw. Your voice is high, needy, foreign to your own ears. He’s good at that—at pulling sounds out of you that you didn’t know you could make.

He wastes no time in peeling your jeans down your legs, tossing them off the bed and out of his way. Yoongi likes to have as much space as possible when he eats you out, you’ve learned. He likes to take his time, spread you out as much as he can on his shitty dorm-provided twin size mattress. Just because he can make you cum in record time—and he can—doesn’t mean he likes to. Not when he’d much rather drag it out, savor you in every imaginable way until you can’t take it anymore.

You know you’re in for it when he doesn’t take your panties off right away. Instead, when he settles between your thighs, all he does is look for a moment, his gaze laser-focused on the growing wetness seeping through the cotton.

It lasts long enough that you start to squirm, his eyes flicking up to meet yours at the sudden movement.

“A-are you…?” you start, but you trail off, suddenly feeling way too fucking shy for something you’ve done with him more times than you can count at this point.

“Yeah,” he hums, looking up at you with an amused smirk. “Yeah, I’m getting to it, sweetness. I just wanted to look at you for a second. Is that okay?”

You shiver, swallowing thickly as you nod.

“You sure?” he teases, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh, so close to where you want him. “You don’t have anywhere better to be?”

“Shut up, Yoongi,” you complain, sitting up for a moment to flick him on the forehead.

“Yah, so disrespectful,” he admonishes with a bite right where he’d just kissed. “I’m just playing. I know you don’t wanna be anywhere else.”

Your eyes narrow at him. “I don’t,” you agree, suspicious. He’s up to something.

“No, you don’t,” Yoongi hums knowingly, holding your gaze as he presses a kiss right to your clit. It makes your breath hitch, even with your panties subduing the feeling. “Because you love the way I eat this pussy, don’t you, baby?”

The answer is yes, of course. Yoongi always makes you feel so good no matter what he’s doing, but eating you out is definitely where he excels. But something about how cocky he’s being makes something stir inside of you—-makes you feel a little bold, a little mean.

“When you actually get around to it, yeah.”

Yoongi chuckles darkly, snapping the waistband of your panties against your hip. When he lifts his head his eyes are all pupil. “It’s like that, huh?” he asks, his tongue running over his teeth.

“Maybe,” you say, goading.

He clicks his tongue, dipping down to lick a broad stripe over your pussy without any warning. When he reaches your clothed clit, he wraps his lips around it and sucks hard, tearing a surprised moan from you.

“F-fuck!” Your fingers tangle in his hair, desperate for something to hold on to, but the overwhelming pleasure is gone as quickly as it came.

“Such a brat,” Yoongi mumbles, sinking his teeth into the softness of your inner thigh again, harder this time. “Just wanted to take my time, treat you nice. But if you want it like this, fine.”

Mercifully, his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties. He roughly drags them down your legs until they’re thrown onto the floor, out of sight just like your jeans.

You gasp when his fingers instantly slide over your slippery cunt, making you gasp. “You get this wet just from pissing me off?” he scoffs, and you shake your head.

“N-no,” you whimper.

“No?” Yoongi asks, tilting his head at you with a smirk. You feel like you’re going to die when his fingers find your clit, rubbing in punishing little circles. “Tell me what gets you this wet, then, baby.”

“You!” you moan. It feels embarrassingly fast, but you’re close. You’re gonna cum before he even gets his mouth on you properly. Maybe that’s his goal. “You, fuck, Yoongi.”

“That’s right,” he purrs. “You gonna cum already, pretty girl? Before I even get to taste you?”

Oh, he knows exactly what he’s doing. Motherfucker.

You wouldn’t be able to protest even if you wanted to, your brain already succumbing to the pleasant buzz of your impending orgasm. All you can do is squirm and rock up against Yoongi’s fingertips, completely at his mercy.

“That’s okay,” Yoongi continues, unbothered as you shake and moan in front of him. “I know you can give me another one. Go ahead, sweetness. Cum for me.”

Your release tears through you, sudden and intense and all-consuming. You’re sure there are words coming out of your mouth, but between the heat spreading through your body and the static buzzing in your ears, you honestly have no idea what they could be. Yoongi’s fingers keep rubbing at your abused clit until you’re trembling, gasping for breath between moans.

“Filthy girl,” he hums. Whatever you said must’ve been good, because he sounds almost proud of you as he runs his hands over your thighs. “You gonna let me take my time now?”

“Yes,” you gasp, still reeling from your orgasm. Yoongi taking his time is exactly what you need right now, or else you’ll go into complete overdrive. Absently, you think that was his plan all along, but that thought melts away as soon as Yoongi dips down and delves his tongue into your cunt, slow and thorough.

Your brain? Empty. Brain so fucking empty.

“Shit,” he groans against you, his voice so low and gravelly you can feel the vibration of his words against your pussy. “You always taste so fucking good after you cum for me.”

You thread your fingers through his hair again, moaning long and low as he spreads you apart with his thumbs and dives back in. His nose nudges just slightly against your clit as he licks into you, the barely-there contact making your eyes roll back in your head.

“Yoongiiii,” you moan, earning an appreciative moan from him as he dips his tongue into your entrance.

Your first orgasm took you by surprise, but you can tell already that this one is going to be a slow burn, tendrils of heat that never really got a chance to fade spreading through your body, adagio.

As promised, Yoongi takes his sweet time. He sets an agonizing rhythm: licking into you, dragging his tongue up your pussy, gently sucking your clit into his mouth, over and over again until you’re practically a puddle on his mattress.

“Feels so fuckin’ good,” you mewl, your thighs shaking around his head. You’d blush at the sounds he’s producing between your legs, slurping and sucking at you, if you weren’t so fucked out. Instead, all it does is turn you on even more, make you even wetter for him.

Yoongi pulls back, huffing a laugh through his nose. “I know, baby,” he murmurs soothingly. “You ready to cum again?”

Wordlessly, you nod, squeezing your eyes shut. Two fingers tease at your entrance, getting nice and wet before Yoongi slides them in, and just like that, you’re ready to burst.

“Nnngh—fuck, ‘m so fucking close,” you slur, grasping at his hair as he pumps his fingers into you.

“Give it to me,” he says, before sucking your clit into his mouth again and making stars burst behind your eyelids.

His fingers curl just right, and then you’re moaning brokenly, bucking up against his fingers and mouth as you cum again.

It feels like it lasts forever. Yoongi moans around your clit as you clench around his fingers, squeezing tight tight tight as heat crashes over you in waves. You feel his fingers withdraw, and then his tongue is fucking into you again, licking every last drop he’s earned from you.

He only breaks away when you’re pushing at his head, overstimulated and spent.

“God, you’re so sexy,” he rumbles, climbing up the bed so he’s on top of you, bracing himself on his elbows. He’s one to talk. He always looks so good like this—swollen lips and dark eyes, the bottom half of his face slick from eating you out so fucking well. “You can just cum and cum for me, can’t you?”

“You are insane,” you breathe, grasping at the strings of his sweatshirt to pull him in for a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips.

Yoongi chuckles, pulling away just to press his forehead against yours. “You like it,” he says.

“I like you,” you correct, closing your eyes. “Even though I’m going to fail my final because of you.”

That earns a real laugh from Yoongi, his nose scrunching. “You’re not gonna fail.”

“I am,” you say, nodding sagely. “But it’ll be worth it.”

“That so?” He presses another kiss to your lips, nuzzling his nose against yours.

“Mhmm,” you hum. “Besides, I’ll just find a better tutor next semester when I have to retake.”

That earns you a sharp jab of Yoongi’s fingers to your side, but he’s got one of those gummy smiles on his face as you squeal under him, so no harm done.

✧ shoot me a reply or an ask if you enjoyed this fic! feedback is always appreciated <3 join my taglist if you want to be tagged in future fics!

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bring-forth-his-sac · 6 months ago

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ok so I saw this mouth watering gif and wrote a small drabble for it but with Negan instead of Jason Crouse

(warning: kinda nsfw)

“What are you reading?!”.

You stand in the doorway of the bedroom, mouth agape at the confusing sight you’re met with. In front of you is Negan, still in bed after your morning romp, but with an old newspaper in his hands from when the world still worked.

Negan gives a slight shrug. There’s a mischievous smirk on his lips that tells you he’s pleased with your reaction.

“What?" he replies innocently, pretending to not understand your surprise. "I'm just keeping up with what’s happening in the world, Sweetcheeks" Negan casually flips to the next page, acting as if the newspaper isn’t at least a couple years old.

“But where did you even get that?” you question, coming closer to the bed “Do you have a stack of old newspapers just laying around?”.

Negan adjusts his glasses as he responds, "One of my men found it on the last supply run. Why, you interested in giving it a read when I'm finished?".

You decide to play along, lounging across the end of the bed and propping your head up with your elbow. "Anything interesting in there?" your tone is one of mock curiosity.

Negan thinks for a moment, skimming the contents of the page in front of him. “The Yankees won again, a murder here, another war there,” he says uninterested before slowly trailing off “and… oh shit…”.

As much as you don’t want to give him the satisfaction, your head perks up as he hesitates.

Negan's gaze slowly shifts from the newspaper to you, his expression growing sombre. In a quiet voice you ask, "Yeah... what else?". Your question hangs in the air, a few beats of silence passing before Negan answers you.

“... Stock market’s down”.

You immediately scoff, realizing you've been duped. "Well, damn. I fell hook, line, and sinker for that one," you mumble, shaking your head.

"I don’t know how I’ll go on," Negan declares dramatically, fully committed to maintaining his facade. He knows he’s got you right where he wants you, unable to hide the amusement in his eyes.

You stretch out before slowly crawling closer to him, a teasing smile on your lips. "I’m guessing you’ll need some time to properly process this heartbreaking news, huh?" you quip, moving towards him with a hint of playfulness.

"If only I had some kind of distraction..." Negan laments, pretending to be lost in thought as he continues “Some kinda hot distraction that has a nice ass…”

Acting quickly, you straddle him and swipe the newspaper from his hands, tossing it aside onto the bedroom floor. “Stock market might be down but I can definitely feel something else coming up” you grind your hips against him, feeling his stiffening arousal.

Negan grins widely as you continue to move against him. "You think this is gonna make the headlines?" he teases, his hands cupping your ass and slowly kneading the soft skin.

You roll your eyes, already anticipating the barrage of puns that are sure to come. "Don't even," you warn and before he can speak, you lean in and kiss him passionately, effectively silencing any further attempts to make a joke.

Negan eagerly returns the kiss, savoring the sensation of your lips. Without hesitation, he cunningly slides his tongue into your mouth, the taste of him making your body ache for more.

As you bring your hand down to grip him, Negan resists the temptation to make another pun just yet. Instead, he decides to hold off on the inevitable one-liners until afterwards, unable to stop himself from giving you his full attention.

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diamondzart · 7 months ago

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I know Toy Story 4 is not really loved by the masses, but I can’t help admitting that I’m that person who loves it just as much as the trilogy. I was really excited about it back in 2019 and even had a little bit of hyperfixation on it. I really adore the concept of lost toys who live on their own. As much as Woody’s choice in the end was unexpected, I think it opened big possibilities for post-canon ideas. Like this one! I decided to design his possible appearance after a couple of years of living outside with Bo. Description under the cut!

I noticed what was missing from those few fanarts on events after the end of Toy Story 4 that I found on the internet. Bo Peep is all so cool and fancy with her hook, raincoat and all sorts of useful thingies that she carries with her, and Woody is just clean and unscathed, as if he just yesterday got out of a dry and warm room. Naaah he wouldn’t stay like this for long 😆

Because what is lost toy’s life? Dirt, unforeseen damage and the need to periodically fight off stray animals. Moreover, we already know that Woody has a tendency to get into troubles. Moreover, he is a rag doll — that is, more than Bo is vulnerable to problems like unstable humidity, getting stuck somewhere with his limbs and getting attacked by cats / dogs / raccoons / whatever else they can encounter. He should become as hardcore as Bo after a couple of years, because otherwise there is no way to survive in this world.

The “raincoat” is of nylon, most likely cut out parts of an umbrella that someone conveniently lost in the park during stormy weather. The trick is that it’s waterproof, since when you are made out of natural fabric, it's important not to get wet as much as possible. Moreover, Woody is quite old, and he should be concerned about the condition of his fabric if he does not want to literally fall apart after a couple of years of such adventures.

The holster is used as a pocket for small things, here it’s used for matches and paper clips, which can be useful in different situations. For matches, a striking surface from a matchbox is attached to the outer side of the right boot. This will allow to quickly light a match by yanking a foot down while holding match to it and thus minimize extra full-body movements, which can be useful in an emergency situation. I think that this can be effective not only for lighting up spaces, but also for scaring away animals, especially small ones like rats.

The hook is a pencil and a fishhook with a broken tip, strapped with duct tape. Basically an analogue of Bo’s hook but made from improvised materials. As we have already seen in her example, it is an excellent utility for crossing various obstacles and, if necessary, for self-defense.

Stitches and scuffs. Both Bo Peep's arms were broken off and are taped back. That means, free living involves the regular risk of losing limbs. Even in an antique store, Woody got his foot stuck somewhere several times, which suggests that either himself or with the help of some stray animal he lost one or another limb and had to sew it back on his own or with Bo’s assistance. He will have to overcome his fear of being broken and accept this as a new part of his existence.

These were general notes on this sketch! Perhaps I will continue to develop this idea in order to find some new interesting solutions.

#yeah my old fixation decided to resurface like THREE DAYS before D23 #idk what will be with Toy Story 5 and I know people are skeptical about it #BUT I am quite positive #probably because I liked TS4…#please don’t write criticisms on TS4 under this post I’ve already seen it all #you won’t provide me any new info you will just upset me #so pleasssseeeeee just enjoy the fanart if you like it eheh #toy story #toy story 4 #toy story fanart #woody pride #woody toy story #fanart #digital sketch #artists on tumblr #my art #character design #fan concept

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ellswritings · 4 days ago

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Relinquish Control

Roman Reigns (Joe Anoa‘i) x Reader

TW: This is long afff, like 14.4k long. Anywho… foul language, mutual pining, sexual tension, use of real names, Roman and reader being control freaks. I think that’s it. Not my best work… but oh well.

Tags: @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

When Y/N was told she would be moving from NXT to the main roster on Friday Night SmackDown, she couldn’t believe it. It had been her dream since she was a kid to make it to the big leagues like this. So when Paul Levesque told her she would have to work with a mentor for the next few months to solidify her position, she couldn’t refuse. If it means getting to fight alongside some of her heroes, she wouldn’t turn anything down.

It all became even more surreal when she was told that Roman Reigns, The Tribal Chief himself would be the one to mentor her.

At first, she was shocked. She wasn’t expecting the man who has currently had the world championship for about two years now consecutively would be the one to train her. She wasn’t expecting such a big name. But she couldn’t complain. Well, at least not yet.

At first, working with him was like a dream, until it wasn’t. Y/N was stubborn and had a very hard time taking orders. Joe on the other hand demands respect, he values the control he has in every aspect of his life. He’s not as smug as he portrays himself on camera, but he and Roman do share some very similar personality traits that make Y/N’s blood boil. But the feeling is mutual. It annoys him to no end that Y/N refuses to acknowledge him as her Tribal Chief. Most people would kill to be an honorary member of the Bloodline, but not her. The moment he offered her a spot at the table, she laughed it off and said she didn’t need his help. That she didn’t take orders from anyone.

Training the next day was particularly brutal for the poor girl after that. But she didn’t give up. And that’s another thing he admired yet hated about her. Her perseverance and hard headedness never lets up. In the ring and in their interactions. At first, it’s truly just annoying. She doesn’t blindly follow his orders. She pushes him, makes him justify why he wants her to train in certain ways.

And what makes it even worse is that she’s good. Really good. Anytime he gives her a critique, she applies it, albeit with a bit of sass and backtalk, but she does it and makes it better. It especially grates his nerves when she proves him wrong sometimes, doing a move a different way than he instructed and it actually ends up being more effective. At first he thought it would make him mad, but it started to make him more… interested than anything.

Y/N huffs frustratedly as Roman dodges her enzuigiri. It’s currently six thirty in the morning and they have already been training for two hours. It’s the same routine pretty much everyday besides Sunday’s. Get up at four, go to the gym, spend three to four hours training, do an ice bath, then she can go on with the rest of her day. Sometimes he even forces her to do extra sparring at the end of the night if he feels she needs it. It’s rigorous and her body hurts eighty percent of the time, but she won’t deny she’s getting better.

Roman tries to clothesline her but she quickly ducks under his arm, using the ropes of the ring to speed herself up as she attempts, and successfully executes a hurricanrana. She feels herself begin to smirk, a witty quip about to leave her lips, but the wind is quickly knocked out of her as Roman counters quickly, taking her hesitation as a moment of opportunity. He spears her to the floor, making her groan in anguish as he pins her for the entire three count.

“Being cocky will get you pinned every time,” he tells her, standing up effortlessly like they hadn’t just had a full on match. He sticks his hand out to help her up, but Y/N being her usual self scoffs quietly before pushing herself up on her own. She winces slightly, already feeling the soreness in her side where his spear made its impact. One thing about Roman is that just because she’s his mentee does not mean he goes easy on her in the ring. He’s not above knocking her on her ass if it means it’ll help her get better.

“You’re just mad ‘cause I practically chucked you across the ring,” she grumbles, unwrapping the white tape from her hands as she goes to leave the ring.

He follows after her, his voice remaining patient even though she’s tested every nerve he has. “It doesn’t matter how far you throw an opponent. The moment you get arrogant or take your attention away from the match is the moment you lose,” he lectures. “You need to get out of that immature ‘I need to prove myself’ mindset and actually start being a wrestler.”

“You act like I’m not doing that already,” Y/N fires back, rolling her shoulders to ease the ache. “Last I checked, I’m the one waking up at four in the damn morning, training until I can’t feel my legs, and getting my ass handed to me by a six-foot-three Tarzan-looking-man on a daily basis. What part of that says I’m not taking this seriously?”

Roman exhales through his nose, leveling her with a look. “You’re putting in the work, yeah. I see that. But you still fight like you have something to prove.”

“Because I do.”

He shakes his head. “No, you don’t.” He steps closer, looming over her, arms crossed. “You’re already here, Y/N. You made it to the main roster. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone. But you keep fighting like some rookie trying to earn a contract. And that? That’s what’s gonna cost you when it actually matters.”

Y/N glares up at him, jaw set. She hates that he has a point. She hates even more that she can feel it sinking in. But she’s not about to admit that. She snatches up her water bottle and takes a long sip, buying herself time before responding. “Maybe that’s just how I fight,” she finally says, tilting her head at him. “Maybe I like fighting like I have something to prove.”

Roman scoffs. “Then you better get used to getting pinned.”

She rolls her eyes. “Not happening.”

“Then fix it.” His voice is firm, steady. It’s the same voice he uses in the ring, the one that commands the entire arena without needing to yell. “Learn to control yourself, or someone else is gonna do it for you.”

Y/N bristles at that. “Yeah? And you think you’re the one to do it?”

Roman doesn’t blink. “I know I am.”

There’s a tension in the air now, something heavy crackling between them. Y/N refuses to look away first. She can feel the heat of his stare, the weight of it pressing into her skin. After a moment of silence, she slings her gym bag over her shoulder, not wanting to continue the conversation. She still has an ice bath she has to sit through. “Whatever, Chief.” She spits the title with sarcasm, making Roman’s jaw flex just slightly. Then, just as she turns to leave, his hand wraps around her wrist, halting her in place. Her eyes flick down to where he holds her, then back up to his face. “Dude, I’m done for today.”

Roman doesn’t let go. “You don’t decide when we’re done.”

“My body does,” she argues, trying to yank free.

His grip remains firm but not forceful, his head tilting slightly. “You talk a big game, but the second things don’t go your way, you’re ready to walk?” He tuts. “That’s not how this works.”

Y/N glares at him. “I trained for three hours, got speared, and sat through one of your monologues about control. That’s a full shift as far as I’m concerned. I’m clocking out.”

Roman doesn’t even blink. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

She folds her arms. “Oh, please, enlighten me.”

“You think this is just training.” He steps closer, the weight of his presence suffocating. “You think I’m just here to make sure you don’t embarrass yourself in the ring.”

“That is what mentors do,” she shoots back.

Roman huffs a low, knowing laugh. “I’m not just your mentor, Y/N.”

She raises a brow. “Oh yeah? What else are you, then?”

His fingers trail from her wrist, up to her forearm, then to her shoulder before gripping it firmly. “Your leader.”

She actually laughs at that. “Hate to break it to you, but I haven’t exactly accepted your little ‘seat at the table’ offer, so I don’t have to answer to you. You’re my mentor, not my boss.”

Something flickers in his dark eyes. Amusement. Frustration. Maybe something else—something sharper. His fingers tighten slightly. “You think that matters?”

She scoffs, shoving at his chest, forcing distance between them. “Yes, actually.”

Roman doesn’t move an inch. He just watches her. Studies her. Feels the way her breath hitches for half a second before she squares her shoulders again. Then, with all the patience of a man who knows he’s already won, he tilts his head. “Get back in the ring.”

She lets out an exasperated breath. “Not happening.”

He doesn’t repeat himself. He doesn’t have to. His stare alone is a command, heavy and absolute. And damn it, it pisses her off that she’s even considering listening.

“You’re so full of yourself,” she mutters, crossing her arms.

“I have every right to be,” he counters smoothly. “Everything I say, everything I do—it works. That’s why you’re here, training under me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, so now you wanna acknowledge that I never asked for this?”

Roman steps forward again, forcing her to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze. “You might not have asked, but you need it.” His voice drops, low and steady. “You need me.”

She exhales sharply through her nose. “You really think I can’t do this on my own?”

He smirks, head tilting. “You’re good, Y/N. But good doesn’t cut it here. You wanna make it? Wanna win?” His grip on her shoulder tightens. “Then acknowledge me as your Tribal Chief.”

She scoffs, shaking her head. “Dude, I’m not part of your little Samoan mafia or whatever the hell you call it.”

His smirk fades. “That doesn’t change anything.”

She gestures between them. “Uh, pretty sure it does. I’m not in the Bloodline, which means I don’t have to acknowledge shit.”

Roman exhales slowly, tongue running along the inside of his cheek. He should let this go. Shouldn’t let her get under his skin. But Y/N’s stubbornness, her complete defiance of him, grates his nerves in a way he hasn’t felt in years. She should want this. Anyone in the pro-wrestling world would. And yet here she is, looking him in the eye, daring him to push harder. Roman lets out a slow breath before shaking his head. “You’re gonna learn.”

“Oh yeah?” She lifts a brow. “And how’s that?”

He steps even closer, close enough that she can feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough that the shift in the air between them is almost tangible. “Because I don’t lose,” he murmurs, voice dangerously low. “And I don’t let people walk away from me.” For the first time, Y/N’s expression flickers—just barely, but he sees it. That second of hesitation is all the confirmation he needs. His voice is calm, measured, unwavering. “You’ll acknowledge me. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But it’s going to happen.”

Her fingers curl into fists at her sides. “Don’t hold your breath, Chief.”

Roman just smirks. “We’ll see.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Another thing about having Joe as a mentor is that Y/N can only train with him or another member of the Bloodline. She didn’t necessarily mind that part of it. While it would be nice to get in the ring with some other people, she didn’t mind being with the guys. Josh and Jon are fun to be around, always making sparring more entertaining. Solo is really good about giving her advice she’ll actually use in the ring. And truthfully, she just loves being around Sami. He’s talented and has an energy that no one else can bring. She actually prefers the days when it’s all of them in the ring rather than just her and Roman.

Not that she minded being alone with Joe. It was the exact opposite. She loves getting under his skin and making him grit his teeth extra hard when she does something that irritates him. It’s also easier to stare at him for a bit too long when no one is around to tease her for it. Not that she would ever admit that she stares. But what makes her prefer the others being around is the fact that Roman’s attention is a bit more divided so she has more time to do workouts she wants to do.

Unfortunately, today doesn’t seem to want to work in her favor. She and Roman circle each other in the ring, Josh, Jon, and Sami watching from the side while Solo does his own workout on the other side of the gym. But he won’t lie, he is watching out of the corner of his eye.

The ring is alive with movement as Y/N and Roman circle each other. She’s fast, her footwork sharp, slipping past his reach with ease. He’s patient, methodical, letting her expend energy while he remains firmly planted.

Josh lets out a low whistle. “Man, she’s really got you moving, Uce.”

Jon grins. “She’s makin’ you sweat, big dog.”

Sami, ever the instigator, clasps his hands together. “I don’t wanna be dramatic, but I think we might be witnessing the fall of the Tribal Chief.”

Roman’s glare cuts through all of them, and they immediately sober up. Y/N smirks. “Aw, don’t be mad just because they can see I’m winning.”

Roman doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he lunges forward, forcing her to duck. She’s quick—spinning behind him and catching his arm to set up a ripcord knee strike. But instead of executing it cleanly, she twists her body in a way he hadn’t taught her, adding an extra rotation before slamming her knee toward his jaw. He steps back just in time, narrowly avoiding the full impact. Josh and Jon exchange glances, clearly impressed.

“Damn,” Jon mutters. “That was smooth.”

“Yeah, it was. I mean, jeez ma, you been holdin’ out on us?” Josh adds.

Roman doesn’t give her a second to enjoy their praise. He moves fast—too fast—sweeping her legs out from under her before she can react. Y/N hits the mat with a grunt, and before she can roll away, he pins her.

One… Two… Three.

She breathes hard beneath him, blinking up at the bright lights of the gym. But her focus isn’t on the lights. It’s on the way he’s not moving. The way he’s still pressed against her, his hands braced on either side of her head. For a moment, neither of them say anything. Then, Roman’s gaze flickers downward—just for a second—before he abruptly pushes off her and stands. Y/N exhales sharply, rolling onto her side before pushing herself up.

The guys are still watching, but wisely choose not to comment on the moment. Instead, Sami clears his throat. “Uh, not to brag, but I totally called that pin like ten seconds before it happened.”

Josh scoffs. “Oh, please. We all knew it was coming.”

Jon nods. “Yeah, but she put up a hell of a fight.” He looks at Y/N. “Respect.”

She grins. “Appreciate it.”

Roman, however, isn’t smiling. “You changed the move.”

Y/N turns to him, lifting an eyebrow. “Yeah. And? It still worked, didn’t it?”

“I already showed you how to do it properly,” he says, arms crossing.

She shrugs. “And I put my own twist on it.”

“That’s not how it works,” he says, voice even. “You’re under my training.”

She folds her arms. “That doesn’t mean I can’t try new things.”

Sami leans toward Jon and mutters, “This is getting good.”

Jon smacks his chest. “Shut up, man.”

Roman ignores them, his attention solely on Y/N. “The way I showed you works. You don’t need to change it.”

She exhales, shaking her head. “Just because it works your way doesn’t mean it’s the only way.”

His nostrils flare. “It is when I’m the one in charge of training you.”

She huffs. “That’s not a good enough excuse anymore.”

Jon and Josh wince like they’ve just witnessed someone stepping on a landmine while Sami quietly hums the Jaws theme. Roman inhales deeply, his patience hanging by a thread. “You four. Out.”

Josh and Jon are up immediately.

“Yup.”

“Say less.”

Sami gives Y/N an exaggerated thumbs-up before following them out. Solo lingers for a beat, his sharp gaze flicking between them before he silently nods and exits. The second the door shuts, the tension in the room triples. Y/N stands firm, arms crossed. “No audience for this part?”

Roman exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You need to learn respect.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. You know that I respect you, Joe.”

His gaze darkens slightly at the sound of his real name. She steps closer. “But I also think someone should keep your ego in check. And I think that someone might be me.”

His fingers flex. She’s testing him. He knows she is. And the worst part? He likes it. Her eyes don’t waver. She’s challenging him—daring him to react. Roman takes a slow, deep breath, every muscle in his body tight with restraint. She steps closer. He stiffens, his pulse spikes. If she says one more thing, he might just—

No.

Roman exhales sharply and steps back. “Get changed,” he says, his voice rough. “Training’s done.”

Y/N watches him for a second longer, then nods, grabbing her bag. But before she leaves, she looks over her shoulder. “You know,” she muses, “if you really wanted me to stop pushing you, you’d stop reacting.” Then she’s gone.

Roman lets out a slow, controlled breath, running a hand down his face. She’s a fighter that’s for sure, he just doesn’t understand why it’s him she has to fight.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Y/N bounces up and down on her heels as she warms herself up for her match. It’s her first time going up against Bayley and she wanted to give the audience the best show that she could. A small smile graces her face when Jey and Sami walk up to her with bright smiles on their faces, hyping her up as she mentally preps herself. She relishes in their presence, hugging them tightly as they tell her how great she’s going to do. She had seen Jimmy a couple minutes prior but he wanted to go spend some time with Naomi as her match was today as well.

The only thing that makes her nervous is that she hasn’t seen or heard from Roman since being at the arena. He’s normally the first one to walk up to her. Whether it’s to tell her good luck or to remind her of correct form, he’s always the one to find her. But she hasn’t seen him at all and it’s making her nerves spike.

Even when she rolls her eyes at his comments or critiques, it still provides a sense of comfort knowing he’s there watching her match. In a way, she takes it as his way of telling her to go out there and kick some ass.

“You alright Uce?” Jey asks as he notices her looking around, anxiety seeping through her features.

“You’re not worried, right?” Sami folds his arms over his chest with an endearing grin. “ ‘Cause if you are, you shouldn’t be. You’ve been killing it in training. And your mic skills are phenomenal. Every city we’ve gone to loves you.”

Y/N shakes her head, “It’s not that…” she admits, chewing her bottom lip nervously. “It’s just– normally Joe comes to see me before I go out as my mentor or whatever and I haven’t seen him all day so it’s kinda throwing my routine off.”

Jey chuckles, “So now you want to talk to him?” He jokes, nudging her shoulder. “Thought you’d be happy you didn’t have to hear his incessant nagging.”

“Hey man, she’s gotta get her daily dose of pissing him off,” Sami chimes with his own laugh. “The day’s not complete if she doesn’t make him mad at least once.”

“Shut up,” Y/N rolls her eyes, smacking both of them. “I’m serious. It’s just weird he isn’t out here yet.” She glances around the corner one last time, “I don’t think I did anything out of the ordinary to make him not be here.”

“Sweetheart, just relax,” Jey grabs her shoulders softly, smiling gently at her. “He probably just lost track of time or got caught up with some business stuff. He’ll be here to see your match and to correct everything you did wrong once you win.” He slides in a small joke to try and ease her nerves, and it works. Like it always does.

“Yeah, don’t worry about him,” Sami adds. “You keep frowning like that and you’ll get wrinkles.”

“And you too pretty for that,” Jey winks.

Y/N laughs at their antics, but it still doesn’t calm the small storm swirling in her head. She would call or text him, but she’s had her phone in the locker room all day to keep her head in the right place. Avoid outside distractions. But it’s a good thing that she doesn’t know where Roman is or what he’s doing, because if she did, she would be beyond angry. At who? No one knows.

A scowl covers Roman’s lips as he walks through the guys locker room. He knows how late he’s running and he needs to make it out before Y/N’s match to give her some last minute advice. He keeps his face composed, not wanting to show how out of sorts he’s feeling. He’s never missed one of her matches and he doesn’t plan to start today. Especially since this fight against Bayley is opening up a perfect opportunity for Y/N to get her first title shot. Even though he can see her insufferable smirk now as she wins, he still wants to be there.

But as he moves through the space, his ears pick up on a conversation that immediately makes him stop in his tracks.

“She’s only getting this match because of Reigns,” a sneering voice mutters.

Roman’s stride slows. His head turns slightly, eyes narrowing as he spots a small group of guys near the benches. Mostly mid-card wrestlers—guys who like to run their mouths when they think no one important is listening. They blame their lack of success on everyone else but their own incompetence.

“She’s new as hell and already getting to work for a title shot?” another scoffs. “Come on, man. You know why she’s getting all these chances.”

A third voice, deeper and more smug, chimes in. “Yeah, she’s probably sucking Roman off behind the scenes. Ain’t no other reason for her to be moving up this fast.”

Laughter follows, low and conspiratorial. A fourth guy, younger but just as cocky, smirks. “I mean… she is pretty. If she wanted to use me to get to the top, I wouldn’t say no.”

The laughter grows louder. And then— Silence. Because he’s there… And no, not Roman Reigns.

Joe Anoa‘i.

He looms behind them, shoulders squared, his entire presence heavy with rage. His dark eyes bore into them like a warning shot before the kill, his face unreadable—calm in a way that’s so much worse. The guys freeze.

“Say that again.” The quiet command cuts through the locker room like a blade.

None of them move. None of them speak. Joe tilts his head, stepping forward just enough that the air shifts, thick and suffocating. “You think that shit’s funny?” His voice is low, slow—like a storm rolling in, inevitable and inescapable. “Think it’s real easy to talk about someone who ain’t here to defend themselves, huh?”

The guy who made the worst comment swallows hard. “Hey, man, it was just—”

Joe is in his face before he can finish, his presence alone making the guy shrink back. “I don’t give a damn what you think it was,” Joe growls. “What you’re not gonna do is disrespect her like that again. Not when every single one of you knows she can run circles around you.” No one breathes or even dares to make eye contact with the man. Joe’s jaw ticks as he takes another step forward, ensuring that every single one of them feels the weight of his anger. “I promise you—if I ever hear any of you say some shit like that about her again, I’ll make sure you don’t just walk out of here. I’ll make sure you’re carried out.” His voice drops even lower, dangerous. “On a stretcher.”

A tense, suffocating pause. Joe exhales sharply, nostrils flaring, eyes still burning with barely restrained fury. Then—he scoffs. A single, sharp sound. “That’s what I thought.”

Without another word, he turns and walks away, fists still clenched, mind still racing. He shouldn’t feel this protective over her. He knows that. But the thought of anyone talking about Y/N like that—disrespecting her, reducing her to something she damn sure isn’t—makes his blood boil. And if they ever did it again? He’d make sure they never forgot who they were dealing with.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Y/N was on an absolute high after her match. She just won against Bayley of all people. An absolute legend in the locker room and someone everyone loves. It made her feel like she was truly working her way up in the business. She was proud of herself, however, Roman’s absence in the beginning lingered in the back of her mind for the whole match. It made her angry that he wasn’t there. It’s part of his job to show up and be there for her. That’s what mentors do.

Or maybe she just… wanted him there. Wanted his presence.

She feels a wide array of arms and voices enveloping her in congratulations as Solo, Sami, Jimmy, Jey, and even Naomi come to celebrate her big win. It takes a minute or so but something begins to feel off for her. A sharp pain shoots down her leg and she groans. Bayley had targeted her left leg a bit more than she was expecting, but she felt fine. Until now at least.

“I think I need to sit down…” Y/N tells them, causing every one of them to share a concerned look.

Josh is the first one to notice the small wince in her eyebrows, “What’s going on?” He asks worriedly.

“My leg,” she says, nodding down to it as they guide her over to one of the many stray pieces of furniture backstage.

Sami lets out an audible gasp as he looks at her knee, “Oh my God,” he kneels down in front of her. “That’s definitely not normal.”

Her right knee is battered and bruised from the many times Bayley ran her into the posts and turnbuckles. There were only a few times where it hit harder than anticipated, but she wasn’t expecting it to look this bad. It’s swollen beyond belief, already starting to have a dark bruise surrounding it. It looks very different from her good leg.

“Holy shit,” Trinity places her hands on the site gently making Y/N bite the inside of her cheek with a quiet groan. “Yeah, my bet is that it’s dislocated.” She shoots the younger woman an empathetic look, having experienced a similar injury herself. “I’m sorry hun, but we’re gonna have to get a paramedic or someone over here to push it back in place.”

Y/N winces again but nods, “Okay, yeah, let’s do that,” she manages to grunt out as the adrenaline wears off more and more.

Trinity assigns everyone a job to do to make sure this is as quick and painless as possible. Y/N’s only instruction was to stay where she was, which only made her chuckle because it’s not like she could walk very far.

After a few moments sitting alone, she couldn’t help but grind her teeth together as her knee throbbed relentlessly. She ran a hand through her tangled hair, counting down the seconds until someone could fix her current problem. The only thing she can do until one of them comes back with the paramedics is mentally prepare herself for the pain that comes with putting her knee back in place.

She heard the footsteps before she saw him. A slow, steady stride that was distinctly him. And then, rounding the corner with his usual brooding expression, Roman appeared, his gaze immediately locking onto her injury.

“What the hell happened?” His voice was low, controlled, but the storm in his eyes betrayed his composure. His arms crossed tightly over his chest as he took in the state she was in—her bruised and swollen knee, the way she sat awkwardly to avoid aggravating it, and worst of all, the fact that she was alone.

Y/N exhaled sharply, looking down at her knee. “Bayley happened,” she muttered, flexing her fingers against the cushion beside her. “Guess I took more hits than I realized.”

Roman’s eyes swept over her injury before narrowing. “And why are you sitting here by yourself?” His tone wasn’t harsh, but there was an unmistakable layer of frustration beneath it.

She should be mad at him. And she was. Or at least, she had been. But now, as the anger simmered down, it left behind something softer—something she wasn’t prepared to feel.

So instead of snapping at him, she just looked up, eyes filled with something vulnerable as she asked quietly, “Where were you?”

Roman’s jaw ticked. He knew she wasn’t just asking about now. She meant before the match. Before she stepped into the ring with Bayley, looking for his usual last-minute pep talk or critique. And he had no good excuse—at least, not one he could give her.

Y/N watched as his lips parted slightly, as if he were about to answer, but nothing came.

She sighed, shaking her head before looking away. “Never mind. Forget it.” A humorless chuckle escaped her lips, but it lacked its usual spark. “I don’t know why I assumed you’d be there for everything.”

That stung.

Roman felt his temper flare at her words, not because they were unfair, but because she genuinely believed them. He crouched down in front of her, leaning in slightly, his presence commanding as always.

“I’ll always be there,” he said, voice firm. “Don’t ever doubt that.”

Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down her spine. It wasn’t just a promise—it was a vow.

Her chest ached, but it wasn’t from her knee. She quickly looked away, suddenly feeling too exposed under his gaze.

Roman cleared his throat and nodded toward her leg. “You need to take better care of yourself,” he muttered. “You should’ve tapped out if it was this bad.”

Y/N let out a scoff, shaking her head. “Of course, even when I’m sitting here crippled, you still find a way to lecture me.”

Roman smirked slightly. “Someone’s gotta knock some sense into you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

But then, his expression softened, just slightly. “For what it’s worth…” He tilted his head, eyes never leaving hers. “I still saw you kick ass out there.”

Y/N raised a brow at him, a teasing smirk playing on her lips. “Kick ass? So does that mean you don’t have a single critique for me this time?”

Roman gave a slow shrug. “It’d be mean to tell you while you’re injured.”

Y/N let out a genuine laugh at that, and for a second, the pain in her knee was completely forgotten. Then, without thinking, Roman reached forward, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. It was a simple gesture. Nothing he hadn’t done before. But this time… it felt different. The second his fingertips grazed her skin, something shifted in the air between them. It was like the world had tilted slightly off its axis, like everything had narrowed down to just this.

Her breath hitched. His hand lingered for a moment too long. And suddenly, she wasn’t thinking about her injury, or her frustration, or the match she had just won.

She was thinking about him.

Roman’s fingers curled into a loose fist as he pulled back, as if he was stopping himself from doing something reckless. His throat bobbed slightly, and Y/N could swear she saw the slightest flicker of uncertainty in his normally unreadable expression.

And then—

“Alright, we’re back!”

Jey’s voice sliced through the moment like a knife.

Roman was on his feet in an instant, stepping back just as Jimmy, Sami, and the others came rushing in with the paramedics.

Y/N exhaled slowly, blinking a few times as she tried to process whatever the hell had just happened. But judging by the way Roman was standing a little too stiffly beside her, arms crossed tightly over his chest, she wasn’t the only one feeling it.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It had been a couple weeks since Y/N’s match with Bayley and she’s been on a winning streak ever since. Her knee healed up quite nicely, occasionally needing to wear a brace to keep the pressure off of it, but other than that, it’s been great.

The only thing that seems to have shifted slightly is her dynamic with Joe. Since that night, things have been a bit more… tense than usual. They still argue and challenge each other like they used to, but now instead of it ending with one of them rolling their eyes and leaving, it ends with one of them getting in the other’s face and staring at each other for way too long to be considered normal.

Even during training, Y/N finds herself shivering whenever he places his hands on her to help correct a move she messed up on. Anytime he’s around her, whispering in her ear how to use the correct form, her mind fogs and she can no longer focus on what they were doing. It frustrates him to no end because he perceives her as being off her game. And in a way she is, but it’s not her fault.

It’s his.

For being sculpted by the damn Greek gods. He’s intoxicating. She didn’t realize how genuinely attractive he was because she was always so focused on making him mad. But now she wants to make him mad for other reasons.

Now she wants to irritate him so he feels the need to get in her space. To invade her senses with everything that is Roman. She knows it’s more than wrong for her to feel this way about the man who is mentoring her, but she can’t help it. He’s managed to worm his way into her mind and she doesn’t mind his residency.

Her knuckles rap on the door to his private office three times. She bites the inside of her cheek until a small “come in” allows her access into the room. She slowly opens the door, her breath hitching when she sees what’s in front of her.

It’s nothing scandalous. Just Joe hunched over his desk, his hair pulled back in a manbun, a tight fitting t-shirt and sweats adorning his body as he fills out some paperwork. But the soft glow of the yellow light and the way his face isn’t pinched so tightly, it makes him look majestic.

“Jon said you wanted to see me,” she says, taking a step closer to his desk, arms folded over her chest.

“Yeah, I do,” he nods as he places his pen down, folding his hands together as he leans forward. Y/N can’t help the way her eyes travel to his biceps, the way they flex with just the smallest of movements makes her heart hammer against her ribcage.

There’s a long moment of silence until she realizes she’s been staring for a bit too long. “About…?” She asks with her usual level of sass.

Y/N watches as Joe leans back in his chair, a slow inhale filling his broad chest. He studies her, his dark eyes dragging over her face like he’s weighing something, considering his approach. She’s used to his intensity by now, but something about the way he’s looking at her tonight sets her nerves on edge.

“I think,” he finally says, voice smooth and deliberate, “we need to revisit your answer from a few months ago.”

She blinks. “My—what?”

His lips twitch, just barely. “Your answer. About the Bloodline.”

Y/N shifts her weight, arms tightening over her chest as she exhales sharply. “Seriously? That’s what this is about?”

Joe tilts his head, unfazed by her exasperation. “Yeah. It is.”

Y/N lets out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. “I thought we already settled this.”

“I didn’t.”

Her eyes snap to his, but he’s already rising from his chair, moving with that quiet, lethal confidence that always makes her feel like she’s on the verge of being devoured.

“Y/N,” he says, stepping closer, voice dropping just slightly. “You’ve been running with us for months now. Winning matches. Representing us. Whether you want to admit it or not, you’re already part of this family.”

She clenches her jaw, heart thudding. “I told you—I don’t do hierarchies.”

Joe hums, as if he expected that answer. He reaches for something on his desk, lifting it into view.

The Bloodline jacket.

The sight of it sends an odd rush through her—one she really doesn’t want to analyze.

“This belongs to you,” Joe murmurs, stepping even closer.

Y/N swallows, forcing herself to hold his gaze. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Joe lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re the only one who hasn’t accepted it yet. Everybody else already knows where you stand.”

Y/N narrows her eyes. “And where exactly is that?”

Joe just watches her, the answer in his silence.

It’s in the way Solo always has her back. In the way the Usos claim her as one of their own. In the way Paul Heyman talks about her like she’s already sworn her allegiance.

She is part of this. She just hasn’t said it yet.

Y/N exhales slowly, shaking her head. “I don’t need a jacket to prove I’m good enough to run with you.”

Joe’s smirk is slow, dangerous. “No. But it’d be nice to hear you say it.”

Her breath catches slightly. She can feel the shift now. The sudden weight in the air between them. The way his voice has dipped just enough to make her stomach tighten.

“Put it on,” Joe says, softer this time, stepping around her. The move is so smooth, so fluid, that she doesn’t even realize what’s happening until he’s right behind her.

Her pulse hammers.

Because now he’s close. So close she can feel the heat radiating from his body, the soft tickle of his breath against the side of her neck. Y/N’s whole body locks up, her fingers twitching slightly at her sides. She should step away. She should shake her head and make some smart-ass comment and put space between them before this tension swallows her whole.

But she doesn’t. Because for some godforsaken reason, she loves it. She likes the way his presence wraps around her like something tangible. Likes the way he makes it impossible to think straight.

His fingers brush over her shoulder, guiding the jacket into place like a crown being placed on royalty.

“Say it,” he murmurs, voice a low, steady hum against her skin. “Acknowledge me.”

Y/N exhales, eyes fluttering shut for half a second before she forces them back open. She doesn’t do this. She doesn’t submit. And no matter how badly her body is betraying her right now, she won’t start with him.

So with every ounce of control she has left, she steps forward, letting the jacket slip from her shoulders before turning to face him. Joe watches her, his expression unreadable. “I don’t take orders,” she says, voice steady despite the rapid beating of her heart.

A slow smirk curves his lips. “I know.”

There’s something about the way he says it—like he isn’t mad. Like he likes this push and pull just as much as she does. Y/N clenches her jaw, forcing herself to ignore the way her stomach flips at the sight of that goddamn smirk. “So that’s it?” she asks, tilting her chin. “You’re just gonna let it go?”

Joe exhales through his nose, looking almost amused. “You think I’m gonna stop just because you’re being stubborn?”

Y/N scoffs. “I think you’re gonna try.”

Joe’s eyes darken slightly, his tongue running over the inside of his cheek. She should really stop provoking him. But God, it’s fun.

Before either of them can say another word, the door swings open.

“Hey, Uce, we got—”

Josh stops short, his eyes flicking between them.

Joe takes a step back, his posture shifting, expression smoothing back into something unreadable. Y/N clenches her jaw, pulse still thundering in her ears as Josh gives them both a slow, knowing look.

“Uh-huh,” he mutters under his breath before shaking his head. “We’ll talk later, big dog.”

Joe doesn’t look at her as Jey exits, but Y/N feels his attention shift back to her. The air between them is different now. Electric. Dangerous. And as much as she wants to put off her decision—she knows she won’t be able to. One way or the other, Roman’s going to get an answer. Y/N just doesn’t know how long she’ll be able to stand her ground with him.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The roar of the crowd is deafening as Y/N saunters her way to the ring. It’s a buzzing Friday night in Atlanta Georgia as her theme music echoes around the large stadium. Y/N stops dead center of the walkway, dropping it low which causes whistles to emerge from the audience. She laughs, stopping to say hi to fans and sign posters on her way.

Roman, Jey, Jimmy, Sami, Solo, and Paul Heyman watch with a mix of curiosity, irritation, amusement, and anger as she had just interrupted their segment. None of them knew this was planned beside her which is what made their reactions even better.

It was all Paul Levesque’s idea. To have her go out and interrupt an important moment to cause some tension. The crowd loves her attitude so it was good for business to do something like this.

Y/N moves toward the steps, taking her time, soaking in the moment before slipping into the ring. She doesn’t acknowledge the tension immediately, instead adjusting the leather jacket over her shoulders before finally turning to face Roman.

The Tribal Chief.

She lifts the mic, tapping it twice before speaking, her voice carrying over the noise. “So this is what a Bloodline family meeting looks like,” she muses, glancing around. “I gotta say, it’s a little culty.”

Roman stares at her blankly as the room buzzes with anticipation and tension. Everyone’s eyes flicker between Roman and Y/N, the Tribal Chief staring her down like she just committed a war crime. Y/N can’t help but chuckle. She tilts her head, running her tongue over her teeth before lifting her mic again. “You don’t look happy to see me, Chief.”

Roman exhales through his nose, jaw tight. “You got a habit of interrupting things that don’t concern you.”

She scoffs, pacing a slow circle around them. “See, that’s where you’re wrong.” She gestures around the arena, the thousands of screaming fans. “This? This concerns me. Everything concerns me.” She shrugs. “Guess that’s the price of being a free agent. No orders. No one to answer to.” Her smirk sharpens as she turns back to him. “Unlike you.”

Jey lets out a sharp laugh before he schools his face, coughing into his fist. Jimmy’s grin widens, clearly entertained, while Sami presses his lips together like he’s trying to become invisible.

Roman, however, remains still. Controlled. Watching.

Y/N clicks her tongue. “You like to call yourself the Head of the Table, right?” She steps forward, deliberately closing the space between them. “But from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re just another guy scared to eat alone.”

The tension in the ring spikes. Jey’s brows shoot up. Even Solo shifts slightly, his gaze flickering to Roman.

Y/N takes another step, lifting a hand to count off on her fingers. “You need your cousins to fight your battles. You need your Wise Man to do your talking. Hell, you even needed Sami here to boost morale. But you?” She gestures to him with her mic. “Take all that away, and what are you?”

The crowd lets out an “OHHHHH!” in response, feeding off her confidence, her defiance.

Roman doesn’t react immediately. He just tilts his head slightly, as if considering her words. Then he finally lifts his mic. “You don’t stand with us. We know that You’ve made that clear.”

“Damn right, I don’t.” Y/N folds her arms, her eyes burning with challenge. “I don’t fall in line. I lead.”

Roman hums low in his throat, nodding as he steps closer, his presence suffocating. “That why you’re out here? You trying to prove something?”

“Nah.” Y/N tilts her chin up, her smirk unwavering. “Just thought someone should finally tell you the truth.”

Roman watches her, dark eyes unwavering, before he slowly shakes his head. “Nah.” His voice is calm, controlled. “Nah, you know what I think? You’re out here because you want my attention.”

Y/N raises a brow. “Oh, you think so?”

Roman exhales slowly, stepping even closer, his voice dropping to something almost intimate despite the thousands watching. “You want to stand across from me. Test me. Push me.” His head tilts slightly. “You want to be noticed. But sweetheart, the only person here who deserves to be noticed… who deserves acknowledgment is me,” his voice drops an octave making the crowd erupt. “I am your Tribal Chief.”

The crowd screams, chanting, urging her to do as he asks, “Acknowledge him! Acknowledge him!”

Y/N’s smirk falters for half a second before she lets out a scoff. “That’s cute, really. The whole cult leader act.” She leans in slightly, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You need my validation that bad?”

Roman just watches her, waiting. The crowd chants louder, the entire stadium shaking.

Y/N exhales, shaking her head. “Yeah, sorry, big guy. Not happening.” She shifts her stance, glancing at his cousins before looking back at him. “If anything, maybe this table needs a new head. Maybe… you should acknowledge me.”

There’s a flicker in his expression—something dangerous, something unreadable. “You better watch your mouth.”

And that’s when she makes her mistake. She clicks her tongue, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Or what, Roman? You gonna have your lapdogs do your dirty work for you again?”

The air shifts instantly. Jey’s grin vanishes. Jimmy stops smirking. Even Sami looks alarmed. Roman doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Then, he exhales slowly, hands on his hips, before he turns slightly—to no one in particular. “Solo. Jimmy.”

That’s it. No further instruction. No elaboration.

And before Y/N can fully process what’s happening, hands grab her arms, yanking her back.

“What the hell?” she snaps, struggling against them. The crowd erupts in a chaotic mix of cheers and shouts, but she barely hears them over the sudden shock of the moment.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

Jimmy has a firm grip on one arm, but it’s Solo who truly locks her down, his strength damn near unshakable. Y/N thrashes, planting her feet, but they don’t stop, dragging her out of the ring as she shouts, “You seriously this pressed, Roman?!”

Roman doesn’t react. Doesn’t stop them. Just watches.

And as she’s hauled up the ramp, the last thing she sees before disappearing behind the curtain is him standing there, unmoved, unreadable.

But still watching.

She kicks and yells at Solo and Jimmy as they drag her to Roman’s office. Some of the other wrestlers watch as she’s taken. She sends them all pleading looks, silently begging for someone to save her but no one does. A part of her is genuinely fearful that she crossed a line, but he knew it was all acting, right? He had to. It’s part of their job, their characters. The world knows he’s offered her a spot at the table and she’s been very vocal about where she stands. It aligned with their story, so why is he doing this? Could it be to add to it and she’s worried for nothing?

Jimmy and Solo open the door to the room, allowing her to walk inside. Both men look like they want to say something, to apologize, wish her luck, save her, but they decide against it. Y/N sends them a reassuring smile before they walk off. She looks over her shoulder for a split second and suddenly the door closes with a small click, indicating the door has been locked.

She turns back around and sees a seething Roman Reigns standing in front of her. His chest rises and falls with every breath, his jaw clenched tightly as he stares at the mouthy woman in front of him. He’s been slowly losing it since the day he met her and today might be the day where he disregards the importance of professional boundaries.

Today might be the day where he snaps.

The silence between them stretches tight, humming with something thick and electric.

Y/N stands her ground, her breath even despite the wildfire running through her veins. But Roman—he’s not still. His fists flex at his sides, his chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. Like he’s trying to steady himself. Like he’s fighting the urge to do something neither of them can take back.

Good.

She wants to push him.

Because he’s been pushing her for weeks, forcing her into this—into whatever this is. The way he looks at her like he sees everything. The way he steps too close, speaks too low, lingers too long. She’s not stupid. She’s noticed. But he won’t admit it. Not outright.

So she’ll make him.

She tilts her head slightly, keeping her voice cool. “If you have something to say, Chief, say it.”

Roman exhales slowly through his nose, his jaw flexing. “You think this is a joke?”

Y/N smirks. “I think you like being in charge of everyone in your life, and it gives you an insatiable itch that you can’t scratch knowing you can’t break me. That you can’t get me to beg for your validation.”

His fists clench. There it is. A crack in the armor. A flicker of something darker in his eyes.

Y/N steps closer, feeling reckless, feeling emboldened by the way his breathing changes, the way his shoulders tense, the way his eyes track every single movement she makes like he can’t help himself.

She lifts a brow. “Or am I wrong?”

Roman doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But the air shifts. Tightens.

And that’s when she knows she’s right. She lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? You don’t like that I don’t fall in line. That I can read you like a damn book. That I can see through all those stoic walls you put up. I see what you hide from the world.”

Roman’s jaw ticks. She takes another step forward. “What is it, huh?” she pushes. “You bark orders at everyone else, and they listen, but me? I don’t make it easy for you, do I?”

Roman exhales, slow, measured. “You need to watch yourself, Y/N.”

She ignores the warning. “No, I think you do.” She sees it again—the flicker of something barely restrained. So she keeps going. “Because you can pretend all you want, but I see it,” she murmurs. “The way you look at me.”

Roman’s gaze darkens. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

She tilts her head. “Am I?”

His fists flex again, and she doesn’t miss the way his breath catches, just slightly, at the challenge in her tone.

“Tell me, Chief,” she continues, voice smooth, sharp. “Did you like it?”

His brow furrows slightly, just barely. “Like what?”

“The jacket.”

His entire body tenses.

Bingo.

Y/N smirks, stepping even closer, forcing him to either back away or stand his ground. He doesn’t move. Of course he doesn’t.

“I saw the way you looked at me when I wore it,” she says, voice quieter now, more pointed. “I saw the way your grip tightened, the way your jaw clenched. You couldn’t stop staring.”

Roman exhales sharply, his eyes locked onto hers with a fire that wasn’t there before. Y/N tilts her head. “Why is that?” Roman doesn’t answer so she presses further. “Was it because I didn’t belong in it?” she muses, watching him closely. “Or was it because I did? That the simple thought of me walking around in your colors did something to you?”

That’s when it happens. The shift. The moment his restraint snaps. Roman moves before she can blink. One second, he’s standing in front of her, barely keeping himself in check—

The next, he’s shoving her back, forcing her down into the chair behind her.

The movement is fast, precise, effortless. His hands grip the arms of the chair, caging her in, his face inches from hers, his body looming over hers like a storm about to break.

Y/N’s breath catches, her pulse hammering. Roman stares at her, breathing heavy, his chest rising and falling in sharp, deliberate movements.

And then—

“You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me,” he murmurs, voice low, rough, dangerous.

Y/N swallows, her skin burning where he hovers, where his presence presses down on her like gravity. She wants to speak. Wants to throw something back at him. But she can’t. Because she feels it now. The weight of it. Of every single one of their battles, their challenges, their little wars. They weren’t just about dominance.

She suddenly finds it hard to maintain eye contact, but Roman can see her trying to mentally escape. He quickly takes her jaw into his hand, holding it in place so she can’t look away from him. She got to talk, so now it’s his turn.

“Don’t look away from me.”

Y/N can feel the chills surge through her body at the command. His hand is warm on her icy skin, causing her cheeks to flush from the actual heat and the situation. She blinks slowly, her eyelashes fluttering which makes Roman suck in a sharp breath. The innocence in her face is more than misleading. Looking at her, anyone would think she’s nice, well-mannered, and behaved.

How wrong they would be.

Roman exhales slowly, his gaze dropping to her lips for half a second before flicking back up. “I shouldn’t be looking at you the way that I do,” he says, voice quieter now, but no less intense.

Y/N’s throat tightens. She breathes, steady despite the fire running through her veins. “Then stop.”

His lips twitch, just barely. “You think it’s that simple?” he asks, tilting his head.

Y/N narrows her eyes. “I think you’re scared of what happens if you give in.”

Roman hums, his grip tightening slightly on the chair. “I think you look at me the same way I look at you.”

Her stomach flips. She doesn’t answer. Because if she does—she might just crack.

“You look at me like you want me to do something about it,” he murmurs.

Y/N’s heart continues to hammer at a rate that can’t be considered healthy. His face is so close to hers. If she simply leaned forward, she could satisfy the craving of wanting his lips on hers.

Roman exhales slowly, his thumb grazing the underside of her jaw. “Say it,” he murmurs.

Y/N swallows. “Say what?”

“That you don’t feel it.” His voice is almost a whisper now, but it’s rough, heavy with something dangerous. “That you don’t feel this.”

Y/N’s throat tightens. She should lie. She should laugh. She should roll her eyes, shake her head, tell him he’s imagining things. But she doesn’t.

Instead, she exhales slowly, forcing herself to keep her voice steady. “Now look who’s playing dangerous.”

Roman’s grip on the chair tightens. “And you don’t mind playing high risk, do you?”

Y/N lets the smallest smirk touch her lips. “No,” she murmurs. “I don’t.”

And just like that— Roman lets her go.

The absence of his touch is immediate, almost jarring, but Y/N refuses to back down. She holds his gaze for a long moment, neither of them speaking, neither of them breaking.

Then, finally, Roman exhales, voice quieter now. “This isn’t over.”

Y/N’s pulse is still racing, but she smirks. “I would despair if it was.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Y/N sits in the locker room, her head tilted back against the cool metal of the lockers, eyes shut as she tries to steady the storm in her head. But it’s useless. Roman’s voice is still there. The feeling of his fingers on her jaw, the weight of his stare—every moment of their last confrontation is still there. And it’s driving her insane.

The worst part? It’s not just the tension, the fights, the way they keep pushing each other to the edge. It’s the fact that deep down, something in her craves it. Craves him. And that? That’s unacceptable.

A sharp sigh leaves her lips, frustration simmering beneath her skin as she rubs her hands over her face. “Fucking hell,” she mutters under her breath.

“That bad, huh?”

She jerks her head up at the sound of Seth’s voice. He’s leaning against the lockers, arms crossed over his chest, his expression somewhere between amused and knowing.

Y/N groans, dropping her head back. “Please don’t start.”

Seth chuckles, pushing off the lockers and dropping onto the bench beside her. “I haven’t even said anything yet.”

She shoots him a look. “You’re thinking it.”

“Well, yeah,” Seth admits, smirking. “You’re sitting here, looking like you wanna put your head through a wall. And considering your favorite hobby lately has been trying to start a war with Roman, I’m gonna go ahead and assume he’s the reason you look like you’re about to lose your damn mind.”

Y/N scoffs. “I am not starting a war with him.”

Seth raises an eyebrow.

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine. Maybe I am. But it’s not like he doesn’t deserve it.”

Seth hums. “Mm. Sure.”

She glares at him. “Don’t ‘mm, sure’ me.”

Seth just smirks again, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Alright, so tell me—what’d he say after he had his goonies drag you to his office?”

Y/N exhales sharply. “It’s not even—ugh. It’s not just one thing. It’s everything. The way he looks at me, the way he gets in my face, the way he acts like I belong to him or something.” She throws her hands up. “It’s like he’s always there, always pushing, always—watching me.”

Seth tilts his head, studying her. “And that bothers you?”

She blinks. “Obviously.”

Seth shrugs. “You sure about that?”

Y/N narrows her eyes. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Seth sighs, resting his elbows on his knees. “Look, I know you like to fight. It’s what you do. But if this was just about him trying to control you, you’d have walked away by now.”

Y/N tenses. “I have walked away.”

Seth snorts. “Yeah? How’s that working out for you?”

She falls silent.

Seth gives her a knowing look. “Y/N, you’re not fighting him because you hate what he represents. You’re fighting him because you feel it too, and you don’t know what the hell to do with that.”

Her breath catches. “No,” she says automatically. “That’s not—”

“Then why do you care so much?” Seth challenges.

Y/N clenches her jaw.

Seth exhales, shaking his head. “You wanna know why he gets under your skin? Why you can’t get him out of your head?”

She doesn’t answer. But she doesn’t stop him, either.

Seth leans back, his expression shifting, no longer teasing but thoughtful. “Because you don’t trust it,” he says simply.

Y/N stiffens.

“You don’t trust that someone like him—someone as powerful as he is—can want you without trying to own you,” Seth continues. “And maybe, yeah, maybe a part of him does want to own you. But not in the way you think.”

Her throat feels tight.

“You think he wants control?” Seth shakes his head. “No. He wants you. And that scares the hell out of you.”

Y/N swallows hard, looking away. “You’re wrong.”

Seth smirks. “Then why are you still sitting here like you’re trying to solve the world’s hardest riddle?”

She says nothing.

And Seth? Seth just pats her shoulder before standing up, his voice lighter now as he walks away. “Think about it, princess.”

Later that night, Y/N finds herself wandering around aimlessly as she waits for Jey and Jimmy to finish their match. The backstage halls are quieter than usual, but Y/N barely notices. Her boots echo against the concrete floor as she walks aimlessly, lost in thought, Seth’s words playing over and over in her head.

"You don’t trust that someone like him—someone as powerful as he is—can want you without trying to own you."

"He wants you. And that scares the hell out of you."

Her jaw clenches as she swipes a hand down her face. He’s wrong. He has to be wrong. Because if he’s right—

No. She won’t let herself finish that thought.

Y/N exhales sharply, trying to shake the feeling, but it clings to her like a second skin. Her body is restless, like an itch she can’t scratch, an answer she can’t find. She needs to move, to do something—anything to distract herself.

Then she hears it. Roman’s voice. She stops in her tracks.

It’s low, rough with something she can’t quite place, but there’s a weight to it that makes her breath catch in her throat. The door to his locker room is cracked open just enough to let the sound slip through, an unguarded moment not meant for anyone else to hear. She shouldn’t listen, but she does.

Inside, Roman runs a hand over his face, his fingers dragging down his beard as he exhales heavily. “I don’t know what else to do,” he mutters, voice strained.

Paul, standing beside him, folds his hands in front of him. “She’s stubborn.”

A short, humorless chuckle leaves Roman’s lips. “Yeah. Tell me something I don’t know.”

Paul tilts his head. “She fights you at every turn. That doesn’t surprise me. But what does concern me…” He hesitates.

Roman looks up at him, already knowing where this is going. “Go ahead, Wise Man. Say it.”

Paul sighs, carefully choosing his words. “I think you’re making this personal.”

Roman scoffs, shaking his head. “It is personal.”

Paul studies him for a moment. “More than it should be?”

Roman tenses. That’s the problem, isn’t it? It is more personal than it should be. At first, it was just about bringing her in, keeping her close, making sure she understood who she belonged to. It was about loyalty, about keeping her safe in the way he deemed necessary. But somewhere along the way—he stopped thinking about it as just a responsibility. Somewhere along the way—it became about her. Roman exhales sharply. “You don’t get it, Paul.”

Paul raises a brow. “Then help me understand.”

Roman leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together as he stares at the floor. “I’ve tried everything. I’ve given her space. I’ve given her time. I’ve tried forcing her hand. None of it works.” He lifts his gaze, eyes dark with frustration. “She’s still fighting me.”

Paul hums thoughtfully. “She’s also scared.”

Roman’s eyes flicker. “Of me?”

Paul shakes his head. “No. Of what you mean to her.”

Roman stills and Paul steps forward slightly, his voice careful. “She’s never had someone like you before. Someone who watches over her. Someone who sees her.” He tilts his head. “And I don’t think she knows what to do with that.”

Silence stretches between them.

“I’m not trying to control her,” Roman says quietly. “I just…” He trails off, voice rough around the edges. His fingers tighten together. “I don’t want her to be alone in this.”

Paul watches him for a long moment. Then he exhales, nodding slowly. “You care for her.”

Roman’s jaw tightens. “She’s one of mine.”

Paul doesn’t look convinced. “It’s more than that. I can see it. She’s more than just numbers to you.”

Roman exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face again. He doesn’t answer. Because what is there to say?

Outside the door, Y/N can barely breathe. Her pulse pounds in her ears, her hands clenched at her sides as she tries to process what she just heard. She wasn’t expecting this. Wasn’t expecting him to be struggling just as much as she was. Because he is struggling. She hears it in his voice, the weight behind his words. She feels it. It isn’t just about dominance or control for him. It’s about her.

It’s about them.

The realization makes something shift inside her, something she can’t ignore any longer. Because if she’s been fighting this— So has he. If she’s been pushing him away— He’s been holding himself back. Her breath catches.

Seth was right.

The reason Roman gets under her skin isn’t because she hates him. It’s because she’s terrified of what it means to want him. To trust him. To let herself be his. And for the first time, she wonders… What if she stopped fighting? What if she acknowledged him?

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Looking at herself in the mirror, Y/N couldn’t believe what she was doing. She shrugs on the familiar black and red colors, a small smirk on her face as she admires how she looks in the mirror. Roman has his own segment in the next few minutes and she intends to make it one he’ll never forget.

After everything that’s happened between them, she’s finally come to realize that fighting him is only a way of trying to deny how she really felt about Joe and what he meant to her. She was trying hard to fight his control because truthfully, she wouldn’t mind belonging to him.

Her eyes dance over the Bloodline jacket that fits her far too well, her fingers dancing over the fabric. She runs her fingers over the stitching, the weight of it heavier than she expected. He’s been waiting for her to wear it. To claim her place.

And for the first time— She thinks she might actually want to.

This time It’s not about defiance. It’s about choice. It’s about him. And this time… She’s finally ready to choose.

The arena is electric. The crowd is still buzzing from the match that just ended, the energy thick with excitement, with awe, with dominance. Roman Reigns stands in the center of the ring, championship slung over his shoulder, sweat glistening against his skin as he takes in the sea of fans, the deafening chants of his name.

Another victory. Another opponent put down.

Whoever stood across from him tonight had already become an afterthought. It didn’t matter who it was—Cody, Seth, AJ—because the result was always the same.

Roman Reigns. On top. As always.

He lifts the mic to his lips, smirking as he lets the audience’s reaction settle.

But then— The music hits. Her music. And Roman’s entire demeanor shifts.

The crowd erupts at the familiar sound, voices rising in a chaotic mixture of cheers and gasps. The camera pans back to the entrance, but Roman doesn’t turn. He doesn’t need to. His grip tightens around the mic, his fingers flexing, his jaw clenching. He already knows what this is. Another interruption. Another challenge. Another night where she tries to test him.

He exhales through his nose, fighting the instinct to roll his eyes. She’s been doing this for weeks now, throwing herself into his moments, standing against him with that fire in her eyes, acting like she has any kind of control in this game.

And tonight, she’s trying it again. At least—that’s what he thinks.

Then he sees her. And for the first time in a long time—Roman Reigns is shocked, the breath feeling like it’s been knocked out of his lungs. Because Y/N isn’t strutting out in her usual gear, not in the colors she’s worn every time she’s stepped onto this stage before.

No.

She’s wearing his colors. Black and red. The Bloodline colors. And not just that. The Bloodline jacket. His jacket. The one she’s refused to put on, the one she’s ignored, rejected—until now.

Roman’s body goes still, his expression unreadable, but inside, his pulse is pounding. She steps onto the stage slowly, deliberately, her smirk unmistakable as she scans the crowd, soaking in their reaction. She knows what she’s doing. The way she walks, the way her fingers play with the edges of the jacket, the way she makes a show of it. Roman’s eyes darken. She’s teasing him. Pushing him. But this time—it’s different. Because for the first time, she’s not pushing him away. She’s coming closer.

Y/N starts her slow descent down the ramp, taking her time, milking the moment. Roman doesn’t move, doesn’t take his eyes off her, his championship hanging loosely from his grip. The closer she gets, the more the tension builds. By the time she reaches the steps, the anticipation in the air is thick. She climbs into the ring smoothly, sliding between the ropes with ease, and then—finally—she stands before him.

Roman stares down at her, his breath slow, controlled, his face still a mask of dominance. But inside, he feels the fight in his veins, the war between wanting to push her back or pull her in. Then she smiles. That smile. The one that tells him she knows what she’s doing to him. She lifts the mic, tilting her head slightly, her voice laced with amusement. "You like what you see, Chief?"

A muscle in Roman’s jaw ticks. The crowd erupts. A slow smirk plays on her lips as she takes another step forward, intentionally making him feel the heat of her presence, making sure he sees every inch of her in that jacket. She turns in a slow circle, dragging her fingers along the hem of the fabric, as if showing off. Roman’s fingers twitch. She stops in front of him again, the playful tilt of her head only fueling the tension stretching between them. "You look surprised," she muses, eyes flickering over his face, watching his every reaction.

Roman exhales sharply through his nose. “Should I be?”

She hums, trailing her fingers along the sleeve of the jacket now. “I don’t know, Tribal Chief. Should you be?”

Roman clenches his jaw. She’s testing him. Again. But it’s different this time. Because now, she’s his. Even if she doesn’t fully realize it yet. His voice is lower when he speaks, edged with something darker, something controlled. “Why are you wearing that?”

Y/N runs a hand down the front of the jacket, smoothing the fabric over her frame, and then—without warning—she reaches out, her fingers ghosting over his bicep. Roman’s muscles tighten instinctively beneath her touch. She doesn’t move away. "I just figured it was about time," she murmurs, her tone laced with something dangerously close to sweet.

Roman’s nostrils flare. “Figured what was about time?”

She smiles again—soft, slow, knowing. "For me to look this good in your colors."

Roman clenches his fists once again. The crowd is losing their minds, but Roman barely hears them over the sound of his own thoughts. Over the heat building in his chest, in his veins. She’s pushing him to the edge of his own restraint. And she knows it. He watches her, silent, his dark eyes burning into hers. “You think this is a game?”

Y/N bites her lip, amusement flickering in her gaze. “No. But I do think this is fun.”

Roman fights the urge to exhale too hard. Fights the urge to reach for her, to do something. He tilts his head, stepping closer, his voice dropping. “And you think wearing that makes you one of us now?”

She smirks. “Maybe.”

Roman watches her for another long second, studying her face, trying to find anything in her expression that might tell him what she’s really thinking.

And then she turns to the crowd. Her gaze sweeps over them before she lifts the microphone again. "I think it’s time to accept my rightful place at the table, no?"

The arena explodes. Roman feels something shift in the air—something real. She turns back to face him, standing tall. And then she lifts her hand, raising her finger in the air. The acknowledgment. The submission. The choice. Then, locking eyes with him, steady and unshaken. "I acknowledge you."

Roman doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe. Because for weeks, for months, she has fought him. Denied him. And now— Now she’s standing in his ring, wearing his jacket, looking him in the eyes and giving in. By choice.

Roman clenches his jaw, his chest rising and falling with every controlled breath, forcing himself to stay composed. Because every instinct in his body is screaming at him to grab her. To claim her. To remind her who she just gave herself to. But he doesn’t. Because he is the Tribal Chief. He is in control. He forces a slow, measured smirk to tug at his lips, his voice dropping to something only she can hear.

"Took you long enough."

The crowd erupts. Y/N just grins. And for the first time— She feels like she belongs.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Walking backstage, Y/N could feel her heart hammering in her chest. Roman has his hand placed gently on her lower back, no words being exchanged as he guides her back to his private office. Her nerves are on fire. She could see in his eyes how satisfied he was seeing her representing him and his family. She just hopes it sent the message she wanted it to.

She doesn’t want to just belong to the Bloodline. She wants to belong to him. Because for once in her life, she isn’t afraid to let someone help her. To give someone else a say in her life. As they walk, Y/N notices Colby staring at her from his spot against the wall with a knowing smirk on his face. She rolls her eyes at him, mouthing for him to “shut up” as they finally round the corner and walk into his office.

There’s a comfortable tension between the two of them as the door smoothly shuts. Y/N fiddles with the fabric of her new jacket, still trying to decipher what’s going on in Roman’s head. His expression hadn’t changed since they left the ring. He stays silent, walking past her to set his championship down on his chair. He’s deliberate, taking his time, making her squirm before he finally leans back on his desk to face her.

His arms are outstretched behind him as he leans comfortably on the wood. He can see the gears turning in her head and part of him wants to make her wait before saying anything. It would serve as a form of punishment for all the back talk she’s been giving him since he took her under his wing.

But seeing her there, rocking his colors better than he ever could, glancing around the room all nervous. It made his heart clench. He couldn’t let her sit there and think he was mad. “Well, you were right about one thing,” his voice comes out low and gruff, making Y/N’s eyes widen slightly. She wasn’t expecting him to be the one to break the silence, let alone say something like that.

“What?” Y/N asks. She almost cringes at how small her voice sounds in comparison to his. She normally matches his energy, his dominance, but right now her anxiety is too high. She doesn’t know if what she did was the right move.

Suddenly he’s standing from his spot, slowly walking over to her. Y/N can feel the heat rising to her cheeks as he cups her chin the same way he did the other night, but this time it’s much more gentle, soft even. Her heart flutters at the way he’s looking down at her. Normally his eyes are filled with some sort of irritation whenever he looks at her, but now they’re just filled with what she can only call adoration, longing maybe. “Seeing you in these colors does do something to me,” he admits quietly, the corner of his lip quirking up into an almost smile.

Y/N feels a small weight lift off her chest. He likes it. She finds herself leaning into his touch, allowing her head to rest on his hand. “Does it now?” She says, her teasing edge returning to her voice.

She raises her hand up to his arms, her fingers lightly facing the tribal tattoo that covers it. Joe sucks in a breath, fighting off the chills that threaten to explode over his skin. He loves how her touch feels. It’s almost like sliding into a freshly warmed hoodie on a cold day. “You look beautiful.”

Every brick Y/N had put in place to keep herself guarded crumbles. Any ounce of professionalism she had left disappeared at that moment. The way he said that was different than anything he had ever said to her before. He said it like it was the only truth he had ever known. Nobody has ever looked at her the way Joe is right now. There’s that same small voice that’s haunted her, telling her to run away, that he doesn’t mean it. But when she sees the unwavering expression on his face, it silences any doubts she could have. She tilts her head, “You really think so?”

“I’ve always thought so,” he confirms. “Just fought really hard to not admit it… but I don’t think I want to fight it anymore.”

Y/N chuckles softly, “I actually kinda like it,” she says, messing with the jacket once more. “I don’t know why it took me so long to just put it on. It’s pretty cute.”

Roman shakes his head, his smile growing, “Cause you’re a stubborn ass who does the exact opposite of what she’s told.”

Y/N slaps his chest with a playful glare, “Well, maybe if you weren’t so bossy I wouldn’t feel the need to defy you all the time.”

“Nah, you just did it ‘cause you like pissin’ me off,” he says, his hands finding their way to her hips. He squeezes the soft flesh there, finally feeling like the world isn’t going to crash down around him by admitting how he feels.

“You liked it too,” she counters with a grin. “But I came around eventually didn’t I?” She raises her eyebrows.

Roman studies her for a moment, his dark eyes flickering over her face as if trying to commit every little detail to memory. The teasing, the playfulness—it’s always been their dynamic. But tonight, there’s something different. Something heavier in the air between them. He feels it in the way she’s looking up at him, waiting, holding her breath like she’s expecting him to finally say what’s been left unspoken for so long.His hands tighten slightly on her hips, grounding himself in the reality that she’s here, in his colors, letting him hold her like this. Letting him see the parts of her she doesn’t just give to anyone.

“You did come around,” he repeats, his voice softer now. “Took your sweet ass time, though.”

Y/N tilts her head, lips twitching. “Yeah, well, I had to be sure it was worth it.”

Roman smirks, cocking a brow. “And?”

Her fingers trace lazy patterns over his chest, her touch barely there, but enough to make his skin burn. “I think it is.”

A satisfied hum rumbles in his chest. “Damn right, it is.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. She shifts a little closer, her hands sliding up his biceps, fingers pressing against the firm muscle beneath them. “You know, I think it’s funny” she muses, “even the Wise Man picked up on it.”

Roman quirks a brow. “Picked up on what?”

She gives him a knowing look. “How different you are with me. How I mean more to you than just numbers.”

His expression doesn’t change, but she feels his fingers twitch slightly against her hips. He knows exactly what she’s talking about.

“Oh,” he drawls, smirking. “So you were spying on me?”

Y/N giggles, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Maybe...”

Before she can say anything else, he moves. Swift and effortless, like it takes no effort at all to lift her up. A surprised squeal leaves her lips as he hoists her into his arms, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. “Joe!” she exclaims, laughing breathlessly as her arms loop around his neck.

He just chuckles, the sound deep and rich in her ear. “You know, you got a real bad habit of eavesdropping.”

Y/N grins. “It’s not eavesdropping if you’re talking about me.”

Roman shakes his head, his smirk never faltering. His hands slide along her thighs, securing her against him as he presses her back against the nearest wall. His gaze drops to her lips, his grip tightening just a little.

“You drive me insane, you know that?”

Y/N hums in amusement, her fingers threading into his hair. “I do.”

Then, finally, after what feels like forever, he kisses her. It’s not hesitant or uncertain. It’s not careful or slow. It’s deep, firm, and claiming—like he’s been holding back for too damn long and he’s finally allowing himself to take what he’s wanted. Y/N melts into him instantly, her body molding against his as her hands tug at his hair, pulling him impossibly closer.

He groans into her mouth, one hand sliding up her back, pressing her tighter against him as he deepens the kiss. She tastes like victory, like home, like every damn thing he’s been too stubborn to admit he needed.

When they finally break apart, Y/N’s eyes are bright with mischief, her lips swollen from his kiss. “Took you long enough,” she teases, mocking his words from the ring.

Roman lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head before his hand drops to her ass, delivering a playful smack.

Y/N gasps, eyes widening slightly before a delighted giggle escapes her.

“Gonna have to teach you some manners,” he murmurs, his voice dark with promise.

Y/N bites her lip, eyes gleaming with challenge. “Oh yeah? Think you’re up for that?”

Roman grins. “Oh, I know I am.”

And as he kisses her again, she knows she wouldn’t have it any other way.

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