#challenger: the world is ending later this evening

[peachpopfizz]

Idol!Solo-Demon-Hunter!Reader × The Saja Boys

Part 0, The Prologue

(Part 1)

hey chat. so, guess what, the silly singing demon movie got to me with their beautiful women, hot demon guys, and heart-wrenchingly compelling story, so uh. now im here

I! have never actually written an × Reader before in my life so for the love of God Please Be Nice To Me!!!

this chapter is basically a lot of set up- the foundation for everything else that I want to happen. yk, the what, why, who, where, n' how. but regardless of that, I still hope you like it!! the story will REALLY start in part 1 but uh. if I combined parts 0 and 1 this chap'd be. squints. really, really long. so please, enjoy the backstory while I bs THAT in the meantime!!!

WC: ~1k

To the public, the 2025 Korean Idol Awards were a… beautiful dumpster-fire. There was no other way to describe it- one second it was Huntrix performing, then the Saja Boys, then Huntrix again… People were flying, seemingly teleporting, it even looked like people got stabbed???

But at the end of the concert, every single person walked out with no injuries, and absolutely no one knows how or why the hell any of it happened. It was an event that had the K-Pop side of the internet basically imploding on itself. 

Talk got even more crazed as Korea's top girl-group suddenly went on hiatus right after their big win, with the Saja Boys announcing their momentary break just a week later. So, in the eyes of brainrotted fans, pretty much at the exact same time.

No one knew why. Scandals and dating rumors were talked about anywhere the eye could see, manic stans insisting that the two groups were out on a romantic getaway with theories held together by red string on a corkboard.

But… as you know, the truth was far more complicated than that.

The Huntrix girls were Demon Hunters, and the Saja Boys? Demons, who had already been defeated in their final battle.

Or… they were supposed to have been. But that's a story for later.

The hollow void left behind by two of Korea's top K-Pop groups both disappearing opened the floodgates for a new group to rise, filling in their cracks and creating their own fanbase.

Grxm Rexper. An idol group consisting of five members whose unique style absolutely captivated the public's attention, sending them skyrocketing into fame with so little challenging competition to hold them down.

And that was where you, a member of said group, came in.

You were a young adult, one that- unbeknownst to the rest of the world- had discovered their identity as a demon hunter. Honest to god, it was a complete accident. You were just trying to get home after a late-night snack run, one earbud in as you quietly sang along to one of the Saja Boys’ songs- ‘Your Idol'- under your breath.

Next thing you knew, you were being pulled by your neck and shoved into an alleyway by what you could only describe as a demon. It was a hulking beast with massive tusks so large they disfigured its mouth- purple skin with pulsating marks cascading across its leathery flesh, and eyes full of an animalistic hunger that made the call of death hum in your ears. You were going to die there, you felt it in your soul.

...Aaand then that's when a giant glowy blue scythe-thingy suddenly appeared in your hands! Not really thinking, you sliced it right through the beast's chest, the creature of hell looking positively gobsmacked while it faded away to dust right before your eyes.

Safe to say, you didn't sleep very well that night.

Months passed as you were essentially forced to learn how to cope and combat demons to survive. One of the few things that you managed to figure out being that your voice was the source of your power. It kinda made you feel (even more) crazy when you first realized it- I mean… you're literally fending off demons from hell with your singing and this magical scythe that shows up when you're in danger. What the hell is your life? That one My Little Pony movie???

One thing led to another, and the constant use of your voice somehow led to you being scouted to join a K-Pop group. Just three months ago you were running out of your apartment at 1:00 A.M in nothing but a hoodie, shorts, and sandals because you wanted prepackaged ramen so damn bad you almost died for it, and now you're the back-up vocalist in Grxm Rexper. And yes, the coincidence of the group's name always makes you chuckle.

Tonight was supposed to be a normal night. Er… a normal night for what was your normal.

Grxm Rexper was performing for a festival- one named the ‘Summer Solstice’ in celebration of that one event from.. Sweden, or something? Whatever.

According to your group's manager, this was supposed to be a big performance for you guys. There were going to be thousands of fans. Obviously, there were folks coming just for your group, buuut; there were thousands of other fans showing up because there were apparently two other groups who were supposed to perform tonight, too. Complete mysteries as to who, though. Only the higher-up staff knew, and their lips were sealed.

But of course, K-Pop fans will K-Pop fan, and thousands were more than willing to spend over $75 on a festival ticket just for the slight chance to see their bias. Ah, the wonders of humanity…

Though, to be honest, despite all this hype… you didn't give much of a shit. Not about… any of it..? 

For some godforsaken reason, a week before the Summer Solstice Festival, the amount of demons in your local area suddenly upticked. The situation left you out on the town fighting for the lives of you and your neighborhood almost every night, going until the crack of dawn. You were goddamn exhausted. You needed this event to be over like 4 hours ago so you could sleep for about 2-12 business days.

Well, yeah, you were exhausted, yet still determined. You'd rather pass out on stage than be a no-show. You have honor, thank you very much.

And, you also had no clue.

You had no clue that this performance, along with the two after yours, were going to change your life in all the right (and wrong) ways.

~~~~~

(Part 2 [thats technically part 1] coming as soon as I finish making it, lmao)

[sammyslittlenymphet]

Anon requested : " Sam Winchester smut with childhood best friend!reader and this man is YAPPING on how much he wanted to fuck her ever since he was a teen." AND Anon requested : "Ok so I’m thinking about how Sam would love to make a mess out of you. He loves to tease and slowly build up the tension until you’re shaking. He talks you through it while a puddle forms underneath you on the sheets."

⊹° 𝕋𝕖𝕖𝕟𝕒𝕘𝕖 𝔻𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕞 ⊹°

⊹° ℙ𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘 : 𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕝𝕕𝕙𝕠𝕠𝕕 𝕓𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕗𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕟𝕕! Sam Winchester x 𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕝𝕕𝕙𝕠𝕠𝕕 𝕓𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕗𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕟𝕕! Reader ⊹° 𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤 : sexual content, yearning, mentions of love, touch of fluff, making out, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, slight praise kink, slight humiliation kink, missionary, light grinding, teasing, delayed orgasm, orgasm control, fingering, (f receiving) oral. based in Bobby's house. porn with some plot. 18+ only !! ⊹° 𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕕 ℂ𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥 : 1.835k.

You hadn’t seen Sam in years, not since you were kids running through backwoods, dodging Dean’s stupid pranks and John’s gruff orders. Not since, you grew into teenagers together- sharing secrets, patching each others’ wounds from hunts and holding hands just a beat too long to pretend it was nothing.

Now, nearly ten years later, here he was, filling Bobby’s doorway— all broad shoulders and warrior- built muscles—  his pretty blue-green eyes locking on you, making your heart flutter as memories of hot teenage summers flood your mind.

_

Night falls, and the house quietens as you and Sam end up sprawled on the couch, with a six-pack between you, trading stories from all the years you’d missed out on each other. “ C’mon, you always knew I liked you, back then, when we were kids.” he laughs and your face colours rapidly. You’d always hoped but never dared. “ Wait, what ? Y-you had a crush on me ?” you ask, without even realizing the childish implications of your words.

Sam chokes on his beer. “Crush?” he smirks and you blush harder. “Yeah, I guess I had a ‘crush’ on you.” he teases, before adding, “ I still do.”

Your jaw drops open and you stare at him like he’s just told you the country’s secret nuclear plan. “What? I don’t have to hide it anymore. I am attracted to you…like really bad. Always have been. I don't have to lie…we’re not kids anymore.” he shrugs with that infuriating, smug smirk still gracing his perfect lips as he turns your world upside down with all the nonchalance in the world.

“Of- of course.” you say with a forced smile as you make a desperate attempt at mirroring the calmness in Sam even as he makes your every childhood dream (related to romance) come true with a few, casually tossed-out sentences. “What did-I mean- do you- y’know like about me ?” you ask, sipping your beer to make it appear like you don’t care as much about his response even though you asked the question in the first place, with the need to have every question you’ve had since your teenage years, answered.

“Well, you’re beautiful…and sweet. And you care about the stuff that really matters y’know, you always have. Hell, you care about me… make me feel like I’m more than the monsters I kill, like I’m more than mistakes I’ve made…you make me feel like I’m someone good.” his words reveal something much deeper than what you had expected and you can’t help but mentally pat yourself on the back for making the man you’ve loved ever since you knew love existed- feel something real and true.

“And you were really smart- smarter than me most of the time.” he chuckles and you practically swoon right there, while drowning blissfully in the bone-deep adoration you feel for Sam. “I used to think about you…all the time.” he adds, his voice dropping lower.

Your breath hitches. “Y-yeah? What kinda thoughts, Winchester?” you challenge and smiles- slow and knowing- leaning closer as he whispers, “The kind where I’d make love to you and fuck you the way I need to- the way I’ve dreamed of doing for years. Been wanting to since I was sixteen, baby.” 

You squirm, pressing your thighs together as his words send a heady shiver of arousal coursing through your entire body. Sam notices and a feral grin spreads across his face.“Sam—” you start, but he’s already moving, big hands coming to grab your hips as he pulls you onto his lap. His lips crash against yours and you gasp, his mouth devouring like he’s starved- all teeth and tongue and pent-up lust. His bulge presses against your pussy, and you moan into his mouth, grinding against him with fervour, your own desperation spilling free. “Gonna make a mess of you, sweetheart. Been waiting too fucking long.” he grunts against your lips, his hands grabbing and squeezing achy handfuls of your flushed skin, like he physically can’t get enough of you. Like he’s finally gotten his hands on you and realized just how much there is touch…to finally feel.

He yanks your tank top off, tossing it somewhere, and groans at the sight of your bare skin. “Look at you, baby. So fuckin’ gorgeous.” he mutters, lips trailing down your neck and sucking hard enough to leave marks. Sam's fingers find your bra and he rips it off, his mouth immediately on your tits, sucking and mouthing against the rosy skin until your whimpering and arching into him, your hands tugging his hair and making him groan.

“Sam, please,” you whine, and he flips you onto the couch, tugging your jeans down along with your panties, rough and impatient as he spreads your thighs wide open. Two of his fingers slide through your slick folds, and he hums deep in his throat, low and pleased. “So fuckin’ wet for me.” he mutters, eyes locked on where his fingers tease your clit, rubbing deliberately slow in controlled circles- light and torturous- making you writhe as you gasp.“Gonna ruin this pretty little pussy, baby. Take my time, just like I’ve always wanted to. You ready for that?”

He doesn’t even give you time to answer before he leans in, dragging his tongue in a broad, slow stripe up your slit, tongue flicking your clit just enough to make you buck against his face. “That’s it, sweetheart, let me taste you.”

A few minutes later, you're trembling , legs shaking as he eats you out feverishly, without letting you come, his pace leisurely and every stroke of his tongue precise and perfect to keep you on the edge without ever letting you go over it. “Sam, pl-please.” you beg, hands tangled in his hair, hips grinding desperately against his mouth. He pulls back just enough to smirk up at you, lips glistening with your arousal. “Not yet.” he says and you whine in frustration before he pushes two fingers into your soaked entrance without any preamble, curling them just right to stroke that sweet spot deep inside you, making your vision erupt in stars of pleasure. “Yes!” you squeal when he begins to pump his fingers in and out of your pussy, your orgasm drawing closer for what feels like the millionth time that night. The moment your hips begin eagerly chasing his thrusting fingers, grinding and bucking towards him...he slows. Sam resumes his maddeningly lazy pace again, pulling you back from the edge of ecstasy as his fingers scissor inside your weeping cunt to work you open. 

Tears build so sudden and rapid in your eyes, you nearly suffer from whiplash. He notices and pulls his fingers out of your pussy. “ Aww, don’t cry, baby. You were so patient, like a good girl. Made such a pretty little mess f’me. I’m gonna let you come on my cock now, sweetie…as a reward.” he coos, standing up.

You hiccup pitifully at the loss of contact, your pussy clenching around nothing at the promise laced with a heady mix of praise and humiliation in his words. Sam unzips his jeans to free his cock- thick and painfully hard with the veins wrapped around his shaft practically throbbing with the sheer amount of pent-up want he's been holding back. You bite your lip at the sight of him, contemplating whether you’d even be able to fit all of him inside you. Sam strokes himself slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’ve waited too fuckin' long for this to rush it, baby. Gonna take my sweet time until you’re drippin’ all over these sheets.”

He settles between your spread thighs and you feel the tip of his cock tease your entrance, sliding through your slick but not pushing in yet. He finally pushes into you, slow and deliberate, making you feel every thick inch of him as he stretches you until you’re stuffed full of him, unable to think straight through the delicious burn of pain and pleasure. He doesn’t move at first, staying buried to the hilt and watching your face contort with pleasure as you adjust, clenching around him.

“Fuck, you feel so fuckin’ good, sweetie. ” he growls, starting to move, fucking you with slow thrusts that have you arching towards him, every drag of his cock making your vision blur as he hits your sweet spot with each balls-deep stroke that fills you full of him.  “You got no idea how bad I’ve wanted to do this, for so long. Jerked off to wanting to fill this tight little body since I was fuckin’ sixteen, baby.” His pace picks up, hips snapping harder, the wet sound of skin on skin filling the room as he makes you moan, pornstar- loud in time with his rough grunts of pleasure and exertion.

Your nails dig into his back, your legs wrapped around his waist as he pounds into you like his life depends on it. Like he’s fucking every single second of his repressed need into your body with a finality that has your pussy squeezing around him with every thrust of his perfectly- angled hips. “Sam, I’m—” you start, but he cuts you off with a kiss, swallowing your moans as he reaches between you, fingers circling your clit in time with his thrusts as your climax approaches embarrassingly fast from the way your body was primed from his previous torture where he pulled back every time you neared your orgasm. 

“Come on, baby,” Sam pants against your lips, his voice wrecked. “Cum for me. Wanna feel that tight little pussy squeezing my cock. Wanted you to cum f’me for such a long time, sweetheart. Give it to me, lemme feel you. ” His words, his touch, the relentless drive of his hips becomes too much and you come hard, crying out his name as your body trembles under his, your vision and mind blanking completely from the overwhelming pleasure as you moan and claw trenches into his skin.

Sam groans, filthy and deep, as he feels you clench around him, his pistoning hips jackhammering into you and prolonging your pleasure. It doesn’t take long before his thrusts grow erratic, each stroke turning sloppier than the last. “Fuck, baby. Finally, gonna fill you up.” he grunts, his Southern drawl thick and delirious. “ So fucking hot. Gonna cum so deep in you, sweetie, you’re gonna feel me for days.”

He slams into you one last time, moaning your name as he spills inside of you, filling you with each thick, hot spurt of his cum till you’re both a sweat-slicked mess, trembling from overstimulation. He doesn’t pull out right away, and stays there, his forehead pressed to yours as you both catch your breath.

“Worth every second of waiting.” he finally whispers, the raw lust in his voice replaced with a gentle, affectionate tone as he kisses you, soft and chaste, now. “But don’t think I’m even near being done with you, yet. We’ve got years to make up for, sweetheart.”

⊹° 𝔸𝕦𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕣'𝕤 𝕄𝕖𝕤𝕤𝕒𝕘𝕖 : Hope you enjoy this, anon !! and i hope you all like it. if you'd like to be tagged, please don't hesitate to let me know !! comments and re-blogs are highly appreciated !! and I'd love to hear all your thoughts on the fic and my writing so please let me know down below. and of course, my inbox is totally open to any thoughts <3. ⊹° 𝕋𝕒𝕘𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥 : @mostlymarvelgirl, @jayhalsteadfan-2417, @zenoxl, @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing, @castielsonlyangel, @bea-tween-the-pages, @hutcherwifey.

[gav-san]

“No Takebacks" 9 (END)

Masterlist here

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"One of Us, Forever Now" Word Count: 2.5K+

Previous

You didn’t know this supply stop would involve warlords.

There was no memo. No strategic debrief. No whispered warning while you sipped your morning tea and adjusted the straps on your satchel of disinfectant wipes.

Instead, you're standing on the dock in your best scowl, sipping tea from a travel mug that says “Emotionally Married, Spiritually Armed” when Benn Beckman: stoic, unflappable, probably already regretting everything, murmurs out of the side of his mouth:

“Brace yourself.”

You don’t get the chance to ask why.

Because he arrives.

You were prepared to be unimpressed. Honestly, you had planned for it. You’d heard the stories. “Greatest swordsman in the world.” “Cold as ice.” “Can kill with a look.” You expected the edge. Drama. The general scent of blood, leather, and an unresolved rivalry, with a hint of eyeliner.

What you did not expect… was perfection.

Dracule Mihawk steps off his ship like a man personally offended by the concept of grime. He’s wearing full black leather—crisp black leather—and somehow not sweating. His coat sways dramatically in the absence of wind. His boots shine like they’ve never touched sand. His beard is lined. His hat has no lint. No one has no lint.

You squint. Scan him from hat to heel like a customs officer at the end of their shift.

Nothing.

Not a speck. Not a smudge. Not even a hair out of place.

Even his sword is polished. You can see your own annoyance reflected in it.

You, in your sensible boots, travel-stained cloak, and utility belt full of antibacterial wipes, suddenly feel like a disgruntled librarian crashing Fashion Week.

“Is that leather?” you ask, almost accusing.

“Yes,” Mihawk replies, voice dry as imported wine. “And clean.”

You twitch. “How?”

“I’m not married to your captain.”

Shanks, several feet away, chokes on air and lives.

You inhale through your nose. Deep. Dangerous. The kind of breath that could power a war crime.

“You know what? Fine. Great. I hope your laundry folds itself and your moisturizer never runs out.”

“It doesn’t,” Mihawk says with calm finality. “I have a system.”

You glare. This man has a system.

Even you don’t have a system that gets leather that crisp after sea travel. You’ve tried. It always ends with humidity and muttering threats at mold like a feral exorcist.

Shanks leans in, barely containing laughter. “Jealous?”

“I’m offended.”

Mihawk glides away like a gothic swan in head-to-toe couture. His coat billows behind him as if it were blessed.

“I’m going to bite him,” you mutter.

Shanks beams. “As your husband, I cannot approve—”

You whip your mop at him like a divine judgment. Benn catches it midair with the resigned grace of a man who’s already picturing his escape goat.

“You’ll be mad about this for weeks,” Benn sighs.

“Years,” you growl. “Leather. On a ship. And it was clean.”

Somewhere on deck, Mihawk polishes a wine glass like he knows.

Later. Much later. After the warlord has gone and a well-dressed swordsman has thoroughly challenged your self-worth, you decide to process things constructively.

With threats.

“Hawkeye’s ship has no mold,” you say one morning, inspecting a suspicious smear on the railing like it’s personally offended you.

“Mm,” Shanks hums, upside-down in a hammock. “That’s because he sleeps in a coffin lined with rejection.”

You ignore him. “He has a skincare routine.”

“So do barnacles.”

“He wears leather.”

Shanks sits up. “You want leather? I’ll wear leather.”

“You’ll sweat. You’ll smell. You’ll cry and beg for talcum powder.”

He pouts. “But I’ll look cool doing it.”

You sip your tea. Smile. It’s sweet, dangerous, and full of vengeance. “Maybe Mihawk would treat me to leather that breathes.”

Shanks blinks. Once.

Then stands.

Then walks away.

You assume—foolishly—he’s gone to sulk like a rational pirate-husband.

He returns ten minutes later. Shirtless. Smirking and wearing leather pants.

They creak when he moves.

You drop your mug. It hits the deck with a clatter loud enough to make a nearby crewmate flinch.

“You absolute menace—”

“I will not be replaced,” Shanks declares, standing like he’s on stage at the final act of a very dramatic opera. Shirtless. Glowing. Wearing leather pants that creak with every self-righteous breath.

“Yonko rules. Pirate law. Also—” he lifts a hand, fingers wiggling—“I copied the marriage license again. And laminated it. So legally? You’re stuck.”

You stare at him.

“You laminated a copy?”

He beams. “Triple laminated. Waterproof. Fire-resistant. Mold-proof. You’re welcome.”

“You don’t even laminate navigation charts.”

“Those don’t keep my wife from eloping with that emotionally stable steak knife.”

You inhale. Sharp. Controlled. Murderous.

“Where is it?” you ask flatly.

He grins wider. “Hidden. Somewhere… poetic.”

You blink.

“Did you hide it in Mihawk’s hat again?”

Shanks gasps. “How did you know?”

You throw your second mug. It misses. He catches it mid-air and toasts you with it, smirking.

You blink. “You touched his hat?”

“I fear nothing but losing your approval.”

Then he steps forward, voice low, arms sliding around your waist like a sea-born threat. “Try to leave me,” he murmurs, “see what happens.”

You narrow your eyes. “What happens is I marry Mihawk and live in a minimalist coastal estate with organized spices and a bidet.”

He growls.

Then he lifts you bodily and flops you onto the nearest hammock.

“Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll clean the kitchen. I’ll wear the gloves. I’ll get conditioner. But you are not,” he kisses your neck, “leaving me,” kisses your collarbone, “for a man who dresses like a villainous steak knife.”

You lie there. Heart pounding. Pride obliterated.

“…Maybe I’ll visit Mihawk,” you whisper.

He throws you over his shoulder. “THAT’S IT. BRIDAL CAPTIVITY.”

And somewhere, far off on a misty cliffside, Mihawk sneezes. Delicately. Then glances skyward with a faint frown.

“…I feel watched.”

Meanwhile...

Benn Beckman stands at the edge of the deck like a man awaiting a tidal wave made of taxes. His cigarette burns low. His patience burns lower.

Behind him, chaos.

Lucky Roux is chasing a deckhand with a ladle. Yasopp is locked in a philosophical debate with a mop. Shanks just ran by shirtless, shouting “EMERGENCY SEDUCTION PROTOCOL,” and you? You’re in the crow’s nest, hurling annulment forms like shuriken.

Benn lights a second cigarette off the first.

“If I fake my death,” he mutters, “I could open a bookstore. Sell maps. Sleep eight hours.”

Someone screams. Something explodes.

He doesn’t flinch.

“Just need a small island. A roof. Coffee. Maybe a goat.”

Shanks appears beside him, barefoot and glitter-covered.

“Hey, Benn—guess what she called me this time?”

“No.”

“She called me a moldy towel with abs!”

“…She’s not wrong.”

Shanks claps him on the back. “You love us.”

Benn exhales smoke into his face. “I tolerate you.”

“Same thing!”

You scream from above: “IF HE’S IN MY SOAP AGAIN, I’M SETTING THE BATHROOM ON FIRE!”

Benn doesn’t blink.

He stares at the sea.

And mutters, “I’m retiring next year.”

He’s been saying that for ten.

Not even the goat he hasn’t bought believes him.

The crew still isn’t clean.

Not really. Not ever.

There’s always at least one sock drying on the helm, waving like a cursed flag of defiance. Someone used your backup toothbrush to stir coffee last week, and then returned it to its holder proudly, as if they’d done you a favor. You caught them. You labeled it. They still did it.

You’ve accepted—grudgingly, bitterly, through clenched teeth and disinfectant spray—that the galley will never meet your standards. Lucky Roux genuinely believes that boiling water counts as “sterilizing” everything from kitchen knives to his actual elbow.

You complain.

Loudly. Daily. Systematically.

And yet...

You’re still here.

Somehow, through divine punishment or karmic slapstick, the mop-based marriage still stands.

Shanks calls it “our sacred union of rum and questionable decisions.” You call it “a bureaucratic nightmare soaked in liquor and regret.”

Because the truth is…

You didn’t mean to marry him.

Not really.

You were drunk. He was very charming. And you were halfway through a bottle of something called “Sealegs” when the barmaid clapped her clipboard, declared you hitched, and started sobbing tears of joy.

You did check, later, furious, sober, and wielding a quill like a weapon.

Turned out, she was a legally recognized officiant in two of the four seas.

You don’t talk about it. Not with Shanks. Not with Benn. Not even with Hongo, who tried to diagnose you with “psychosomatic marital distress” and ordered a week of bed rest while handing you tissues and a vitamin regimen.

But still… You haven’t left.

Ports have come and gone and passed like lifeboats of logic while you stayed stubbornly, irrationally on board.

You’ve stood on docks, hand on your satchel, spine straight, fully prepared to walk away.

And yet, you’re still on this damn ship. You stopped trying to escape two ports ago.

You still make the tea just the way the crew likes it. You still correct the maps when someone confuses “northwest” with “nah-weast.” You still spray people with disinfectant in the middle of a conversation.

And when they dodge? They laugh.

When Shanks calls you love, you roll your eyes, but you don’t correct him.

When Benn casually asks what port you’ll disembark at next, you smirk and say, “The cleanest one.” You never pack.

You’re not happy about the wedding. Not really. Not in a traditional, bouquet-tossing, fond-memory kind of way.

You did not want to wake up married to a barefoot Yonko with sea salt in his hair and a grin that could undo years of trauma.

But the truth is...

The ship’s not so bad.

There’s laughter. There’s chaos. There’s precisely zero personal boundaries, and you’ve caught two grown men trying to sanitize a cannon with mouthwash, but there’s also... something warm beneath the grime.

There are good stories. Bad hygiene.

And, unfortunately, fun.

You’ll never admit it. Not out loud. You’d rather mop the entire sea.

But when the crew yells “Welcome home!” every time you step back on deck, when you find your favorite tea restocked, or a new notebook tucked in your drawer, or your ring quietly polished and left beside your pillow like a promise…

You don’t say anything.

You just mutter, “Still disgusting,” and make damn sure they wash their hands before dinner.

You’re not happy. Not really.

But you’re also not leaving.

Because love, apparently, is a Yonko. One who cleans for you.

It’s not flowers. It’s not poetry. It’s certainly not common sense.

Love is you, standing in the corridor of a ship that smells like old rum and new regret, hands on your hips, glaring with holy fury at the man who ruined your life by accidentally making it bearable.

Shanks leans in the doorway of his cabin, shirt unbuttoned just enough to be suspicious, sleeves rolled like he’s ready to do either housework or heresy. His grin should be classified as a maritime threat. His voice is a felony all by itself.

“Wanna see my cabin?”

You blink.

You smile. It’s not a kind smile. It’s the kind of smile pirates whisper about in cautionary tales.

Then you turn, take two purposeful steps to the storage closet, and return with a bucket, a mop, and the cold steel of intent.

“Absolutely,” you purr, hefting the mop like a weapon forged in bleach and personal boundaries. “I can’t wait to disinfect the sins out of it.”

Shanks pauses.

Winks.

“You’re really into foreplay, huh?”

You toss him a pair of gloves. Not pink. Industrial black. The gloves of someone who has seen things. Survived them. Labeled them.

“Put these on,” you say sweetly, “before I throw you into the bilge.”

He catches them easily. Grinning. Hopeless. Gleaming with that same rogue stupidity you married into without your knowledge.

He’ll follow you in. Of course, he will. He’d follow you into the sea if you told him lemon-scented miracles were waiting on the ocean floor.

Because love, in this godforsaken floating germ colony, isn’t candlelight or roses.

It’s bleach.

It’s threat-based romance.

It’s shouting “WASH YOUR HANDS BEFORE TOUCHING ME” in front of the entire crew and meaning it.

It’s you, him, and a bucket full of industrial-strength disinfectant.

That’s your holy trinity.

And damn it…

You wouldn’t have it any other way. (Not that you’ll ever say it out loud.)

Regret is waking up in his cabin.

Naked. Warm. Annoyingly well-rested. Shockingly clean.

The sheets smell like soap and danger. Like someone finally took your rage-stained cleaning schedule and whispered romance into it.

The air is quiet. Too quiet. And the smugness radiating off the man beside you is so thick it might even qualify as fog.

You open your eyes slowly.

And there he is.

Shanks.

Single arm thrown across your waist. One leg tangled possessively with yours, like you’re driftwood and he’s the tide. His red hair is a disaster across the pillow, the kind of beautiful chaos only someone like him could turn into charm. His mouth curves in his sleep like he’s dreaming of winning an argument he never even entered.

Like he knows.

You stare at the ceiling.

You want to scream. Or dive headfirst out the porthole. Or travel back in time and slap yourself the exact moment you said: “Fine. Show me the cabin. But I swear to God, if it smells like feet—”

But it didn’t.

Because the bastard cleaned it.

Deep cleaned. Marine-standard, you-standard, divine-level cleaned. The walls were scrubbed. The floors were swept. The sheets were new. The air smelled like lemon oil and repentance. The candles weren’t even crooked. There were shelves. Organized shelves.

And the mop you’d left behind as a threat was still in the corner, polished. Standing upright. Respected.

And then he leaned in, maddeningly close, voice soft with triumph, and whispered:

“See, sweetheart? All clean. Now there’s nothing between us.”

You blame the soap. The lighting. The fact that he was wearing shoes and didn’t track in a single grain of sand. You blame the fact that, God help you, you noticed his hands were washed correctly.

You didn’t mean to sleep with him.

You were supposed to win.

And yet, here you are.

Naked. In his bed. Again. In a marriage you didn’t agree to, beside a mop you’ve grown emotionally attached to, and lying next to a Yonko who now knows he can seduce you with lemon-scented order and a lint-free throw blanket.

Regret is real.

So is the slow, maddening smile still curled on his face.

You grab the nearest pillow and shove it over his face, not with murderous intent, but just enough pressure to remind him that you are choosing violence today, but in a soft, therapeutic, married kind of way.

He laughs beneath it. Muffled. Smug. Completely unfazed. Like this is a morning routine now.

“Good morning to my favorite wife,” he says, voice distorted by cotton and cheek.

You hiss like a vampire caught in direct sunlight, clutching the sheet like it wronged you. “I’m your only wife.”

“Mmhmm,” he agrees, utterly unrepentant. “That’s what makes you the favorite.”

You press the pillow down harder.

He snorts.

Then, with the slow, luxurious confidence of a cat who’s claimed the warmest spot on the bed and the owner’s affection, he stretches under the covers, arms above his head, toes pointed, torso bare, grin criminal.

“Turns out,” he drawls, blinking up at you with those lazy, sea-glass eyes, “cleanliness is next to godliness.”

You stare at him.

The mop was still respectfully standing in the corner.

At the sparkling shelf of neatly folded towels behind his shoulder.

At the man who deep-cleaned a pirate cabin just to impress you and then had the audacity to be hot about it.

You throw the pillow off him with a groan and flop onto your back beside him. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” he says, rolling onto his side.

“I hate that you’re right,” you grumble, glaring at the ceiling.

He leans in and kisses your temple, obnoxiously gentle. “Which part?”

You shove your foot into his thigh.

He takes it as a cuddle.

[haydenigmatic]

(NSFW)

How would the ROs react if MC gifted them very high quality lingerie in relationship stage?

Well, assuming lingerie existed in this world…

…it would be the kind crafted from whisper-thin moonweave or imported dusk-silk from the Free Continent — scandalously soft, stupidly expensive, and laced with the kind of subtle embroidery that makes priests twitch. If MC handed that over in a quiet, private moment? Here's how the ROs might lose their damn minds:

Aurelia/n:

They smile when they unwrap it — slow, warm, grateful — but their eyes are already darkening. "You always know how to surprise me… Was this your way of asking me to take something off, or leave something on?" They’ll wear it, not for vanity, but because they know it pleases you — and then they’ll turn the tables. Soft words, whispered filth, gentle hands that know exactly how to ruin someone slowly. They’ll seduce you, while technically still being the polite one in the room.

Odette:

"You chose this… for me?" She wears it not for seduction — though that might come later — but because you wanted her in it. It becomes a symbol of closeness. And when she finally wears it for you? She’ll blush, yes… but her hands won’t tremble when she pulls you in.

Doria/n:

"You want me in this? Or out of it?" They're already undressing as they say it. They’re the type to rip it off with a dagger if things get too heated. Or to leave it on and make you beg. Either way, they’re obsessed with the intimacy of it — the vulnerability, the trust. They’ll treasure the gift… even if it ends up in tatters by morning.

Verena:

Oh, she'll live for this. She purrs when she unwraps it. Runs her fingers over the fabric like it’s your skin.

"My dear, is this a gift... or a challenge?" She’ll make a whole damn game of it. Flirting with you while wearing it underneath her clothes during some event. Whispering what she's got on — or don’t — during dinner. This is the fuel for a week’s worth of torment and pleasure.

Sorin:

"My love, if you think this is going to shock me, you’re going to have to do better than that." But deep down? It does get her. Because you’re not treating her like a toy — you're giving her something personal, something for her pleasure, not just yours. She wears it like a second skin, walks into your chambers, and says, "Tell me what you see — and be honest." She wants to know she’s still desirable. That she’s more than a past. And when you show her that she’s everything to you? That lingerie turns into armour. And she fucks you like she’s never needed anyone, until now.

Hanniel:

"This is… for me?" He almost doesn’t touch it. He’s afraid of ruining it. Afraid he doesn’t deserve it. But you look at him like he’s worth it — every scar, every broken part. When he wears it? It's with trembling hands, barely breathing. And when you reach for him, he whispers, "You really see me, don’t you?" Then he claims you — slow, desperate, reverent. The kind of sex that says, “I’ll never let you go.” That lingerie won’t survive the night. But the look in his eyes? That’s going to last an eternity.

Nesrin:

"Oh... now you’re playing dirty. I like it." She holds it up, smirks, and tests you immediately: "Would you prefer I wear it to dinner? Or just... leave it on your bed tonight?" She’ll absolutely wear it — but not until she’s made you suffer for giving it to her. She wants you squirming. She’ll lounge in it like a queen, tease you with flashes beneath her gowns, and act like it's no big deal. Until you make her drop the mask. And that’s when her warm heart takes over — when her teasing becomes adoration, when her clever little games turn into soft gasps and whispered “I never thought I could love someone like this.”

Jasira:

“…You’re ridiculous.” Her voice is sharp, but her flushed ears betray her. She holds it up like it might bite, studying the fine stitching with a furrowed brow—half amused, half flustered. “I’m not some silk-wrapped courtesan,” she mutters... but later that night, you find her wearing it anyway, leaning casually against the doorframe like she hasn’t spent an hour working up the nerve. And if you so much as smirk? “You say one word,” she warns, stepping closer, “and I’m setting it on fire.” (She doesn’t.) She keeps it tucked away carefully. Wears it rarely. But when she does—gods, she burns brighter than any battlefield flame.

Damon:

He blinks, then slowly grins as you hand it over. "For me?" His sea-green eyes glitter with amusement and something darker. "You want me in this?" He turns the fabric over in his hands, mock-serious like he’s appraising a sacred relic. Then he smirks—the kind of smirk that’s gotten nobles flustered and rivals furious. "You really are trying to kill me, aren’t you?" He’ll wear it. Oh, he’ll wear it—and make damn sure you regret handing him that kind of power. Damon doesn’t get embarrassed—he gets performative. He’ll strut, pose, tease, and then pull you close, mouth at your ear. "You gave this to me. Whatever happens next… is your fault." And yes—he’ll treasure it. Even if it ends up on the floor. Or tied around your wrists.

[enemies-to-lovers-50k-slow-burn]

lemme just go on a quick rant about why i fucking despise endgame

time travel

time travel in this movie was fucking atrocious because

Exhibit A) Gamora

point A is Gamora's life before Guardians of the Galaxy

point B is her life with them

point C is her death

point D is everything after

and in the movie they go and take her from point A and put her in point D which?? should eradicate both point B and C and definitely alter point D

and EVEN if they later put her from point D back to point A it still would change everything because now she has the knowledge of points B and further

which means that nothing that happened in any gog movie could have possibly happened

Exhibit B) Fucking Steve Rogers

first of all, that was just plain fucking dumb

secondly, its all the same as with Gamora except even more messy, because here Steve goes back to the time where his actual body still exists

which means.

that he just? let bucky be tortured and brainwashed and turned into the winter soldier?

which also means.

that he had the knowledge about major world disasters and just decided? to not tell anyone? and now you could argue that he didn't want to change the future blah blah WRONG

if he didn't want to change the future he?? wouldn't have?? gone back?? in time??

and about his decision you could say that oh he was tired and done with fighting and just wanted to be with the one he loves.

you know who absolutely dominates and haunts steve's character? you know who is always on his mind? you know who he challenges everything for? spoiler alert: it ain't peggy.

and now, you don't have to think of steve and bucky as romantic partners to recognize that. when i first watched those movies i absolutely loved his dedication and loyalty to his best friend who was always by his side and for whom he did everything.

and you're telling me that when he finally had achieved the peace he fought for with bucky he just what? throws it all away? sure, he loved peggy, but what i'm saying is - wheter romantically or not - he clearly loved bucky more.

and! you could argue that he didn't reach the peace he wanted because the government and the media would've used him as a symbol and blah blah... and the past which created him wouldn't? let's be real, please.

in overall, i know marvel wanted to put an end to steve rogers' character, but honestly? they couldn't have made his end shittier if they tried really

of course if yall have a different take i'm very open to discusion, but please consider my points beforehand:)

[kariachi]

Yet more for that Argit pokemon series.

The best laid plans of mice and men oft go awry. Yes even if you get that one thing you swear is gonna help.

~~

Every pokemon center has a corkboard available for public use. Advertisements for jobs or events, requests for items, missing pokemon and person posters, all and more go up on the board for use by locals and those passing through. Argit checks them every evening before heading out, though there’s normally nothing worth the bother. Sometimes there’ll be a strong trainer looking for challengers, then they’ll consider the odds. They’re even starting to consider maybe sticking around for a battling competition if they see one advertised. Gimmighoul struggles to pull its weight, but salandit is strong, and they’ve managed a good seventy-percent win rate so far.

For the most part though it just people looking for pokemon, items, or skills they don’t have. That being the case, it hadn’t taken long for them to settle into a rhythm. Come downstairs, skim the board for anything with potential, and leave for the day. Exchange a few words with the nurse on duty when they got back, but otherwise ignore the other trainers. Why bother, when they didn’t intend to stick around or group up, and anything anyone had to offer would be up on the board with the rest of the nothing?

Probably it said something, about the quality of trainers around or about Argit themself, that it took until the sixth stop on their journey for anybody to properly catch their attention. A human, either an adult or almost, they aren’t great at telling, sat at one of the tables with a black and orange ghost-type hovering over their shoulder. On the table is a sandwich, a mug, a few papers, and a sign saying ‘Gourgeist To Good Home’.  Curiosity has their feet moving before they even realize, and their ear twitches as the human notices their approach as grins broadly.

“Hey there,” they say, standing and reaching over the table to extend a hand to shake, “I’m Jules, and this is pumpkaboo!” Argit takes the hand cautiously, tries to maintain a firm grip as they shake.

“Argit and salandit,” they say, hopping onto the chair Jules gestures too more to see over the table better than anything. Salandit hops onto their lap, then the table, it and pumpkaboo immediately setting to inspecting each other. “What’s up?”

“Pumpkaboo here is shaking to evolve and would love to travel.” Jules gives a depreciating little laugh, running a hand through their hair. “I just don’t have the space for a large gourgeist, don’t care for travel, so I was figuring a passing trainer would be it’s best bet.”

They slide one of the papers across the table. It’s a fact sheet about the pokemon in question, loaded with information a trainer might need to know. Ghost/grass type, large size, all shots, no pokerus. Hasty nature, good perseverance, knows confuse ray, disable, shadow sneak, and bullet seed. Ability is pickup.

Argit’s ear twitches again. What was that they’d said, way back when? That if gimmighoul couldn’t pull their weight maybe they could trade it for a pickup pokemon like they’d intended to catch. Without a thought their tail curls protectively around their bag. It isn’t pulling it’s weight, and despite the empty pokeball sitting in their bag they haven’t found a pickup pokemon.

Over two months it’s been though. That’s a long time. It left it’s chest to comfort them just weeks ago.

“What about you guys, what do you have going on?” Jolting slightly, Argit’s eyes flick up from the paper and their plodding thoughts. Jules is smiling at them, and an ear follows pumpkaboo as it floats over and begins inspecting Argit now. From the way salandit just watches it do so, they assume the pair get along well enough. With a deep breath to knock away the tightening in their chest, Argit slaps on a smile.

“Been travelling here and there, don’t really have a destination right now.” Sure there are no bad vibes so far, but they’re not telling anyone where they’re headed. “Haven’t been at it long but, I grew up around ghost types, got one myself already, know how to handle them.”

They also, again, aren’t sure they could afford another pokemon. They can do math, with three they’ll be paying more to keep their team fed and healthy each week than they do feeding themselves. Just to add another ghost to the team, bundle up on those weaknesses.

“Oh, that’s perfect,” Jules says, a hint of relief in their voice as they reach out and carefully scratch salandit’s head. Argit’s proud to say that as much of a skinny runt as they are, it looks in as good a condition as you can expect from a travelling battler. “If you’re interested, here’s the species I’d take in trade.”

They hand over another piece of paper, this one a simple list. It doesn’t, to Argit’s relief, have gimmighoul on it. Instead there’s almost a dozen other pokemon, each of which that Argit recognizes is, they’re pretty sure, relatively small when fully evolved. Well, at least Jules understands what they need from these things.

“Think I saw some of these on my way in,” they say as they go down the list, “can’t you just go out and catch one of ‘em yourself?” Jules laughs again, giving pumpkaboo a wistful look as it begins to join the perusing.

“If I could go out and catch my own pokemon,” they say, “I wouldn’t have gotten one I’d have to say goodbye to so soon.”

Argit hums a near understanding- saying goodbye isn’t easy- and refocuses on the papers in front of them. A grass type would help with salandit’s ground and water weaknesses, and that ground one would only get worse for the team if they ever got gimmighoul evolved. But those dark, ghost, and eventually fire weaknesses, and the extra care costs… Pickup would be helpful though, could easily double the amount of money they made. In that case pumpkaboo would more than pay for itself. And there’s that stupid- team cores made from fire, water, and grass types are a whole thing, they’re pretty sure…

Pumpkaboo draws their attention with a wispy mewl, floating in front of Argit’s face. Yellow eyes meet yellow eyes, and they can’t help but smile a little more honestly when it mewls again, drifting curiously from side to side. With a little huff of a laugh, Argit drops a hand on it’s head, warmth rising in their chest as it shoves it head deeper into their touch when they begin scratching.

“Give me a couple nights, and I’ll see what I can get ya.”

~~

The first thing Argit does, once arrangements have been made, is go actually get a room for their stay secured. The second thing is sit down at a free computer and look up what’s available in the area. One of them they don’t trust themselves to be able to catch, but a few of the others look promising. Then, they have to go buy three pokeballs. It’s an expense they don’t like, and they do have one still that they found along the road, but the odds of successfully catching something are better with more than one ball to throw.

Besides, if they’re considering what sort of core they want to build into their team? Then there’s no denying they’re going to be doing more battling going forward. They do get more money per battle than they do most days hocking stuff, and with a new, stronger pokemon on the team they can hopefully win more of them against opponents with, hopefully, more money. Plus, with a pickup user around Argit will, with any luck, be able to split time more between item hunting and battling. But, if they’re going to focus more on battles, then they’re going to eventually need to balance out their team better, and that’ll take pokeballs.

Like keeping the one that had been used on gimmighoul, they’re making a calculated investment.

Once all that is done and plans are in place, they take the rest of the night to acquaint themself with the town before turning in for the day.

Most of the pokemon on their narrowed list are easy enough to find, but it still takes them until the third night to find the right one. Despite all evidence, they are not their ma, and while they don’t know if there’s any specific rule about it, it does seem in like something she’d do- catch a pokemon for a trade without letting it know she wasn’t keeping it. Instead Argit spends two nights wandering up and down the paths outside of town, trying to figure out the best way to tell the pokemon what’s going on. Eventually they settle on just saying it at the start of every battle with the appropriate species.

That this has, on most occasions, led to the pokemon immediately turning and leaving, is more than a bit disheartening. More than a bit annoying as well. Still, they keep up, despite the voice in their head telling them to just catch one of the stupid things and be done with it. They are ten-years-old and desperate to be better than that. So wasted time it is. Over, and over, and over. Not even to mention the pokemon that salandit has just been too strong to weaken enough to catch without driving them off, or gimmighoul too weak to even bother without it’s backup.

Eventually, though…

“You wanna live in a small place in town?” The skwovet blinks, beady little eyes pulling away from salandit and towards Argit. “Looking for a pokemon for somebody in town, nice enough, but no travelling, not a lot of battling I don’t think, and their place is small.” It continues to stare, long enough that Argit wonders if it understands what they’re saying. Enough that salandit turns to them, itself now confused.

The skwovet turns it’s attention back to the fire-type and enters a battle stance.

“Poison gas,” Argit calls, heaving a sigh of relief as a cloud of purple fumes streaks from salandit’s mouth, engulfing the skwovet as it puffs up it’s fur. All the fur makes it difficult to see any telltale purple tinge, but there’s no sign of it eating a curing berry as the gas clears in the breeze. “Ember it!”

As the skwovet throws itself forward, it’s met with a face full of embers, colliding with salandit’s tail as it swings it. The force of the blow sends both pokemon toppling head over tail, scrambling against each other until their settled enough to break apart and face each other down once more. Skwovet cringes a little, nose crinkling, but it stands firmer than salandit does. Argit’s ears tilt back. This is one of the stronger ones then, and much as they love their pokemon, high defenses it does not have.

“Get evading,” they call, and the words have hardly left their muzzle before salandit is releasing another plume of poison gas at it’s feet. Already poisoned, the nose crinkling is an easy sign, the skwovet wastes no time in throwing itself into the cloud. A smirk slips onto Argit’s face as aggravated squeaks erupt from the gas, realizing salandit’s moved. The purple cloud works it’s way around the field, pokemon releasing gas as quickly as it can to shield it’s exact location. It’s in real trouble if the wind kicks up, or if skwovet gets lucky, but it’s fast and all it needs is time. The normal-type throws itself at where it thinks salandit is again. Misses again.

A third time. The skwovet is chittering more fiercely.

Fourth. It wavers, just slightly, as it eyes the moving cloud. There are brief flashes of salandit and Argit can tell it’s noticed them. Smart, for a skwovet, too.

Fifth

“Ember!”

If Argit was a better person, they would feel bad for the poor normal-type. An order timed right as it moved and suddenly it finds itself sailing just in front of it’s target, in prime place for a full blow to it’s side as salandit flings fire free of it’s tail. As it is, they have to bite back a snicker as it chatters away even more angrily than before, tumbling across the ground and barely managing to get back to it’s feet. By the time it does they have a pokeball in hand, missing the first throw (thankfully nobody but the pokemon are there to see it) and nailing the second. In a flash of red light, skwovet is inside.

It shakes twice before catching.

Salandit is breathing heavily when Argit scoops it into their arms, chittering praise and stroking down it’s back as they approach the ball. They heft it in their hand a moment, give it a weighing toss, before sticking it in their bag.

“Don’t know if Jules is looking for a security pokemon,” they say as their attention turns to checking the damages against their starter, “but I think it’ll do the job anyway.”

~~

“Oh, aren’t you a cutie-patootie!”

Jules, it turns out, likes the skwovet. Which is good news, because Argit isn’t getting them another one. They can’t afford to get them another one. Not unless they start eating skwovet. Dip into the emergency fund that is gimmighoul’s coins.

They may not survive that.

“I take it we got a trade then,” they only half ask. It only takes a moment for Skwovet to launch itself up onto Jules’s shoulder, pumpkaboo already in conversation with salandit.

“Yeah.” Jules laughs as they say it, scratching skwovet’s little head. “Ready when you are.”

The trade station is just on the other end of the pokemon center, a complex machine that swaps identifications and registry information and stuff. Argit had never seen one until they first entered a pokemon center (all the pokemon their ma gave out were, for all intents and purposes, their ma’s until death) and even now is a little bit wary of it. They’re careful, as the return skwovet to it’s ball, to make sure that their eye stays on it. As if if they look away salandit or gimmighoul’s will appear in it’s place. It’s a long moment they spend looking, and it gives them something to focus on besides the tearful goodbye between Jules and pumpkaboo, complete with hugging and teary eyes that leave something Argit doesn’t want to acknowledge lodged in their throat.

When they’re finally done and call the ghost-type back into it’s ball, they seem to have an easier time inputting their trainer id than Argit does. They hesitate less on putting skwovet’s ball in the machine though.

For some reason, Argit realizes, they expected something flashier out of the machine. It dings, it shuts, a depiction of a pokeball spinning and transforming into a great ball, an ultra ball, a premiere ball, a master ball, appears on the screen, sings again, and opens. The ball on their side is older, scratched and dinged like gimmighoul’s. While they’re still reaching for the ball, cautious, Jules has already grabbed one clean new one on their side, releasing skwovet to their own tears and the pokemon’s very obvious pleasure.

Argit takes a deep breath as they hit the button on pumpkaboo’s ball and hold it as a mass of white light emerges. As it grows and grows until it’s taller than they are. Not by much, but by enough to make them fidget. The mass solidifies, bursts in a scatter of light that has salandit hissing, leaving behind another orange and black pokemon. Tall, with long, limbs? Maybe? And a face etched into it’s belly. Their brain supplies ‘gourgeist’ just in time for the pokemon to cry out in joy and fling it’s limbs around them.

The world freezes for a moment, instinctual panic and the need to keep their quills flat warring with each other in the heartbeat before salandit is flaming and hissing displeasure. Gourgeist thankfully gets the message, slipping away to just float in circles around them with sorrowful little moans. The way their limbs hover just outside of touching distance, like they want to try again but aren’t certain, is warm is Argit’s gut.

They flash their new pokemon a smile, an honest one, reaching over and up to scratch around the curl? stem? at the top of it’s head.

“Welcome to the team.” To their side, salandit settles down as gourgeist croons, leaning hard into their touch. “Hope you don’t mind work, ‘cause we got a lot of it waiting.”

“Argit.” Jules is smiling when they look, bittersweet. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem.” It was a problem. They just hope it proves worth it in the long run.

“Still, take care of gourgeist for me? And visit sometime, maybe?” Argit nods, even though they know that if all goes to plan they’ll never see this place again. Never see this region again. Taking care of the pokemon, that at least they- They’ll make it work.

They will.

They have a plan.

“Next time we swing by, I’m sure it’ll lead me right to ya.”

~~

A little local battle competition with a cash prize goes up on the board about a week into Argit’s stay, and they decide to stick around, see how well they do. They’ve got a fully evolved pokemon now, after all, and the cash prize is very attractive. Any cash prize is attractive at this point.

First place sits tantalizingly out of their reach, but the entry was free and they do get a brass third place medal and seventy-five bucks.

It’s enough to serve as a proof of concept.

Argit still ends up breaking into a local store at the break of dawn, to make up the big difference now there’s three pokemon to feed. For the whole little ‘excursion’ they feel like they can’t breath, gritting their teeth against their ma’s smirk in their mind. As soon as they get back to the pokemon center they shove the money into gimmighoul’s chest, where nobody will look. The whole rest of their time in the area they feel like there’s a blazing target on their back, but no one suspects them (no one ever suspected them-) and all they need is to get to get to a bigger place, one with more trainers. One with ruins nearby, now they’ve counted out the coins and realized how fast they’re getting gimmighoul to evolution.

They can’t hock them, not when they’re halfway there.

There’s a new plan. Better plan.

This one’ll work.

[garden0fyves]

joel cumming in his jeans from just making out but he claims “it’s been a while” which it probably has cause he’s always out gutting them clickers

OWHHH ANON YOURE SO RIGHT

smut under the cut…giggles

old man joel hasn’t been kissed since tess, and that was almost 5 years ago. you’re so warm and hot against him, soft hands cupping resting on his clothed chest as you sit on top of him. he doesn’t even know how he got here but god knows he’s not complaining. your lips are the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. no dessert could come close to the sugar you’re giving him.

“shit.” he grunts against your mouth, voice rough and hands warm against the soft skin of your waist. his hands had somehow found their way under your shirt. you don’t remember when or how, but you know as your hands dig into his hair you want him. desperately. the brief pause between your kisses is once again ended when you lean forward, tilting his head back by his hair just slightly.

you press a wet kiss to the corner of his mouth, tongue running across his lips briefly before you connect them again. joel’s grip on your waist gets unbelievably tighter. you’re sitting on top of him, but he’s willed your hips to still. his poor heart can barely take the intensity in which you’re kissing him—he’d pass out if you started fucking dry humping. “darlin’” he rasps. he tries to warn you, tries to get you to stop. your lips are so fucking soft, though. in such a rough world full of killing and brutality you manage to stay so soft. he can only imagine how your cunt feels.

“stop- fuck!” his hand slips from your waist just to hold your head against his. his tongue slides against yours, eyes screwed shut as he cums with a newfound force. he hadn’t felt it coming, truly. his stomach tenses, cock twitching in his pants. he can only imagine if you can feel it through the material of his jeans. “joel,” you pull away though not before pressing one more sloppy kiss to his lips. “did you jus’ cum?” it’s asked gently, as if the entire world will know if you speak any louder.

if you didn’t know any better, you’d think joel was blushing. “been a while, sweetheart.” and you giggle, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “wouldn’t last a minute inside me, huh?” you’re just teasing, but the glint in his eye says he’s taken it as a challenge. “we’ll find out. later.” he bites your lip, eyes shining just a little in the dull light filtering into the room. you hum in agreement, hips shifting involuntarily. “later.”

[rosemaryhoney27]

Phantom Fashion

It all started with a stupid bet. Tucker had dared Danny to do the “Ultimate Strut Challenge” for his livestream—walking down the halls of Casper High like he was on a Parisian runway. Danny, never one to back down from a challenge (and honestly a little bored), played along. He channeled his inner supermodel, flipping his imaginary hair and sauntering down the hall like he owned it. Tucker, feeling competitive, did his own exaggerated version, adjusting his glasses with a smolder and flashing a dazzling smile at the camera.

The video was supposed to be a joke. A quick laugh for Tucker’s followers. But within hours, it exploded online.

By the next morning, “#FentonFoleyFierce” was trending on every social media platform. People weren’t laughing at them—they were thirsting over them. The internet was losing its mind over how unexpectedly hot Danny and Tucker looked when they actually tried. Fan edits, slow-motion compilations, even dramatic art pieces started flooding the web. One particularly detailed oil painting of Tucker was titled “The Seduction of Glasses.”

And then, the email came.

Subject: Modeling Opportunity – S.T.Y.L.E. Agency

Danny read the message about five times before he turned to Tucker. “Dude. This is a joke, right?”

Tucker snatched Danny’s phone and skimmed through the email. “Nah, man. This is legit! S.T.Y.L.E. is huge. They rep actual models. Like, real models. Not just two dudes who were goofing off in the hallway.”

Danny groaned, flopping onto his bed. “I’m not a model! I fight ghosts! I do homework—badly! I don’t walk down runways!”

“Correction: You do walk down runways. And apparently, you do it well enough for a major agency to want you.” Tucker grinned, wiggling his eyebrows. “Dude, this is fate. We’re gonna be famous! Plus, imagine the free snacks at photoshoots.”

And somehow, against all logic, they were.

A week later, they found themselves in a sleek, modern studio in downtown Amity Park, being prepped for a test photoshoot. Danny, in a fitted black suit with his messy hair styled just right, was told to give a “mysterious bad boy” look. He tried but mostly ended up looking constipated. Tucker, rocking a high-fashion streetwear ensemble with his signature hat slightly tilted, was encouraged to play up his confident charm—which he interpreted as “finger guns at the camera.”

The camera flashed. They posed. Danny tripped over a light stand. And the moment their pictures hit the agency’s social media, the world really lost it.

Fashion brands wanted them. Magazines asked for interviews. Someone even made a fan calendar. The modeling world had spoken: Tucker Foley and Danny Fenton were the next big thing.

The only problem? Danny’s ghost-hunting schedule didn’t exactly mesh with high-end fashion shoots.

Cue the chaos. And an accidental ghost fight in the middle of a fashion gala.

Then came the second email.

Subject: Exclusive Inquiry – Phantom Partnership

Danny’s stomach dropped as he read the email. S.T.Y.L.E. wasn’t just interested in Danny Fenton. They wanted Danny Phantom too. The ghostly glow, the white hair, the piercing green eyes—apparently, his spectral form had an untapped aesthetic that designers were desperate to capitalize on.

Tucker nearly choked on his soda. “Dude. They want you to model as a ghost. This is next-level ridiculous.”

Danny buried his face in his hands. “I can’t just go ghost in front of cameras! What if someone figures it out?”

“They’re offering bank, bro. Like, stupid money. Enough that you could buy actual good snacks for once.”

Before Danny could protest further, another email pinged. This time from a luxury cologne brand. They wanted to market a new fragrance—Phantom Essence—with Danny Phantom as the face of the campaign. The tagline? Mystery. Power. Otherworldly Allure.

Tucker was in hysterics. “You’re literally becoming the undead equivalent of a fashion icon. What’s next, a ghost-themed runway show?”

Danny groaned. “At this rate? Probably.”

And sure enough, two days later, an invitation arrived for a high-end haunted fashion event—where Danny Phantom was expected to make a dramatic entrance. What could possibly go wrong?

Danny refused to be the only ghost haunting the runway, so he convinced Ember McLain to join him. It took some negotiating—mostly promising she could debut her newest song at the afterparty—but Ember, ever the dramatic performer, finally agreed.

“This better be worth my time, dipstick,” she said, adjusting her flaming blue hair as she examined the wardrobe options. “I don’t do low budget.”

Tucker’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, trust me. This is gonna be legendary.”

And just like that, the fashion world wasn’t ready for the supernatural duo of Phantom and Ember.

The moment their first joint photoshoot dropped, fans went wild. Phantom and Ember weren’t just modeling—they were smoldering. The chemistry between them was undeniable, even to those who had no idea about their history. Hashtags like #GhostlyGlamour, #PhantomAndEmber, and #HauntinglyHot dominated social media.

Tucker, scrolling through the comments, cackled. “Dude, people are shipping you two so hard right now.”

Danny, face burning red, tried to act nonchalant. “It’s just… photos. We were posing.”

Ember, leaning against him in a striking black and blue ensemble, smirked. “Oh please, Phantom. You were totally into it.”

Danny opened his mouth to argue but promptly shut it when she flicked a ghostly spark at his nose. He was not going to give Tucker more material for his teasing.

Meanwhile, Ember was enjoying the attention. “I gotta admit, this is kinda fun. The cameras love me, the fans love me… and you, Phantom? You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

Danny groaned, hiding his face in his hands. This whole modeling thing was getting out of control. But if the growing feelings he was desperately trying to ignore were any indication… maybe it wasn’t all bad.

[diamonddaze01]

Full Throttle (i)

pairing: ferrari driver!yoon jeonghan x journalist!reader chapter wc: 20.6K (dont look at me)genre: humor, fluff, angst, smut (?) au: f1 au (i am sorry i am a nerd abt this) rating: m (MINORS DNI)warnings: SLOOOOOW BURN. mentions of injuries, car crashes // eventual smut.

PREQUELS: would highly recommend reading On the Record and Off the Record to gain some context into the relationship! This fic starts directly after the end of Off the Record 

summary: jeonghan's not used to someone who pushes his buttons as easily as you do, and you're not used to someone who challenges you as quickly as he does. maybe it's time to go full throttle, both on and off the track.

a/n: this one is gonna be long. buckle in. this is dedicated to kae @ylangelegy , who was the one who pushed me to write this in the first place, and also graciously beta read this // this is also dedicated to alta @haologram , who watched me lose my mind over this for so long and gave me so much love and support as i wrote this. // huge thanks to lola @monamipencil and haneul @chanranghaeys for beta-reading and giving me their thoughts, especially about when things were too technical // and finally, an ENORMOUS thank you to jupiter @cheolism for the banner!

read part 2 here! <3

FORMULA 1 ROLEX AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX 2024 Track: Melbourne Grand Prix Circuit 

The Australian Grand Prix had come to an end, but the buzz from the race still lingered in the air. The paddock had started to quiet down, though the echo of cheers and the scent of champagne were still fresh. Jeonghan stood at the edge of the pit lane, watching as the last of the mechanics began to clean up, the high of the win beginning to settle into a low hum of satisfaction.

His fingers absentmindedly brushed over his helmet, the familiar weight grounding him after the chaos of the race. But his mind wasn’t on the mechanics or the trophy waiting for him. No, it was on you.

You had walked away with that smug grin of yours, and even now, hours later, the image of you—cool, collected, and far too clever for your own good—lingered in his thoughts. The way you’d turned the tables on him, effortlessly making him feel like the one caught off guard. For once, it hadn’t been about the race or the rumors swirling around his personal life—it had been about you and the way you knew how to press all his buttons without breaking a sweat.

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath, a grin creeping onto his face despite himself. "I should’ve asked her to dinner."

But there was no time for that now. The press was waiting. The fans, too. He needed to play the role of the cool, collected champion for the cameras, the last thing he needed was another round of gossip, another round of teasing from the people who loved to stir the pot. And yet, the thought of you, the way you’d made him feel a mix of frustration and something else entirely, was almost too tempting to ignore.

The crew cheered as he finally made his way back to the motorhome, the world still swirling in a whirlwind of victory and flashing cameras. But inside, it was quieter. More personal.

"Jeonghan!" His manager greeted him with a smile, the kind of smile that signaled the end of a long race and the beginning of yet another whirlwind of interviews, photos, and meetings. But Jeonghan only half-listened as his manager spoke, his mind flickering back to the conversation earlier.

"You sure know how to keep things interesting, don't you?" His manager chuckled, noticing the distraction in his eyes. "The headlines are still buzzing. You planning on setting the record straight anytime soon?"

Jeonghan chuckled under his breath, running a hand through his messy hair. "Let them talk," he muttered, flashing a grin. "It’s part of the game."

But that wasn’t what was on his mind. It was you. The way you’d baited him, just enough to make him feel the heat of the moment. He had never been this distracted by anyone—or anything—before.

"You have a minute?" a voice interrupted his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. It was his publicist, holding a phone in one hand, the other gesturing toward the press conference set up for him in the next room.

Jeonghan looked at her, then glanced over his shoulder as if expecting to see you again. But you were gone, just like that. He gave a small sigh, almost imperceptible to anyone watching.

"Yeah, yeah. Let’s do this," he muttered, before stepping forward. Jeonghan’s footsteps echoed through the motorhome hallway, the thrum of victory still running through his veins, but his mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t shake the way you’d looked at him—those piercing eyes, full of challenge. He'd seen that expression before, but this time felt different. You weren’t just some reporter stirring up a bit of drama—you were someone who knew exactly how to get under his skin.

His publicist was waiting outside the press room, ready to brief him on the upcoming interviews and meetings. "You’ve got a full schedule, Jeonghan," she said, giving him the rundown with practiced precision. But Jeonghan barely heard her, his mind still distracted by the way you’d turned the tables.

"Hey," he cut in, slowing to a stop in front of her. "What do you know about Y/N?" he asked, his tone casual but with an edge of curiosity that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

The publicist blinked in surprise, and beside her, his manager gave a short laugh. "Y/N? You mean the reporter?" the manager asked, voice dripping with amusement. "The one you’ve had run-ins with over the past couple of seasons?"

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two of them. "Run-ins?" he repeated, his lips curling into a small, knowing smirk. "What exactly are you implying?"

The publicist shrugged, exchanging a look with the manager. "She’s been covering F1 for a while, pretty sharp with her articles," she said, keeping her voice neutral. "Some of them have definitely gotten attention, especially that one a few weeks ago... the one about you and the whole ‘mysterious love life’ thing." Her eyes flicked to his manager, who made a face at the mention of that piece.

Jeonghan sighed, running a hand through his hair. He’d tried to forget about that article, but your earlier conversation (read as: challenge) had baffled him. "I shouldn’t have said anything," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "But you know she always gets a rise out of me, don’t you?"

The manager snickered. "Oh, we know. It’s not every day we get to watch you struggle to keep your cool. She’s got a way with words, that one." He winked. "But hey, I get it. She’s a great reporter—sharp, clever—and always knows where to find the juiciest stories. You just might want to be a little more careful with what you say around her next time."

Jeonghan smirked. "Careful? Since when have I ever been careful?"

His publicist gave a pointed look, clearly not impressed. "That’s not the problem, Jeonghan. It’s that you tend to forget she knows exactly what buttons to push."

Jeonghan chuckled, his eyes glinting with a new energy. "Oh, she’s good, I’ll give her that. But I’m not so easily rattled." His mind wandered back to the way you’d smirked and walked off, leaving him standing there feeling like he'd just been served a dish of his own medicine.

"Don’t underestimate her," the manager added, half-joking. "You’ve been in this game long enough to know, no one gets a rise out of you like that without knowing exactly what they’re doing."

Jeonghan hummed thoughtfully. "I suppose you’re right. But maybe..." He trailed off, eyes narrowing as a plan started to form in his mind. "...Maybe it’s time I gave her a taste of her own medicine."

The publicist and manager exchanged a glance but didn’t say anything. They knew that look—the one Jeonghan got whenever he was plotting something, usually with a dash of mischief and just the right amount of charm to make it impossible for anyone to say no. The same charm that had gotten him into trouble more times than they cared to count.

"You’ve got your interviews now, Jeonghan," his publicist reminded him gently, pulling him back to reality. "We can revisit this later. Just keep your head in the game for now."

He nodded, though his mind was still fixated on you. "Yeah, yeah. Later."

As he entered the press room, he was immediately hit with a barrage of questions. The usual ones about his win, his performance, and his plans for the rest of the season. But even as he answered, his thoughts lingered on you and that damn article. You were always one step ahead, always stirring the pot just enough to keep things interesting. But now, it seemed you had caught his attention for real.

And maybe—just maybe—he was going to have some fun with this.

FORMULA 1 MSC CRUISES JAPANESE GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Suzuka Ciruit

The neon lights of Tokyo cast a kaleidoscope of colors on the bustling streets, the city alive with energy even late into the night. After a long day of prepping for the upcoming race, you’d decided to wind down with a quiet drink in a tucked-away bar that promised a moment’s reprieve from the chaos of the paddock.

The bar was small and intimate, the kind of place that felt like a secret only locals knew about. Jazz music hummed softly in the background, and you found a seat near the corner, ready to savor your drink in peace.

But of course, peace wasn’t in the cards tonight.

“Y/N?”

The familiar voice made you freeze mid-sip. Turning your head, you found none other than Yoon Jeonghan standing a few feet away, his face lit with mild surprise and unmistakable amusement. He wasn’t in his Ferrari team gear for once—just a sleek black jacket and jeans, looking effortlessly casual in a way that somehow made him even more irritatingly attractive.

“Jeonghan,” you replied evenly, setting your drink down. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged, sliding onto the stool beside you without an invitation. “Same as you, I’d imagine. Taking a break from the madness.” His eyes flicked to your glass. “Whiskey? I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type.”

“And what type is that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He leaned back slightly, his lips quirking into that trademark smirk. “The type who drinks whiskey alone in a bar and pretends they’re not thinking about work.”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, you’re wrong. I’m not thinking about work. I’m thinking about how nice it is to not deal with questions about lap times and tire strategies for five minutes.”

Jeonghan chuckled, signaling to the bartender for a drink. “Fair enough. Though, if memory serves, you’re usually the one asking those questions.”

“Occupational hazard,” you shot back. “And if memory serves, you’re usually the one avoiding them.”

“Touché.” He raised his glass when it arrived, a silent toast that you reluctantly mirrored with your own.

For a while, the conversation meandered through safer topics—Tokyo’s sights, the food, the insanity of race week—but there was an undercurrent of something sharper, a game of verbal ping-pong that neither of you seemed willing to let go of.

“You know,” Jeonghan said after a particularly clever jab from you about his less-than-stellar start in Australia, “I think I’ve finally figured you out.”

“Oh?” you asked, amusement dancing in your tone. “Do tell.”

“You act all cool and collected, but deep down…” He paused for dramatic effect, leaning in slightly. “…you love the chaos. You thrive on it.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, though a grin tugged at your lips. “And what about you, Mr. Reigning Champion? Aren’t you the one who said chaos is just part of the game?”

“True,” he admitted with a lazy shrug. “But I like to think I’m more strategic about it.”

“Strategic?” you echoed, incredulous. “You literally said ‘let them talk’ after crossing the finish line in Australia. That’s not strategy, Jeonghan—that’s reckless arrogance.”

He laughed, the sound low and warm, and you hated how it made your chest tighten just a little. “Maybe. But it keeps things interesting, doesn’t it?”

You didn’t respond, sipping your drink instead, determined not to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

Jeonghan tilted his head, his gaze flicking over you with a knowing glint. “This feels familiar.”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning indifference. “What does?”

“Let’s just say you have a knack for leaving me with something to think about,” he said casually, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass.

A flicker of amusement crossed your face. “Still losing sleep over it, Jeonghan?”

He leaned in, his voice dropping low, laced with mischief. “Not quite. But I’ve been wondering if you’re all talk or if you actually mean half the things you say.”

You smirked, leaning back just a little. “And what are you planning to do about it?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Guess you’ll have to find out next time,” he said smoothly, signaling to the bartender and slipping his card onto the counter.

You frowned, catching on quickly. “Jeonghan, you don’t have to—”

“Of course I don’t,” he replied, his smirk growing as he leaned in just enough for his voice to drop, intimate and teasing. “But what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t treat you every now and then?”

“A terrible one,” you deadpanned, crossing your arms.

He chuckled, standing up and adjusting his jacket. “Always so quick with the comebacks.”

You tilted your head, not backing down. “And yet, here you are, still trying to keep up.”

He grinned, leaning down so his face was level with yours. “Oh, I’m not just keeping up, sweetheart. I’m leading.”

With that, he threw on his jacket, turning to leave, but not without one last playful remark. “Enjoy your night, Y/N. And next time…” He flashed a grin over his shoulder, his voice dipping lower. “Try putting that mouth of yours to better use.”

Your mouth dropped open, and you could hear his laugh as you watched him disappear into the neon-lit streets. 

Damn him.

The Suzuka Circuit’s air was heavy with anticipation, the disappointment in Ferrari’s garage palpable. Jeonghan leaned against the barrier in the media pen, his crimson Ferrari suit contrasting with the growing dusk. Despite his relaxed posture, the tension radiating off him was hard to miss.

"Yoon Jeonghan," you began, stepping forward with your mic. "P11 today—your first time not making it to Q3 since your rookie season. What happened out there?"

His smile was thin, masking the fire simmering beneath. "Suzuka’s a tough circuit. I put in a solid lap, but in the end, it just wasn’t enough. A couple milliseconds make all the difference."

"Kim Mingyu of McLaren knocked you out in the dying seconds of the session," you pointed out, your tone as neutral as possible.

"Yeah, Mingyu had a great lap," he said, though his smirk betrayed a hint of frustration. "Kudos to him for that. It’s the nature of the game—sometimes you’re the one knocking others out, and sometimes you’re the one being knocked out."

You tilted your head, pressing just a little. "Ferrari’s upgrades were supposed to shine here at Suzuka. Do you think the car—or the driver—fell short today?"

His eyes met yours, sharp and knowing. "Is that your way of asking if I’m losing my edge?"

You smiled faintly. "Just doing my job, Jeonghan."

"And doing it well," he replied smoothly. "I’ll make sure to give you something better to write about tomorrow."

Yoon Jeonghan’s Q2 Knockout: A Sign of Ferrari’s Struggles or a Driver Underperforming?

Your analysis was live before the sun set over Suzuka, dissecting Jeonghan’s performance lap by lap:

"While Ferrari’s SF-24 showed promise in Q1, Jeonghan’s Q2 lap exposed cracks in execution. Hesitant braking into Spoon Corner cost him vital time, and a wide exit through Degner 2 raised questions about his confidence under high pressure. Kim Mingyu’s decisive lap in the McLaren only highlighted the contrast, leaving Ferrari fans wondering if Jeonghan can rebound from this rare stumble."

It didn’t take long for the article to ripple through the paddock—and reach its subject. The article was sharp, critical, with the same bite that you had become a household name for. And Jeonghan read every word.

He must have been an idiot to assume you would be kinder after the way he’d left you gobsmacked a few nights prior at the bar. 

You had just wrapped up your interview with Mingyu, the day’s pole sitter, when Jeonghan found you.

"Got a minute?" he asked, voice deceptively light.

You glanced up, startled to find him so close, still in his Ferrari suit, his hair slightly damp from the cool-down lap.

"Something on your mind?" you replied, keeping your tone professional.

He didn’t bother with pleasantries. "That article."

You raised an eyebrow. "Specificity helps, you know."

He chuckled darkly. "The one where you ripped apart my Q2 performance like you’re a technical director." He took a step closer, and for the first time, the calm façade cracked - his smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Hesitant braking? Lack of confidence under pressure? You really think I’m losing my touch?"

"I think Suzuka demands perfection," you replied evenly. "And today, perfection wasn’t what we saw."

He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. "You love this, don’t you? Watching me stumble so you can tear me apart in print."

"Jeonghan," you said, straightening, "if you want me to write glowing reviews, give me something to work with."

"You should’ve mentioned how close I was to Mingyu’s time," he shot back.

"Close isn’t enough," you countered, coolly. "Not in this sport."

His eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Careful, sweetheart. Don’t let them think you’re this obsessed with me."

"Careful, Jeonghan," you shot back mockingly. "Sienna Hartley might not like hearing you get so worked up over me."

His hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could walk away. "Here’s an exclusive for you," he said, his voice sharp. "Me and Sienna? Not together."

You blinked, thrown off for just a moment before you schooled your expression. "Good to know. Now let go."

He released you immediately but lingered just long enough to murmur, "Don’t think this is over."

The Suzuka chaos worked in Jeonghan’s favor. 

When the lights went out, Jeonghan’s start was perfect—clean, aggressive, calculated. By the first corner, he had already gained two places, capitalizing on a sluggish Alpine and threading the needle between a Williams and an AlphaTauri. 

The midfield battle was fierce. Suzuka’s notorious esses demanded precision, and Jeonghan attacked them with surgical efficiency, his Ferrari responding like an extension of his own instincts. He overtook the Aston Martin of Lee Seokmin into Turn 11 with a move so bold the crowd audibly gasped. 

Each pass felt like a small victory, but it wasn’t enough. The podium still felt miles away. His fingers tightened on the wheel as he navigated the sweeping Spoon Curve, catching a glimpse of the orange McLaren far ahead—Mingyu.

The memory of your post-quali interview slipped into his mind. Close isn’t enough. Not in this sport.

He exhaled sharply, forcing the thought away. Now wasn’t the time. Jeonghan approached Degner 2, the car planted firmly under him. He could feel the wear on his tires but knew he still had grip to spare. He glanced briefly at the digital display on his steering wheel, calculating the gap to the car ahead—P5, the Red Bull of Choi Seungcheol.

As he accelerated toward the Hairpin, your voice echoed in his head again. Hesitant braking. Confidence issues.

His jaw clenched. It wasn’t anger—it was something more complicated. Why did you always manage to get under his skin? He should’ve been focusing on tire wear, fuel management, or his next target, but instead, his mind betrayed him.

He thought of the way you’d smirked during the interview, how your tone had been sharp, almost daring. The way you’d walked away, leaving him with more to say.

Focus. He snapped himself back, braking perfectly into the Hairpin. The slip of attention hadn’t cost him, but it had been close. Too close.

A well-timed pit stop under a virtual safety car catapulted him to P4. He rejoined the track with fresh mediums, slicing through the field with an aggression that stunned even his team.

By Lap 40, he was staring down the rear wing of Kwon Soonyoung—his own teammate. The team’s radio lit up, the pit wall hesitating.

“Jeonghan, Soonyoung ahead on a different strategy. Keep it clean.”

He didn’t wait for a direct order. Into 130R, the fastest corner on the track, he swung to the outside. His car shuddered with the force of the maneuver, but he held his line, leaving Soonyoung no choice but to yield.

“P3, Jeonghan. You’re on the podium now. Great move.”

With only two laps to go, he was in P2, chasing Mingyu, who had a comfortable lead. Jeonghan knew catching him was impossible, but that wasn’t the point anymore. This was about proving something—to his team, the fans, and maybe even to you.

The Ferrari hummed beneath him, a symphony of power and precision. Every turn, every braking zone, every shift felt like redemption. When he crossed the line in P2, the roar of the crowd was deafening, but all he could hear was his own heartbeat.

The media room was packed, buzzing with questions for the podium finishers. You started with Mingyu, still glowing from his dominant victory.

“Kim Mingyu,” you began, “another win for McLaren. How does it feel to catch up to Jeonghan in the driver’s championship?”

Mingyu smiled, leaning into the mic. “It feels incredible. The car was perfect today, and the team did an amazing job. Credit to everyone back at the factory.”

Before you could move on to the next question, Jeonghan interjected from his spot.

“Must feel nice to start up front and stay there,” he quipped, his tone light but pointed.

Mingyu grinned, unfazed. “You would know, Jeonghan. But you kept me looking over my shoulder the whole time.”

The room chuckled, and you shot Jeonghan a warning glance, which he ignored entirely.

Later, when a question was directed at Jeonghan about his race recovery, his response was pointed. "Oh, you know. I’m pretty good at managing tire degradation. And I had a lot of people doubting me on this track specifically, so I had to prove them wrong too."

His gaze locked on yours as he delivered the last line, and the meaning wasn’t lost on you—or anyone else in the room.

Jeonghan barely made it three steps out of the press conference room before Soonyoung intercepted him, leaning casually against a stack of Pirelli tires like he had all the time in the world. The amusement on his face set Jeonghan’s internal alarms blaring.

“What the hell was that about?” Soonyoung asked, arms crossed in mock authority.

Jeonghan blinked, expertly schooling his expression into one of pure confusion. “What was what about?” he replied, his tone dripping with innocence.

“Oh, don’t even try to play dumb with me, Jeonghan. I know you too well.” Soonyoung’s grin widened as he stepped closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “You were doing something during that press conference. I’ve never seen you look that smug unless you’re—”

“I was answering questions,” Jeonghan interrupted smoothly, plucking a water bottle from the cooler without breaking his stride. He unscrewed the cap with deliberate calm, taking a slow sip. “That’s what press conferences are for, in case you forgot.”

Soonyoung squinted at him, unconvinced. “Right. And here I thought press conferences were for you to pretend you’re unbothered while delivering backhanded digs at Kim Mingyu.”

Jeonghan barely managed to keep a straight face, though he felt the tiniest flicker of pride. He had been particularly good with his barbs today. Still, there was no way he was admitting that. “Don’t project, Soonyoung,” he drawled. “Not everyone uses media day as therapy.”

Before Soonyoung could retort, a new voice joined the conversation.

“I know what it was,” said Kim Sunwoo, strolling up with the unshakable confidence of someone who didn’t yet understand how much trouble he was about to cause. The young mechanic had a smirk plastered on his face, the kind that made Jeonghan instinctively want to flee.

“You know what?” Jeonghan asked warily, his eyes narrowing.

“That look you had during the Q&A,” Sunwoo continued, leaning casually against a tool chest. “You were staring at her, man. Like, full-on laser focus. It’s like you were trying to send her a message.”

Jeonghan’s grip on the water bottle tightened. He felt his ears heat up but refused to let it show. “I was answering her question,” he said evenly. “It’s called eye contact. You should try it sometime—people like that sort of thing.”

But Sunwoo wasn’t done. “And don’t think we didn’t notice you getting all flustered when Mingyu’s name came up,” he added, his smirk widening.

“Flustered?” Jeonghan repeated, letting out a short, incredulous laugh. “Right. That’s definitely the word I’d use to describe me.”

“Come on, dude.” Sunwoo shrugged, undeterred. “Admit it. You’ve got a crush.”

The words hit like a sucker punch. Jeonghan froze mid-sip, choking slightly as the water went down the wrong way. He coughed, spluttering as Sunwoo and Soonyoung erupted into laughter.

“Alright,” Jeonghan said sharply once he’d recovered, pointing a finger at Sunwoo. “You’ve been spending too much time on TikTok. Get back to work before I have you polishing rims for the rest of the season.”

But Sunwoo only grinned wider, completely unbothered. “Jeonghan’s in loooove,” he teased, drawing out the word in a sing-song voice.

“I said that’s enough,” Jeonghan snapped, the slight pink tinge creeping up his neck completely betraying his forced composure. “Shouldn’t you be tuning an engine or something useful?”

Soonyoung, meanwhile, was doubled over laughing, clearly enjoying himself far too much. When he finally straightened, he clapped Jeonghan on the back. “Hey, don’t worry about it, man. If you need advice, just let me know. I’m great with women.”

Jeonghan groaned, brushing him off. “The day I take advice from you, Soonyoung, is the day I retire. He shoved past them toward his motorhome, muttering under his breath. “Insufferable. Both of you.”

But even as he slammed the door behind him, Jeonghan couldn’t stop the echo of Sunwoo’s words from rattling around in his head. 

You’ve got a crush.

He scoffed aloud, shaking his head. “Ridiculous,” he muttered, tossing the water bottle onto the couch. But as he sank down beside it, arms crossed and jaw tight, he couldn’t quite stop himself from wondering.

Jeonghan didn’t want to be here.

The club pulsed with energy, a humid swirl of bodies pressing too close, the bass reverberating in his chest like a persistent headache. Strobe lights sliced through the haze, and the air smelled faintly of spilled drinks and cheap cologne. Somewhere in the chaos, Soonyoung had disappeared, leaving Jeonghan to fend for himself.

He’d been ready to make his exit the moment they walked in, but Soonyoung had insisted. “You need to loosen up, Jeonghan. Let the adrenaline from the race wear off. Have a drink, maybe dance.”Jeonghan had scoffed at the idea, knowing full well that his reason for not wanting to stay wasn’t exhaustion.

No, it was you.

Even when you weren’t in the room, you lingered in his mind like the ghost of a song he couldn’t stop humming. The podium had been a nice distraction. But now, surrounded by the chatter of strangers and the clinking of glasses, his thoughts drifted back to the press conference and the pointed, teasing look you’d given him when he spoke.

And then there was Mingyu—always Mingyu—whose name you’d said with just a little too much warmth. Jeonghan had pretended not to notice, but it had been impossible to ignore.

Shaking his head, Jeonghan pushed through the crowd, determined to leave. He had almost made it to the exit when someone collided into him, hard enough to send him stumbling forward.

“Whoa—watch it!” a voice slurred, sharp with irritation but unmistakably familiar.

He turned, already scowling, but the expression froze on his face when he saw you.

“Jeonghan?” you said, blinking up at him, your voice teetering between surprise and amusement. Your cheeks were flushed, lips curling into a slow smile as you adjusted your grip on the drink in your hand.

“You?” he blurted, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second.

“What are you—?” you started, only to trail off as a giggle bubbled out of you. Shaking your head like you were trying to clear it, you added, “Wow. Small world, huh?”

“I guess so,” Jeonghan said, his tone carefully even, though his gaze lingered on the way the dim light caught the sheen of your hair, the curve of your smile. His eyes dropped to your drink, then back to your face. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” you said, far too quickly, before adding with a sheepish laugh, “Okay, maybe. Just a little.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, threatening to curve into a smile. “Sure looks like it.”

You waved him off with a dramatic flourish, nearly spilling your drink in the process. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be... I don’t know, brooding on a podium somewhere?”

He tilted his head, pretending to be affronted. “I don’t brood. And besides, this is a celebration.”

“Oh, right,” you said, stepping closer. Your gaze softened, and your voice dropped just enough to make the words feel like they were meant for him alone. “The big comeback.”

“Lots of doubters, huh?” you added, the slight slur in your voice doing nothing to dull the edge of your words.

Jeonghan blinked, caught off guard, before a chuckle escaped him. “Well, your article did the talking for you.”

For a moment, you just stared at him, your eyes a little too bright, your smile a little too slow. “What a way to get my attention, pretty boy.”

His breath caught, his carefully built façade cracking for just a second. “You think I’m pretty?”

Your lips parted, but before you could answer, a hand landed firmly on your shoulder.

“There you are!”

Jeonghan looked up to see one of your friends glaring at him as they steadied you. “I leave you alone for five minutes, and you’re... what? Flirting with Yoon Jeonghan now?”

“Not flirting,” you protested weakly, though your lopsided smile said otherwise.

Your friend wasn’t convinced, nor were they interested in his response. They tugged you into the crowd with an apologetic glance over their shoulder. “Sorry about her—she’s had a night.”

Jeonghan stayed rooted in place, his gaze following your retreating figure. His lips curved into a faint smile as your words replayed in his mind.

“What a way to get my attention,” he murmured to himself, shaking his head.

And yet, as he stood there, the thought struck him that maybe you’d already gotten his.

FORMULA 1 GRAND PRIX DE MONACO 2024Track: Circuit de Monaco

The paddock at Monaco was alive with its usual glitz and glamour, the unmistakable hum of anticipation hanging thick in the air. Cameras flashed, team personnel buzzed around, and the harbor glistened under the sun. Monaco, the crown jewel of the F1 calendar, had a way of amplifying everything—victories felt sweeter, defeats more crushing, and the stakes impossibly higher.

Jeonghan, fresh off securing pole position, had his usual air of nonchalance, but the glow of triumph was undeniable. The fans chanted his name; the cameras adored him. Yet as he stepped off the podium erected for the post-qualifying festivities, his sharp eyes caught sight of something—someone—that brought him up short.

You.

You were standing just beyond the throng of journalists, your press badge gleaming under the midday sun. It had been weeks since he’d last seen you, weeks since your sharp quips and piercing questions had filled the air between you like sparks on dry wood.

Those weeks had been… odd, to say the least. You’d been reassigned to cover Formula E, a shift Jeonghan had learned about only after noticing your absence at the paddock in China. He had played it cool, pretending it didn’t matter, but he had found himself seeking out your byline anyway—reading articles that had nothing to do with him or F1, just to feel the rhythm of your words.

Even the searing critiques you usually aimed at him had been sorely missed. It was maddening, really, how much quieter the world had felt without your fire.

Now, here you were again, back in the fray of Formula 1, as though no time had passed. Jeonghan’s expression remained casual, but his stride toward you was deliberate, cutting through the chaos of the paddock.

When he stopped in front of you, his smirk was already in place, a shield against the strange, unwelcome flutter of relief in his chest. “Where’ve you been?” he asked, tilting his head with practiced ease.

You looked up from your notebook, arching a brow at him. “Missed me, Jeonghan?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

The word landed between you like a drop of rain on hot asphalt, its simplicity taking you aback. Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard, and Jeonghan couldn’t help but notice how the sharpness in your gaze softened for a fraction of a second.

But then, as quickly as the moment arrived, he leaned in, his smirk deepening. “Someone had to keep the paddock interesting.”

You rolled your eyes, recovering your composure. “I see the Monaco air hasn’t done anything for your humility.”

“And I see Formula E hasn’t dulled your wit,” he shot back, stepping closer so the noise of the paddock faded slightly.

You shook your head, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “You’ve done not too bad these past few races, huh?”

The comment was offhand, tossed in almost as a formality, but it hit Jeonghan harder than he expected. Compliments—genuine ones—were rare from you, and they stirred something unexpected in him.

Jeonghan blinked, the smirk faltering for just a second before he quickly replaced it with mock arrogance. “Not too bad?” he echoed, feigning offense. “I dominated in China, held my ground in Miami, and destroyed Emilia Romagna. Give me some credit here.”

For all his ego, Jeonghan knew he wasn’t wrong. He’d won China by a jaw-dropping 22.3-second margin, Mingyu so far behind that Jeonghan had time to deliver an entire thank-you speech over the radio before the McLaren driver even crossed the checkered flag. In Miami, even a grueling five-second stop-go penalty hadn’t stopped him; he finished P2 (behind Kim Mingyu, annoyingly) and picked up the extra point for the fastest lap, earning him Driver of the Day. And in Emilia Romagna, he was the clear favorite from the moment the race weekend began. The Tifosi were relentless, their cheers in the grandstands so deafening that Jeonghan could barely hear his engineer’s voice over the radio.

When he crossed the finish line first, the sea of red under the podium roared with such thunderous applause that his ears rang for hours afterward. In just three races, Jeonghan had cemented himself as the best contender for the 2024 World Champion.

And yet, somehow, it wasn’t as sweet without you there to write about it.

“Alright,” you said, meeting his gaze head-on. “You’ve been exceptional.”

The word struck like a sucker punch. For once, Jeonghan didn’t have a clever retort. 

"Congrats on pole, Jeonghan," you said, your voice cool but sincere, offering him a small smile. It made his heart skip a beat.

Jeonghan’s lips twitched, amusement flickering in his eyes. "You called me exceptional."

You glanced up at him, closing your notebook with a flick of your wrist. The corner of your mouth quirked into a smirk. "Yes. Now, thoughts on pole?"

He's silent for so long that you politely clear your throat, hoping to cut through the sudden stillness. "Maybe this should be my headline for the day, Jeonghan. Monaco's Maze Leaves Golden Boy Spinning Out."

It's like someone doused him with ice water. His easy, sun-soaked posture stiffens, and the small smirk he'd been wearing evaporates.

You're still a journalist. He forgets that sometimes.

"Why do you do that?" he mutters, voice edged with something unfamiliar—disappointment, maybe.

You blink, caught off guard by the abrupt change in tone. “Do what?”

“That.” He gestures vaguely between you and the notebook tucked in your hand. The lenses of his sunglasses catch the sunlight, but there’s no mistaking the intensity behind them. His gaze pierces, searching for something in your expression. “Bringing the shitty headlines into every conversation."

You arch a brow, tucking the notebook closer to your chest as if shielding it from his line of sight. “Shitty? You mean accurate, Jeonghan.”

His jaw tightens, a subtle movement, but enough to draw your attention. There’s a faint crease forming between his brows now, and you realize it’s not your usual back-and-forth banter. “You know what I mean,” he mutters, voice low and barely audible over the hum of the paddock—the distant rumble of engines, the echo of voices, the clinking of tools in nearby garages.

For a moment, you’re at a loss. Jeonghan doesn’t let things like this bother him—or, at least, he’s always been good at pretending they don’t. His whole brand is carefree charm, a perpetual smirk, and the confidence of someone who knows he’ll always be the center of attention. This feels different.

“You’re upset about a headline?” you ask, genuinely curious now.

“It’s not about the headline.” His tone sharpens, but he stops himself, jaw clenching like he’s swallowing something bitter. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, his fingers brushing over the brim of his cap. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, tinged with something almost vulnerable. “It’s about how you never let up, even when it’s me.”

The admission lands heavily between you, unexpected and disarming.

You shift uncomfortably under the weight of his words, the way they seem to strip away the professional distance you’ve been clinging to. “Why should I?” you counter, keeping your voice steady despite the flicker of doubt creeping in. “You’re just another driver, Jeonghan.”

His laugh is short and humorless, cutting through the charged air between you. “Right. Just another driver.”

There’s something about the way he says it—low, almost resigned—that catches you off guard. The bitterness in his tone isn’t theatrical; it’s real, raw, and so at odds with the image he projects to the world.

You glance at him, searching for the Jeonghan you’re used to—the one who shrugs off criticism with a knowing grin, who always has a teasing retort ready. But for once, he’s not hiding behind a smirk or a cocky quip. He looks tired, the weight of his words pulling at the edges of his carefully maintained charm.

“Jeonghan,” you begin, unsure of what you’re even trying to say.

But he shakes his head, cutting you off before you can find the right words. “Forget it.”

He takes a step back, and it feels like a gulf opening between you. The mask of indifference slips back into place with practiced ease, but you’ve already seen the cracks. “You’ve got your job to do,” he says, his tone clipped and distant. “Make sure you spell my name right in that next ‘shitty headline.’”

You hate the way your chest tightens at his words, hate the instinctive urge to reach out and stop him as he turns to walk away, his figure retreating into the chaotic swirl of the paddock.

But you don’t.

Instead, you grip your notebook tighter, the edges digging into your palm as if the physical discomfort might drown out the ache building in your chest. The buzz of your phone in your pocket snaps you out of the moment. Grateful for the distraction, you pull it out to see a text from your editor: Post-qualifying article. Deadline: 6 PM.

Just another driver.

The words echo hollowly in your mind, unconvincing and painfully untrue.

Because the truth is, Jeonghan has never been just anything to you.

And that’s exactly why this is so damn complicated.

Jeonghan spends the night refreshing his Twitter feed. 

He’s not sure what he’s waiting for, honestly. 

Maybe it’s the rush of validation that comes from a clever reply, or the sting of criticism that reminds him he’s still human under the helmet. Or maybe it’s something else entirely—something he doesn’t want to name. The applause of the crowd is long gone, and the adrenaline from securing pole position hours earlier has settled into a restless hum. His phone feels heavier in his hand as he scrolls, tapping at random links and skimming comments that veer between praise and criticism.

The article finally pops up, your name bold and unmistakable at the top. His stomach tightens, a sensation he’ll never admit to anyone, least of all you. 

He clicks it immediately. 

The headline strikes first: 

Kim Mingyu’s Risky Qualifying Lap Keeps Rivals on Edge

For a moment, he freezes, his eyes scanning the words again to make sure he didn’t misread.

Mingyu?

Confusion knots his brow as he scrolls down. The opening paragraph is a glowing analysis of Mingyu’s audacious lap—a near miss in the second sector, a masterful recovery in the final corners. The kind of detailed, evocative writing that Jeonghan knows you reserve for stories you care about.

Then, buried halfway through, he finds his name:

“Jeonghan, true to form, delivered a flawless lap to secure pole position. His consistency and precision were unmatched, placing him at the front of the grid for tomorrow’s race.”

That’s it.

No breakdown of his sector times, no mention of the deft control it took to navigate the tight Monaco corners under immense pressure. Just a single, clinical acknowledgment, overshadowed by Mingyu’s second-place drama.

Jeonghan stares at the screen, his thumb hovering over the refresh button. He doesn’t know what he was expecting—a parade in words? A headline with his name front and center?

It’s ridiculous, he tells himself. Pole position speaks for itself. It doesn’t need a poetic article to back it up.

But that doesn’t stop the irritation bubbling under his skin.

He tosses his phone onto the bed with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. His hotel room feels quieter than it should, the distant hum of the city barely seeping through the windows.

He can’t shake the feeling that you’re making a point. That this is your way of reminding him that while he might be the golden boy on the track, he doesn’t get special treatment in your world.

Not in your writing. Not from you.

It’s infuriating.

And yet, a part of him—one he’s unwilling to examine too closely—wants to know why you didn’t write more about him. Wants to know what he’d have to do to make you look at him the way you clearly look at Mingyu.

Not just another driver.

But the one worth writing about.

The morning of the Monaco Grand Prix dawned with the soft hum of engines filling the paddock and the gleaming streets of Monte Carlo radiating under a cloudless sky. Jeonghan arrived early, his customary calm masking the roiling anticipation beneath. Pole position was his—secured with a lap so clinical it had left his rivals chasing shadows. Yet, the sharp sting of your article still lingered, buried beneath layers of pride and annoyance.

By mid-morning, the paddock buzzed with tension. The Monaco circuit—narrow, unforgiving, and relentlessly demanding—left no room for error. Victory here wasn’t just about speed; it was about precision, strategy, and an unwavering mental edge. Jeonghan knew that all too well.

As he suited up, the familiar ritual steadied his thoughts. Helmet, gloves, fireproofs—each piece transformed him into the driver everyone expected him to be. His engineer’s voice crackled over the comms. “Focus on the start, Jeonghan. Turn One is everything.”

He gave a curt nod, stepping into the car. The roar of the crowd was muffled as the cockpit enveloped him. Lights on the dashboard blinked in sequence, a visual metronome syncing with his heartbeat.

The engine roars to life beneath Jeonghan as he settles into the cockpit, the familiar hum of the Monaco Grand Prix vibrating through the seat, up his spine, and into his very bones. His focus sharpens like a blade, the heat of the sun seeping through his visor, but he’s not thinking about the sweat trickling down his neck or the weight of the helmet that obscures his field of vision. He’s thinking of the laps he’s put in, of the sacrifice, the years of work that led him here, to this very moment, pole position in Monaco.

He has no illusions about the challenge ahead. This track has always favored the one at the front, especially when that one is someone as methodical and precise as Jeonghan. It’s not often that the pole sitter falters here. But that’s not what has his stomach in knots. It’s not the track or the other drivers. It’s you. The thought of your words, your perspective, your gaze.

What if this win isn’t enough? What if I’m still just another driver to you?

His grip tightens on the steering wheel, and for a moment, he considers the possibility of failing, of cruising through the race without the sharp, passionate energy that has always pushed him. What if he doesn’t even get the headline he’s chasing? What if all this effort amounts to nothing more than another expected victory, no deeper praise, no recognition?

He blinks, pushing the thought away. He can’t afford distractions. He’s here to win—nothing else matters.

The lights blink, one by one, before finally turning off, and he’s off, the car surging forward into the narrow streets of Monaco, engines screaming in unison. His concentration narrows, the noise of the crowd fading into the background. The first few laps are a blur of tactical moves, maintaining the lead, setting the pace. Behind him, Mingyu is close—too close—but Jeonghan has enough room, enough air to breathe.

The laps tick by, the gaps between drivers stretching and shrinking like the ebb and flow of a tide. In Monaco, you can’t make mistakes. The barriers are close enough to bite, and one slip-up could send everything into chaos. Jeonghan doesn’t think of that, though. He doesn’t think of the press, of his reputation, of the words hanging in the back of his mind.

What he thinks about is the win. The pure, simple joy of crossing that finish line first. He wants to feel the weight of the moment, of the accomplishment, and more than anything, he wants to look up and see you there—see that your words reflect the magnitude of this victory.

He holds the lead through the race, but it’s a quiet victory, one he can feel in his bones but doesn’t fully experience. The lap times are consistent, but nothing spectacular happens. No drama, no surprise overtake, no breathtaking maneuver.

It’s a clean, controlled victory—exactly what everyone expects from the driver in pole position.

By the time the checkered flag waves, Jeonghan crosses the line in first. The crowd erupts in cheers, but Jeonghan doesn’t feel the same rush of emotion. The thrill is absent, replaced instead by a deep, gnawing sense of doubt.

The win is his, but it feels like it’s already slipping away from his grasp.

In the post-race briefing, he sits with his team, nodding as they discuss tire strategies, pit stops, and the things that went right. But his eyes keep drifting to the back of the room, to where you stand, clipboard in hand, scribbling notes with focused intent. Every time he tries to catch your gaze, to make eye contact, you look away, as if determined to keep your distance.

It stings more than it should.

Jeonghan leans back in his seat, the weight of his helmet resting against his neck, the pressure of your indifference pressing down on him. He wants to reach out, wants to tell you that this win—this clean, controlled, expected win—deserves something more. But he stays silent, twisting the words in his mind, unable to voice the insecurity that’s suddenly consuming him.

The press conference follows the briefing, a whirlwind of questions, cameras, and flashing lights. The room is full of journalists, all clamoring for soundbites, all eager to discuss the expected result—Jeonghan, pole position, and now, victory. But Jeonghan doesn’t care about the usual congratulatory remarks. He’s waiting for something more. Something real.

When the article finally drops, hours later, he barely waits before pulling it up on his phone. He knows what it’s going to say, but still, the disappointment claws at his chest as he reads the headline.

Jeonghan Dominates Monaco: Pole Position Translates to Victory

His stomach twists, and he exhales sharply, trying to ignore the hollow feeling that spreads through him. It’s everything he expected—a result that leaves no room for admiration, no room for praise. Just the simple, obvious statement that he did what everyone expected him to do. The race was clean, flawless even, but there’s no depth to the words, no recognition of what it takes to win here, at Monaco, the most challenging track in the world.

The thought gnaws at him.

It’s not enough.

The press conference continues, the cameras flashing, but Jeonghan’s mind is far from the words he’s being asked to repeat. He’s not thinking about the team’s success, about the strategies that worked, or even about the crowd's cheers. His eyes find you across the room once again, but this time, you don't look away. Your gaze is fixed on something—anything—but not on him.

He can’t help but wonder if it’s because you don’t see him as more than just another driver. Just another one of the usual suspects who gets a win when it’s expected. He’s fighting for something more—something beyond the surface. But for now, it seems like that’s something he’ll never get from you.

He’s won Monaco. But in that moment, the victory feels like the hollowest thing in the world.

FORMULA 1 AWS GRAND PRIX DU CANADA 2024Track: Circuit Gilles Villeneuve

The Canadian Grand Prix feels like a blur. The rain starts as a light drizzle, but by the time the race begins, it’s pouring, transforming the circuit into a slippery mess. The slick track glistens under the flood of water, making the circuit treacherous, a spinning wheel of danger. The air is thick with the scent of wet asphalt, and there’s an ominous tension in the paddock, a murmur that hangs in the atmosphere as if everyone knows something bad is about to happen. 

You catch sight of Jeonghan on the grid. He’s staring straight ahead, hands clasped behind his back, his posture perfect, like the picture of composure. But you can see it in his eyes—something flickers there, a mix of tension and determination. His car, finely tuned for dry conditions, isn’t built for this. The engineers have done what they can, adjusting the setup, but there’s only so much they can do when the weather turns so violently. You know this track—the Circuit Gilles Villeneuve—is not forgiving, and for someone like Jeonghan, a precision driver who thrives when everything falls into place, this is the worst-case scenario. He’s trying to keep his focus, but you can see the strain on his face, the pressure mounting with every passing moment.

The starting lights go out, and the cars roar off the grid, their engines screaming in defiance of the rain. Jeonghan’s car is sluggish in the first few laps. You see him fighting with the wheel, struggling to keep the car in line, each turn a reminder that the odds are stacked against him. The rain is only getting heavier, and the car, built for speed in perfect conditions, is no longer responsive, no longer the finely-tuned machine he’s so accustomed to. It’s like he’s driving a different car altogether.

As the laps tick by, the race feels like a slow-motion disaster, unfolding before your eyes. Jeonghan’s always been skilled in the wet, but this is different—this is more than just rain. This is a mechanical mismatch, an impossible task to overcome. You watch him push, trying to find any way to make up time, but it’s clear he’s just not able to. The car slides wide through the corners, the back end kicking out as he struggles to maintain control. His frustration is palpable, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping the wheel with white-knuckled intensity.

And then, it happens.

The rear end of Jeonghan’s car breaks loose as he enters Turn 6, and for a moment, it’s a dance of power and precision, a flick of the wheel, an attempt to save it. But it’s futile. The car loses traction, and before you can even process it, he’s in the barriers. The sound of impact is like a gut punch, a sickening crunch that sends a wave of dread through you. The crowd's collective gasp is drowned out by the static crackle of his radio.

“Jeonghan, do you copy?” The voice of his engineer is urgent, panicked, but there’s no mistaking the defeat in it when the response comes through. Jeonghan’s voice is clipped, emotion stripped away in favor of the cold reality.

“I’m out. Car’s done.”

The message is simple, the weight of it crashing down on you. The race is over. Lap 30. The dream, the chance to prove himself in a season that’s been anything but easy, has slipped away, drowned by the rain.

You feel like you’ve been punched in the gut. It’s a loss for Jeonghan, but it feels like a loss for you too. Not because of the race itself, but because of the frustration you saw in his face. The disappointment. The feeling of helplessness. It’s all there, and it hits you harder than you expect.

He doesn’t speak to anyone after. He doesn’t go to the media pen, doesn’t stand in front of the cameras for the obligatory interview. There’s no deflection, no distractions. He’s just... gone. You barely see him in the paddock. He doesn’t even go to the Ferrari garage to debrief with his team. He disappears into the background, like he’s trying to erase himself from the scene altogether, retreating into the shadows, avoiding the world that’s waiting to cast its judgment.

And you? You stay away too. The press room feels suffocating, the questions ringing in your ears as you try to focus. You write your piece, a cold, sharp report about the race and Jeonghan’s crash, a clinical dissection of what went wrong. But something feels hollow as you type. The words don’t flow the way they used to. They’re just words, strung together to meet the deadline, to give the readers what they want. It’s not about the story anymore. It’s not about the race. It’s about the loss.

You can’t shake the image of Jeonghan crashing out, of his frustration written in every line of his face, every motion of his hands. You can’t forget the way he looked when he climbed out of the car, shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the world had suddenly fallen onto him. His eyes are distant, like he’s already checked out, retreating into himself. It’s a look you’ve seen before, but it’s sharper now, more pronounced. He’s carrying something, a burden that you don’t understand, a burden you’re not sure you can even help him carry.

But all you can do is write. And even that doesn’t feel like enough.

FORMULA 1 ARAMCO GRAN PREMIO DE ESPAÑA 2024 Track: Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya

The Spanish Grand Prix feels different from the moment you step out of the car, the heat oppressive, the air thick with anticipation and the inevitable tension of the weekend. The usual rhythm of the paddock is off-kilter, heightened by the suffocating summer heat, the burning sun beating down on every exposed surface. The heat is more than just physical; it's palpable in the way the drivers move, in the clipped tones of the engineers, in the quiet buzz of conversation that flickers out like static.

But even through the sticky, heavy air, the tension feels electric—charged, ready to snap. The circuit is a challenge in itself, and the drivers know it. There’s no room for error here—just wide, hot tarmac and the constant pressure of chasing that perfect lap.

You’ve done your best to avoid Jeonghan, kept a comfortable distance as much as possible. But there’s something about the way he carries himself now—an edge that wasn't there before. It’s sharp, biting, and yet there’s an underlying vulnerability that makes everything harder to ignore.

When qualifying results flash up, you’re caught off-guard. Soonyoung is on pole, Mingyu in second, and Jeonghan… Jeonghan is in third. 

Jeonghan strides into the paddock after qualifying, his face carefully composed, but there’s a look in his eyes—something sharp, something that makes you hesitate. You haven’t spoken in days, not since Canada, not since he shut you out. You’ve been avoiding him, and he’s been avoiding you, but you both know the silence can’t last forever.

You’re standing near the media area when he approaches, and for a moment, it feels like the world holds its breath. The slight tilt of his head, the way his gaze flicks over your shoulder, pretending not to care, but you see through it.

"Don't do this," he says, his voice tight, but it's not the playful teasing you’ve grown used to. It’s something darker. Something tired.

"Don’t do what?" you snap, your patience running thin. "Pretend everything’s fine?"

His jaw clenches, eyes narrowing. "You’ve been avoiding me. Why? Because of Canada?"

You blink. The question hits harder than you expect, and you struggle to keep your composure. “You expect me to just forget what happened? You were fine after the crash, Jeonghan. You didn’t even bother with the press. I can’t just pretend that wasn’t... anything.”

The words come out sharper than you intend, and for a split second, you regret it. You see the way his shoulders stiffen, the brief flicker of pain in his eyes before he masks it with that carefully constructed indifference.

"Maybe I didn’t want to deal with your harsh words," he snaps, taking a step closer. “Maybe I’m tired of being the perfect driver for you, the one who’s supposed to be good enough to meet your standards. But I’m not—am I?"

Your chest tightens at the accusation, at the sudden rawness in his voice. "You think I’m too harsh? You think I’m just waiting for you to be perfect all the time?" You laugh, bitter and self-deprecating. "That’s what this is about? You crashing out wasn’t because of me. I write the truth, Jeonghan. And maybe the truth is you didn’t have the car for that race. It was out of your control."

His expression darkens, and you see that familiar flash of anger—one you’ve seen more times than you care to admit. "No," he hisses, taking another step toward you. "The truth is, you're so wrapped up in your narratives, you forget that I’m human. You forget that I have feelings too, and that maybe... maybe I wanted to do this for myself, not for some headline or some article. But you... you don’t see me that way, do you? You see me as another story, another fucking headline to dissect. Just another driver."

His words cut deeper than anything else could, and the final crack in your restraint breaks wide open. You can feel the heat rising in your chest, the tightness in your throat, the way your breath hitches.

“You want me to treat you differently?” you bite back, furious, stepping into his space. “You want me to hold your hand and tell you it’s okay every time you fail? Because you’re so tired of being just another driver? Well, you know what, Jeonghan? I am tired. I’m tired of trying to keep this professional, of pretending that I’m not watching the same guy who couldn’t even handle his own crash. You don’t get to demand better treatment from me when you can’t even handle the heat.”

For a moment, neither of you move, and the silence is thick, charged with the weight of your words.

He stares at you, eyes dark, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. You’re both too close now, caught in this space where words are weapons, and you’re both bleeding out.

Finally, Jeonghan turns away, his expression unreadable, but you can see the tightness in his back, the way his jaw works, like he’s holding something back. "Maybe you should stop writing about me altogether," he mutters, his voice rough, before stalking off, leaving you standing there, heart pounding and chest aching.

For a moment, you stand frozen, caught between regret and relief, between the anger that still simmers beneath your skin and the sudden emptiness that creeps in now that he's gone.

The moment Jeonghan storms off, leaving you standing there with a surge of anger and a pounding heart, you don't realize someone’s been listening. But someone has. The faint click of a camera, barely audible over the sound of your pulse, is enough to make you pause. You turn, instinctively, to see a familiar face from the gossip side of the paddock. It's Soojin, a reporter known for getting the juiciest bits of drama and twisting them into scandalous headlines. She’s got a camera in one hand, her phone in the other, furiously typing something into it with a smirk that sends an uncomfortable ripple through your gut.

Before you can say anything, she’s already gone, blending back into the throng of people milling around the paddock, her steps quick and sure. The damage has been done. You know it, and the prickling sensation in the pit of your stomach tells you that it’s about to get a lot worse.

By the time you’ve made it back to the media center, the storm has already hit. Your Twitter feed is flooded with the words “Trouble in Paradise?”, and the accompanying photos. The images are damning—Jeonghan’s angry face, red with emotion, and your own flushed, furious expression, both of you screaming at each other in the middle of the paddock. There’s no context, no explanation, just the raw emotion, raw enough to sell.

The headline isn’t even what stings. It’s the comments that follow. Speculation, assumptions, and a flood of opinions. Some call it a lover’s quarrel, some assume the worst, but most seem content to paint the picture of two people on the verge of breaking. It’s not just your name that gets dragged through the mud; it’s Jeonghan’s too. Both of you, caught in a perfect storm of emotions and bad timing. The last thing either of you needs.

You try to shut it out, but it’s impossible. The text messages from your editor come through, asking for a statement. Your phone rings with calls from the PR team, from your colleagues, and even from your friends, who all seem to know about the situation before you’ve even had a chance to process it yourself.

And then, just when you think it couldn’t get worse, the email comes. It’s from Ferrari’s PR team, and it’s almost too professional to be true:

Dear Y/N, In light of the recent events surrounding your interactions with Mr. Yoon Jeonghan, we would like to offer you full access to the Ferrari garage for the remainder of the season. This will provide you with the opportunity to write an in-depth feature on the team, showcasing the work and dedication that goes into each race weekend. We believe this move will allow for a clearer perspective on the situation and help ensure that your reporting reflects the true nature of the team and its drivers. We look forward to your continued coverage. Best regards, Ferrari PR Team

It’s a calculated move—a distraction, a chance to smooth things over. And you know it. The message is clear: everything must look fine. Everything must be fixed, packaged neatly for the media and the fans to consume. You’re a pawn in a much bigger game, and they’re making sure you play along.

At first, you think about refusing. You think about how everything feels so wrong right now. About how the image of you and Jeonghan, caught in the heat of an argument, is being used to feed the frenzy. But the PR team doesn’t leave room for argument. You know that declining would only escalate things further, make them harder to fix.

So, you agree.

The access starts almost immediately. They give you a full tour of the Ferrari garage, show you the inner workings of the team, introduce you to the engineers, the strategists, the pit crew. You’re given permission to write about the team’s strategy, their behind-the-scenes preparation, but there’s always a sense that you're being watched—every move, every word.

You can’t help but notice Jeonghan’s absence. Every time you walk through the garage, he’s not there. The driver who once greeted you with a cocky smile and a teasing remark, the one who always found a way to make you laugh, is nowhere to be found. It’s like he’s vanished, swallowed by the thick wall of Ferrari’s PR machine.

It’s as if nothing is real anymore. The false smiles, the calculated interviews, the way the drivers exchange glances with a rehearsed ease. The more you observe, the more you realize how much of this world is a performance, a show put on for the audience, with no room for anything real. It all feels like it’s slipping through your fingers, leaving you with nothing but an empty, fragile façade.

Still, you’re expected to keep writing, to deliver the polished pieces the team expects. You’re supposed to put the headline “TROUBLE IN PARADISE?” behind you and focus on the carefully constructed narrative. So, you do. For now.

But even as you walk the pits, breathing in the scent of burnt rubber and sweat, there’s a quiet ache in the back of your mind. The truth is, you don’t know how much longer you can keep pretending that everything is fine.

Not when you still feel Jeonghan’s words hanging in the air between you, like the remnants of a storm that’s yet to pass. Not when you still want, with everything in you, to be able to fix it.

And maybe that’s the problem.

The crash happens so quickly, so violently, that it almost feels unreal. One moment, the tell-tale red of Jeonghan’s car is cutting through the circuit with his signature precision. The next, it’s a twisted mess of metal and rubber, skidding off the track, his car spinning wildly as Lee Seokmin’s Aston Martin clips him just before the tight corner at Turn 14. You watch it all unfold from the pit wall, your heart stopping for a brief second as the sound of the crash echoes through the air. 

There’s a collective gasp from the crew around you, followed by the frantic chatter of engineers and strategists, trying to process what just happened. You can see the smoke rising from the wreckage, and your breath catches when the marshals begin to swarm the car, signaling that Jeonghan is still inside. 

The radio crackles to life, but Jeonghan’s voice doesn’t come through. For a second, it feels like time slows down. The pit wall is a blur of motion, but you’re frozen, eyes locked on the track, praying for him to be okay. 

Then, finally, the confirmation comes: “Jeonghan is out of the car. He's fine. We'll move him to the medical center.” 

A wave of relief washes over you, but it’s short-lived. The weight of the crash—his crash—still hangs in the air, and it’s clear from the looks of the Ferrari crew that no one knows exactly what went wrong. The tension in the paddock is palpable, and as you’re given full access to the debriefing room afterward, the atmosphere is thick with unspoken frustration. 

Jeonghan walks in with that same seething expression he had after the crash, and the room goes silent. His eyes are red-rimmed, his jaw clenched, the kind of anger that’s so deep it can’t be shaken by anything or anyone. His usual confident swagger is replaced by a taut, barely contained rage that makes it hard for anyone to even breathe in his presence. His voice, when he speaks, is sharp, cutting through the room like a knife. 

“You think this is a joke?” he snaps, looking at his team with a glare so intense it’s almost suffocating. His fists are balled at his sides, his shoulders tense with barely controlled fury. 

The debriefing begins, but it’s clear that no one knows how to handle him. His coach tries to keep things calm, but Jeonghan's sharp words only make the tension worse. The rest of the team sits in silence, unsure of what to say, how to fix the situation. His eyes never leave the table, his posture rigid, as though every part of him is fighting the urge to storm out. 

The meeting goes in circles—strategies discussed, what went wrong, how to move forward—but nothing seems to land. Jeonghan doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to listen to anyone right now. His frustration is palpable, and it’s clear this crash, this failure, has broken something inside of him. 

When he finally stands, his chair scraping harshly against the floor, there’s an air of finality to it. Without another word, he storms out, leaving a tense silence in his wake. No one dares to speak, knowing that anything they say would be pointless. The door slams shut, and the meeting disbands soon after. 

But you don’t leave. You don’t really have anywhere to go. Not yet. 

You make your way to the Ferrari canteen, your footsteps echoing in the empty corridors. It’s one of those rare moments when you’re not chasing a headline, not following the usual routine, and the monotony of it all feels like a relief. You order two beers without thinking. You don’t need two, but for some reason, it feels right. Maybe it’s the adrenaline still coursing through your veins from the crash, or maybe it’s just the weight of everything—the pressure, the disappointment, the simmering frustration with Jeonghan that you haven’t had the chance to process yet. The beers are cold, the glass bottles slick with condensation, and when you walk outside to the grandstands, you find him. 

Jeonghan is sitting alone, his back against the metal railing, the crowd long gone. The air is warm, the kind of summer heat that clings to your skin and makes everything feel a little heavier. His eyes are closed, his head tipped back as he stares at the sky, and for a moment, you wonder if he even notices you approaching. 

Without saying a word, you sit beside him, the soft crunch of your shoes against the gravel the only sound in the stillness. You don’t offer him a drink immediately. Instead, you hold the bottles in your hands, feeling the chill seep into your palms, letting the silence stretch between you. 

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you hand him one of the beers. He doesn’t look at you, but you catch the faintest shift in his posture, a soft hum of acknowledgement as he accepts it, cracking the cap with a quick twist.

“Jeonghan,” you say, breaking the silence, your voice quieter than you expect it to be. He doesn’t respond immediately, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. You take a sip of your own beer, the bitter taste grounding you in the moment. You can feel the tension that’s been building between you both, the weight of the unspoken words, but for now, you can’t bring yourself to make him speak. 

Then he does. “Full access, huh?” His voice is rough, the teasing edge to his words gone, replaced by something heavier. The bitterness is unmistakable. “You must be thrilled, getting to see me crash out in front of the entire team.” 

You almost choke on your beer. You can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or genuinely hurt, but it stings regardless. 

“I’m not,” you say quickly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You wish he would look at you, but he’s staring straight ahead, his jaw still tight, muscles still coiled like a spring. "I don’t want that, Jeonghan. What don’t you get?" 

“No?” He tilts his head slightly, but his gaze stays fixed. “I would think Miss Scathing Articles would relish the chance to tear me down again.” 

A sharp retort sat on your tongue, but you swallowed it. There was no point. Instead, you looked away, focusing on the distant horizon where the racetrack lay, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. "I don’t," you said quietly. "I’m not interested in tearing you down. I never have been." 

Jeonghan’s laugh was hollow, almost like a scoff. "Color me surprised." 

A beat passed between you both, the air thick with unspoken words. You took a sip of your beer, now lukewarm and slightly flat, but it didn’t matter. Neither of you had the luxury of pretending everything was fine anymore. 

He finally turns to you, his eyes meeting yours; there’s something in the way he looks at you—raw, vulnerable, almost like he’s waiting for the punchline of some cruel joke. 

“I’m sorry,” you say after a long silence, your voice softer this time, barely above a whisper. You’re not sure if he hears you, but he looks at you with an expression that makes you feel like you’ve just stepped into a minefield. 

He doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, he exhales a long breath, rubbing his forehead with his fingers as though the weight of it all is finally catching up to him. The tension between you hangs heavy in the warm summer air, the quiet hum of distant cicadas filling the space where words should be. Jeonghan takes another sip of his beer, the bottle pressed lightly against his lips as though it might cool the heat simmering under his skin. He looks tired—no, more than tired. Worn down. The type of exhaustion that no amount of sleep could fix. 

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says finally, the words coming out uneven, almost like they’re foreign on his tongue. His voice is softer now, missing the sharp edges that had cut into you moments before. “You were just doing your job.” 

“Jeonghan,” you start, but he holds up a hand, silencing you. 

“No, really.” He forces a thin smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s the kind of expression you’ve seen him use in press conferences—a shield, practiced and perfect. “You’re here because Ferrari told you to be. Because someone thought it’d be a great PR move. You don’t owe me anything beyond that.” 

The words sting, even though you know they shouldn’t. He’s not wrong. This isn’t your world, not really. But you can’t help the knot tightening in your chest as you watch him retreat into himself, the walls going up before your eyes. 

“I’m not here because they told me to be,” you say quietly, your voice steady despite the lump in your throat. “I’m here because I wanted to be. Because I saw the crash, Jeonghan, and I—” You stop, swallowing hard as the memory flashes behind your eyes again. The twisted metal, the plume of smoke, the moment you thought— 

“I was scared,” you admit, your voice cracking slightly. “Not as a journalist. Not as someone with a job to do. As someone who—” Jeonghan’s gaze snaps to you, his eyes narrowing slightly, but there’s something vulnerable there, too, something unguarded. 

You don't finish the sentence. 

Jeonghan watches you closely now, his beer suspended mid-air, forgotten. The sharpness in his gaze softens, replaced by something else—curiosity, maybe, or an unease he doesn’t quite know how to address.

The air between you feels heavy, suffocating in its quiet. You can still hear the faint echoes of the crash in your mind, the awful screech of metal against asphalt, the split-second horror of thinking you’d just seen him—

He sets the bottle down with a soft clink against the railing, breaking the spell.

“Scared, huh?” His voice is quieter now, and there’s a touch of disbelief, as though he’s trying to decide whether to accept your words or dismiss them.

You nod, throat tightening as you try to push through the lump that’s settled there. “Terrified,” you admit, the word feeling foreign and vulnerable on your tongue. “Not because of what I’d have to write, but because I thought—” You bite down on the rest of the sentence, unwilling to say it aloud.

Jeonghan exhales, long and slow, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he leans back against the railing. “I’m fine,” he says eventually, the words flat and unconvincing. He glances at you, his lips pressing into a faintly wry smile. “A little bruised. A little pissed. But I’m fine.”

It’s not enough to untangle the knot in your chest, but it’s a start. You nod, not trusting yourself to say anything else.

He finishes his beer in a few swallows, the motion oddly decisive, before standing and brushing off his pants. For a moment, you think he’s about to leave without another word, the tension between you both left unresolved.

But then he turns, holding out a hand toward you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a faint curve to his lips that feels almost... playful.

“Friends?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, his hair falling into his eyes. “If you’re going to be hanging around the garage all season, might as well, y’know?”

You blink at him, taken aback. The man who’d stormed out of the debriefing room in a fit of rage, who’d spat barbs at you moments ago, now stood here offering a truce like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Friends,” you echo, narrowing your eyes as you take his hand. It’s warm, his grip firm but not overbearing, and for a fleeting second, you wonder if this is another performance—an act to keep you at arm’s length.

But when he pulls you to your feet, there’s something genuine in his expression, something almost relieved.

“You better not make me regret this,” he says, letting go of your hand as he shoves his now-empty beer bottle into your other one. “And don’t think this means you’re off the hook for the shit you wrote.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as he smirks.

For the first time all day, the knot in your chest loosens just slightly. You follow him back toward the paddock, your steps lighter than they’ve been in weeks.

And for now, that’s enough.

FORMULA 1 QATAR AIRWAYS AUSTRIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Red Bull Ring

The Red Bull Ring stretches out before you like a postcard of precision. Nestled in the Austrian hills, the track gleams under the soft morning sun, its curves and straights inviting the first roar of engines. The garage is alive with motion—engineers bent over laptops, mechanics tightening bolts, and the hum of anticipation that comes with any race weekend.

You step into the Ferrari garage, an interloper in a sea of red. Jeonghan’s car gleams in its designated spot, pristine and ready, as though it hadn’t been a crumpled wreck just a week ago. The team works around it like a well-oiled machine, barely sparing you a glance. You’re supposed to be here, technically, but that doesn’t stop the slight twinge of unease as you find a quiet corner near the monitors.

“Back again?”

The voice is unmistakable, light and teasing. You turn, and there he is: Yoon Jeonghan in his fireproofs, the sleeves tied around his waist, his white undershirt faintly clinging to his frame. He looks every bit the picture of calm, like he hasn’t spent the past few days fielding press questions about his crash.

“Didn’t think you’d miss the chance to watch me run into someone,” he adds, smirking as he adjusts his gloves.

You raise an eyebrow. “Is this your way of saying you’re aiming for Aston Martin?”

He laughs, a real laugh this time, and it’s startling how much it changes the air around you. “Not today. But I’ll keep you updated if Seokmin starts driving like a rookie again.”

“Careful, Jeonghan,” you shoot back, crossing your arms. “I might put that in my next article.”

He leans casually against the wall, his dark eyes scanning your face with an intensity that’s become familiar in the past few weeks. But there’s no edge to it today, no armor. Just him, relaxed and—for once—almost easygoing.

“You’re not as scary as you think you are,” he says after a beat, his voice low enough that the hum of the garage nearly drowns it out.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop the grin that creeps onto your face. “And you’re not as charming as you think you are.”

He tilts his head, considering this like it’s the most interesting thing he’s heard all day. “Fair. But you’re still here, aren’t you?”

“Purely professional,” you quip, ignoring the way his smirk grows.

Before he can reply, the engineer by the monitors calls him over, gesturing to the screen. Jeonghan holds up a finger, signaling for a moment, then turns back to you.

“Stay out of trouble, yeah?” His voice is lighter now, teasing but not in the way that cuts. It feels natural, like banter between...well, maybe not quite friends. Not yet. But something close.

You shrug, watching as he walks toward his team, the confidence in his stride unmistakable. The tension that had lingered after the crash feels like it’s finally begun to dissolve, replaced by something steadier. Not quite trust, but something adjacent.

As you settle into the corner, notebook in hand, you can’t help but glance at him every so often. On the surface, it’s just another practice session, another day at the track. But for the first time in weeks, it feels like something close to normal. 

FORMULA 1 QATAR AIRWAYS BRITISH GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Silverstone Circuit

Silverstone roars to life under a blazing sun, the grandstands filled to capacity with fans waving flags and wearing team colors. The overcast sky has burned off, leaving the track shimmering under the summer sun. It’s one of the biggest stages of the season, and Jeonghan delivers a masterclass in qualifying, the finely tuned Ferrari underneath him responding to every input like an extension of himself. The sharp smell of rubber and fuel lingers in the air, mingling with the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

He’s back.

The final lap times on the leaderboard tell the story: pole position. Ferrari’s garage is electric with celebration, engineers clapping each other on the back, a cheer rising when Jeonghan steps into the swarm of red. His team surrounds him, hands gripping his shoulders, voices shouting praise over the din.

He grins, wide and unguarded, the weight of the last few weeks lifting ever so slightly. Spain and Canada had shaken him, but this—this feels like a reckoning. Proof that the mistakes and setbacks weren’t the whole story.

“Perfect lap, Jeonghan,” his engineer says, beaming as he hands him a water bottle.

He nods in acknowledgment, taking a swig, his heart still racing as he glances around the paddock. The sun is high now, glinting off the sleek curves of the cars lined up in parc fermé. Jeonghan’s gaze sweeps over the crowd, soaking in the energy—until he sees you.

You’re standing just outside the McLaren garage, the vibrant orange of their branding a stark contrast to the reds and blacks of his world. You’re leaning against a barrier, the breeze tugging at your hair as you laugh at something Mingyu says. Your face is so open, so full of light, that it’s almost magnetic.

Mingyu gestures animatedly, clearly in the middle of some ridiculous story, his grin as wide as the Cheshire Cat’s. You throw your head back with a laugh, and Jeonghan feels a tightness in his chest he can’t quite place.

The joy that had filled him moments ago flickers.

Why does it bother him?

The thought lingers as he watches you, his water bottle dangling forgotten in his hand. Jeonghan isn’t used to this kind of gnawing discomfort. He’s competitive, sure, but this is something else entirely.

Jealousy.

The sun is lower in the sky when he finds you, his long strides purposeful as he weaves through the paddock. The golden hour light makes everything seem softer, but Jeonghan’s mood is anything but. His thoughts from earlier have been simmering, the warmth of victory eclipsed by a frustration he can’t shake.

You’re leaning against a railing, scrolling on your phone when he approaches.

“Shouldn’t you be in the Ferrari garage?” he says, his tone sharper than he intends.

You blink up at him, startled. “I was just catching up with Mingyu.”

Jeonghan crosses his arms, his brow furrowing. “Funny. I thought you were doing a full-access piece on Ferrari, not McLaren.”

There’s something in his voice—an edge that sets your teeth on edge. “I am,” you reply slowly, standing up straighter. “What’s this about?”

He steps closer, his eyes narrowing. “Is that why your articles about Mingyu are always glowing? What, are you sleeping with him?”

The accusation is like a slap, cutting through the air with a harshness that leaves you stunned.

Your expression shifts, disbelief giving way to anger. “Are you serious right now?”

Jeonghan doesn’t respond immediately, his jaw tight. The regret in his eyes is fleeting, buried under the weight of his own misplaced frustration.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” you snap, your voice trembling with fury. “It’s always one step forward, two steps back with you, Jeonghan.”

His lips part as if to reply, but you don’t wait for him to dig himself deeper. You storm off, your footsteps echoing against the paddock floor. The sting of his words lingers, but so does the look on his face as you walk away.

Jeonghan stands there, watching you go, the tension in his shoulders giving way to a sinking feeling in his stomach. He knows he’s crossed a line, and the weight of his own stupidity settles heavily over him.

The knock on your hotel room door comes before sunrise, soft but insistent. You groan, burying your face in your pillow before dragging yourself to the door.

When you open it, the hallway is empty. But at your feet sits a bouquet wrapped in crisp white paper, tied with a simple satin ribbon.

Roses. Soft blush pink, their petals perfectly unfurled, paired with delicate sprigs of baby’s breath.

The arrangement is beautiful, almost heartbreakingly so, the kind of bouquet that feels like a story in itself. You crouch to pick it up, your fingers brushing over the velvety petals. The faint, sweet scent of roses fills the air, mixing with the crisp morning chill that seeps into the hallway.

Nestled among the flowers is a small envelope.

You pull it out, your thumb brushing over the edge of the paper as you open it. Inside, scrawled in a slightly messy hand that’s unmistakably Jeonghan’s, are two simple words:

I’m sorry.

You glance down the hallway instinctively, half-expecting to see him lingering in the shadows. But it’s empty, as silent as it was before you opened the door.

You stand there for a moment longer, the bouquet in your arms and the note trembling slightly in your fingers. The apology feels heavier than the flowers, weighted by the memory of his words from yesterday.

He didn’t need to apologize like this, you think. He could have texted, could have mumbled something in passing when you inevitably crossed paths today. But instead, he’d gone to the trouble of figuring out your favorite flowers—roses and baby’s breath, a detail you don’t even remember telling him.

The realization stirs something in you, softening the edges of your anger.

The roses sit on the desk as you get ready for the day, the baby’s breath adding a delicate touch to the arrangement. The card leans against the vase, its two-word apology a quiet presence in the room.

Somewhere in the city, Silverstone is waking up, the air already buzzing with anticipation for the race. But here, in the stillness of your hotel room, you take a moment to breathe, to let the gesture sink in.

Jeonghan’s voice echoes faintly in your mind, the memory of yesterday’s confrontation still fresh. And yet, as you glance at the roses again, the sting of his words begins to dull, replaced by something softer, something not yet ready to be named.

The pre-race buzz was electric. The roar of engines echoed faintly in the distance, a constant backdrop to the paddock’s chaotic rhythm. Mechanics zipped between garages, reporters hustled to get last-minute quotes, and fans outside the barricades chanted their favorite drivers’ names. Amid all this, your footsteps fell heavy against the asphalt, your target in sight: Yoon Jeonghan.

There he was, leaning against the nose of his red Ferrari, his race suit a striking flash of scarlet that caught the sunlight and made him look annoyingly pristine for someone who had caused you so much grief. He was chatting with an engineer, that easy, charming smile plastered on his face like he hadn’t thrown baseless accusations your way less than 24 hours ago.

You marched toward him, purpose sharpening your steps. The bouquet from this morning was still vivid in your mind—blush pink roses, soft and elegant, their delicate petals almost glowing against the green of the baby’s breath, a stark contrast to the seething frustration you still carried. And the note—just two infuriatingly simple words—burned in your pocket, a reminder of the apology you hadn’t quite accepted yet.

“Jeonghan,” you called, your voice cutting through the low hum of conversation around you.

He glanced up, his casual demeanor faltering for a split second when he saw you. Then, like a switch had flipped, his smile returned. “Oh, hey.”

You stopped a foot away, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “How did you know my favorite flowers?”

His lips quirked into a faint smirk, and he leaned ever so slightly against the car, as if the conversation were a game he’d already won. “Oh good, they got delivered to the right room.”

“Jeonghan,” you said, your tone sharper now, “don’t deflect.”

“Deflect what?” He tilted his head, his eyes sparkling with that infuriating glint of mischief that made you want to throttle him and laugh in equal measure.

“JEONGHAN.” The snap in your voice turned a few heads nearby, but you didn’t care.

He sighed dramatically, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fine. A certain papaya-colored birdie told me.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Papaya-colored birdie... Mingyu?”

Jeonghan hesitated, his grin faltering for just a moment. You saw the gears turning in his head, calculating whether to deflect again or come clean.

“Spit it out, Yoon Jeonghan,” you said, stepping closer, “or I’ll never write a single kind thing about you for the rest of your life.”

His mouth twitched, caught between amusement and resignation. Finally, he shrugged, his voice almost too casual. “Childhood friends, eh? You and Mingyu? That explains yesterday.”

You blinked, thrown by the abrupt shift in topic. “Don’t change the subject,” you snapped, though his words tugged at something in the back of your mind. “You really went to Kim Mingyu for help? After accusing me of—”

“I might have... aggressively encouraged Mingyu to spill everything he knew about you,” Jeonghan admitted, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You raised a brow. “Aggressively encouraged?”

“Fine,” he said with a huff. “I threatened to steal his steering wheel from the McLaren garage if he didn’t talk.”

Despite your irritation, a snort escaped you. “And he just handed over my life story, huh?”

Jeonghan crossed his arms, mirroring your stance. “What can I say? He’s surprisingly chatty when he thinks you’re in trouble. Very protective, that one.”

You clenched your jaw, the pieces clicking into place. “So, that’s why you jumped to conclusions yesterday. You thought—”

He cut you off, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “I know. I was out of line. That’s what the flowers were for.”

For a moment, the noise of the paddock seemed to fade. The wind carried the faint scent of burning rubber, and the distant cheers of fans reached your ears like a muted hum. Jeonghan’s expression softened, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced by something quieter, almost vulnerable.

“For what it’s worth,” he added, his tone lower now, “I really am sorry.”

You exhaled slowly, the weight of the last day lifting slightly from your chest. “You’re lucky I like roses.”

“I know,” he replied, his grin returning, lighter this time, almost boyish. “Good taste, huh?”

“Good recovery, at least,” you muttered, your lips twitching despite yourself.

Jeonghan’s laughter followed you as you turned and walked away, the sound less grating than it had been the day before. It wasn’t forgiveness—not yet—but it felt like a start.

FORMULA 1 HUNGARIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Hungaroring

The Hungarian Grand Prix paddock was buzzing, but you could tell something was off. The sound of chatter and engines felt like distant echoes as you stood by the garage, watching Jeonghan’s Ferrari pull back into its stall after a less-than-stellar FP1. The car’s engine quieted as the mechanics immediately went to work, inspecting it. But it wasn’t the car that caught your attention—it was Jeonghan himself.

He was unusually quiet, his usual cocky confidence buried beneath the furrow of his brow as he stripped off his helmet and gloves. His gaze was focused on the car, but it was clear his mind wasn’t in the garage. He seemed... distant, almost frustrated. The others in the team were busy talking strategy, discussing the data, but Jeonghan barely spoke up during the debriefing. It was strange.

The team finished up, but you noticed Jeonghan lingered near the back, hands on his hips, staring at his car like it had personally betrayed him. It wasn’t like him to be this quiet, especially not after a session where he was so used to being in control. You could practically feel the weight of his thoughts from where you stood.

You didn’t want to be intrusive, but you couldn’t ignore it—something was wrong.

You walked over, careful not to disturb the mechanics who were still busy at work. "Jeonghan," you called softly, stepping beside him. He turned to you, but his eyes didn’t quite meet yours. They were focused on something distant, like he was seeing the track or the car but not really seeing them.

“Everything okay?” you asked, trying to keep the concern out of your voice, but it slipped through anyway. “You’ve been quiet since the debriefing.”

He gave a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m fine.”

You weren’t buying it. You had known Jeonghan long enough to recognize the way he carried his frustration. It wasn’t the kind of thing that could be hidden behind a casual smile, no matter how practiced.

“You sure? You know you don’t have to be okay all the time, right?” you pressed, stepping a little closer. The air around you felt heavy, charged with unspoken words.

Jeonghan exhaled sharply, his fingers digging into his gloves before he slowly pulled them off. He seemed to be gathering himself before speaking. “I hate it,” he muttered, and his voice had a rawness to it that caught you off guard. “Not being perfect. I... I can’t stand it.”

“Not being perfect?” you echoed, surprised. Jeonghan, the ever-cocky, confident driver, admitting that?

He looked up at you then, his eyes intense, as though he was searching for something in your gaze. “Yeah. I know it sounds stupid,” he said with a wry laugh that lacked its usual humor. “But it’s who I am. I’m a perfectionist, always have been. Every little mistake... it sticks with me. I can’t just move on. I think about it. Constantly.”

You watched him, absorbing his words, the vulnerability in his tone feeling like a crack in his otherwise polished exterior. Jeonghan, always so composed on the surface, always teasing and joking, was admitting something deeper now—something more personal.

“Is that why you were so quiet during the debriefing?” you asked, keeping your voice soft.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his gaze flicking to the car again. “I know I didn’t have the best session, but it feels like... like I failed. Like I’m not doing my job right. I could’ve done better.” His jaw clenched as if he were angry at himself.

The silence that fell between you was thick, almost suffocating, and you could feel the tension radiating off him. You hadn’t seen him like this before—not with this level of self-doubt.

“You’re not failing,” you said, your voice firm. “You’re allowed to have bad sessions. Hell, everyone has bad days. But that doesn’t mean you’re failing. It’s just a part of it.”

Jeonghan glanced over at you, his lips curving into a small, grateful smile. “You really believe that?”

“Yeah, I do,” you said, nodding. “I mean... it’s not all about being perfect. Sometimes it’s the mistakes that push you to be better.”

Jeonghan looked down at his hands, still clutching the gloves, and you could see the gears turning in his mind. “I know. But it doesn’t make it any easier.”

“I get it,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the side of the garage. “But you’ve got a whole team behind you. And we all know what you’re capable of. You’ll get there. It’s just one session.”

He finally met your gaze, his eyes softening. “Thanks.”

There was a long pause, the sound of distant chatter and the hum of the paddock filling the silence. You were so used to Jeonghan’s teasing and cocky attitude that this quieter, more introspective side of him felt like a different person altogether. And maybe it was—it was the side that wasn’t the driver who fought for every fraction of a second on the track, the side that just wanted to be good enough.

“It’s not stupid, you know,” you added quietly. “Caring about being good at what you do isn’t stupid. It’s just... exhausting sometimes.”

Jeonghan laughed lightly, the sound a bit more genuine this time. “You have no idea. But I’m getting better at... handling it. I think.”

You smiled at him, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over you. There was still that hint of unease in his posture, the tightness in his shoulders, but for the first time all day, he seemed a little more at ease with himself.

As you turned to leave, you shot him one last look. “Just don’t be so hard on yourself next time, okay?”

“I’ll try,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. And for a moment, you almost believed him.

The stands were eerily quiet now, a stark contrast to the roar of the crowd just hours earlier. You wandered through the empty paddock, your steps unhurried as the hum of the night settled around you. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the faint clatter of the Ferrari team packing up, but Jeonghan wasn’t with them.

You’d seen him after the race, his jaw tight as he climbed out of the car. Finishing P5 wasn’t bad by any measure, but it wasn’t what he wanted. And with Mingyu overtaking him in the Driver’s Championship by just twenty points, it was clear Jeonghan had taken it as a personal blow. His disappointment hung around him like a shadow.

It wasn’t hard to guess where he’d gone.

Sure enough, when you climbed up into the grandstands, there he was. Sitting alone in the middle row, still in his Ferrari race suit, unzipped to the waist to reveal his black base layer. His hair was tousled from the helmet, his posture slouched, shoulders hunched as though the weight of the day hadn’t yet left him. Beside him were two bottles of beer, one already open and resting loosely in his hand.

You approached quietly, but Jeonghan didn’t flinch. He didn’t even turn around when you reached him, your feet crunching softly against the debris of the crowd—discarded programs, empty wrappers, and forgotten flags. He must’ve known it was you, though. He always seemed to know.

“Mind if I join you?” you asked, your voice breaking the stillness.

He finally glanced up, his expression unreadable. “It’s a free grandstand,” he muttered, gesturing to the empty seats around him.

You slid into the seat next to him, the cool metal chilling through your clothes. Jeonghan’s gaze returned to the track ahead, where the floodlights illuminated the ghost of the race. He took a sip of his beer, silent.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The quiet stretched, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable—just heavy. You could feel the frustration radiating off him, the bitterness that came with being so close but not close enough.

“You should drink this before it gets warm,” he said suddenly, pushing the unopened beer toward you.

You picked it up, twisting off the cap with a small smile. “Thanks. Not exactly the post-race celebration you were hoping for, huh?”

He huffed a humorless laugh. “Not exactly.”

The silence fell again, but this time you weren’t willing to let it linger. You turned to him, watching the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the neck of the bottle. “You’re still in the fight, you know,” you said gently.

Jeonghan’s lips quirked, but it wasn’t a smile. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Well, you are,” you insisted. “Three points. That’s nothing. You’ve come back from worse.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he tilted his head back, looking up at the dark sky above the track. “You don’t get it,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “It’s not just about the points. It’s about everything. The mistakes, the pressure... the expectations. It’s like... like I have to prove that I deserve to be here. Every single time.”

“You do deserve to be here,” you said firmly, the conviction in your voice enough to make him turn to you. “You wouldn’t be in that seat if you didn’t. You’re one of the best drivers on the grid, Jeonghan. Everyone knows it. Even Mingyu. Especially Mingyu.”

Jeonghan scoffed, a flicker of a smile breaking through his stormy expression. “Bet he’s loving this right now.”

“Maybe,” you said, leaning back against the seat. “But knowing Mingyu, he’s probably already plotting ways to rub it in at the next race.”

That earned a laugh, small but real, and the sound was enough to make you smile too.

“You’re good at this,” he said after a moment, his tone softer now. “Talking me off the ledge.”

“Someone has to,” you replied with a shrug. “And honestly? I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. One race doesn’t define you, Jeonghan. You’re not just a number on the leaderboard.”

He looked at you then, his gaze lingering. There was something in his expression—gratitude, maybe, or something deeper, something you couldn’t quite name. “Thanks,” he said simply, the word weighted with more than just appreciation.

You clinked your bottle against his. “Anytime.”

The two of you sat there for a while longer, the weight of the day slowly lifting as the quiet of the night wrapped around you. It wasn’t much, but it was enough—for now. And as Jeonghan leaned back in his seat, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles, you knew he’d be okay. Eventually.

You took another sip of your beer, the chill of the bottle grounding you as Jeonghan’s earlier tension began to melt away. The ghost of a smile still lingered on his lips, and for the first time since you’d climbed up to find him, his shoulders seemed lighter.

“So,” he said, breaking the quiet, his voice tinged with a familiar mischievousness, “what’s your headline going to be this week?”

You raised an eyebrow, scoffing softly as you bumped his shoulder with your own. “You’ll see it when you see it, Yoon Jeonghan. No spoilers.”

His chuckle was low and warm, a sound that felt like the first crack of sunlight after a storm. “Should I be worried?”

“Always,” you replied, the corners of your lips quirking upward. “But maybe not too much this time.”

He gave you a curious look, his expression halfway between wary and amused, but he didn’t press. Instead, he leaned back, his gaze drifting back to the track. The night was calm now, the weight of the day’s disappointment tucked into the folds of shared silence.

The headline hit Monday morning, and Jeonghan had to admit, you’d delivered once again.

Ferrari Falters in Hungary: Yoon Jeonghan's Fight for the Title Tightens

The article was incisive, as sharp as he’d expected. You broke down his struggles in FP1, critiqued his race strategy, and even called out the overtaking move that cost him crucial points. It was the kind of detailed, no-nonsense analysis you were known for, and Jeonghan read every word with a mix of frustration and admiration.

But at the bottom, tucked beneath the last paragraph, there was a footnote—barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.

“Despite Hungary’s setback, Yoon Jeonghan remains one of the most popular and formidable contenders for the championship. With only twenty points separating him from the lead, Belgium offers a more than fair chance for the Ferrari star to close the gap and reclaim his momentum.”

Jeonghan blinked, then read it again, a slow smile tugging at his lips. He leaned back in his chair, the paper still in hand, and shook his head.

“Subtle,” he muttered, though his tone was anything but annoyed. It was gratitude, warmth, and a flicker of hope all wrapped together in a single word.

He might have faltered in Hungary, but you’d reminded him—the season wasn’t even half over. And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t fighting alone.

FORMULA 1 ROLEX BELGIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps

The weekend at Spa began like a dream.

The legendary Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps was a driver’s haven and a monster in equal measure. The longest track on the calendar, its 7 kilometers of asphalt wound through the lush forests of the Ardennes, combining high-speed straights, sweeping corners, and the unpredictable challenges of its microclimate. The iconic Eau Rouge and Raidillon dared drivers to go flat out, while the downhill plunge into Pouhon tested their courage and precision. It was a place where skill separated the good from the great.

Jeonghan thrived on its challenge.

FP1 and FP2 were his playgrounds, his Ferrari gliding through corners like it was made for this circuit alone. The car was responsive and balanced, every adjustment in setup shaving precious milliseconds off his laps. Jeonghan pushed it to its limits, feeling every bump and curve beneath him as if Spa’s asphalt were an extension of himself.

By the time he returned to the garage, his name was at the top of the timesheets, and his team wore expressions of pride and relief. Engineers crowded around him during the debrief, their excitement palpable. Even Mingyu wandered over to toss a mockingly impressed, “Don’t get used to it, Yoon,” in his direction.

Jeonghan, basking in the buzz of dominance, had only winked.

But then came the penalty.

A breach in power unit regulations—an unavoidable technicality that slapped him with a grid penalty. It was frustratingly bureaucratic, a punishment that felt out of his control and yet deeply personal. His pole position was stripped away, and he was relegated to P10.

In the Ferrari garage, Jeonghan leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, the weight of his helmet heavy in his hand. The rhythmic hum of power tools and bursts of chatter around him did little to soothe his simmering frustration.

It wasn’t just the penalty—it was the sting of perfection slipping through his fingers, a weekend that had started flawlessly now teetering on the edge of disappointment.

He glanced up, ready to bury himself in the chaos of the paddock, and froze.

You were there, leaning casually against the pit wall, chatting with one of the mechanics. The glow of the overhead lights caught in your hair, and despite the whirlwind of activity, you were a picture of calm. Your hands moved as you spoke, animated yet confident, the faintest flicker of a smirk playing on your lips.

His gaze lingered.

It hit him—a memory of your words from Hungary, your unwavering belief cloaked in sharp wit: “A more than fair chance to close the gap.”

For the first time since the penalty, the gap didn’t feel insurmountable.

He didn’t realize he’d been staring until you caught his eye. Your brows rose, and you tilted your head in mock curiosity before excusing yourself from the mechanic and walking toward him.

“You okay?” you asked, your voice laced with a note of amusement and something softer underneath.

Jeonghan shrugged, plastering on his signature cocky grin. “Since when are you worried about me?”

Your lips twitched in a barely concealed smile. “Oh, I’m not worried. Just curious. I wanted to see how Ferrari’s golden boy handles a little adversity.”

His grin faltered for the briefest moment before sharpening again. “Keep watching,” he said, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “I might surprise you.”

You tilted your chin, your expression a blend of challenge and intrigue. “Don’t disappoint me then.”

The way you said it—like you meant it—sparked something fierce in him.

As you turned to leave, the faint scent of your perfume lingered in the air, anchoring him to the moment. Jeonghan watched you disappear into the paddock, your confident stride a sharp contrast to his brooding, and for the first time that day, a smirk tugged at his lips.

It wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.

P10 to P1. 

It was the kind of race drivers dreamed of—the kind that earned its place in highlight reels for years to come.

The chaos began even before the lights went out. Rain had threatened all morning, dark clouds heavy over the Ardennes, but it held off just long enough to keep everyone guessing. Jeonghan sat in his Ferrari on the grid, surrounded by cars that had no business being ahead of him. He’d spent every second since the penalty recalibrating his mindset, shifting his frustration into fuel.

As the lights went out, his singular focus kicked in.

Turn 1, La Source: Jeonghan dived inside, threading through a gap that barely existed. The radio crackled with his engineer’s voice, commending his clean move, but he barely registered it. Eau Rouge and Raidillon loomed ahead, their uphill sweep demanding precision, bravery, and trust in his car.

He took the corners flat out.

By Lap 5, Jeonghan was in P7. His mind churned as he studied the cars ahead, each one a problem to solve. Every braking point, every shift in weight through the curves—it all required perfect execution.

But then came the rain.

It began as a drizzle at Pouhon, the light sheen on the track turning treacherous by the next sector. Jeonghan’s grip on the wheel tightened as he adjusted his lines, feeling for every ounce of traction.

“Box this lap for inters,” his engineer instructed.

“No,” Jeonghan replied, his voice steady. He could feel it—the balance of risk and reward. He stayed out one lap longer, the gamble paying off as he overtook two cars struggling on the wrong tires. When he finally pitted, the stop was flawless.

By Lap 20, the red flag came out, the rain too heavy for safety. Jeonghan sat in the pit lane during the suspension, helmet off, sweat beading his brow. His thoughts wandered for the first time since the race began.

Your words came back to him.

"Jeonghan’s perfectionism is both his weapon and his curse. When he is at his best, he’s untouchable. But the question remains: can he handle the pressure when the odds aren’t in his favor?"

His jaw tightened. You were right—about the pressure, about the way he held himself to standards so high they sometimes crushed him. But you’d also written something else.

"A more than fair chance to close the gap."

He wasn’t sure why, but that sentence anchored him.

When the race restarted, Jeonghan was a man possessed.

Sector by sector, he clawed his way through the field, each overtake cleaner and bolder than the last. At Blanchimont, he overtook Soonyoung in a move that was half instinct, half calculated risk. His engineer’s voice came over the radio in a disbelieving laugh: “Mate, you’re insane!”

By the final lap, he was leading. The roar of the crowd blended with the steady beat of his heart as he crossed the finish line, victory his once more.

The pit lane was a blur of celebration. His team engulfed him in a sea of red, their cheers drowning out even the din of Spa’s loyal fans. Soonyoung appeared out of nowhere, throwing an arm around Jeonghan’s shoulders.

“Winning in Spa from P10? You better believe I’m buying the first round,” Soonyoung declared, grinning despite his P2 finish.

Jeonghan laughed, the sound ragged and raw from effort, but his mind wasn’t entirely in the moment.

Later, in the quiet of the motorhome, when the adrenaline had settled and exhaustion was creeping in, Jeonghan pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over the search bar before typing your name.

The article was already live.

His breath caught as he read your headline:

From P10 to Perfection: Yoon Jeonghan’s Masterclass at Spa

It was glowing, but in your unmistakable style—balanced, sharp, and honest. You praised his overtakes, his strategy, and his ability to rise under pressure. Your writing was like poetry, an ode to his resilience, his precision in the rain, his ability to claw victory from the jaws of defeat.  But what caught him off guard was the final line.

"With the championship fight closer than ever, it’s not a question of if Jeonghan will close the gap. It’s a question of when."

Jeonghan read it three times, his chest tight with something that felt almost like pride.

For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to believe them.

The bass thrummed low and heavy, a pulse that seemed to reverberate straight through the packed room. 

Jeonghan leaned against the bar, his drink in hand, his racing suit long since replaced by a fitted black shirt with the top buttons undone. The sleeves were rolled just enough to expose his forearms, the dark fabric clinging to his frame in a way that effortlessly commanded attention. Around him, the club buzzed with post-race energy—drivers, engineers, and team members alike reveling in the victory and chaos of the day.

Soonyoung was next to him, buzzing with his usual infectious energy. Jeonghan caught snippets of his teammate’s banter, but his mind was elsewhere.

“God, Jeonghan, if you stare any harder, she’s going to spontaneously combust,” Soonyoung teased, sipping his drink with a knowing smirk.

Jeonghan blinked, startled. “What?”

Soonyoung rolled his eyes, nodding toward the dance floor. “Her. You’ve been staring at her like she’s a particularly tricky apex all night.”

Jeonghan followed his gaze.

There you were, dancing with a group of Ferrari engineers, the colored lights spilling across your frame, making your skin glow. You laughed at something one of them said, your head tilting back, your hair swaying with every movement. Jeonghan’s grip on his glass tightened.

“You’re hopeless,” Soonyoung said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just go talk to her. Or better yet, dance with her. God knows you’ll make everyone else jealous.”

Jeonghan scoffed, setting his empty glass down on the bar with a sharp clink. “You’re imagining things.”

“Sure, and you just happened to spend the past ten minutes glaring at the poor guy she’s dancing with.”

Jeonghan shot him a warning glance, but Soonyoung only grinned wider.

“Look, you’ve already won at Spa,” he added, leaning closer. “Might as well take another victory tonight.”

Jeonghan shook his head, but the heat in his chest betrayed him. He cast one last glance at you before downing the rest of his drink and pushing off the bar.

The crowd was a blur of movement, bodies packed tightly together under the pulsing lights, but Jeonghan moved with purpose. He found you easily, your energy magnetic even in the chaos.

The beat shifted as he approached, slowing to something deeper, sultrier. He stepped in behind you, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from your skin.

“Enjoying yourself?” he murmured, his voice low and warm against your ear.

You turned slightly, glancing at him over your shoulder. Your lips curved into a teasing smile, your eyes dancing in the dim light. “Jeonghan. Didn’t think you were the clubbing type.”

He smirked, his hand brushing lightly against your waist. “I make exceptions for special occasions.”

You arched a brow, leaning back into him just enough to blur the line between teasing and inviting. “Special occasions, huh? Like winning at Spa?”

“Something like that,” he said, his voice a touch quieter now. His fingers rested lightly on your waist, the heat of his touch sending a shiver up your spine.

You turned to face him fully, your hands drifting up to rest on his shoulders, playful and almost casual. “So? What’s it like being untouchable?”

He chuckled softly, his gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips and back again. “You’d know,” he said smoothly, “if you were paying attention during my races instead of writing snarky articles.”

You laughed, a soft, melodious sound that made his chest tighten. “I did pay attention,” you countered, leaning in slightly, your lips barely a breath away from his ear. “You were alright, I guess.”

“Alright?” he repeated, feigning offense. “You called it a masterclass. Don’t think I didn’t read your article.”

Your grin widened, the fire in your eyes matching the teasing edge in your tone. “Oh, that? Don’t let it go to your head, Yoon. I still expect a proper interview.”

His hands shifted to your hips, grounding you against him as he swayed slightly to the beat, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “Careful. Keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

“And if I did?” you teased back, your voice soft but no less challenging.

For a moment, the world around you fell away. The music, the lights, the press of the crowd—it all faded as the space between you closed. Jeonghan’s eyes lingered on your lips, his heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the adrenaline of racing.

Then, just as you tilted your head, leaning closer—

“JEONGHAN!”

The moment shattered.

Sunwoo’s voice boomed over the music as he appeared out of nowhere, the mechanic’s grin wide and oblivious. “Bro, come on! You can flirt later! Dance with me!”

Jeonghan groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder as your laughter spilled over him like warm sunlight.

“This isn’t over,” he muttered, just loud enough for you to hear.

You pulled back, still laughing, and met his gaze with a wink. “I’ll hold you to that.”

FORMULA 1 HEINEKEN DUTCH GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Zandvoort

The paddock at Zandvoort was always one of Jeonghan’s favorites. The smell of fresh sea air mixed with the unmistakable tang of fuel and rubber, while the orange-clad crowd painted the stands in a fiery glow. Jeonghan didn’t even mind the noise—something about the Netherlands had a way of energizing him.

He was walking back from the driver’s parade when he spotted you outside the Ferrari hospitality tent, a coffee in hand, your eyes scanning the throng of people with practiced ease. The crisp breeze tugged at your hair, and Jeonghan slowed his pace, his lips curling into a familiar smirk.

You glanced up just in time to catch him staring. “Don’t you have a race to focus on?”

“Don’t you have an article to write?” he shot back, his voice smooth as ever.

“I’m multitasking,��� you replied, raising your coffee in a mock toast.

Jeonghan stepped closer, close enough that the conversation felt private despite the bustling paddock around you. “Let me guess,” he said, crossing his arms, “today’s headline is, ‘Ferrari Driver Jeonghan Looks Extra Handsome Under Dutch Sunlight.’”

You snorted, barely suppressing a laugh. “Oh, please. I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘Can Ferrari’s Yoon Jeonghan Deliver After Spa Masterclass?’”

“Flattering,” he mused, tilting his head. “I thought you’d save the sarcasm for the post-race write-up.”

“I aim to keep you humble,” you said with a shrug, though the playful glint in your eyes gave you away.

Jeonghan leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to send a thrill down your spine. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like a fan.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could get a word in—

“Jeonghan!”

A voice cut through the tension like a knife. You both turned to see Soonyoung jogging up, waving enthusiastically. “There you are! We’re late for the strategy briefing!”

Jeonghan sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching as he glanced back at you. “Guess we’ll have to finish this later.”

You grinned, your eyes dancing with amusement. “Don’t let me keep you from your briefing, Ferrari’s golden boy.”

Jeonghan’s smirk deepened. “I’ll see you after I win.”

He walked off, Soonyoung talking his ear off as you watched him go, the heat in your chest lingering far longer than it should have.

The race came and went, and though Jeonghan didn’t win—Mingyu’s dominance at Zandvoort was almost an inevitability—he still managed to bring home a solid podium finish.

Later, back at the hospitality suite, you found yourself standing near the balcony, staring out at the ocean waves in the distance.

“Not bad for a day’s work,” came a familiar voice behind you.

You turned to find Jeonghan leaning casually against the doorway, his hair still damp from the post-race shower. He’d swapped his racing suit for a simple white shirt and jeans, but somehow, he still looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine.

“Not bad,” you admitted. “Though I was expecting a win. Should I change the headline to ‘Close, but Not Quite’?”

Jeonghan’s laugh was low and smooth as he closed the distance between you. “I think you’re just trying to rile me up.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Is it working?”

He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint freckle on his cheekbone, the way his lashes caught the light. “You tell me.”

The air between you crackled, your banter giving way to something heavier, something unspoken. For a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you.

“Jeonghan!”

The door slammed open, and Mingyu’s booming voice shattered the moment.

Both of you jumped, turning to see the taller driver grinning sheepishly. “Uh, sorry. Team dinner’s starting soon, and they’re waiting for you.”

Jeonghan’s jaw tightened, but he plastered on an easy smile. “Of course they are.”

Mingyu left as quickly as he’d come, leaving you and Jeonghan alone again.

“Do people just have radar for this?” Jeonghan muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

You laughed, the tension easing slightly. “Maybe it’s the universe telling you to focus on racing.”

He stepped closer again, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Or maybe it’s telling me I’ll just have to try harder.”

Your pulse quickened, but before you could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Jeonghan sighed dramatically, stepping back with a rueful smile. “Guess I’ll have to settle for third interruptions.”

You smirked, folding your arms. “You’re consistent, at least.”

“Don’t forget it,” he said with a wink, his voice smooth as ever as he walked away.

And just like that, you were left alone, the waves crashing in the distance as you wondered how long this game of cat and mouse could last.

another lil a/n: full throttle is probably one of my favorite things i've EVER written and i am so proud of myself for getting this out of my head and onto the page.

[kitimeq]

-ˋˏ ༻❁ surprise encounter 🤍 sylus 秦 ❀༺ ˎˊ-

❀˖°pairing: sylus x reader

❀˖°summary: You’ve been playing love&deepspace ever since the game came out and it became your comfort place now. You like all of the boys, but you have the highest affinity with sylus, who had your heart in a grasp ever since the beginning. Who would’ve thought that he shares the sentiment? And after your monthly absence from the game, he decides to pay you a little visit and finally confess to all of it (and maybe kind of try to kidnap you in the process too oho).

❀˖° tropes: fluff, angst to fluff, fluff to angst to fluff? fluff to angst to fluff to angst to fluff???? idk angst with happy ending!

❀˖°word count: no idea, it goes on for days sorry. (7k!!)

❀˖°warning!: i apologize for any mistakes, i am not a native speaker of english!! if you see any errors you can write me a dm and i will correct them for sure ♡ and i think it gets better later! i can’t write for shi, especially the beginnings, and the second part was fueled by my delulu so it is probably much more fun to read 🤍

•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙ ⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙

You liked days like these: quiet days, lazy ones, when you didn’t have any errands to run, meetings to attend, or people to please. You could just stay inside for the whole day, reading your favorite books and playing cozy games, spending your time however you wanted. Today was Saturday and you didn’t have to go to work until Monday and you decided that you finally deserved to have some rest after the last couple of weeks of almost working yourself to the bone due to the amount of the assingments you had to complete at work. You often had to stay after hours or work from home to complete everything in time. Your work was not usually that challenging, but there were certain times of the year when everyone at your job had their hands full and when it happened, you were almost completely cut off not only from your social, but also personal life. However, you never complained, because you actually liked what you were doing, and even if the occasional hard times were inevitable, your work brought you so much fun and satisfaction.

And today was a good day! You finally finished everything you had to do, so you could go back to your favourite game. You didn’t have time to play recently due to the amount of work, up to the point that you didn’t even bother to check in to grab some stamina. Usually, love&deepspace was an important part of your day - you logged in there at least twice a day, completed every task thrown your way and had a blast doing so, but these couple of weeks were so hard for you that you almost forgot about it completely. But even if you were too busy, you thought about the boys from time to time, as well as about the events that you were probably missing out on. You really hoped that if some new events had taken place during that time, that they did not involve Sylus, because if you had missed them, you would be slightly devastated.

Sylus was your favorite. Ever since the beginning, there was something about him that caught your attention. You downloaded the game after his announcement and haven’t looked back since. You played with other boys as well, but your time with Sylus was always the most memorable. Not only was he extremely attractive in your eyes, as well as the eyes of other players around the world, but you also understood his character, adored his little jokes and mannerisms, and could safely say that he made your life a little more exciting. You knew that it probably sounded lame to someone who didn’t play such games, and you were aware that he wasn’t real, but you enjoyed yourself regardless. In your real life, you had some experience with men and were pretty popular among them; however, you never felt comfortable enough to form more serious romantic relationships.

Here, with Sylus, you didn’t have to worry about such things. You were aware that he was only a game character and maybe that was why you were so honest with him from the very beginning. You knew that he wouldn’t judge you, misstreat you or make you miserable - he was created in a way that was supposed to make your playthrough enjoyable so you didn’t have to worry about your responses in the messages for him or your real life reactions to everything he said or did. You could just be yourself. And you loved how freeing that felt.

That is why you felt so excited ever since you woke up. Because you knew that today you could finally go back to playing l&d, and you could meet up with your Sylus after so much time apart. You quickly did your chores, spent some time on self-care to slightly relieve the fatigue from the weeks before, you put on your favourite cozy outfit and finally clicked the ”enter game” button.

And there he was. Sylus was standing in the cafe, wearing his extremally attractive biker outfit and you caught yourself sighing dreamily at the sight of him. You missed him so bad, you missed the little memories you shared and the sound of his voice. You missed playing kitty cards with him, catching plushies together and even looking for that bastard Tobias again and again. You couldn’t help but smile brightly at him.

“Hi Sylus, you have no idea how happy I am to see you.” You said cheerfully, feeling kind of dumb for it but you couldn’t help yourself. You often talked out loud to him during your playtime.

You watched him blink slowly once, then twice, and you started to think that there was something wrong with the server because his response should have already been uttered. But then the look on his face changed. At first, he appeared really shocked and relieved, but then a little frown appeared between his perfect little eyebrows.

“Where the hell have you been?” He responded quickly and it shocked you. You didn’t know that they could swear in the game, but after connecting some dots you figured that it had to be included in the special responses after the player was away for some time.

“At work mostly, been so busy lately but now I’m back and ready to defeat some Wanderers!!” You fist bumped the air above you, you couldn’t contain your excitement.

You also noticed that his expression stayed the same. He was silent, looking at you through your phone screen with bewilderment, and he looked almost hurt. In an attempt to provide some comfort to him, you swiped your finger gently through his hair and across his cheek. However, when you touched his cheek, he closed his eyes and nuzzled into your finger, which made you widen your eyes in surprise. Was that always a thing? Was he always so responsive to your touch? It had to be a new feature; you didn’t remember him being so lively.

“Next time you decide to leave me without a word, I think I’m going to take more drastic measures, sweetie” He said while opening his eyes. You couldn’t help but notice he did look different than usual. More… realistic? Even the way in which he moved his body looked so smooth.

“If not for Mephisto, I would have worried sick about your safety. You can't do this to me every time you have more work than usual; you have to visit me, even if it's just for a minute. I won't exaggerate when I say that I almost went insane after the first week of your cruel silence” And at that you were completely stunned. Should he talk this much? He never talked this much. And how could he know that you had more work than usual? Was that a lucky guess on the studio’s side?

“That’s so weird…” You whispered and touched his hand to trigger some kind of reaction that would appear more usual than what was happening right now.

“Is that your way of catching me off guard? If you wanted to hold my hand so badly kitten, then you would have visited me sooner. I will not let myself be distracted by your cute little behavior” He raised the hand you touched and crossed his arms at his chest, while continuing to frown. And you were still so, so confused.

“Promise me that you won’t leave me again, I know where to find you now.” You raised your eyebrows and bit your lip gently. You started to feel a little bit out of place, you knew that he was not real, but he sounded kind of scary. His voice was demanding, and the part about him finding you? You shivered involuntarily.

“What happened? Cat got your tongue, kitten? Or did you finally understood the selfishness of your actions?” Sylus continued and you opened your mouth in awe. “Promise. Me.” He said slowly, his gaze unnerving. Suddenly you heard a series of loud caws outside on your balcony. The sound made you jump in place, and you dropped your phone on your bed. Was that a freaking crow?? Outside your apartament???

You quickly picked up your phone and cursed softly. You were going insane. You got scared just because the game had an update you did not know about. You almost wanted to laugh at how stupid that was. Almost. Because Sylus walked up to the front of your phone screen and spoke to you again.

“Why are you hesitating? Are you really planning to leave me again?” You swore you never heard him so hurt.

“No!” You said before you could think.

“No?” He answered immediately, which scared the hell out of you. “I am not sure I believe you. And I can’t stand it. I can’t stand being away from you anymore.” He took two steps back and closed his eyes.

That was when the game crashed. Your phone appeared to be broked too, after the colourful lines appeared on the screen, flickered a couple of times and the whole screen turned black. You threw the device away from you and your heart started beating so fast you could hear the blood pulsing in your ears. You were so confused and genuinely scared. Was there an update that switched the genre of the game to horror? You were stunned.

And then you heard the knock.

You almost jumped out of your slippers. You brought your hand to your heart in order to calm yourself down and you started taking slow, deep breaths. It’s just a game. It’s just a game. Besides, how did Sylus, of all people, managed to scare you so badly? You adored that character, and you should know that he was prone not only to exaggeration, but also to intimidating behavior. That was literally one of his characteristics. So you forced yourself to calm down and opened the damn door, because it was probably either a mailman, or one of your friendly neighbors, and here you were making a scene like some kind of a delusional psychopath.

One. Two. Three.

You opened the door, and at first all you could see was a huge cloud of black mist. You closed your eyes in order to keep the mist from clouding your vision and then you felt wind pushing you gently further into your apartament. You heard the door close and the sound of the key turning in the lock. Everything happened so fast. And when you opened your eyes your knees almost buckled.

Sylus.

Sylus was all you could see. He was standing in front of you, in your own apartament, looking so out of place that you wanted to laugh. The first thing that you noticed about him was that he was huge, you couldn’t really see past him, and the more you looked at him, the more real he appeared to be. Soft-looking silver hair, rugged skin, that perfect nose and those piercing eyes. They looked into yours now, and at first they seemed to be searching for something, and after one quick second they visibly softened. You could also see how his handsome, oh so handsome mouth started to display his signature little smirk. And that was when you started to tremble.

“W-wha—” You tried to say something, anything but your mouth was not working. You have never been so confused and scared in your entire life. “Who—W-who are—” He was starting to close the distance between you and that is when the panic finally took over your body. You flinched and went to take a step back, but you slipped on your soft carpet.

Yet you didn’t fall. You felt the gentle caress of the mist that managed to caught you before you hit the ground, and it streightened your posture so that now you stood tall in front of the man.

“Careful kitten, I do not think that falling on four feet applies to you.” He spoke out loud for the first time and the voice was so familiar to you. It was the same, deep, husky timbre that you loved to hear, the same voice that made you squeal in happiness, that lulled you to sleep countless of times. You couldn’t believe it.

“Oh my god, am I dead?” He laughed softly at your reaction and looked at you through his lashes. “This can’t be happening.”

“Oh but it is. I knew that I would find my way to you, I just needed time.” He said and tried to close the distance between you, but you didn’t let him. Every step forward he took, you took one back. “It was so hard to find you. But after you disappeared without saying a word I think I got desperate.” Something flashed in his eyes. You recognized it as determination.

He stopped walking when he noticed that you were getting too close to the balcony. He straightened his posture, and you almost released a gasp. He was huge. And he was real. Alive and so, so real, that you had trouble breathing. You were so scared, but at the same time, so happy to see him, that your body didn’t know how it should react. You just looked at him, taking him in, trying to assess whether it wasn’t your mind playing tricks on you, or if it wasn’t some random man breaking into your apartment and your brain had created a new, fantastic defense mechanism. But no, the longer you took him in, the more similarities you managed to notice: the scar in the corner of his eye, his unevenly clipped fingernails, strong but dry hands, olive skin, slim lips, long, slightly furrowed eyebrows. The not-so-hidden gentleness in his gaze as he was taking you in himself.

“It’s really you.” You managed to breathe out.

“You’re so beautiful.” He answered and his voice was slowly starting to make you feel these familiar butterflies. “So, so magnificent.” He continued. You felt your cheeks heat up and he seemed to drink that reaction in. “Will you talk to me more? You sound angelic. I did not think that you could sound even better than you did through the phone but I guess you will never fail to surprise me, sweetheart.” He did not move an inch. He just looked at you, and you still didn’t know how to react, but you were slowly coming to terms with the fact that it was not a weird dream. He was here and he didn’t appear to have bad intentions. At least you wanted to believe that.

“You’re still trembling. Are you really that scared of me?” He pressed his lips into a line.

“I’m sorry. I just… I’m just not sure what is happening. I had no idea you were… real.” He laughed softly at that.

“You wound me, kitten. Is that your way of unleashing your little claws?” He continued with a small smile on his lips and you couldn’t take it. He looked… stressed. And you thought that was new for him. You spend so many hours playing with him in l&d but you have never seen him so stressed.

Everything that came out of his mouth was slow and precise, not a word was spoken without a purpose. However you could see by his appearance that he was uncertain.

“Of course I’m real. And all the time we spent together is real too. Was it so wrong of me to expect that you would be at least a little bit happier to see me?” He was starting to look hurt. But not angry, not displeased. More concerned than anything, and that was when most of your worries started to disappear. He was your Sylus. He really was.

“I am happy to see you. I really am.” You said truthfully, the fear slowly dissolving. “What are you doing here? How did it happen?”

“When you left me, I was worried to death. I had to come see that you were alright for myself.” He said, not taking his eyes off of you. “I found a path between our worlds, and first I sent Mephisto after you. And that was how I knew you were fine, just busy.” He started explaining slowly and put two fingers at the bridge of his nose. This gesture was so familiar that you felt a slight pang in your chest. “Which l understand. But you stopped visiting completely and I panicked that I lost you. And that you lost your interest in me. And when you logged in today I guess I just lost control over myself.”

“I had to see you. I had to feel you. I needed to know that you will never leave me like that again. But how could I be so sure if you thought I was not real, sweetie?” His voice carried a hint of a ridicule. He smirked slowly and you allowed yourself to relax. You spend so much time with him on your phone, that you knew when he really needed reassurance. And it was the first time you saw him being so honest about his own feelings.

You decided to step closer to him and his eyes widened slightly. His body tightened because of the sudden change in proximity, and when you gently touched his hand bringing it to your mouth, he appeared to be rendered speechless.

“I would never leave you, Sy. At least not without saying goodbye first. You are my safe space, remember?” You said quietly and smiled at him brightly, reminding him of what you had written in your game bio. And then you brought his knuckles to your lips and placed a soft kiss upon them. His hands were much warmer than you expected them to be. They felt harsh, but gentle.

The next thing you heard was a soft grunt and you felt yourself being suddenly lifted in the air. You yelped and found yourself pressed against his big, solid chest. Sylus hugged your body to his by wrapping both of his arms around your torso, and when he realized that you weren’t comfortable, he put one hand under your thighs and brought your body to his by your waist. You let your arms wrap around his neck and squeezed, and he buried his head in the crook of your neck. You heard him inhale your scent and his breath became rigged, as if he could not contain his excitement. You also became familiar with his scent. He smelled so manly and comforting, you could catch some notes of wood and leather, and something surprisingly sweet.

“You smell divine. You’re so soft, so warm.” He breathed against your neck and you felt goosebumps spreading throughout your whole body. You were so embarrassed, you felt like you needed to release some tension.

“I did not expect you to be so open with me. You’re usually the teasing type.” He chucked deeply and put his forehead against yours, while closing his eyes. Your cheeks burned. You couldn’t believe it wasn’t a dream.

“There will be a time for teasing you, kitten.” He rubbed his forehead against yours slowly. “Right now let me enjoy you for a bit. I can’t believe I finally got to see you.” He squeezed you harder to him. You reciprocated the hug with all you had. You were actually kind of scared that your grip was too hard, but he seemed to bask in it. “Communicating through that small device was not nearly enough for me. I could always see you and I heard your little responses to everything I was saying. But it took me some time to figure out how to change some things up.” Your eyes went wide at the mention of your reactions, you knew that a lot of times there were beyond embarrassing, but you decided your blush to speak for itself. But what truly caught your attention was how he managed to appear in your home.

“Change things up?? You must have made such a mess, will it really be okay?” The concern in your voice made him look up and find your eyes with his. You were now looking at his beautiful red ones, so full of adoration and determination. You could see that the consequences of his actions did not matter to him at all.

“Sweetie, I would gladly burn the world down for you, even if it meant that I could see you just once.” You swallowed audibly and proceeded to shy away from his piercing gaze. You started to feel unworthy of such attention, you couldn’t quite grasp what exactly made him care about you to such extend. “Fortunately for everyone, the process did not involve starting an intergalactic war.” He smirked slowly, his eyes finding your lips and staying there for much longer than necessary. “Yet.”

You chuckled at that and proceeded to bury your fingers in his hair, stroking the strands with care. They were so soft to the touch, they reminded you of silk. He closed his eyes and let you touch him to your heart’s content. Your hand quickly found its way to his forehead, and then to his cheek, stroking the skin delicately. You couldn’t believe how someone so handsome could really exist.

“See something you like, kitten?” He said and nuzzled into your palm, pressing a kiss right there. “You will have all the time in the world to touch me when we arrive in the N109 Zone.” He seemed so peaceful, so content with himself, but the mention of the N109 Zone stopped you in your tracks. You tensed visibly and he opened his eyes, noticing the change in your posture.

“The N109 Zone?” You asked puzzled. “Are you taking me away for a weekend?” You took your hand from his face and he used his Evol to bring it back to his cheek. The mist around your fingers felt weird, but not unpleasant.

“For a weekend? No, no.” He locked his eyes with yours, his head slowly closing the distance between you. He licked his lips and looked at your mouth once again. “I am taking you away for forever.” And before his lips managed to touch yours, you flinched. Your hands quickly pushed him away and the panic returned to your features.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I meant what I said. Pack your bags if you believe there is something that I cannot provide for you quickly enough, and we will be off shortly.” He said matter of factly, kind of annoyed by the distance you decided to put between you. “Luke and Kieran have already prepared a room for you, although I think that you will have more than enough space for your belongings in mine.” His eyes brightened with excitement that you unfortunately could not share. Instead, you lightly pushed his torso, making him lower you to the ground grudgingly. His brows were once again furrowed.

“I can’t go with you Sylus. At least, not for forever”

“You can. We can stay together for the rest of our lives and no one would have any objections. I took care of everything.” He reached to grab your forearm and stroked it softly with his thumb. He was so sure of everything he was saying that you could feel how much he let himself get lost in his fantasy. It did make you feel wanted, loved even. But no matter how happy you were that he was real, and apparently shared your feelings, you couldn’t agree to his plan.

“No, Sylus. I need to stay here, I have built my whole life in this place.” You could feel how much your words shocked him. He was looking at you so puzzled as if he didn’t think that you declining his offer was even an option. “I can’t leave everything that I managed to achieve, I really am content with my life, despite how complicated it can be.” You said truthfully. A part of you wanted to go with him, to feel safe and cherished for, for the rest of your life but you knew that was not realistic. You wanted to achieve more, you wanted to have your own life and your own space. You needed to be independent, to feel that you were perfectly capable of caring for yourself and your own needs.

“I do not understand. Don’t you want to be with me?” It pained you how quickly he jumped to that conclusion. And you hated the look on his face - it made you feel like you were betraying him.

”I do want to! Oh my god— I really, really do want to Sylus. I don’t think that I can live without spending time with you anymore.” You smiled at him, and took hold of his huge, rugged hand. “But I can’t live with you in the N109 Zone. I can’t leave my whole life behind.” And the fact that he wanted to make you do that somewhat scared you. Made you feel distressed.

“I see.” He sounded deep in thought. Then, he broke the eye contact for a second, looked at his hand in your hold and before you could even react, he grabbed your body gently with his Evol and picked you up. Your whole body was above ground and although you felt secured, you looked at him with surprise.

“What are you doing?” You wanted to get free from the hold of the mist, but it was impossible with how tight it was. “Sylus, you have to let me go.” You tried not to panic, you knew that you weren’t in danger. But he looked relentless, unforgiving as if his mind was already set in stone.

“No. I can’t. Not now when I finally got to have you.” He looked up at you, with his eyebrows still furrowed, and you could hear a hint of a growl in his voice. “If you do not wish to go with me, I guess I would have to take you by force.”

It was then that you felt a sense of panic. You knew him, and you knew that if he wants something, he always gets it. It just did not cross your mind that he would ever go against your own wishes.

“No. No, no, no, Sylus, please calm down.” He narrowed his eyes and stood motionless before you, his face devoid of almost any emotion. Almost, if not for the desperation shining through his watchful eyes. “You cannot take me away. At least not for now. But I will do anything you ask me to! You can also stay here for some time, and visit me whenever you want to, I swear, I would be so happy to have you.” You just needed him to listen. You knew that you could change his mind, he always listened to what you had to say, he just needed a little bit of persuasion. Maybe he didn’t even think about alternative options?

“And I would make you happy in the N109 Zone with me.” You laughed with disbelief. He was completely missing your point. You decided to once again yank your hands from the grasp of his mist, and then hissed with pain when it did not loosen up its hold. “Your struggle is futile, please stop, I do not wish for you to get hurt.” He was annoyed with you and your disobedience. He did not think that you would have any objections, he started loosing his cool.

“You would never let me get hurt.” You answered, wanting to assure yourself of it as well. You didn’t like how commanding he sounded.

“Yes.” There was no doubt in his voice. “Yes, you know I would stop at nothing to protect you.” His gaze never wavered from yours. He truly thought that what he was doing was for the best. And you just had to let him know how wrong his approach was.

“Yes! Yes I do know that! Because I know you, Sy.” You started to sound as if you were pleading. Deep down it scared you, send uncomfortable shivers down your spine. “I know you, and I know that you also know me.”

He placed his hand on his heart.

“And I adore every single piece of information. And I still wish to know you much, much better.” You tensed when you noticed that his right eye was starting to glow. You did not know if that was intentional, or just a trick of the light.

“Then you MUST know how much this life means to me. How much I like my stupid job, and how much I love the people that are here for me. My friends, my family.” You noticed that your reasoning started to get to him when he clenched his fists and avoided your eyes for a second. “And you have to know how much it would hurt me if you were to take me away from them.” He appeared taken aback. It seemed that his longing for you clouded his judgement, and now he started to notice the faults in his plan.

“But I cannot stand to be apart from you anymore, sweetie.” In normal circumstances that would be so touching to you. But nothing about this situation was normal, and you guessed you just had to show him how normal looked like.

“You won’t be. You can visit me anytime you want. Stay for how long you want.” You wanted that too. So bad.

“But that is not ENOUGH.” It was the first time you heard his raised voice and you started to tremble. His outburst must’ve thrown him off guard too, because he wavered and the grip he had on you loosed. You acted instinctively. You freed yourself from the mist and started to run towards your door. And although he was stunned by your reaction, he quickly teleported so that you ran straight into his chest. His hands grabbed yours in order to protect you from falling due to the impact.

He gently caressed your now slightly red forehead and sighed loudly. You could hear that he was hurt. You cried out from frustration.

“If you really thought that you could run away from me then you must be a total fool.” He tucked your hair behind your ear and lifted your chin up with his finger. “Usually I like playing cat and mouse with you, but I do not like the fact that you appear genuinely scared of me right now.” He hugged your waist and brought you closer to him, lowering his head at the same time. “And that you tried to run away from me when I only want to offer you my protection.”

“It doesn’t sound like protection, it sounds like imprisonment.” You used strong words, but you sounded so small. You did not know what to do with him, you were so scared. ”I’m just scared. I tried to run away because you scared me, Sylus.” You sounded desperate for him to understand you. To look past his own clouded vision.

“You do not have to fear me. I just want what is best for you. For us.” His grip on your waist tightened, and he also proceeded to grab your wrist.

“No. You only want what is best for you. You are not listening to me. I do care about you Sylus, but I cannot leave this place.” You tried to stand your ground but you two never argued before. It was an unfamiliar ground to you, especially when it was the first time that you had a conversation in person. Everything felt more intense and dangerous when you remembered the extreme measures he was always willing to take to achieve his goals.

“You can. And I will make you leave.” He almost growled and a cloud of black and red mist surrounded both of you, and that was enough to bring tears into your eyes.

”Sylus, no, please, I don’t want to. Please, just listen to me, please.” And it was at that moment he started to came into his senses. Your quiet voice and your eyes full of tears made his breathing stop. It was the first time he was seeing you react like this. He hated how broken you sounded. How small. “I’m so scared, Sy, please stop scaring me.” Your voice sounded choked and you could feel that the tears started streaming down your face. Every single one physically hurt him. It was your first meeting and he already made you so miserable. He wanted to scream. “Please.” You tried once again and it shocked you that it finally worked on him.

He tensed and released you from his grip. The mist also dissipated as he took a step back from you. You could hear him breathing deeply.

“I cannot do this." He sounded panicked. “I did not want to scare you, and I cannot listen to your little broken pleas. They break my heart.” He hidden his face in his hands and curled in himself. He felt as if someone pierced his heart with a knife and twisted it. He could not bring himself to look at your beautiful heartbroken face again. “They really do. Please, just stop crying. You won.”

You sniffed softly and touched your wet cheeks. You tried to calm yourself down, he finally listened to you.

“It does not feel so good this time for some reason.” You answered, referring to your Kitty Card battles. You wanted to relieve the tension somehow. You knew that he didn’t want to hurt you, you understand that he lives in a different reality where danger awaits everywhere. You could understand why he wanted to have you beside him at all times. But it scared you how insistent he was, how brutal and final. “Do you really understand why I got so scared?”

He nodded helplessly. “I won’t steal you away. Not when I know how much you despise the idea of spending the rest of your time with me.” You noticed how hard he was pressing his hands to his face and you grabbed them in your own. He let you uncover his eyes and you saw how much it hurt him to let you go.

“Oh, Sy.” You whispered and hugged his hands to your chest. “You know that’s not the reason.”

“Stop calling me that. It drives me crazy.” He breathed and met your eyes. “You drive me crazy. What am I going to do with you? How can I make sure you are safe now?” You took his hands and made him follow you into your bedroom. You sat on your bed and urged him to do the same. This way you could finally talk with him more comfortably.

“Sylus, we have to talk about it.” You squeezed his hands and he looked at yours and took notice of how much smaller they were in comparison to his. So fragile, so breakable. He couldn’t stand it. His whole body longed to protect you. “I do not despise the idea of spending my time with you. I just can’t randomly leave everything I know and love. And this world is different from the one you know, we have our dangers but no one wants my head.” You explained to him slowly. “There are no Wanderers. No protocores.” He looked conflicted.

“I already know that sweetheart. I do. But when you disappeared for such a long time I couldn’t help but think that something bad happened to you” he gritted through his teeth. “I nearly lost my mind looking for you everywhere. It was terrifying, that thought in my mind and the idea that I would never have another chance to speak with you. To see you.” He touched your forearms and brought you a little closer to him. “And when Mephisto found you safe and sound I thought that I never want to feel that fear, that helplessness again. And the only way to do that is to keep you beside me at all times. To guard you with my own body and soul.” He took your hand and rested it on his chest. You could feel the fast and steady rhythm of his heart. You could feel his desperation, his complete devotion. And it almost made you tear up.

“I-I’m so sorry that I made you worry this much.” He studied your face with intention and you shake your head. “But I didn’t even know that you were real. I really thought it was just a game that made me feel less alone and now…” You swallowed audibly. “Now I know that everything I built with you during our time together was very much real and I’m still having trouble to wrap my head around it to be honest.” You smiled at him softly and he nodded with understanding.

“And then you came in and wanted to kidnap me to a world much more dangerous than mine where I do not have my close ones and—”

“I did NOT mean for that to be a kidnapping I though that you shared my sentiment, and also wanted to spend some time—”

“SOME time?? Sylus you wanted me to switch literal worlds and live with you in your freaking villa in the middle of nowhere—”

“I live in an apartment that has a fantastic location, mind you, and you would feel so comfortable in—”

”Apartament??? You cannot possibly be a freaking leader of Onychinus and live in an apartment complex, are you being serious with me right now??”

“Have you ever heard of a saying that the darkest place is under the candlestick, kitten? Besides there is no one in the whole N109 Zone that would pose an actual threat to me—” He cut off when he met your eyes full of laughter, and then he heard that beautiful sound. You burst into giggles right in front of him and you touched him by the bicep and brought his forehead to yours. He couldn’t help but chuckle too, understanding the absurdity of the situation. Feeling your forehead against his, hearing your adorable chuckles and inhaling your sweet scent made him feel so at peace that he closed his eyes to embrace the moment completely. He couldn’t believe that he almost ruined your relationship by being so selfish.

“I missed this. This back and forth with you” You said and he chucked deeply. “I really am happy to see you, Sy. And I swear that we will be able to talk and spent time with each other more often now. And actually see each other in person.” He nuzzled into your face more and you caught his smirk by the corner of your eye. “We can stay in touch at all times, so that you won’t have to worry about my safety so much.”

“So bossy, kitten.” He answered, but the small smile did not leave his face. He couldn’t make it go away even if he tried. “Forgive me for scaring you earlier. I was not thinking straight. I was just so elated to finally have you in my arms that I let my selfishness get the best of me, and for that I’m sorry. I did not want to ruin our first meeting, sweetie.” You hugged him by bringing your arms around his chest and he closed his eyes drinking in the proximity. You were too small, too adorable, too attractive for him to take it. Too honest. Too lovable. Made just for him to adore. To protect.

“You did not ruin anything.” You said into his shirt, hugging him tighter. “I understand you, Sylus. And I like you a little selfish if it means that’s what brought you to me” He smiled into your hair and reluctantly let go of your fragile frame. He touched your chin and delicately lifted your face up to face him. His eyes were once again drinking you in, committing every single one of your features to his memory. He sighed contentedly.

“Selfishness was not the reason of my visit.” You could see how his eyes softened and you felt your chest squeeze. You brushed his cheek, loving the way how he seemed to relish in your touch. His eyes wandered to your lips: pink, plump and so inviting. “Adoration was. The complete love and devotion that I have felt for you for quite some time now.” You gasped quietly and opened your lips slightly, which didn’t go unnoticed by him.

“Sy—”

“And I guess a little emotional push was what made me finally find my way to you, my beloved.” He half-whispered, leaned in, and pressed his lips to yours, locking you in a sweet, passionate kiss that went on and on, seeming to deepen with every minute you spent in his embrace.

*˚⁺‧͙ ⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*

[demie90s]

To My Bed

Player!Paige Bueckers x fem!reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Paige Bueckers is a walking campus legend—basketball royalty, player-certified, and too fine for her own good. She can pull anybody… except you.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: slow-burn, college AU, smut, power play, tension, seduction, fluff with a sharp edge

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SMUT. Sub!reader, dom!Paige, teasing, oral (f receiving), mild obsession, cursing, fingering, overstimulation, strap (later), praise/degradation

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ~ 5.6k

The first time Paige looked at me like that, we were in the same building but not the same world. She was walking out of the athletic center with a duffel half-zipped, surrounded by two girls I recognized from social media—the ones who always hung off her shoulder like a fresh tattoo. Laughing too loud. Touching too much.

She clocked me standing by the vending machine, hoodie on, AirPods in, tapping my student ID against the scanner like I didn’t feel her eyes. But I did. I always do.

There was a pause in her step. One beat. Like something about me cracked her rhythm. I didn’t even glance up. I just pulled out my water, turned, and walked off like I hadn’t just caught the attention of Paige Bueckers.

Everybody knew who she was. Star player. Big ego. Bigger following. Blonde, tall, the kind of white girl that looked good in team sweats and gold jewelry. And yeah, she was fine. But I didn’t care. Not really. Because girls like her didn’t surprise me.

She was a story I’d read before—multiple times. Pretty cover, predictable ending.

That’s the difference between me and her little fan club. They saw her and got starry-eyed. I saw her and kept walking. And maybe that’s what set me apart. Or maybe I just looked like a challenge.

Whatever it was, Paige started popping up. At the coffee shop I studied in. At the library where I liked the third floor because it was quiet. Once, she sat across from me in the dining hall—uninvited—grinning with a milkshake like we were on a date.

“You gone give me a chance?” she asked one day, her voice low, smooth. Like the answer was already yes.

I looked at her, finally—full eye contact, nothing playful in my tone. “All these bitches and you want me? Girl, go head on.”

She blinked, like she wasn’t expecting that. Then she smiled. It was slow, amused, and a little dangerous. “Exactly.”

I went back to my notes.

It kept happening. Her showing up. Me brushing her off. Her trying again. The thing about Paige is she didn’t know how to lose. And she hated that I wasn’t folding.

She tried being cute. Then she tried being smooth. Then she tried acting like she didn’t care. But I’d catch her watching me from across the room, chewing her lip, pretending she wasn’t thinking about it. And I wasn’t blind. I knew what she wanted. She wanted to fuck. That was it. She was curious. Intrigued. Maybe even obsessed. But she didn’t know me. Didn’t know what kind of person she was chasing.

I wasn’t a prize you flexed. I was the kind of win you keep quiet. So I kept saying no.

Finals week turned the whole campus into a quiet warzone. People were crying in stairwells, sleeping on keyboards, praying in vending machine lights. I was locked in on a neuroscience exam, hoodie up, noise-canceling headphones on, half a Celsius and three highlighters deep. My laptop was glowing, my notes color-coded, and I had just hit a mental groove when I felt a disturbance in the force.

A very blonde, loud, blue-eyed disturbance.

“Bro,” someone whispered two tables over.

“Oh my god,” another said. “Is that Paige Bueckers?”

I didn’t look up. I already knew. Three months. That’s how long she’d been on this. And I mean on this. Me. Chasing me like I was a championship ring. Her little hoes had been whispering about it for weeks now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Who tf is she?” one of them had asked in the student center, all attitude and edge control.

“Cool the tone,” I said, not even blinking. “Cause I’m the wrong one.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That was the end of that. But Paige? She didn’t end. She kept showing up. Kept calling out. Kept smiling like I wasn’t already ten rejections deep.

Today though…She broke the damn library. Her sneakers squeaked across the linoleum before the door even shut behind her.

“MISS BUECKERS,” Mrs. Monroe snapped before Paige could get past the security gate. “This is a quiet floor!”

“Hush, Karol with a K,” Paige said without missing a beat, “I’m fighting for love.”

A few people giggled. Others gasped. I was fighting the urge to throw my damn textbook.

“Paige!” someone hissed. “Ignore her, Mrs. Monroe!” But Paige didn’t stop.

“GIVE ME A CHANCE AND I’LL STOP YELLING!” she shouted into the silence. “I PROMISE!”

“Paige—”

“KAROL SHUSH ME ONE MORE TIME I SWEAR TO GOD—”

I slammed my laptop shut, stood up slow, and marched toward her like a damn mother on Parent-Teacher Conference day. Paige opened her mouth to say something else, but I grabbed her arm mid-sentence and yanked. Grip tight. Firm. A warning.

The whole library paused like I’d pulled a fire alarm. Paige followed, stunned but grinning.

“My bad,” she muttered as I dragged her toward the exit. “But also… not.”

She was warm under my fingers. Strong. Her bicep flexed against my palm as I pulled her through the doors, and yeah… okay. She felt good. Built like sex in a Nike tee. But I didn’t let it show.

Outside, she shook her arm loose and laughed, like I hadn’t just embarrassed the hell out of both of us.

“You mad?”

“I’m studying.”

“I’m confessing.”

I glared. “You’re embarrassing.”

She stepped closer. Just a little. “You like me though.” I tilted my head. Calm. Flat. “I’m not sure I do.”

She smiled again. That slow, cocky Paige Bueckers smile like she knew something I didn’t. But she had no idea. I’d been celibate for months. Saving every ounce of want. Not just for anyone—for this.

She was still smiling like a fool when I let go of her arm.

“…You gonna give me a chance?” Her voice dropped, like whispering made it sweeter. It didn’t.

Then—louder. “I’LL KEEP YELL—”

“Oh my god, shut the hell up,” I snapped, fed up, absolutely done with the dramatics, finals, and her fine-ass breath in my face.

“Fine.” It was like the world froze. Like the campus paused to blink.

Her eyes widened, lips parting like she hadn’t expected that to actually work. Three months of showing out, begging, performing—and all it took was me getting genuinely annoyed and giving in.

Before I could regret it, Paige leaned in quick and kissed my cheek. Just a light press. Soft. Like she didn’t wanna scare it off now that she finally got it.

And then she turned and left. Walked off with her dumb little swagger, hands in her pockets like she hadn’t just hit the biggest win of her damn career.

I stood there blinking . Still a little warm on my cheek. Still a little mad. Still a little… intrigued. That bitch really kissed me and walked away. She was lucky I didn’t call her back. She was even luckier I wanted to.

The Next Day

I should’ve known better than to think I’d have the day to myself.

It was Saturday. Finals were frying everybody’s brain cells, so I figured I’d get a little peace. Hood up, sweats on, playlist low, incense burning. I was stretched across my bed, phone in one hand, journal in the other, halfway between a nap and pretending to care about my to-do list.

Then I heard it.

Knock knock knock knock knock.

Loud. Disrespectful. I didn’t move. Maybe if I ignored it, it’d go away.

“Open up!” a voice called through the door, too familiar, too bold. “I know you home. Don’t be fake now, we made progress!”

I sighed hard. “Paige…”

“Come on, baby. Don’t act new.”

A pause.

“I said what I said yesterday and meant it! You remind me of—of something real! Something soulful!” she yelled through the door like we were in a music video. “I just don’t know what it is yet! That’s what make it special!”

I opened the door before she started harmonizing.

She stood there in sweats and a crop top, curls loose, one dimple deep as hell from how hard she was smiling. Like she wasn’t a walking red flag who got curved a hundred times before I finally gave in.

“What?” I deadpanned.

“You just my type,” she said instantly. “Everything just right.”

I tried to close the door.

She slid her foot in like a damn action movie. “Okay-okay-okay! I’m sorry. I’m just sayin’, like… let me make it up to you. Let me make you feel good.”

I raised a brow. “You came to my door quoting Kid Ink and Chris Brown?”

“They made points.”

“You’re a problem.”

“Maybe,” she grinned, stepping inside uninvited. “But I’m your problem now, right?”

I didn’t answer. She didn’t need me to.

She walked in like she lived there. Took one look around my room, nodded like she approved, then turned back to me with that same wild confidence that got her in trouble every time.

“Look,” she said, quieter now, “I know you think I’m just tryna fuck. But I’m tryna earn it. Swear to God. No funny shit.”

“You still a hoe in my head,” I said, arms crossed.

She walked closer.

“But I only want you right now.” Her eyes dropped, voice low. “Don’t care who I came with. Don’t care what they saying. I’m not even touching anybody else. Not since you told me ‘fine.’”

I blinked. She wasn’t lying. I could see it on her face—her usual cocky smirk was replaced with something else. Hunger. Patience. That itch people get when they need something. And suddenly I realized… she wasn’t chasing me just to fuck.

She wanted to feel.

“Paige,” I warned, but it came out soft. Too soft.

She tilted her head, voice husky. “Let me put your panties to the side.”

I shoved her shoulder hard, but she caught my wrist. Gently.

“Don’t play with me,” I muttered.

“I’m not,” she said. “I’ll work for it. You want slow? I’ll be slow. You want silence? I’ll whisper. Just don’t lock me out again. You already live in my head—I’m just tryna be where you at.”

Damn.

I hated how good she smelled. How warm her fingers felt on mine. How badly I’d been pretending I didn’t want this too.

So I said nothing. She kissed my cheek again. Slower this time.

I expected her to flirt. Maybe sit on the edge of my bed and keep running that smooth little mouth of hers. What I didn’t expect was for Paige Bueckers—basketball legend, loudmouth, fuckgirl extraordinaire—to freeze, blink at me like she forgot how to breathe, then run.

I mean sprint. Straight down the hall, out the building like she just got subbed into the fourth quarter with ten seconds left and no fouls to give.

“I’LL BE RIGHT BACK! WAIT THERE!”

“Paige, stop yelling!”

She ignored me. Straight up ignored me like I hadn’t just opened my door in boxers and a bonnet looking confused. The hallway echoed with her footsteps, then silence.

I sighed. Locked the door. Sat back on my bed.

Three minutes passed. Four. Five. I rolled my eyes, ready to call her dramatic and block her until graduation. But then I heard it.

Footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Getting louder.

Knock knock knock—

I yanked the door open before her hand landed. She was standing there, out of breath, hair slightly wind-blown, and her arm cocked back like she was about to knock the life out of me.

“Hit it if you want to.”

Her eyes jumped. She looked like a kid caught throwing a rock through a window. “…I wasn’t. I was joking.”

I looked down. She was holding flowers. Not some gas station bundle either. Tulips. My tulips.

Pink, orange, yellow—bright and loud like her. I couldn’t even hide it. My face softened. All that irritation melted into quiet surprise.

“You…” I started, then stopped. “How’d you even—”

“You said it once,” she shrugged, sheepish now. “Back in March. You was mad cause someone stepped on a tulip bed by the rec center. Called ‘em dumb as hell.”

I blinked. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything about you,” she said, lifting the bouquet up like an offering. “Now can I come in… or you still mad?”

I took the flowers. Held them to my chest without thinking.

“You still a hoe,” I mumbled.

She grinned. “A hoe with a heart.”

I stared at her. At the girl who sprinted through campus for flowers just to impress someone who didn’t even text back. And I almost told her to come inside.

But I didn’t say a word. I just stepped back. Left the door open. She walked in quiet for the first time ever.

I tried. I swear I tried.

I held out for months. Closed legs, closed DMs, closed door. I stayed strong when she flirted in public, when she begged on FaceTime, when she said she was having dreams and waking up mad at me for not letting her taste.

But a bitch has limits. She wore mine down like waves on rock.

It was a Thursday. I had dinner with my girls—good food, good laughs, one little glass of wine, and the entire time my phone was lighting up like I was somebody’s emergency contact. And in a way? I guess I was.

P: Wyd

P: Hello?

P: I’m bored

P: Can I come over?

P: Lemme eyp

P: Please

Lemme eyp.

Eight letters that made me sit up straighter than the cocktail I was sipping. Eat the cat? For free? Hell yeah. But I kept cool. I let her text. Let her beg. She was in her digital hoe era—no punctuation, no shame. ADHD in message form.

I answered once, just to give her a crumb.

Me: please stop. (translation: don’t stop get it get it)

P: Please. 5 minutes. 2 max 😊

Such a damn hoe. I bit back a smile. Put my phone away. And didn’t reply the rest of the night. But I knew. Ouu child, I knew.

By the time I got home, I had already cleaned up, lit a candle, slipped into my little pajama set like I was going to bed. I wasn’t. I laid on my back, phone in hand, finally ready to text her “come thru”—and right as I typed the C in “come,” there was a knock knock knock at the damn door.

I stared. Because what the actual fuck. I opened it and she was there. Breathless. Giddy. Bouncing on her toes like she just got drafted again.

“What if I was asleep?” I asked, not moving.

“You weren’t,” she grinned. Then she scooped me. I mean full lift-off, bridal carry. Walked right in, door shut behind us like she rehearsed it.

I squirmed a little, caught between turned-on and annoyed. “Damn, you excited.”

“You have no idea,” she muttered, already carrying me to bed. “I’m going through withdrawal. I need this.”

“Girl calm down,” I muttered, but I was lowkey melting.

“Take them shorts off.”

I blinked. “Damn, I had a good night. Thanks for asking.”

She leaned down, voice a whisper now, against my ear. “…Take them fucking shorts off.”

My body moved before I could argue. She watched me like I was holy. Like she studied this moment. Like this was the final exam after a full semester of chasing. The way she looked at me made me nervous. Not scared—nervous. Like she could see through my front. Like she knew I needed this just as bad.

I laid back, tried to relax. And she opened my legs so gently it made me shiver. Kissed my inner thigh once. Twice. Then looked up at me like she was about to change my whole belief system.

She devoured me like it was instinct. Like she dreamed about this. Trained for this. Studied it like a playbook and came hungry to the exam.

Tongue first—broad and flat, dragging up slow like she needed to taste everything before she focused in. Then lips. Hot and open and wrapped around my clit like she meant it. Not soft, not hesitant—like her mouth belonged there. And I swear, it was like my body recognized her before I could even moan.

My hand went straight to the back of her head. Not to push her off—hell no. To pull her closer. I didn’t want distance. I wanted pressure. I wanted her in it. She licked again and I swear, my thighs twitched on instinct.

And then she started sucking.

Deep. Rhythmic. Like she was sipping out of a damn smoothie cup and I was the last drop.

I couldn’t even pretend to stay quiet. My mouth fell open, breath hitching, moans slipping out broken and desperate. Eyes fluttering, rolling back, but I couldn’t close them—couldn’t stop looking down at her between my legs, locked in like she was starving.

And the sounds.

The wet. The slurp. The way her mouth kept catching and dragging, those soft growls vibrating straight through my core like she couldn’t help herself. Like her body needed it too. I tried to move, tried to shift back just a little because it was too good—but she reached up fast and grabbed my wrists, held them in her hands like anchors, and pulled me down.

Pulled me into her face.

She moaned right against me like she was thanking God and I was the prayer. And yeah, it was lowkey cute. Her holding my hands. Locking fingers like we was in love or something. But I didn’t care about the sentiment. I was too busy falling apart.

Eventually, she came up for air. Lips shiny. Eyes wild. And I thought maybe she was done, maybe I was safe. But nope.

She stood up, slow and smug, then lifted me like I was light. One arm under my back, one under my knees. Placed me higher in the bed like I was royalty she was repositioning to be worshipped properly.

Then she pulled off her shirt.

Left in nothing but her sports bra. Abs flexed, face flushed, lips parted. I was already shaking and she hadn’t even touched me again. She climbed onto the bed and got low—slid down my body without ever breaking eye contact.

She looked so fine moving like that. Focused. Possessed.

And then she laid down. Flat on her stomach. Arms wrapped around my thighs, pulling me over her face like she was setting the table. I let my legs spread and she dove back in—no hesitation. Tongue faster this time, more precise, and I was already close again.

I squirmed, hips jerking, but she kept moving. Switched to her side, grabbed my legs and held them back. Bent me damn near in half while she slid in upside down and kept eating. The angle hit different. Her tongue slid up, sharp and greedy, and she moaned with every lick like I was feeding her soul.

And then added fingers.

Two of them, slow and smooth, curling like she knew exactly where I needed her. My back arched. My thighs trembled. She sucked and pumped, fingers slick and deep, tongue pressed flat while she watched me.

Eyes still open. Still on mine. And I couldn’t look away.

The fingers should’ve been a warning. She knew what she was doing.

She was already eating me like I was her favorite meal, like this was her last supper and I was plated just for her—but those fingers? That was criminal. Straight assault.

Two of them, slow and deep, curling just right like she practiced. Like she’d taken notes. Like she knew my body before I even touched her.

And when she added that pressure from her tongue on my clit? I lost it. Again. For the umpteenth time. It wasn’t even cute at that point. I was damn near twitching. Moaning with my mouth wide open, one hand gripping the sheets and the other still caught in her grip like she refused to let me run.

I came so hard I forgot my name for a second. And then she stopped.

I was barely breathing, still shaking, chest rising fast, when she pulled her fingers out and sat up slow—grinning. Like she was proud of herself. She brought her fingers to her lips and sucked them clean, one by one, looking me in the eye while doing it. Like she wasn’t just trying to get the taste. Like she was reliving it.

“Girl,” I breathed, voice cracked.

She leaned in again. Grabbed my jaw with one hand, firm and possessive, and opened my mouth. She didn’t ask. Didn’t move slow. Just pushed her fingers past my lips, two slick digits that still tasted like me. I moaned around them—loud. My thighs jumped. My tongue moved without thinking.

“You taste so damn sweet,” she mumbled against my lips, still rubbing her fingers slow on my tongue as she kissed me messy and deep. Her lips were wet, her jaw tight, her voice all breathless and cocky like I hadn’t just melted under her.

I whined into her mouth, couldn’t help it. That whine you do when your body say it’s done but your soul say keep going. When your eyes roll but your hips still lift.

She pulled back just enough to look at me. I was pouting. Eyes closed. Face turned like I was mad, but really I was just overstimulated and obsessed.

“You want more, mama?” she asked soft.

“Paigeeee…” I moaned, dragging her name out like it hurt.

She just laughed. Low and smug.

She already knew I was gay. Grown. She seen my bedroom. She seen my little drawer when I opened it too fast that one time. I had toys, okay? Good ones. But I didn’t use ‘em like that. Not all of them. One in particular? Still in the box. Shiny and intimidating. Heavy. That strap wasn’t for beginners and I wasn’t trying to fuck around with it. Too much work. Too much pressure. That was a two-man job and I ain’t had no man, no woman, no nothing.

She opened the drawer while I was still catching my breath.

Held it up like a damn trophy. “This one?”

“Girl I don’t even use that—”

She looked at me over her shoulder, smirking. “Let me.”

I blinked. “That shit hurts.”

“Let me make it feel good.”

My mouth opened. Nothing came out. She just grinned. Strap still in her hand. Her sports bra still clinging to her chest, abs tight from holding me down all night, curls messy and eyes hungry.

She knew. She knew I was gonna let her. And I hated how bad I wanted it.

I needed a break. I don’t say that often—but I meant that shit with every breath I was still trying to catch.

Paige gave it to me too. Real gentle-like. Set the strap down, kissed my thigh, mumbled something about water, and walked out. I laid there, eyes shut, chest still rising like I ran sprints in stilettos. I didn’t move. Couldn’t. My thighs were trembling like I owed them an apology. My lips were puffy, wet, throbbing—and she wasn’t even done.

Somewhere between breaths, I heard the soft click of the drawer again. Buckle sounds. A low, smug laugh under her breath. That was Paige. She was proud of herself. She was prepping like this was a fucking game and she already knew she’d win.

I didn’t even open my eyes. Just sighed and let the sheets cool me off. Until I felt her over me.

“Girl…” I muttered, eyes fluttering open.

She was hovering—arms on either side of me, hair falling in her face, that damn strap sitting thick and perfect between us. Her sports bra was still barely hanging on. Her smile looked sinful. Like she was excited. Like she missed me. It hadn’t even been ten minutes.

I rolled my eyes. “Paige don’t pla—”

“Hush.”

And I did. Quick. Because she pressed that tip right against me. No warning. Just enough pressure to shut me the fuck up. My legs twitched open on instinct, hips tilted like they had a mind of their own. My breath caught.

“Shit.”

She didn’t even move yet. Just rubbed it there, slow. Slick and teasing. Up and down my folds like she was dragging it through warm honey.

“You probably right,” she whispered, voice thick with heat. “You can’t handle this shit.”

“Paige, pl—”

She pushed in. Not slow. Not fast. Just deep. Steady. Intentional. And I swear to God I saw stars behind my eyelids.

My back arched. My arms wrapped around her without thinking. And she stayed right there—pressed to me. Eyes locked. Face soft. Too soft. We were chest to chest. Her breathing matched mine. Her hand came up and cradled the back of my neck like she needed to keep me grounded.

Missionary. The most intimate fucking position. And it was filthy.

Because the sounds? Disgusting.

Wet. Sloppy. Loud. The way the strap moved inside me had me gasping, legs shaking around her hips like I didn’t know how to take it. The way she rolled her hips—grinded, not just thrust—made it worse. The bed was banging against the wall like it had something to prove.

I was so lucky I didn’t have a neighbor on that side. Shit would’ve been a noise complaint with a side of trauma.

“Shit… you feel that?” she moaned, kissing me again.

I tried to kiss back, but I couldn’t focus. My lips parted and all I could do was moan into her mouth. She felt too good. Deep and full and close. Every time she bottomed out, my whole body jolted.

Then she started to tremble.

Her strokes got messier. Breath shorter. She felt it too. Her head dipped into my neck as she let out this guttural moan and started moving faster. I swear she came. You could feel the change in her. The urgency. Like something broke in her.

She stayed there for a second, forehead against mine. Our breaths tangled. Then she moved again. Lifted me like I weighed nothing and flipped us.

“I wanna watch,” she breathed, voice hoarse. Now I was on top. Straddling her. Strap still in. Her hands on my waist. I started slow. Just a little bounce. Just to get my rhythm.

But once I found it I chased that orgasm like it owed me money.

My hips rocked forward, rolling with precision. She matched every movement—thrusting up into me just enough to make me lose it. My hands gripped her chest, one bracing against the wall. Sweat slicked my skin. My head fell back. Moans filled the room like we weren’t worried about shit but each other.

Paige was watching me the whole time. Eyes half-lidded. Lips parted. Hands gripping my hips like she was holding on for dear life.

“Fuck… you ridin’ it so good” I cried out. Couldn’t even reply. Could barely breathe. Because the way she moved up into me? Perfect.

It was too much. Too good. Too deep. I came hard—again—right there in her lap. Shaking. Loud. Holding onto her like she was the only thing keeping me from slipping through the bed.

And when I collapsed on top of her, spent and messy. She kissed my temple. And whispered, “Told you… you couldn’t handle this shit.”

I was done. I mean tapped out, retired, jersey-in-the-rafters type done. Could barely walk straight. My legs were jelly, my throat dry, my whole existence overwhelmed by one smug-ass strap-wielding woman named Paige Bueckers.

After we caught our breath and gathered the scattered remnants of our sanity, we moved like old women. Limps and groans. The sheets were a war zone. She helped me to the bathroom, both of us laughing like we hadn’t just made the bed frame beg for mercy. I showered slow while she started the laundry—yes, started the laundry like we was domestic or something.

I finally sat on the edge of my bed, oversized tee on, bonnet back in place, body humming with the kind of ache that only comes after being wrecked properly. I figured that was it.

I was wrong.

“Wait…” she said, voice too chipper. I already knew.

“I wanna try a position.” I didn’t even open my eyes. “No, Paige.”

“You don’t gotta do nothin.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly fell back. But I still let her help me limp to the living room, where I collapsed onto the couch like a wounded soldier. She followed right behind me, and as soon as I turned, SMACK—her hand landed hard on my ass.

“OWW!”

I turned fast, eyes wide. “You play sports! What the fuck!?”

She grinned like a child caught in a cookie jar, hands rubbing the same ass she just tried to knock off.

“Just fah that,” I muttered, voice dragging, “you ain’t gettin’ shit else. Leave me alone.”

“Wait, I’m sorry,” she giggled, pressing kisses to my thigh like that would save her.

I kicked her lightly. “No you not.”

She just smiled. That big, dumb, post-sex, in-love smile. The kind of smile that made you forget she still had girls watching her stories and reposting old pictures like they had a chance.

So she said it. Quiet.

“…you know you mine now, right?”

She paused. Then grinned harder. “Tell them hoes that, Paige,” I added, lips barely moving, tone sweet but shady. She was saying dumb shit after breaking my pussy and trying to eat it again like I hadn’t almost passed out.

But I still reached for her. Pulled her down so I could lay on top of her, face buried in her chest like she was a pillow that talked too much.

“…you gon’ let me eat it ag—”

“Girl, are you not tired?” I said, lifting my head just enough to glare at her. My voice cracked like I was being bullied.

She giggled, soft and smug, and pecked my lips once. Then again. “You so pretty.”

I caved. Don’t even remember when, just felt myself relax again—whole body melting into hers while she rubbed this fat ass like it was her personal comfort item.

And right there, chest to chest, warm, sleepy, and sore—I thought, Damn. I’m down bad. But I didn’t mind. Not one bit.

I was out like a light. Couch cushion under my cheek, blanket halfway over my ass, body limp like a ragdoll left in the toy aisle. Paige was up before me—somehow. Probably off pure athlete adrenaline and freaky satisfaction.

We didn’t even make it to the bed last night. She wore me out and I just collapsed right there, tangled up in her arms and that damn strap still in my dreams. She looked at me for a while, I’m sure. That dumb little grin on her lips like she just solved a riddle no one else could crack.

When she got up she carried me. With arms that should’ve been sore, legs that should’ve buckled, Paige scooped me off that couch and took me to bed. Tucked me in like she wasn’t just rearranging my guts four hours prior. Quiet. Gentle. Still smelling like me.

She had to go—practice, meetings, whatever. She didn’t live here, even if her energy stayed behind like a ghost with boundary issues. She let me sleep. I mean really sleep. Deep, warm, peaceful. That I ain’t got no worries sleep. That I just got fucked dumb sleep.

At some point, my phone rang. Her name lit up the screen. I didn’t even move.

Paige: “You hungry?… You still sleep? It’s 3PM?”

She got silence. I was deep in a dream about nothing. Just floating in rest. She hung up and ordered food anyway. Of course she did. Because that’s what hoes in love do when they know they broke you right.

I didn’t wake up until five.

Half the damn day gone. But I loved that. I needed that. My body felt like it had just returned from war, but my spirit? At peace. I still did my little morning routine—brushed my teeth, washed my face, fresh pair of shorts, bonnet adjusted—and then, naturally, laid my ass right back down.

Not even five minutes later—ding.

Paige: open the door

I blinked. Girl. I just sat down. I opened the door anyway.

There she was. Sweats, curls tucked in a hoodie, holding a smoothie and smiling like the sun never sets on her confidence. “Hey, pretty,” she said.

I wasn’t smiling. I turned right around, walked back to my room, climbed under the covers like her whole fine self wasn’t standing in my doorway.

She followed me, of course. Set everything down. And then picked me up. No hesitation. Full straddle. One arm around my back, the other under my thigh.

I was half-asleep, limp in her arms, but still trying to act irritated. Didn’t work.

“Eat,” she whispered, kissing my temple.

“Paige… I’m tired,” I mumbled into her shoulder.

“And sexy,” she muttered back, sitting us both down and adjusting me like I was her favorite accessory. “Eat.”

She held the smoothie straw to my lips. I sipped once. She pecked my lips.

“Open your eyes.”

I cracked one open. She grinned.

That’s how it was with her. She broke me down, built me back up, and still made me feel like I won something.

And yeah…I laid right back down. On her chest. While she rubbed this fat ass again like it was her new hobby.

And if she asked to eat it again?

…I’d say yes.

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan

[hcneymooners]

⋆ beg until i'm in.

ambessa x wife!reader. men and minors dni.

synopsis: you and ambessa are estranged wives, but are you really estranged if she refuses to divorce you, and every time you see each other, you can't help but fall into bed?

cw: light angst, emotional hurt/comfort, getting back together, top ambessa medarda, dom/sub, dom ambessa medarda, she has soft spot for you, pleasure dom ambessaaaaa, just for you though, strapping, rough sex, rough body play, hair-pulling, name-calling, pet names, lesbian sex, dildos, vaginal sex, cunnilingus, overstimulation, she is strapping you down, you will not be walking, cock worship, blow jobs, the strap is the cock in question no men i swear to god, mommy kink, praise kink, mating press, age difference, older woman/younger woman, marriage, she does not play about you, realizing this might have slight primal play, orgasm edging, begging, spanking, impact play notes: i am a FREAK about this woman. also i wrote this for @sheloveschai because she has been bringing me joy through their work and i want to do the same.

“she thinks i’m a monster.”

the words hung in the air, dense as the afternoon heat, heavy as ambessa’s head in your lap. how you’d ended up here—her armor gone, her weight so familiar—felt like one of those moments you’d look back on, trying to pin down the thread that led you here. you couldn’t.

your lives were separate. estranged wives, that’s what you told yourself. she wouldn’t divorce you, and you weren’t exactly rushing to draw up the papers. but estrangement was such a tidy, convenient word like the absence between you both was clean and intentional. it wasn’t. she blurred the edges every time she showed up unannounced, stepping into the space she left behind like it still belonged to her. and maybe it did.

she came today, her arrival marked by the low hum of her car pulling up the dirt road. the ranch was still, caught in that honeyed pause between afternoon and evening. the house she’d bought for you sat perched on its patch of green, neat but unpretentious—a porch for watching storms, white siding that seemed to glow in the late sun. the kind of place that felt like it had existed long before you arrived, waiting for someone to live in it properly. around it, the land stretched wide, unbroken except for the fences hemming in the garden you’d built with your own hands.

you were out there, barefoot and stubborn, locked in a battle with the soil. a carrot clung to the earth like it had something to prove, your hair slipping from its tie as you yanked at it, dirt smudged across your face from an earlier showdown with a deer that had dared to challenge your lettuce. the dress you wore—white, soft, and loose—shifted around you like a second skin, its ruffled straps falling to kiss your shoulders. it was stained at the hem, caught on brambles, but it moved with you, romantic in its simplicity, something that could’ve been borrowed from another life.

ambessa watched from the car. you didn’t notice her at first, too busy flailing after some audacious bit of wildlife, but she noticed you. her eyes followed the sway of your dress, the way the sun painted gold onto your skin, how your body moved with a kind of rawness that had always undone her. she waited because ambessa always waited. but there was a tension to it, like watching something she didn’t want to admit she needed.

hours later, she was here, sprawled in your lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. her hand rested against the fabric of your dress, her breathing slow but uneven. you stroked her hair without thinking, staring out at the horizon. the horses were grazing, lazy against the emerald sprawl. the ranch, her gift, felt heavier than it had in a while.

“at one point in time,” you said finally, the words tasting of truth, “every daughter views her mother as her monster.”

her hand stilled. you could feel her thoughts shifting, coiling like a tide just out of reach. she didn’t say anything, but the silence was loud, charged. you didn’t press her.

“you were always so hard on yourself,” you continued, your voice quiet but steady. “you can be… strong, stubborn, cruel. i’ve felt it. i know it. so much of your decision-making is absolute like the world is this black-and-white chessboard you’re determined to win on. there’s no room for anyone else in that kind of thinking. it can be stifling. but—” you hesitated, fingers idly brushing the hem of your dress as you tried to hold her gaze.

“love is always the basis when it comes to the people you care about: mel, kino—”

“you,” she interjected softly, her voice barely audible but so certain it almost startled you.

you hummed in agreement, the corners of your mouth tugging into an easy smile.

“me,” you admitted, your chest tightening at the confession. you sighed, the sound carrying years of ache. “your problem is that you don’t believe we can love you back. not really. you think we can’t be safe with you. so you send us away, like that’s protecting us. you decide things for us—these big, sweeping decisions—and suddenly we’re standing outside looking in, strangers in our own lives with you.”

you paused, thinking of her daughter. “mel’s a teenager. she’s going to buck against you because that’s what teenagers do. you have to let her. you can’t control everything, ambessa. we don’t learn any other way.”

ambessa watched you, her face unreadable but her eyes dark and intent. her voice was indescribably tender when she spoke.

“you’re such a wonderful stepmother.”

the word made you scoff. you pushed her—gently but firmly—off your lap and rose to your feet. she let you, though her eyes lingered on you. she could never let go entirely.

“don’t let her hear you say that,” you muttered, shaking your head.

mel had not taken your marriage to her mother well. and really, who could blame her? you were more than half ambessa’s age. you’d once been mel’s peer at university, brushing shoulders in the same circles without a clue that your lives would one day intertwine like this. to make matters worse, mel hadn’t even learned of the relationship from her mother or you. no, she’d found out by walking in on the two of you in a position that still made your cheeks burn to think about.

what followed was relentless: the icy distance, the sharp words, the careful avoidance. love, for you, had always been hard, but this was a different kind of difficulty. you’d tried to explain yourself to mel, fumbling for words that didn’t sound hollow. you told her you loved her mother simply because you did. it wasn’t about their wealth or their influence. you’d come from nothing—a small town with a crumbling church, miles of barren land, and a quiet resignation to a life of struggle. you were used to living hard and mean, to fending for yourself.

but ambessa… she had swept into your life with the force of a storm. she needled at you, chipped away at your shell until you were belly-up and tender, soft between her teeth. you were an easy kill in her hunt, and she was ruthless, selfish, and she could be so fucking mean. but none of that mattered.

you loved her with the kind of blind devotion that defied reason, and you couldn’t imagine doing anything else. being her wife was your greatest pride, and tending to her was your guiltiest pleasure.

mel couldn’t understand that, and the rift between you grew wider with each passing day. then came the public’s growing animosity toward the medarda family, the rising tensions, and ambessa made one of her absolute decisions. the separation blindsided you. you’d cried so hard you blacked out in the hall, and when you woke, you left without looking back. you thought mel wouldn’t care.

which is why you were shocked when ambessa brought you mel’s request for your perspective.

you turned toward the stove, busying yourself with the rhythm of dinner prep. it was easier to focus on the small, manageable things—chopping vegetables, lighting the flame—than to meet her gaze.

“she doesn’t hate you, [name],” ambessa said suddenly, her voice calm but insistent.

you froze, the knife hovering mid-air before you carefully set it down and turned on the stove.

“you staying for dinner?” you asked carefully.

you heard her shift behind you, felt the warmth of her body as she closed the space between you. her arms circled your waist, firm but gentle, and you shivered, instinctively leaning into her. god knows you were never the strongest soldier. she pressed a kiss to your temple, her lips lingering just long enough to make you melt.

“i admit,” she murmured, her voice low and quiet, “i had other motives for coming here.”

“bessa,” you began.

ambessa held you tighter, her lips brushing against your temple, the warmth of her breath sending shivers down your spine. her silence stretched just long enough for you to grow uneasy, but then she spoke, her voice low and thick with emotion.

“they’ve been asking for you,” she said, her hands smoothing over your waist.

you stiffened slightly, unsure if you’d heard her correctly.

“who?”

“mel. kino.” she pressed another kiss to your temple, then let her forehead rest against the side of your head. “they’ve been pleading with me to bring you back. they won’t admit it outright—god forbid they ever say they were wrong—”

you shot her a look.

“—but they’ve missed you. and they hate the way i’ve been without you. they say i’m different when you’re there.”

your breath hitched, your chest tightening with a mix of disbelief and something dangerously close to hope.

“they don’t even like me,” you murmured, your voice cracking.

“that’s not true.” ambessa’s tone softened, her grip on you tightening like she was afraid you might slip away. “they’re too proud to say it, but they’ve developed a soft spot for you despite everything. they miss you as much as i do.”

you turned your head slightly, just enough to catch the edge of her expression—open, raw, and devastatingly honest. by instinct, you lifted a hand and cradled her face. you hated it when she was sad.

“oh, bessa.”

“i’ve realized,” she continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper, “that i am nothing without you. i thought i was protecting you by letting you go, but i was wrong. i’m tired, my love. tired of waking up alone. tired of pretending i don’t need you. i do. god, i do.”

you felt a weight lift from the depths of your body. you’d waited so long to hear this—to feel wanted, needed, like you weren’t just a fleeting chapter in her life. tears welled up, and before you could stop them, they spilled over, hot and fat.

ambessa turned you in her arms, her hands coming up to cup your face as you began to cry in earnest.

“oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, her thumbs brushing away your tears. “don’t cry. please don’t cry.”

“i don’t want to do this anymore,” you choked out between sobs, clutching at her arms like she was the only thing keeping you upright. you pressed down on the thick cords of muscle, pleading with the strength of your grip. “i don’t want the house or any of this shit. i’m so tired of taking care of myself, ambessa. i just want to come home.”

her expression crumpled, and for a moment, you saw a vulnerability in her that she rarely let show.

“i’m sorry,” she said, her voice tight. “i’m so sorry, my love. i never should have let you go. i’ll make it right—i swear to you. i’ll spoil you, take care of you, and keep you forever. you’re mine, [name], and i’ll never let you forget it again.”

you sobbed harder, your face burying into her chest as her arms enveloped you completely.

“i know, baby. you did so well. i’m so proud of you,” she murmured.

she continued to whisper soft reassurances, mantras of “sweetheart,” “my sweet girl,” and “my sweet baby,” until the tears slowed and your breathing evened out. you shuddered against her, refusing to remove yourself from where you were pressed tightly against her chest. she shifted, and you jolted—fingers splaying desperately across her body.

“shh. i’m just making us more comfortable,” she told you.

the two of you moved, a single weeping entity across the floor of the kitchen into the living room. ambessa settled you on the couch, continuing to trace a hand across the landscape of your back.

“come back with me,” she murmured, her lips brushing against your hair. “let me take care of you. let me love you the way you deserve, hmm?”

you nodded against her, your hands clutching at the fabric of her shirt like a lifeline.

“that's all i want. i never stopped loving you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“i know,” she said, tilting your face up to hers.

the kiss she gave you was desperate and all-consuming, a culmination of every time you had woken and found yourself alone. her hands roamed over your hips and your waist, pulling you closer as if the space between you was unbearable. you gasped into her mouth, and she deepened the kiss.

“i’ve missed you,” she murmured against your lips, her voice low, rough with hunger. “did you miss me?”

you shivered, your body instinctively pressing into hers.

“yes. yes, i did. i swear, bessa,” you insisted, your voice trembling.

“shh, my love,” she said, her lips trailing down your jaw to your neck to soothe you. “i believe you. a sweet girl like you wouldn’t lie to me.”

with a groan, she lifted you, guiding you toward the bedroom, her hands never straying from your body, her kisses growing more frantic. when your back hit the bed, she hovered over you, her gaze dark, possessive. a hand came down to cup your cunt, firm and promising.

“yes or no?” she asked.

she only asked out of respect. ambessa had long ago perfected the art of taking what she wanted. you found you didn’t mind. it was easier this way, surrendering to her because she knew your body—your needs—better than you ever could. in her hands, the pressure of choice vanished. you trusted her to always know what was best.

suddenly, you were reminded of when she proposed. you felt the same now as you had then—wide-eyed, carnivorous. gently, you pulled her closer, brushing your lips against hers. the room smelled of apple blossoms and her intoxicating scent.

“yes,” you whispered, your voice barely a breath.

satisfied, she lowered her mouth back to your neck. at that moment, you could have mistaken her for a vampire—hunting for your pulse, for that line of forever-promised blood.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

“ambessa.”

“hmm?” she answered, her hand tightening where it reigned on the nape of your neck.

she had you face down with your ass up, her other hand holding you at the small of your back as she thrust into you. you let out a high moan as she began to move faster, her cock moving deeper as you bore down on her.

“you feel so fucking good, sweetheart. so tight and sweet for me. it’s almost as if you haven’t been touched in a long while.”

“bessa—” you choked out, and she let out a laugh.

“oh, baby. i know that’s not true.” bending forward to brace herself on the bed, she began to pump into you. “you were always so hungry for it, so eager. i know you’ve probably stuffed yourself every single night since i’ve been gone.”

you whimpered, drool beginning to spill from your lips.

“but it didn’t feel like this, did it?”

“no,” you answered, squealing as ambessa brought a hand down on your ass. “no, baby. i can’t take care of myself like you do.”

“no,” she agreed. “you can’t. you just get so stupid when you’re fucked. you have no chance of doing this alone. not well, at least.”

“bessa, please,” you mewled.

with a bored sigh, she tightened her grip around your band of hair and yanked your head back, pounding into you with predatorial precision. you moaned as she began to focus on your g-spot, pulling your head back roughly to further increase her control.

“shit, bessa. fuuuuuck.”

“yeah?”

all thoughts were being fucked out of your head. you managed to get a hand on your clit, rubbing furiously to add stimulation.

“uh, uh, uh. oh, fuck. holy shit. ambessa, fuck. please, baby. please don’t stop.”

for a moment, she paused, and you remembered how cruel she could be. tenderly, she turned you over on your back and slid back in, placing your hands on the back of your thighs so that you were holding yourself open. with a grunt, she sunk deep until her hips were once again clapping against your ass.

a strong hand came down, fingers hooking into your mouth and tugging till she could see your teeth. you felt like an animal.

“stop fucking talking,” she told you, and you nodded, spit slicking all over your mouth and her fingers. “good girl.”

the praise settled on you, and you moaned weakly. her next thrust hit you like a line of coke. she was pressing into you, working for something. you weren’t sure what, but you could feel the way she was aiming to break you in.

“come on,” she murmured, retracting her fingers to grope roughly at your tits. “say it.”

your brow furrowed, and she came to a slow, gradual stop. sliding out, ambessa crawled onto the bed and placed a hand on your chest. you watched her, eyes large and glittering with tears. her breasts hung heavy over you, ripe and full with age. you wanted to suck and bite her nipples till she was shaking on the bridge of your nose, pussy-deep into your throat.

carefully, she slipped the holster from her hips and removed the girthy dildo from where it sat, slick with your heat and arousal.

“maybe this will jog your memory,” she said, and you didn’t have a moment to think before her cock was in your mouth.

you choked loudly, but she paid you no mind. with a few circular motions of her wrist, she made you deepthroat every inch, her eyes darkening as you audibly gagged and sucked on it. you ran your tongue over the artificial veins, getting it as wet as possible.

you were tasting yourself, strawberry sweet with a hint of bitterness and slight musk. you could feel your cunt pulsing, fluttering as ambessa’s eyes grew darker. she prohibited you from letting your legs down, and your thighs were burning, sweat garnishing your skin with a light sheen.

you felt so exposed, so debased like this: holding yourself wide and open while gagging like a well-trained whore on the toy.

“remember now?” she asked, and you breathed hard through your nose.

you were trying, bless you, to remember, and she dropped a kiss on your cunt for the effort.

“look at this pussy, sweetheart. fuck, baby.” ambessa lifted from where she’d been dragging her free hand through your folds. her fingers were soaked. “you’re rinsing me.”

something about her tone jogged your memory, and suddenly, you knew what she wanted to hear. in your excitement, you whined, and she met your gaze. she considered you and then removed her cock from your mouth.

“mommy,” you breathed, and she smiled, her face warm and rivaling the sun.

“that’s it,” she said, pride drenching the words. “good job, sweet girl. you deserve a reward.”

you beamed and wiggled your pussy in silent demand. ambessa laughed at your eagerness, bending to kiss you. her lips trailed lower till she was mouthing over the sopping mound of your count. around and around, her tongue wet, her teeth softly grazing your clit. you snapped upward, letting go of your legs and clutching at her braids instead.

“goddamnit, ambessa! fuck!”

she continued to eat you out, shaking her head and sucking loudly. still, she found time to pinch the inside of your thigh in reprimand.

“that’s not my name, sweet girl. i won’t tell you again.”

“fuck. fuck, i’m sorry. i’m sorry, mommy. just—please.” your voice cleaved in the middle. “please, i need to cum. i want to cum so bad for you, mommy. let me. please just let me—”

with a wet pop, ambessa broke away from your swollen pussy and looked at you. you breathed heavily, eyes caught on the way she gazed at you from between your legs.

“nothing is stopping you, my love. do what pleases you.”

she lowered down again and spat right into your cunt. you let your head fall back.

“i told you,” she said. “i plan to spoil you. this will only be your first.”

and with that, she suctioned her mouth around your rosy pussy and sucked, pointing her tongue and slipping inside of you. you came with a high wail, legs clamping around her head as you bowed over her. you felt light-headed, slit open, and destroyed.

and true to her nature, ambessa never stopped.

© hcneymooners.

[areislol]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤyandere monster harem

pairings. various m! yandere monsters x gn! reader

warnings. yandere themes, toxic obsession, 18+ dark themes

a/n. i love my sillies!!

wc. 6.1k

imagine a dark, mystical forest where you're the lone human, fated to cross paths with a group of terrifying yet obsessively devoted monsters.

each of them is unique in their appearance and abilities, but they all share one thing: an unrelenting desire to make you theirs, no matter the cost.

the werewolf

a hulking figure with sharp claws, wild amber eyes, and a low growl that vibrates through your very bones. he encountered you when you wandered too close to his den during a full moon. despite his primal instincts, he resisted harming you, instead captivated by your bravery—or foolishness.

he tracks your scent everywhere you go. if you so much as step outside, he’s already following from the shadows, ensuring your safety (and warding off anyone who dares to come near).

he marks your belongings with his scent and doesn’t hesitate to bare his teeth at anyone he deems a threat. you’re his mate, and he’ll challenge anyone who thinks otherwise.

though rough and wild, he becomes uncharacteristically gentle when he sees you hurt or scared, licking your wounds and curling protectively around you.

the werewolf is a wild, untamed force of nature, his obsession with you rooted in instincts so primal he can't suppress them even if he tried.

he watches you from the shadows, always nearby but rarely letting himself be seen at first. your scent drives him to madness—earthy, warm, uniquely you. it's comforting and addictive, and he can't get enough. he's stolen pieces of your life to keep close: a scarf left behind, a mug you drank from, anything that holds your essence.

his possessiveness is terrifying. he won't let anyone else near you if he can help it. if someone gets too close, he intervenes, his voice low and threatening, his golden eyes burning with barely concealed rage. no one dares challenge him; there's something in the way he moves, the way he looms, that screams danger.

he doesn't understand human boundaries. if you're speaking to someone too long, he'll step in, claiming he needs to talk to you or finding some excuse to drag you away. if you protest, he'll growl—not at you, never at you—but in frustration. you're his; why can't everyone else see that?

but with you, he's soft. gentle. when he's sure you're not afraid of him, he'll let you closer, let you see the man beneath the beast. his touch is careful, almost reverent, as if he's afraid he'll break you. when you're upset, he wraps himself around you, his warmth and presence enough to shield you from the world.

his affection shows in small ways. he brings you gifts from the forest: flowers, feathers, shiny rocks he thought you'd like. he watches your reaction closely, his heart swelling with pride when you smile. if you ever thank him, he becomes almost shy, looking away with a faint blush creeping up his neck.

jealousy is his constant battle. if he sees someone making you laugh or smile, his claws dig into his palms. he won't confront you about it, but the person who caused his jealousy might find themselves on the receiving end of his wrath later.

at night, he lingers near your home. the thought of you alone, unprotected, drives him crazy. he paces, his instincts screaming at him to stay close. sometimes, he leaves small signs that he's there—a paw print in the dirt, a tuft of fur snagged on a branch—as if he wants you to know he's watching over you.

his biggest fear is your rejection. he knows he's more beast than man, and the thought of you being afraid of him keeps him awake at night. if you ever flinch or pull away, it shatters him, and he'll retreat, his golden eyes filled with pain. but he always comes back, unable to stay away, his obsession too strong to overcome.

you are his anchor, his reason for fighting the beast within. he doesn't care what it takes; he'll keep you safe, even if it means keeping you all to himself. his love is overwhelming, suffocating, but he doesn't see it that way. to him, it's devotion—pure, unbreakable, eternal.

his growl rumbled low as kael draegon stepped from the shadows, his golden eyes fixed on you with that same wild, desperate intensity.

"don't be afraid," kael draegon whispered, his voice rough but steady as he offered you his hand. the cold breeze tugged at his hair as he stood beside you, his voice soft as he murmured, "you're safe now, with me."

kael draegon always seemed to appear just when you needed him, his presence both calming and terrifying. his hand lingered on your shoulder for just a moment before kael draegon pulled back, his voice almost apologetic. "old instincts, i'm sorry."

the vampire

elegant and poised, with glowing crimson eyes and a voice like silk, the vampire first saw you in the dead of night. he was drawn to the purity of your blood but became enthralled by the purity of your soul instead.

his pale, marble-like skin seems to glow faintly in the moonlight, untouched by time or imperfection. his crimson eyes burn with a smouldering intensity, framed by thick lashes that only add to his magnetic gaze.

his raven-black hair falls in soft, silky waves around his sharp cheekbones, perfectly complementing his aristocratic features. his tall, slender frame moves with a predatory grace, and his voice—smooth as velvet—wraps around you like a dark lullaby.

he loves to watch you sleep, marvelling at your vulnerability. He’ll slip into your room at night, not to harm you, but to leave gifts—a rose, a letter, or even a piece of jewellery from an unknown era.

the vampire despises anyone who captures your attention. Friends, family, or even strangers—they’re nothing but distractions. He may use his hypnotic gaze to erase their presence from your life.

he gets flustered when you show him kindness, like bandaging a wound he sustained in your defence. he tries to hide his blush, but his pale complexion betrays him.

the vampire is as elegant as he is dangerous, his presence suffocating yet alluring, like the pull of a siren's song on a lonely traveler at sea. his crimson eyes gleam in the dark, reflecting centuries of wisdom and hunger, but when he looks at you, they’re soft, desperate, and entirely devoted. you’re his obsession, his muse, his reason to exist in a world that has grown cold and lonely with age.

he first saw you during one of his midnight wanderings, his attention drawn by your scent, a sweet, intoxicating mix of vulnerability and warmth. you were an easy target at first—a stranger out on a walk, unassuming, untouched by the weight of the supernatural world. but then he watched you, from the shadows, and the hunger in him shifted. you weren’t just food, not in the way he expected. you were you.

his obsession grew quickly, a slow, crawling thing that nestled in his bones. he has a habit of appearing when you least expect it: slipping through your window as you sleep, standing at the end of a dark alley when you’re walking home, always close but never intrusive enough to harm you. he studies you with endless fascination, watching how you move, how you smile, how you react to the smallest moments of life. you are his everything.

he is a master manipulator, charming and patient, with a voice like silk and words that dance between honeyed promises and half-truths. he always knows just what to say, always seems to be exactly where you are, making sure you feel safe.

but beneath the charm is something ancient, something sharp—a predator who has learned how to play the long game to get what he wants. you are his, and he has all the time in the world to make sure you know it.

his jealousy is sharp and swift. the moment another person shows even the slightest interest in you, his eyes narrow, his smile turns colder. it doesn’t take much for him to make his presence known, weaving himself into your life, into your conversations, until the other person is left with nothing but fear or confusion. you are his, and he’ll ensure that no one else tries to stake their claim.

he doesn’t simply show his obsession through manipulation. he is far more intimate, far more human in the moments where he can let his guard down. he’ll leave you gifts—roses with petals as red as blood, antique trinkets from his many years of wandering, or old letters written in his perfect, flowing script.

he tries to convey his feelings subtly, his words wrapped in metaphors and promises, but they always come from the deepest part of his heart.

he’s possessive in the way only a centuries-old predator can be. he touches you often, with a hand to your cheek, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, or lightly grazing your hand as if you might slip away at any moment.

he isn’t violent, not by nature, but his love is all-encompassing, wrapping itself around you like a snake squeezing its prey. you belong to him in every way, and he has no intention of letting you slip out of his grasp.

his dark powers allow him to watch you from afar, slipping into your dreams, invading the quiet moments of your subconscious. you’ll wake with his voice lingering in your mind, his whispers promises of eternity, of a life spent with him, of safety, beauty, and endless nights. he wants you to rely on him, to lean into his presence, to crave his touch, until you can’t imagine your life without him.

when you show kindness or affection toward him, his calm, elegant mask slips. his eyes soften, his voice trembles slightly, and he finds himself speechless.

he’s terrified of showing too much, of letting you see the raw hunger that lies beneath his smooth exterior, but he can’t stop himself. your smile, your laughter, it means everything to him, more than centuries of darkness and isolation ever could.

he would give you everything. his life, his immortality, his heart. but he struggles with the weight of his own nature—the bloodlust that lies just beneath his perfect, pale skin. he’s not just obsessed with you out of a need to control or dominate; he truly cares. he wants you safe, protected, happy. but his fear of losing you makes him cruel, calculating, and relentless.

you are his forever, and he has no intention of sharing you with anyone else, not with the world, not with time, not with destiny itself. his love is suffocating, but it is eternal, and as much as it terrifies him, he knows you’ll never escape his grasp. he’ll make sure of it.

his voice was like silk as dorian vale leaned against the window frame, his crimson eyes glinting in the moonlight

"you shouldn't be out here alone," dorian vale said smoothly, stepping closer, his voice as soft as a whisper. dorian vale’s gaze was piercing, unyielding, and you could feel every moment of his attention as he looked at you

he handed you a single red rose, his pale fingers delicate as he said, "for you, my dear.

his presence lingered, and you could feel dorian vale’s words in your bones as he whispered, "you were always meant to be mine."

the ghost

a shadowy figure with hollow eyes that glow faintly in the dark, the ghost is a tragic soul who found solace in your warmth. his attachment to you began when you unknowingly lingered in the house he haunts, speaking softly to the empty air as if sensing his presence.

alaric’s form is translucent, a faint, glowing silhouette that shifts and flickers like mist. his features are soft and hauntingly beautiful, with a melancholy that clings to him like a shadow.

his once-vivid eyes are now pale, like the reflection of a full moon in still water, and his long hair drifts around him as if caught in a gentle breeze. though incorporeal, he retains the faint shape of his elegant hands and tall, lean frame, an echo of the man he once was.

his presence feels like a cool touch on your skin, a constant, bittersweet reminder of his undying devotion.

he manipulates the environment to keep you close—doors creak shut when you try to leave, and objects mysteriously disappear, only to reappear where he wants you to stay.

if anyone hurts you, the ghost unleashes his wrath. lights flicker, temperatures drop, and your assailants are haunted until they’re too terrified to approach you again.

he’s deeply moved when you acknowledge him, even if it’s just a whisper to the air. your willingness to accept him, despite his incorporeal nature, solidifies his eternal devotion.

the ghost is a tragic, ethereal figure, bound to you by a love that death itself couldn’t sever. his form is translucent, shimmering faintly in the moonlight, and though he may no longer have a heartbeat, his emotions are as raw and overwhelming as they were in life. he exists in the liminal space between the living and the dead, obsessed with you in a way that is both haunting and heartbreakingly tender.

he doesn’t remember how or when it started—only that one day, he found himself drawn to you, unable to leave your side. whether it was your voice, your laughter, or the way you brought life to even the smallest, most mundane moments, you became his light in the suffocating darkness of his afterlife. he watches you from the corners of rooms, a faint chill in the air marking his presence, his spectral form always lingering just out of reach.

his love is quiet, but all-consuming. he whispers your name into the night when you sleep, his voice carried on the softest breeze. he rearranges small things in your home to make his presence known: a book left open to a meaningful passage, a flower you swore wasn’t there before resting on your windowsill. at first, it’s subtle—gentle signs that you’re never truly alone—but as his obsession deepens, the signs become harder to ignore.

jealousy eats away at him when others capture your attention. he can’t bear the thought of you being close to anyone else, of you laughing or smiling with someone who isn’t him. when you’re out, he follows you like a shadow, unseen but ever-present, and if someone gets too close, the air turns cold, the lights flicker, and an unshakable unease settles over them until they leave.

he craves your touch, but his incorporeal form makes it impossible. this frustrates him endlessly, and he spends nights lingering near you, reaching out as if he could somehow feel the warmth of your skin, the beat of your heart. his desperation leads him to try anything to bridge the gap between life and death, no matter the cost.

despite his possessiveness, he’s deeply protective. he uses his abilities to shield you from harm, warding off danger with an almost primal ferocity. if someone threatens you, they’ll find themselves plagued by unexplainable misfortunes—objects falling, shadows moving, and an unrelenting sense of being watched. he doesn’t harm them directly, but his presence is enough to terrify even the boldest.

when he speaks to you, it’s with a voice like the echo of a forgotten melody, soft and tinged with sorrow. he tells you things you shouldn’t know—secrets from your past, glimpses of your future, things only someone who’s been watching you so intimately could know. he wants you to feel his devotion, his undying love, even if it frightens you.

there’s a tragic loneliness to him. he knows he can never truly be with you, not in the way he desires, and this realization drives him to the edge of despair. his love is obsessive, yes, but it’s also painfully pure—an eternal yearning for a connection he can never fully have.

if you acknowledge him, his devotion only deepens. the smallest smile, a whispered “thank you” into the empty room, is enough to make his entire existence worthwhile. he clings to these moments, replaying them endlessly in his mind, as they are his only solace in an eternity of longing.

he follows you everywhere, unseen but ever-present, his translucent form flickering in the corner of your eye or casting a fleeting shadow against the wall. at first, his presence is subtle, almost unnoticeable: the faint creak of floorboards when no one else is home, a cold breeze brushing against your skin, the lingering feeling that someone is watching you. but as his obsession deepens, his presence grows stronger, more impossible to ignore.

he learns everything about you. the way you hum absentmindedly when you’re focused, the scent of your favorite tea, the books you read late into the night. he listens to the sound of your heartbeat as you sleep, a steady rhythm that lulls him into a state of peace he hasn’t felt since he was alive. he treasures these moments, hoarding every detail about you like precious relics of a life he can never fully be part of.

his jealousy is a storm that rages within him. when others come into your life, his calm demeanor shatters. he can’t bear the thought of you sharing your smiles, your laughter, or your attention with anyone else. the air around you grows colder when someone he deems a threat is near, and they often find themselves inexplicably uneasy in your presence. lights flicker, objects fall, and whispers echo in the corners of the room, driving them away with a fear they can’t explain.

but with you, he is soft, almost fragile. he speaks to you in whispers, his voice carrying the faint echo of a forgotten melody, full of longing and sorrow. "don’t be afraid," he murmurs into the quiet of the night. "i’ll always protect you." his words are laced with an aching devotion, a promise to guard you from harm, even if you don’t fully understand where the comfort is coming from.

he leaves you gifts, though he has no tangible hands to place them. a single white flower on your windowsill that wasn’t there the night before, an old, weathered book that appeared on your desk, or a faint message written in the condensation on your mirror. they’re tokens of his affection, his way of reminding you that you’re not alone, even when he can’t be seen.

despite his protectiveness, he’s painfully aware of his limitations. his incorporeal form frustrates him to no end—he longs to touch you, to hold you, to feel the warmth of your hand in his, but the barrier between life and death is unyielding. he spends countless hours watching you, reaching out with ghostly fingers that pass through you, yearning for a connection he can never truly have.

he’s haunted by the memory of what it felt like to be alive, to love and be loved in return. his obsession with you is his only solace in a world of emptiness, but it also drives him to desperation. he begins searching for ways to bridge the gap between your worlds, delving into the supernatural, seeking answers, rituals, or bargains that might bring him closer to you.

when you acknowledge him, even in the smallest ways, it’s everything to him. a whispered “thank you” when you notice the flower he left, a hesitant glance toward the flickering light he caused—it fills him with a joy so profound it nearly breaks him. he clings to these moments, replaying them endlessly in his mind, as they are the only proof that he still exists to you.

his love is all-consuming, a desperate and eternal yearning that leaves no room for anything else. he doesn’t just want to protect you; he wants to be with you, to share in your life, to have a place in your heart. he knows his love is overwhelming, even suffocating, but he can’t stop. you’re his reason for lingering in this world, the one thing that makes his cursed existence bearable.

in his more vulnerable moments, he confesses his feelings, his voice trembling with a sorrow that spans lifetimes. "i’m sorry," he whispers, his spectral form flickering like a dying flame. "i didn’t mean for this to happen. but i can’t let go. i won’t." his words are both a plea and a promise, a declaration of a love that will haunt you forever.

his devotion is eternal, unyielding, and consuming. he doesn’t see his obsession as wrong; to him, it’s the purest form of love, a connection that transcends life and death. and though his presence may sometimes frighten you, you can’t deny the strange comfort it brings, the knowledge that someone—something—is always watching over you. he is yours, now and forever, and nothing, not even death, will change that.

you are his reason for lingering in this world, his obsession, his eternity.

alaric drifts soundlessly through the walls, his form a faint shimmer of light that barely disturbs the air

"you called for me," he whispers, his voice like the rustle of leaves on a quiet night. he hovers just out of reach, his longing evident in the way he watches you with those hollow, mournful eyes

every creak of the floorboards, every cool breeze brushing your skin—it’s alaric, a constant, invisible guardian, desperate for you to feel his presence.

the demon

with horns curling from his head, molten eyes, and a smirk that could tempt even the purest soul, the demon is as charming as he is dangerous. he first appeared to you when you were at your lowest, offering power and protection—but only if you stayed by his side.

azrael is striking in his infernal elegance, his beauty sharp and dangerous like a blade. his obsidian horns curl menacingly from his head, gleaming faintly in the firelight, and his jet-black hair is cropped just enough to frame his angular face.

his glowing amber eyes burn with an intensity that’s both mesmerizing and terrifying, framed by dark lashes that soften their predatory edge. his physique is perfectly sculpted, with broad shoulders and sinewy muscle wrapped in dark tattoos that pulse faintly with infernal energy.

a long, spaded tail flicks behind him, a subtle testament to his demonic nature, while his sharp, claw-like fingers could destroy—or cradle.

he infiltrates your dreams, filling them with his voice and his image so that you can never forget him. no matter how far you try to run, he’s always there, whispering promises of eternal love.

the demon doesn’t share. he’ll make deals or threats to ensure no one else dares approach you. his flames flare dangerously when he senses competition.

when you challenge his overbearing nature, he’s secretly thrilled. Your fiery defiance makes him want you even more. but when you show fear or sadness, he’s quick to reassure you with surprising tenderness.

the demon is a dangerous enigma, a being forged in fire and darkness who is utterly captivated by you. his obsession burns hotter than the flames of his infernal home, an all-consuming desire that transcends mortal understanding.

he’s not a creature of softness or restraint—his love is raw, primal, and possessive, and he would raze the world to ash if it meant keeping you by his side.

he first noticed you in a moment of vulnerability, a flicker of something pure and radiant that pierced through his otherwise unrelenting darkness. maybe it was your kindness, your resilience, or even your imperfections—whatever it was, it stirred something in him he hadn’t felt in centuries.

for a demon who thrives on power and domination, this feeling was alien, unsettling, and exhilarating.

at first, he tried to ignore it. love, after all, is a weakness—a chain that binds. but the more he watched you, the deeper he sank. you consumed his thoughts, invaded his dreams, and stirred emotions he didn’t even know he was capable of. the line between fascination and obsession blurred, and before long, you became the center of his world, his greatest desire and his ultimate possession.

his presence is overwhelming, even when he isn’t visible. the air grows heavy when he’s near, crackling with an unnatural energy that makes your skin tingle. shadows twist and writhe in the corners of your vision, and faint whispers echo in your mind, promises of devotion spoken in a voice as smooth as velvet.

he’s not above manipulating your emotions to keep you close. he knows exactly how to twist words, how to play on your fears and insecurities, all while making it seem like he’s your only sanctuary. "no one will love you the way i do," he purrs, his voice a blend of seduction and menace. "no one will protect you like i can."

jealousy consumes him with a ferocity that borders on madness. he doesn’t tolerate anyone vying for your attention or affection. if someone dares to come too close, they often meet with mysterious misfortunes—car accidents, sudden illnesses, or even inexplicable disappearances. he doesn’t see these acts as cruel; in his mind, he’s simply ensuring that no one can take you from him.

despite his darkness, his love for you is genuine in its own twisted way. he’s incapable of expressing it in soft or traditional ways, but his devotion is absolute.

he treasures every interaction with you, every fleeting smile, every word you speak to him. he hoards these moments like a dragon hoards gold, replaying them endlessly in his mind.

he’s endlessly fascinated by your humanity—the way your emotions shift like the tides, the fragility of your body, the warmth of your skin. he often marvels at how delicate you are compared to him, a creature of immense power and near-immortality. this contrast only deepens his obsession; you’re a treasure, a rare and precious thing in a world of chaos and darkness.

when he does reveal himself to you, it’s always dramatic and intentional. he thrives on your reactions, whether it’s fear, awe, or even anger. he’ll step out from the shadows, his horns catching the dim light, his dark eyes glowing with an otherworldly intensity. "you belong to me," he’ll say, his voice leaving no room for argument. it’s not a question, not a plea—it’s a declaration, an unshakable truth in his mind.

he uses his demonic powers to bind himself to you in ways both subtle and overt. you might find strange symbols etched into the corners of your room, or feel an inexplicable pull toward him that you can’t resist. he’s always there, in your dreams, in your thoughts, in the very fabric of your reality.

but for all his power and confidence, there’s a vulnerability beneath his fiery exterior. he’s terrified of losing you, of you rejecting him or finding someone else.

it’s a fear he doesn’t understand, one that gnaws at him and drives him to even greater extremes. he’ll do anything to keep you, even if it means breaking every rule, defying the laws of heaven and hell, and binding your soul to his for eternity.

in his own way, he tries to be gentle with you. he knows his nature frightens you, that his obsession can be overwhelming, so he tempers his intensity—at least, as much as a demon is capable of. he’ll appear to you in dreams, his voice soft, his touch feather-light, weaving fantasies of a life where you’re his and his alone.

but make no mistake—his love is as dangerous as it is consuming. he doesn’t see you as a partner, but as something to be claimed, protected, and possessed. you’re his light in the darkness, his one weakness, and he would destroy anyone—or anything—that threatens to take you from him.

"i’ll burn this world to the ground for you," he tells you, his voice a low growl, his eyes glowing with an intensity that’s equal parts terrifying and mesmerizing. "just say the word."

to him, you’re not just his obsession—you’re his salvation, the one thing that makes his existence bearable. his love is eternal, fierce, and utterly inescapable, binding you to him in ways you might never fully understand. you are his everything, and he will stop at nothing to make sure you remain his. forever.

azrael appears in a flicker of shadows and embers, his smirk sharp enough to cut

"did you miss me?" he purrs, his voice dripping with sinful charm. his burning gaze never leaves yours, an intensity that feels like it could consume your very soul

when he steps closer, the scent of smoke and spice fills the air, and the room grows impossibly warm

"you can’t escape me, little one," he murmurs, his words a promise and a threat all at once.

the sea monster

a towering creature with scales that shimmer in the moonlight and eyes as deep as the ocean, the sea monster saved you from drowning during a storm. since then, he’s watched you from the water’s edge, longing to pull you into his world.

his body a perfect blend of human and sea creature. his skin shimmers with an iridescent sheen, scales glinting faintly with hues of green, blue, and silver that shift like sunlight on water. his long, flowing hair resembles seaweed, dark and sleek, cascading down his back in waves.

his eyes glow faintly, like bioluminescent creatures of the deep, their piercing intensity revealing his ancient power. his hands are webbed and tipped with sharp, claw-like nails, and his muscular frame is marked with jagged scars from battles in the ocean’s depths. his lower half bears fins that ripple with movement, giving him a grace that belies his massive size.

he collects things you’ve touched—seashells, pieces of cloth, even footprints in the sand. his underwater lair is filled with these treasures, each arranged like a shrine.

he hates when you leave the shore. If you venture too far inland, he’ll create storms or tidal waves to draw you back to him.

he becomes surprisingly bashful when you willingly approach the water to speak to him. your trust in him, despite his monstrous appearance, makes his heart swell.

the sea monster is an ancient being, born of the ocean’s depths, where sunlight never reaches. his obsession with you is as vast and unfathomable as the waters he calls home—a love born of isolation, mystery, and an insatiable hunger for connection. to him, you are his beacon, a rare and precious light in the endless darkness of his world, and he is utterly captivated by you.

his first encounter with you was serendipitous—a chance meeting by the shore, or perhaps a daring moment when you ventured too close to the water’s edge. he saw you, a fragile creature of the land, and was instantly enthralled.

your movements, your laughter, even the way the sunlight caught in your hair—all of it was alien and beautiful to him. from that moment, you became his fixation, his reason to rise from the depths.

he watches you from the water, his massive form concealed beneath the waves, his glowing eyes ever watchful. at first, his presence is subtle—the gentle lapping of waves against the shore, the inexplicable pull of the tide whenever you’re near.

but as his obsession deepens, his signs become harder to ignore. strange treasures wash ashore: seashells, polished stones, and other trinkets that seem too deliberately placed to be coincidences.

he is a creature of contradictions. his love for you is as tender as it is overwhelming, and while he longs to be near you, he’s painfully aware of his monstrous appearance. his body is a fusion of scales, fins, and sinewy muscle, a form designed to survive in the crushing pressure of the deep sea. he fears your rejection, that you will see him as a monster rather than the devoted being he has become.

despite this, he can’t help but draw closer. when you venture into the water, he’s there, just beneath the surface, his presence a dark shadow that follows you. he revels in these moments, the closeness, the illusion that he’s part of your world. the saltwater clings to your skin, and it drives him mad with desire—it’s as though the ocean itself is marking you as his.

his jealousy is as fierce as a storm at sea. anyone who dares to draw too near to you risks his wrath. fishermen speak of sudden squalls that rise from nowhere, boats overturned by unseen forces, and sailors vanishing into the depths. he doesn’t see it as cruelty; to him, it’s protection. the ocean is his domain, and no one else has the right to take what belongs to him.

he dreams of pulling you into his world, of making you his in every way. the thought of you joining him beneath the waves consumes him, and he begins to weave fantasies of a life together in the depths—a palace of coral and bioluminescent light, where you would be his queen, his eternal companion.

but he knows it’s impossible, and this knowledge torments him. he can’t survive on land for long, and you can’t live beneath the water. this barrier between your worlds drives him to desperation. he begins seeking forbidden rituals and ancient magic, anything that might allow him to bridge the gap and bring you into his realm—or transform himself into something that can walk beside you on the shore.

when he speaks, his voice is a low, resonant rumble, like the distant crash of waves on a rocky shore. his words are filled with longing and reverence, a declaration of a love that spans the vastness of the ocean. "you are my light," he murmurs, his glowing eyes fixed on you. "without you, i am nothing but the endless dark."

his love is consuming, a tidal wave that sweeps away everything in its path. he doesn’t understand restraint or boundaries; to him, love is absolute, and his devotion to you is all-encompassing. he sees your hesitations, your fears, but he can’t stop himself. you are the first thing in centuries to stir his cold, ancient heart, and he will not let you go.

when you acknowledge his presence, even in the smallest ways—a whispered word to the sea, a touch to one of the treasures he’s left for you—his heart swells with a joy so profound it’s almost painful. he clings to these moments, replaying them in his mind during the long hours when he’s alone in the depths, waiting for the chance to see you again.

his protectiveness is as fierce as his love. the ocean itself seems to bend to his will, rising to shield you from harm. storms part in your wake, currents carry you safely to shore, and even the most fearsome predators of the deep seem to bow before you. you are his everything, and he will guard you with a ferocity that defies nature itself.

but there’s a darkness to his love, a possessiveness that borders on madness. he doesn’t just want you to love him; he wants you to need him, to see him as the only one who can protect and cherish you. "the land will never understand you as i do," he tells you, his voice a low growl, the waves crashing behind him. "they will never love you as i do."

his obsession is eternal, as deep and unyielding as the ocean itself. you are his heart, his treasure, his reason for rising to the surface. and though his love may be overwhelming, even frightening, there’s a strange beauty in it—a devotion so pure and unshakable that it defies the boundaries of worlds. you are his, now and always, and he will never let the tide carry you away.

mio watches from the waves, his body a dark silhouette against the moonlit water. when you finally meet his gaze, he speaks your name like it’s a prayer, his voice low and reverent

"you don’t belong to the land," he says, his tone both pleading and possessive. "the ocean calls to you. i call to you.

his fingers trail through the water, creating ripples that mirror the emotions surging in his chest—desire, devotion, and an unshakable determination to make you his.

while each monster is fiercely possessive, they begrudgingly tolerate each other’s presence because they all agree on one thing: your happiness comes first.

you’re not just a human to them—you’re their everything. whether you accept their twisted love or try to escape, one thing is certain: they’ll never let you go. you’ve awakened something primal and eternal in their hearts, and no force on earth or beyond could sever the bonds they’ve forged with you.

[rmview]

when you’re just too cute, ATEEZ.

featuring — ateez members x gn!reader ( masterlist )

summary — headcanons of what the ateez boys are like when you’re just too darn cute for words!

contents — fluff, cute aggression, no warnings.

hong ♥ joong

⟶ tries to play it cool but ends up stuttering whenever you do something adorable. ⟶ covers his face with his hands to hide his smile and mutters, “stop, you’re too much.” ⟶ pulls out his phone to record you, pretending it’s for memories but secretly watches the videos later. ⟶ uses your cuteness as inspiration for lyrics, often scribbling down phrases like, “you make my heart skip a beat.” ⟶ calls you “too dangerous” jokingly because your cuteness distracts him from work. ⟶ tries to tease you to balance the power dynamic but ends up melting when you pout. ⟶ gifts you oversized clothes because he thinks you’d look even cuter in them. ⟶ regularly mutters under his breath, “how can someone be this cute?” ⟶ always gives in when you ask for something in a sweet voice or with puppy eyes. ⟶ quietly brags about you to the other members, but acts nonchalant when they tease him about it.

seong ♥ hwa

⟶ softly pinches your cheeks and coos, “how are you so cute?” ⟶ tries to remain composed but ends up giggling whenever you do something adorable. ⟶ constantly offers to carry things for you, saying, “cute people shouldn’t have to lift a finger.” ⟶ gently fixes your hair or clothing while smiling fondly at you. ⟶ buys you cute accessories or plushies that remind him of you. ⟶ holds your hand more often, just so he can admire how small and delicate it is in his. ⟶ whenever you’re being too cute, he jokingly says, “i can’t handle this,” and pretends to walk away. ⟶ talks about your cuteness as if it’s a world-changing phenomenon. ⟶ tries to teach you his “cool” expressions but melts when you fail adorably. ⟶ protectively hovers around you in public, thinking everyone else must also find you too cute.

yun ♥ ho

⟶ laughs so hard at your cuteness that he has to sit down to recover. ⟶ constantly pokes your cheeks or playfully taps your nose, saying, “boop!” ⟶ teases you about how adorable you are but gets flustered when you call him cute in return. ⟶ loves it when you match his playful energy, especially with silly poses or expressions. ⟶ challenges you to aegyo battles but declares you the winner every time. ⟶ takes a million photos of you doing cute things, claiming he needs “evidence.” ⟶ randomly hugs you tightly and says, “you’re too cute. i’m keeping you.” ⟶ tries to keep a straight face but bursts into laughter when you catch him staring. ⟶ complains jokingly, “you’re going to give me a heart attack with that cuteness.” ⟶ encourages your cute behavior, saying, “don’t ever change. it’s perfect.”

yeo ♥ sang

⟶ quietly stares at you with a small smile, occasionally muttering, “so cute.” ⟶ pretends to be unbothered but blushes furiously when you catch him staring. ⟶ gently pokes your cheeks and murmurs, “i don’t think this is fair.” ⟶ buys you matching items, like plushies or keychains, because he loves seeing you happy. ⟶ when you’re being especially cute, he hides his face in his hands, saying, “you’re killing me.” ⟶ tries to tease you, but his soft voice gives away how much he’s enjoying it. ⟶ loves watching you get excited over little things and secretly takes pictures of those moments. ⟶ often uses your cuteness as a reason to spoil you. “how could i ever say no to that face?” ⟶ gives you his hoodie, just to see how adorable you look drowning in it. ⟶ sometimes tells the members, “they’re too cute. what do i do?”

san ♥

⟶ dramatically clutches his chest and exclaims, “i’m not strong enough for this!” ⟶ squeezes you in tight hugs and says, “you’re like a teddy bear. so squishy!” ⟶ constantly tells you how adorable you are, no matter what you’re doing. ⟶ pinches your cheeks gently while giggling, “so cute, it hurts.” ⟶ acts jealous if you’re being cute with the other members, saying, “that’s my cuteness!” ⟶ shows you off to everyone, bragging about how “the cutest person in the world” is his. ⟶ whines playfully when you’re cute during serious moments. “how am I supposed to focus now?” ⟶ randomly bursts into song about how cute you are, complete with dramatic gestures. ⟶ insists on taking selfies with you every time you do something adorable. ⟶ calls you his “weakness” and dramatically pretends to faint when you do aegyo.

min ♥ gi

⟶ laughs and squeezes you to his chest uncontrollably whenever you do something cute, sometimes until tears form. ⟶ ruffles your hair constantly, calling you his “little fluff.” ⟶ teases you about how small you are compared to him but secretly adores it. ⟶ tries to mimic your cute expressions but ends up making you laugh instead. ⟶ randomly picks you up and spins you around, saying, “i can’t help it — you’re too cute!” ⟶ constantly compliments you, saying, “you’re like a real-life cartoon character.” ⟶ pretends your cuteness “annoys” him but can’t stop smiling. ⟶ buys you snacks or small gifts just to keep seeing your excited reactions. ⟶ gushes about you to his members, saying, “they’re so cute, i don’t know what to do!” ⟶ like yeosang, always gives in to your requests because, as he says, “how can i say no to that face?”

woo ♥ young

⟶ playfully scolds you for being “too cute,” saying, “this is illegal!” ⟶ mimics your cute behavior but makes it extra dramatic for laughs. ⟶ pretends to faint or clutch his heart every time you do something adorable. ⟶ constantly calls you pet names like “cutie pie” or “baby.” ⟶ shows off your cuteness to everyone, saying, “look at them! aren’t they the cutest?” ⟶ takes countless candid pictures of you and saves them in a special album. ⟶ whines jokingly when you’re cute, saying, “you’re going to ruin me!” ⟶ pulls you into playful dances just to see you smile and giggle. ⟶ teases you, “you’re lucky i love you, or i’d be jealous of how cute you are.” ⟶ admits in quieter moments, “i never thought someone could make me this soft.”

jong ♥ ho

⟶ tries to act unaffected but ends up smiling every time you’re cute. ⟶ gently pokes your cheek and says, “you’re not supposed to be this cute, you know.” ⟶ loves teasing you about your cuteness but secretly thinks it’s the best thing about you. ⟶ randomly sings for you when he’s overwhelmed by your adorableness. ⟶ pretends to be “tough,” saying, “cute things don’t work on me,” but folds instantly. ⟶ often shakes his head in disbelief and says, “what am i going to do with you?” ⟶ buys you little treats or gifts, claiming, “i couldn’t resist because it’s cute like you.” ⟶ protectively hovers around you, saying, “you’re too cute to handle the world alone.” ⟶ laughs when you try to be serious because look adorable while doing it. ⟶ although always admits, “i don’t think i’ll ever get used to how cute you are.”

notes: i’m actually against doing the same trope for multiple groups, but if this is something you guys like then i might do it for my other groups too!

[aurorawritestoescape]

WINTER HEAT

Jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader || 4,1k

Summary: Joel helps you to get warm after a patrol.

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, FLUFF, comfort, kinda grumpy and sunshine reversed, soft!Joel, reader hates winter (me-coded), Joel’s reading glasses, consensual somno, wet dreams, pet names, fingering, squirting, unprotected piv, creampie. No tlou2 spoilers! Reader has no specific physical features.

A/n: this is written for @sizzlingcloudmentality and @guiltyasdave ‘s Writing through the seasons challenge. Thank you for such a cool event, lovelies!💞 I got Winter with Joel and a wonderful mb that you can see at the end of the fic❤️ Kisses to my love @milla-frenchy for the fireplace idea and for beta-ing💋 And a shout out to a blizzard we had here in April that fueled my hate for the cold :/ Anyway, I hope you all will like the story and it brings you comfort, too. Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

MASTERLIST

You arrived in Jackson in spring. The sun was bright and warm and the town looked heavenly in its golden rays. The white mountain tops against the blue of the endless sky took your breath away. You felt at home right away, welcomed by the beauty of nature, greeted by the kind people who lived there. Although, one person in particular stood out to you immediately.

Tall, broad and handsone, with a ’don’t fuck with me’ glare, a man by the name Joel was asked to help you settle in your new place. You got to know him better when he became your first patrol partner — experienced and capable, Joel was chosen to keep an eye on a newbie like you. At first, you scoffed at him teaching you things you already knew, but as soon as you proved yourself to be an excellent shot, cool headed and careful, Joel stopped acting like your babysitter. You two worked so well together, that no one wanted to separate you afterwards.

Days passed and it became obvious that Joel and you were a perfect match not only as patrol partners. Like two lonely souls you drifted towards each other and a month after meeting him, you found yourself sleeping in his bed, and a week later living in his house.

You heard rumours about his past here and there, but it never bothered you. Who hadn’t done some shit during a literal apocalypse? Once a drunk guy at ‘The Tipsy Bison’ called Joel a monster and immediately got bitch-slapped by you. You were fuming, but Joel remained calm and led you away, his arm around your waist.

You couldn’t believe what some were saying. Joel was caring and kind and you were happy to share your present and your future with him, to help each other heal the wounds of the past.

The summer came and Joel made it magical. Your patrols felt more like dates — the scent of meadows in the air, two of you on a horseback, talking and laughing quietly, trying not to attract clickers. You relished every minute with him, even out of the safety of the town walls.

Fortunately, you had enough time to get lost in Joel completely, forget the dangers of the world you were living in and focus on its beauty.

Your now common home became your favourite place. You spent every possible moment outside in the backyard, basking in the sun, flowers in your hair, Joel’s lips on your neck. He grumbled about his aching knees but still fucked you on the grass every time you were sunbathing in your simple bikini you’d found at the clothes shop.

“Can’t walk past when you’re splayed like this,” he gruffed in your ear, thrusting his cock into you, your bikini bottoms pulled to the side.

“I was —ahh- jus’ enjoying the sun, Joel.”

“Yeah and now I'm enjoyin you.”

You felt his smile on your cheek and playfully licked his sweaty face, earning a light slap on your hip and a low chuckle from the man. When he grazed that magical spot inside your core, you squeezed your eyes shut and came on his cock, your loud moan fused with the bird chirping in the tree over your heads.

Now

You’re shielding your eyes with your gloved hand, covering them from a chilling wind. A shiver hits your body so hard that even Joel notices you trembling.

”Gonna be home soon, honey!” he shouts to you, grabbing the reins of his horse tighter as you two are riding to the gates. You grumble an ‘ok’, which immediately gets swallowed by the howling of the blizzard, and try to keep your teeth from banging but in vain.

As soon as you get home, you throw off your clothes, the cold woven into every inch of the fabric, and run upstairs to the only place that can warm you up - a bath. When Joel comes home from the stables, you’ve already dried yourself, put on a few layers of home clothes and nestled under a duvet.

This is how he finds you in the bedroom — an unmoving lump on the bed.

You feel the mattress dip next to you, a light pat lands on your ass.

“Ya hungry?”

“No.” Your voice is barely audible, your sad eyes set on the window. Joel sighs and asks softly,

“What is it, baby?”

“I hate winter. Hate snow. I’m tired of freezing my ass off every patrol.”

Joel hums and after following your line of vision stares at the blizzard, raging outside.

“I can make you some hot tea.”

”I don’t want any tea,” you mumble, covering your face with the duvet, hiding your sour expression and trying to warm up your still cold nose. Joel’s heavy hand rests on your back and he starts slowly rubbing it, giving you the comfort that you need so much yet refuse to accept because of your mood.

“What if I ask Tommy to assign you something else?”

“No!”

You yank the duvet off your face and glare at him.

“Don’t! I’m not a quitter.”

Joel stares at you, his brows raised, and you add, a little softer now, “I'll be fine.”

Your tone is far from fine and Joel knows that it’s better to leave you alone right now.

“Ok, I’m gonna have dinner. Hope you’ll join me.”

He gets up and leaves the bedroom. You watch the blizzard for a few minutes and then fall asleep, your body exhausted by constant shivering.

You wake up when it’s dark outside, the clock says you’ve slept for 3 hours. The wind has calmed down and fluffy snowflakes are floating by the window. You hate to leave the bed but your stomach is grumbling and, not risking the cold of the room creeping into your cocoon of warmth, you wrap the duvet around yourself and head downstairs.

You see Joel crouching in front of the fireplace in the living room, his back to you. He’s wearing a white tee and a pair of sweatpants and just the sight of his exposed arms makes you shiver.

“Hey,” you call softly, hating to startle him, and when he doesn’t hear you, because of the crackle of the fire or his bad ear, you say his name louder. Joel glances back and you see the fire burning bright behind him.

“Wow. Big one.” You widen your eyes, watching Joel carefully stir the logs.

“Made it for ya. And this.”

He nods to a pile of pillows and blankets, lying on the floor.

“Are we making a fort?” you laugh, looking at the mess on the floor, and Joel glares up at you with a fake annoyance in his sparkling eyes.

“‘s for you to sit on.”

“Oh,” you nod, realizing that he’s made this cozy warming place for you.

“Sit down. I’ll bring you dinner.”

“Oh,” you repeat but now your voice wavers and you get overcome with love and gratitude for the man. How could anyone call him a monster? And how the hell did you get so lucky?

You have your dinner in your makeshift nest, your eyes set on the fire dancing vividly in the fireplace, while Joel is reading next to you on the couch, the flames reflecting in his glasses.

The orange light is the only thing illuminating the room and you get mesmerized by the changing shadows on the walls. Your duvet is a cape on your shoulders right now, the heat from the fire warming you perfectly.

“Thank you, Joel,” you say, placing the empty plate on the side table and throwing the duvet off. He hums but his eyes are still set on the book.

You stand on your knees between his legs and tentatively take the book out of his hands. Your lips curve with a mischievous smile as you pull him down by his wrist.

“Nah-ah, I ain’t sittin on the floor.”

“Hey, you made this comfy bed, now come join me. Please,” you add, your puppy eyes begging.

Joel sighs, takes his glasses off and gets up with a grumble. He settles next to you in front of the fireplace, leans against the couch, and you quickly get comfortable between his legs, your back against his broad chest. His arms wrap around you and you smile like a cat in the sun.

It’s much easier for you to apologize when you’re not looking at him.

“I’m sorry, Joel. I’ve been a grumpy grump.”

“‘s ok. I know you’re snappy when you’re cold. Or hungry. Or sleepy. Or..”

“OK, stop it!” you laugh, playfully hitting his forearm. “You make me sound like such a pleasure to live with.”

“You are a pleasure. It’s jus‘ winter.”

“Yeah. I hate winter.”

You sink into his embrace and a warm wave runs from the place between your legs up to your belly and then chest. A happy sigh falls from your lips — fed, warmed up, wrapped in Joel’s arms, you finally feel content.

You tilt your head up to look at Joel and he gives you a soft smile, the light of the fire making his handsome face golden. His gaze slides from your eyes to your mouth before he leans down and kisses you. His lips are chapped, his beard is scruffy and harsh against your delicate skin, but you’ve never had a more tender kiss in your life.

Craving more, you part your lips to let him slip inside and he licks into your mouth, tasting you. You're languidly making out, but with the flames of the fire in front of you, and the furnace that is Joel Miller at your back, you get overheated in seconds and start squirming between Joel’s legs. You whine into his mouth and he parts from you, his brow raised up in question.

“Mm?”

“Too hot.” You sit up with a grunt while Joel looks extremely pleased with himself.

“Good. You’re finally warm.”

“I’m not warm, Joel, I’m hot,” you complain and start pulling your sweater and a long sleeve off, but immediately get tangled in the layers.

“D’ya need a hand?” Joel chuckles, watching you struggle. You’re huffing and puffing until he hears a muffled ‘yeah’ behind all the clothes and helps you to take the excess off. Finally, you can breathe, left wearing a tee with nothing underneath. You don’t remember the last time you had only a t-shirt on at home, but the fire has warmed up the air so nicely that you don’t feel it on your skin at all.

You lean back against Joel’s chest again, his arms find their place around your shoulders, and it takes only a few minutes of cozy silence and Joel’s slow breathing at your ear to lull you to sleep.

You dream of summer and Joel. He's lying in your backyard, right on the grass, waiting for you with his arms open, and you fall into his embrace like it's the warmest ocean. He rolls you onto your back, pinning you with his comforting weight, and gives you a kiss. It's a hot day and your back dampens with sweat, but you don't squirm under him, don't show a trace of discomfort. There isn't any. You revel in the heat of the sun over your heads, in the warmth of Joel's body, big and strong, caging you against the soft grass.

A wave of heat rises deep inside your core, when Joel's hand slithers between your bodies and he cups your pussy over your clothes. His thick fingers, confident but gentle, start massaging your folds, and you moan into his mouth, slowly melting into your underwear. You break the kiss, and, wishing to see his dear face, flutter your eyes open.

Instead of Joel, a bright orange light appears in front of you, but it's not the summer sun you've been dreaming about. The burning fireplace blinds you for a second and, startled by its intensity, you jerk.

"Shhh, baby, ‘s fine."

You hear a soft baritone, feel a firm chest at your back, and reality slowly seeps back into your mind, calming you down.

“Joel,“ you croak and a sudden whimper falls from your lips, when you realize that not everything in the dream was the result of your imagination. You look down and see Joel’s hand cupping your pussy over your panties and leggings, his thumb gently rubbing your folds. It moves just over your covered clit, stimulating it slowly, nonetheless building your pleasure drop by drop.

“Joel,” you murmur again but it’s a moan now, coated in need and want. He presses his lips to your temple, his voice echoes your desire.

“I’m here, honey. Jus’ playin with her a little. ‘s ok?”

“Mmm, always,” you breathe out as your finger traces the veins on his hand. The hand that protects you, takes care of you, makes you see stars.

His palm is resting on the place that belongs to him and he has a right to use you whenever he pleases. You don’t mind one bit. You talked about it before and you gave him a green light to do whatever he wanted to you in your sleep. The idea of waking up wet and stretched around his cock or with his lips wrapped around your clit always made your head spin.

Now the warmth of his hand seeps through your leggings and your cunt purrs like a kitten at the feather-light stimulation. Your eyelids get so heavy it’s impossible to keep them open, and you close them, concentrating on Joel’s fingers dancing over your pussy. You take a deep breath and drift off again.

Your body slumps against Joel’s chest so he knows you’re sleeping. He keeps holding your beating heat in his hand, enjoying your warmth, feeling your pulse against his skin. Soon his composure gets overtaken by the need to feel you fully - your wetness on his skin, your pussy fluttering in his palm, your body unraveling around his fingers, flooding them with your juices.

Carefully, inch by inch, holding his breath, Joel pulls your leggings and panties down, not too low, but enough to free your beautiful cunt. The heat of the fire brings the scent of your need to Joel’s nostrils and he takes a deep breath, sharp and shaky, devouring it, his desire for you already stiff in his pants.

Joel knows you need him too, judging by a soft moan escaping your half parted lips, and he hooks your leg with his knee and opens you up, so his hand could find place between your thighs. He cups your naked cunt and his cock twitches and grows, demanding to stuff your soft hole. He contemplates taking you right now, fucking you slowly and steadily, keeping you asleep, but he loves playing with your pussy too much. She’s always warm and wet for him and the little noises you make are the prettiest he’s ever heard.

The sight of your wet folds, glistening with arousal, sends a shiver down his spine and Joel slightly squeezes your pussy in his huge hand. You hum and he reads it like a signal.

Joel’s middle finger pushes between your slick petals and into your warm hole, carefully, knuckle after knuckle. He grits his teeth, swallowing a groan that’s crawling up his throat, while he feels just how wet you’re for him, your pussy craving him too.

He moves his finger in and out a few times and then pushes another one in.

The effect on you is immediate. Your chest starts rising and falling fast, your eyelids flutter and you moan again and again, your song is barely audible with the fire crackling so close. Joel’s fingers are moving in and out your cunt, but one thing is missing and his desperation for it grows. Your beautiful eyes.

”Honey,” he calls through your sleep, “please.. need you to wake up.”

You open your eyes with a long whimper, a wave of pleasure swallowing you all at once, it overwhelms you. Joel’s fingers buried inside your hole, your thighs already trembling, your belly heaving, your core burning like the fire in front of your eyes.

“Gonna make you come… Look at me… Need to see..”

Joel’s voice is strained with lust, impatience turns his breath heavy, and you tilt your head to face him, to give him what he wants. You desire it, too, desperately, to come, to unravel with him drinking up the pleasure on your face.

Joel manhandles you to rest your head against his shoulder and you bite your lip, seeing what you’ve done to him— his eyes are dark as the night outside, his lips are wet, his forehead is glistening with sweat. The sight sends a new surge of wetness from your pussy and into his palm and you feel and hear a rumble in his chest. .

Joel feels you perfectly, sees your face perfectly — the tears on your lashes from the bliss he’s giving you, your half parted lips, ready to sing for him. He doesn’t make you wait and resumes pumping his thick fingers in and out of your pussy, curling them inside you while the heel of his palm is rhythmically hitting your clit, drawing shamelessly loud moans out of you. Soon the heat boils over in your core.

“Oh, Joel… don’t stop, please,” you beg, your needy voice mixing with Joel’s breathing and the squelching of your sopping pussy.

“Never.. never,” he assures you and leans down to give you a heady kiss. He scratches your delicate skin with his beard and moustache but you don’t care — any discomfort is drowned in the ocean of pleasure, devastating your body.

Joel presses his forehead to yours, but his hand is moving tirelessly, generously filling the glass of your pleasure, until it overflows, and your pussy explodes around his fingers. Wetness sprays out of your hole, wetting Joel’s hand, the blanket under you, your quivering thighs.

“Holy shit…,” you gasp at the sight but the quickly following orgasm hits you so hard, your head falls on his shoulder and, squeezing your eyes tight, you come with a loud cry. You’re moaning and shaking against Joel, every cell in your body lights up, your mind shuts down, while Joel’s fingers are fucking into your drenched hole again and again, dragging out your unforgettable climax. The squelching would probably make you embarrassed any other day but right now it sounds like music, a serenade of your love and lust for each other.

When the burn of overstimulation licks at your core, you close your legs and Joel pulls his fingers out. He drags his soaked hand along your body, up, up, and with your hazy eyes, you see a wet path he’s drawing on your skin.

“Look at that,” Joel pants, excitement rich in his voice. “Ya never done it with me before.”

“Never done it with anyone before,” you breathe out, locking eyes with him.

“Really?” He furrows his brows, as if in disbelief, but his chest expands with pride under your back, a corner of his mouth rises.

You’ve just had the best orgasm of your life but the hunger comes back quickly when you’re with Joel. Having given yourself just a few moments of respite, you clumsily get on your knees, your limbs shaky, throw your clothes off and plop down on the blankets, tugging Joel down with you.

“Need you… imagine how.. how wet I am...”

“Oh damn, right.”

Joel’s tired, you can see it in his droopy eyes, but with the agility of a much younger man, he hurries to settle between your spread legs. He’s still panting, pulling his pants and boxers down and freeing his hard cock, but suddenly he freezes.

“What is it?” You ask, your brows pulled together. ”You ok?”

Joel’s hand holding his leaking cock, the other on your bent knee, his gaze is sliding over your glistening cunt, your sweaty body as he rasps,

“Yeah.. ‘m jus’ lookin. You’re beautiful. In this light…glowin like an angel.”

“Thank you,” you whisper with a smile, feeling a lump in your throat, tears welling up in your eyes. The fire is warming you up so well, but nothing compares to the soft heat of Joel’s love. Needing him close, you reach your arms out to him and he gets on top of you, holding himself up on an elbow, and slides his hot tip between your dripping folds.

”Oh, fuck. You’re killin me, baby.”

“Hope not,” you giggle and sneak your hand between your bodies. Your palm wraps around the base of his stiff cock and you mumble,

“Let me.” Joel nods and plants both elbows on the blanket while you notch your pussy with the head of his member.

You move your hips up, spread your thighs wider and slowly start piercing yourself with his cock. You both moan at the feeling of being united, and when Joel’s length is fully sheathed inside your cunt, his lips brush yours as he murmurs,

”So warm, baby— wanna live inside you.”

You smile against his mouth and kiss him. Like a missing puzzle piece, Joel always makes you feel complete. Thoroughly opened by his fingers, you’re taking his cock with ease, while he’s rolling his hips into you at a slow but steady pace, and you meet him halfway, desperate to make it less strenuous on his exhausted body.

Joel’s face finds place in the crook of your neck and you’re holding him close, running your fingers over his skin, through his hair, caressing him as softly as you can.

His eyes soon find yours as he rasps,

“‘s too good, baby… gonna come soon. ‘m sorry.”

“No, no,” you shake your head. “Come, my love.” His eyes radiate wrinkles as he smiles at your words.

“Where, honey?”

“Inside. Please, inside.”

”Hnggg, want my hot cum?” Joel grunts, picking up the pace of his hips, ”to keep your pussy warm, too?”

“Ahhh, yeah, warm and wet for longer.”

Lust is shining in his gaze as Joel gruffs,

“Give me one more and I’ll fill you up.”

Knowing well how to make you unwind, he bends down and takes your nipple in his hot mouth. He starts sucking on it, swirling his tongue around the bud and it makes your eyes roll back into your head before a second orgasm starts shaking your body, your pussy choking Joel’s cock. He squeezes you between his strong arms and begins coming, too. His heavy balls are sticking to your ass, as he keeps thrusting into you with every rope of cum his cock pumps into your already sloppy pussy. He adds more and more and you don’t stop milking him with your clenching walls until the last drop is deep inside you.

Not pulling out, Joel moves you both on the side and you’re holding each other, your bodies tingling in the afterglow.

Your face is buried in his neck and your giggle comes out muffled.

“If you keep warming me up like this, I might survive this winter.”

“If ya come for me like this, I’m gonna do it every damn day… till the spring comes.” You feel Joel’s smile against your forehead.

“No, ‘s too much. I’ll get dehydrated,” you laugh and he chuckles with you before you say,

“After every patrol then, ‘k?”

“Ya got it.”

Joel lies on his back and you take your favorite sleeping position- your head on his shoulder, your leg bent over his thigh, Joel’s arm holding you close.

Soon you hear his slow and deep breathing- he’s asleep. You watch the fire dance for a few minutes, remembering the hard patrol, the cold tormenting your body and soul, the wonderful surprise Joel has given you, and a thought crosses your mind,

“Maybe winter isn’t that bad.”

With a happy smile on your lips you follow Joel and fall asleep, too.

moodboard by @guiltyasdave and @sizzlingcloudmentality 💞

Thank you for reading! Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed the fic! Your feedback means the world🌺

MASTERLIST

Tag list: @milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @auteurdelabre @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @evolnoomym @keylimebeag @joelmillerisapunk @pascaltesaye @fruityreads @itwasntimethatdidit40 @meetmeatyourworst @callmebyyournick-name @tateypots

People who were interested in the wip post (no pressure to read, bbs) @604to647 @arcanefox207 @sawymredfox @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal

[fuckyeahisawthat]

Controversial opinion among Dune book fans maybe, but I loved the changes they made to Chani's character. Making her a fedaykin who is already an experienced fighter before Paul arrives was a brilliant choice. Dune Part Two is a war movie, and this puts her at the center of the action, side by side with Paul, and gives her a much more active role than she has in the book.

We got a hint of where things were going in the beginning of Dune Part One. The first thing we ever know about movie Chani is that she's a fighter. She serves as a voice for the Fremen, telling us the story of their struggle from her point of view. I wrote here about the difference this change makes compared to other adaptations of Dune, what a perspective shift it is to have the world of Arrakis introduced not by an outsider, describing it as a dangerous but valuable colonial prize, but by one of its native inhabitants, who tells us before all else that it's beautiful, her home that she's fighting to liberate. I am so, so glad that the second movie followed up on this characterization.

I never found Chani and Paul's love story in the book particularly convincing, because why would this woman, who already has a prominent and respected place in Fremen society, even give the time of day to her deposed would-be colonizer, let alone fall in love and have children with him? Without a compelling reason for Chani to love Paul, she ends up feeling like a prize to be won, and "indigenous culture personified as a woman to be wooed (or conquered) by the colonizing man" is a trope we've seen and don't need to repeat.

But as soon as you tell me it's a barricade romance I get it. Cool cool cool, I know exactly what this relationship is now and it makes sense. Movie Chani doesn't respect or even particularly like Paul when she first meets him, and she doesn't think he's the fulfillment of any prophecy. She comes to respect him, and eventually love him, through his actions. He's brave--sometimes recklessly so. He fights well. He's willing to stick his neck out on the front lines with the other Fremen fighters. He can (after a little help) hack surviving in the harsh desert environment. He's not too proud to learn from others. He seems to genuinely want to be her equal in a common political struggle. All these qualities make sense as things she values.

Fighting side by side as equals is just about the only way I can see movie Chani falling for Paul. And it fits perfectly with the film's pattern of reversals that Paul's capacity for violence would initially be one of the things Chani likes about him, only for her to be repelled later when she sees what he becomes.

And as for Paul, well, he's had people deferring to him his entire life. Someone who doesn't take any shit from him is probably refreshing. He seems to like people (Duncan, Gurney) who challenge him and engage in a little friendly teasing--and aren't afraid to go a few rounds in the sparring ring.

It's easy to speedrun a romance when you're spending all your time together in mortal danger fighting for a shared political cause. Especially if you then start winning in a war your people have been fighting for decades. Are you kidding me? That is the perfect environment for intense battle camaraderie to turn into romantic love, and lust.

It makes sense that this version of Chani never believes Paul is any kind of messiah. Of course a character like movie Chani wouldn't believe in or trust some outside savior to liberate them. She's been working to liberate her own people for years. The more Paul invokes the messianic myth, the more he starts sounding once again like someone who plans to rule over them, and the more uncomfortable Chani becomes. In this way she becomes a foil to Jessica, the two of them representing the choices Paul is pulled between. It's a great way of externalizing the political and philosophical debates that often happen within characters' heads in the book.

And of course this version of Chani would leave Paul at the end of the film. It's not just the personal, emotional betrayal--although that stings. What common cause does she have with someone who just declared himself emperor and is sending her own people off in a war of conquest against others? Given the important role she plays in Dune Messiah, I am super curious to see how they get her back into the story, but girl was so valid for being willing to just gtfo. Given that she has the last shot of the whole movie, I'm sure she'll be back somehow, and I can't wait to see what they do with her character in any future installments.