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kiyo-cant-write · 3 months ago

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vil schoenheit with an otaku s/o

I felt like we needed something on this blog with my bias, Vil. So I took it upon myself to write something.

This comes from my love of pairing otakus and nerds with ultra-glamorous people. Vil/Idia is also something I enjoy, but as this blog is catered to reader-insert content, have this.

If anyone has any Vil requests I may prioritize them....

Summary: [Name] is the s/o of Vil Schoenheit and an otaku who challenges the shut-in Ignihyde Housewarden for his title. They have a fixation on games and often find themselves obsessed with them. What does Vil think of this?

TW/CW: None

Notes: established relationship, they/them pronouns for the reader, the reader is implied to be Ramshackle Prefect/Yuu, the reader is younger than Vil (lightly implied), explicitly post B5

Guest Stars: Rook Hunt. Neige LeBlanche (implied/referenced), Idia Shroud (mentioned)

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Vil Schoenheit

Vil wasn't always so open to dating someone who obsesses over fiction and 2D media to this degree.

Idia always irked him a bit, but maybe it was the tablet.

Honestly, he still doesn't really understand.

Vil Schoenheit is the commodity, not the consumer.

He respects his s/o for their dedication, though.

The only criticisms he has are if they do not take care of themselves properly (like neglecting food or sleep for games).

Vil has come to know random things about whatever anime or game his s/o likes and picks up special items when opportunities arise at work, albeit without drawing attention to it publicly.

What Vil wasn't prepared for was [Name]'s friendship with Rook.

It's a blessing and a curse to be in their presence.

He's thrilled they get along... but once they start yapping... it never ends and is typically about Vil himself or worse Neige LeBlanche.

Vil often pretends that he doesn't hear those chats.

He finds the praise from his s/o nice, though.

He's relieved they aren't one of his creeper fans.

Be assured that he did some interrogating early on for safety.

Vil appreciates that they live outside the spotlight.

It means that he can be "normal" with them.

It's nice to just be "Vil" and not some mega-star.

Vil values that even though they love his work, they also love him as a person, the Vil that the rest of the world isn't privy to.

Vil grimaced at the sight of his darling partner who was buried in blankets on the couch trying to "grind" for an "SSR" in some game about idols. He didn't pretend to understand such concepts but he was certainly watching it happen before him: [Name] was ignoring the world for games.

He sighed but he knew he chose this.

[Name] gave that tablet-wielding Idia Shroud a run for his title, surely. They were a shut-in as any otaku was, keeping their darling face away from view and covered by baggy clothing. They took poor care of themselves when "banners" were yielding?

That was what got on Vil's nerves the most. The utter disregard for their health in favor of fictional men and digital items.

"[Name]," Vil said, trying to get his beloved's attention.

They did not answer.

That's alright, they probably did not hear him.

"[Name]," he repeated a bit more urgently.

They remained focused on their screen, unaware of the person standing beside their cozy setup. Vil wasn't sure if he was offended or not. The housewarden sighed before using the only trick he had up his sleeve at the moment.

"[Full Name]."

"HUH?!?"

[Name] whipped around like they had heard gunshots and were faced with the radiant beauty of their boyfriend.

Oh! It was Vil!

"Sorry, Vil," [Name] offered, looking down for a moment to ensure that the story was paused, "I guess I wasn't paying attention."

"And that," Vil told them, "is a crime in and of itself, I look lovely today and you should appreciate all beauty that graces your eyes."

Vil smiled, posing in a way that made it seem natural. A hand on his hip asserted that Vil held the power in this room, even when it was not his dorm. Pomefiore's housewarden was too charismatic for words sometimes.

"You know, dear, like Rook always says and does..." Vil continued, pausing for a moment at the thought of his vice housewarden, "Though maybe not so enthusiastically as him."

"I love you so much, V, but I also have so many pulls I need to do to get this SSR," [Name] told Vil, tapping into the next part of the event they were working on, "This. is. why. I. exist. And Idia put the support card I told... begged him to."

[Name] had ventured to Ignihyde the other day, Ortho accompanying them, to beg the Game Master to put his level 105 maxed stat card for support. It was a terrifying journey that incurred the wrath of the heavens (Idia screamed in such a shrill voice that he nearly gave [Name] tinnitus) but it was worth it. The Game Master ceded and the support for the battle was won! Huzzah!

"I can see that this means a lot if you cried to Shroud about it, but you... " Vil trailed off until he noticed a familiar bag by the side of the couch, "I'm sorry, darling, do you have a guest?"

"Eh, do I have a guest?" [Name] asked Vil.

With that, Vil was about to launch into another lecture about how they should watch their house and remember if people were present, but he was cut off by the entry of one (1) Rook Hunt wearing something he would be skinned for if he were at Pomefiore with his hair tangled as if he fell asleep half smothered into something, hair and all. Vil could believe his eyes, but he didn't want to.

"Do I even want to know?" Vil asked him.

Rook raised his hands in a shrug that felt a tad passive-aggressive.

"I'm not going to ask then, neither of you has the answer that keeps my sanity alive," Vil said, sighing as he closed his eyes to avoid questioning his vice housewarden.

"We're doing this for you, Roi du Poison!" Rook told him.

"In what world does this game have anything to do with me?"

Vil was floored by the implication that he was familiar with one of these idol-ish games. He had worked on them once or twice, sure, but that was hardly the same as being a fan, a player.

"I thought this as well, but [Name] explained it to me!"

And... Rook was enthused. Yay. Time for theatrics.

"Rook, I'm not in the mood for theatrics, try to be concise."

"Of course, My Queen!"

"Rook-senpai did you make food?" [Name] asked him, cutting into the conversation.

"It is cooking now!" Rook assured with a (slightly scary) smile.

"I thought you..." Vil trailed off once more, it wasn't worth it.

Rook was here, he wasn't. [Name] knew, they didn't. At least Epel wasn't also here trying to get muscular at a dangerous speed (again). In the end, the hunter had agreed to cease his shenanigans, but there were sure to be more theatrics and tomfoolery ahead. It might seem impossible, but Vil could sense it.

"Do you two wish to tell me what has you so involved in this game? And how in all of this Twisted Wonderland it pertains to me?" the housewarden asked after a moment sitting down on the Ramshackle couch after a moment of deliberation and joining his vice housewarden and the love of his young life.

"It has everything to do with you!" [Name] told him, managing to tap away at the rhythm game while speaking which Vil would never admit impressed him, "I'm doing this because I love you.... and the cards. But mostly for you, V!"

"It's about your honor, Beautiful Vil!" Rook added.

About his honor? How was this about his honor?

Vil sighed as he turned to Rook. His hair was still a nest on his head, one fit for a bird. His golden hair color aided that appearance.

"I really wish you would fix your hair, Rook..."

Rook shook his head, expression saddening if only for a moment.

"Non, non. There is no time for it when your honor is at stake!"

And... Yeah, there's no stopping Rook now. Vil admitted to that defeat as much as it pained him, a couple of years of friendship had taught him not to... Well, to be crude, not to fuck with that.

"Yeah!!" [Name] agreed, "We need to focus on this. And... Win!"

Oh, good. Lovely. His lover was also not backing down.

Vil sighed as he leaned closer to [Name], a show of his own tiredness that he seemed to neglect the wrinkles to his clothing that could form. His face close to theirs, he watched their game, skimming the dialogue of the stylized men on the screen and trying to parse through why the player seemed to have a hoard of 167 men at their disposal while also being a 17-year-old orphan with dead famous parents who left them a company in their will.

Maybe I should have paid more attention when Idia tried to explain his visual novel collection to me...

Vil continued to watch, slowly feeling himself grow just a tad invested in the story. He cursed it, wanting to say he was above falling for the media he seldom worked in... And here he was, wondering what the MC was going to do now that one of the beautiful young men had been kidnapped by some kind of underground association of famous men. He was still a bit unclear about that last part.

"This is why, V," [Name] told him, tapping the arrow on the screen to reveal a character Vil had not seen in the section [Name] was reading.

They were tall blond with deep blue eyes wearing a shimmering gown and extremely high heels.

Vil looked back to [Name].

"Everyone is saying this character is the in-game equivalent of you," they told him, "So I wanted to help them... win against..."

A voice echoed from Rook's phone that sounded eerily similar to a certain raven-haired boy's voice. But it wasn't, Vil was certain of it. There was a certain energy to Neige's voice that this person did not have, a kind of sweetness that made Vil's stomach churn a bit.

"The you-coded guy is going to be my strongest card and he will win in the polls! Rook and I will make sure of it!" [Name] told Vil, "Also if he does lose I still have to do a favor for Idia-senpai so I really don't wanna lose."

The fact that [Name] was willing to go to such lengths for his apparent honor was heartwarming to Vil if not a tad silly. Since the events of the competition, Vil had rethought some of his prior-made statements, but it seemed that [Name] and Rook both wanted to assure him of his worth and that was... sweet, honestly. A little weird considering they chose an anime game to do so, but sweet nonetheless.

He smiled at [Name], pressing a kiss to their cheek.

"Thank you, my love," he told them before looking over at Rook, "And you as well, I suppose, Rook."

"...Might this lessen the pain I caused at the VDC?" Rook asked.

"I'm no longer angry but perhaps," Vil told the hunter.

"And it was all my idea!" [Name] cheered, glowing with pride.

"Oui, your shared love is most radiant~" Rook practically sang, pausing his rhythm game (he has a full combo and SS rank) to stand and gesture boldly to Vil and [Name].

"I know, it's why I love them so much," Vil mused.

Yes, having a significant other with differing interests had perks, sometimes. Vil had to admit that every once in a while, [Names] hobby was cute, on them anyway... Vil wasn't so sure he could handle it if they came to school as a tablet like Idia.

Imagine the rest for yourself~

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Thank you for reading! Likes and reblogs are appreciated! Do NOT repost my writing/headcanons as your own >:c Check the top of my blog for the inbox status and read the rules before requesting. This is not a twst-only blog! ^^

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boaillustration · 1 month ago

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The Artisul team was kind enough to send me their Artisul D16 display tablet to review! Timelapse and review can be found under the read more.

I have been using the same model of display tablet for over 10 years now (a Wacom Cintiq 22HD) and feel like I might be set in my ways, so getting the chance to try a different brand of display tablet was also a new experience for me!

The Unboxing

The tablet arrived in high-quality packaging with enough protection that none of the components get scratched or banged up in the shipping process. I was pleasantly surprised that additionally to the tablet, pen, stand, cables and nibs it also included a smudge guard glove and a pen case.

The stand is very light-weight and I was at first worried that it would not be able to hold up the tablet safely, but it held up really well. I appreciated that it offered steeper levels of inclination for the tablet, since I have seen plenty other display tablets who don’t offer that level of ergonomics for artists. My only gripe is that you can’t anchor the tablet to the stand. It will rest on the stand and can be easily taken on or off, but that also means that you can bump into it and dislodge it from the stand if you aren’t careful. It would require significant force, but as a cat owner, I know that a scenario like that is more likely than I’d like.

Another thing I noticed is how light the tablet is in comparison to my Cintiq. Granted, my Cintiq is larger (22 inches vs the 15.8 inches of the Artisul D16), but the Artisul D16 comes in at about 1.5kg of weight. While I don’t consider display tablets that require a PC and an outlet to work really portable, it would be a lot easier to move with the Artisul D16 from one space to another. In comparison, my Cintiq weighs in at a proud 8.5kg, making it a chore to move around. I have it hooked up to a monitor stand to be able to move it more easily across my desk.

The Setup

The setup of the tablet was quick as well, with only minor hiccups. The drivers installed quickly and basic setup was done in a matter of minutes. That doesn’t mean it came without issues: the cursor vanished as soon as I hovered over the driver window, making it a guessing game where I would be clicking and the pen calibration refused to work on the tablet screen and instead always defaulted to my regular screen. I ended up using the out of the box pen calibration for my test drawing which worked well enough.

The tablet comes with customizable hot-keys that you can reassign in the driver software. I did not end up using the hot-keys, since I use a Razer Tartarus for all my shortcuts, but I did play around with them to get a feel for them. The zoom wheel had a very satisfying haptic feel to it which I really enjoyed, and as far as I could tell, you can map a lot of shortcuts to the buttons, including with modifier keys like ctrl, shift, alt and the win key. I noticed that there was no option to map numpad keys to these buttons, but I was informed by my stream viewers that very few people have a full size keyboard with a numpad anymore.

The pen comes with two buttons as well. Unlike the hot-keys on the side of the tablet, these are barely customizable. I was only able to assign mouse clicks to them (right, left, scroll wheel click, etc) and no other hotkeys. I have the alt key mapped to my pen button on my Cintiq, enabling me to color pick with a single click of the pen. The other button is mapped to the tablet menu for easy display switches. Not having this level of customization was a bit of a bummer, but I just ended up mapping the alt key to a new button on my Razer Tartarus and moved on.

The pen had a very similar size to my Wacom pen, but was significantly lighter. It also rattled slightly when shook, but after inspection this was just the buttons clicking against the outer case and no internal issues. The pen is made from one material, a smooth plastic finish. I would have liked for there to be a rubber-like material at the grip like on the Wacom pen for better handling, but it still worked fine without it.

Despite not being able to calibrate the pen for the display tablet, the cursor offset was minimal. It took me a while at the beginning to get used to the slight difference to my current tablet, but it was easy to get used to it and I was able to smoothly ink and color with the tablet. The screen surface was very smooth, reminding me more of an iPad surface. The included smudge guard glove helped mitigate any slipping or sliding this might have caused, enabling me to draw smoothly. Like with the cursor offset, it took me a while to get used to the different pressure sensitivity of the tablet, but I adapted quickly.

So what do I think of it?

Overall, drawing felt different on this tablet, but I can easily see myself getting used to the quirks of the tablet with time. Most of the issues I had were QoL things I am used to from my existing tablet.

But I think that’s where the most important argument for the tablet comes in: the price.

I love my Cintiq. I can do professional grade work on it and I rebought the same model after my old one got screen issues, I liked it that much. But it also costs more than a 1000 € still, even after being on the market for over 10 years (I bought it for about 1.500 € refurbished in 2014, for reference). The Artisul D16 on the other hand runs you a bit more than 200€. That is a significant price difference! I often get asked by aspiring artists what tools I use and while I am always honest with them, I also preface it by saying that they should not invest in a Cintiq if they are just starting out. They are high quality professional tools and have a price point that reflects that. You do not need these expensive tools to create art. You can get great results on a lot cheaper alternatives! I do this for a living so I can justify paying extra for the QoL upgrades the Cintiq offers me, but I have no illusion that they are an accessible tool for most people.

I can recommend the Artisul D16 as a beginner screen tablet for people who are just getting into art or want to try a display tablet for once. I wouldn’t give up my Cintiq for it, but I can appreciate the value it offers for the competitive price point. If you want to get an Artisul D16 for yourself, you can click this link to check out their shop!

AMAZON.US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TQLGC81

AMAZON.JP: https://www.amazon.co.jp/dp/B07T6ZT84V

AMAZON.MX: https://www.amazon.com.mx/dp/B07T6ZT84V

Once again thank you to the Artisul team for giving me the opportunity to review their display tablet!

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mediocre-shark-tales · 19 days ago

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Brazilian GP

Masterlist

Trigger Warning- slow burn of increasing themes including sexism, SA, depression, and implied grooming

Arriving at the Brazilian paddock, the humid air immediately wrapped around me, thick and heavy with the promise of rain. I walked side by side with my race engineer, Landon, who was reading off his tablet as we made our way toward the team building.

“So, just a heads-up,” he started, glancing over at me, “the forecast isn’t looking great for the weekend. Heavy rain is expected during potentially during qualifying and also the race. The race might dry out, but it’s gonna be close.”

I grinned, feeling a little spark of excitement light up in my chest. “Rain, huh? Sounds like it’s gonna be fun.”

Landon raised an eyebrow at me, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. “You’re the only driver on the grid who calls rain fun.”

“Hey, can’t help it,” I shrugged. “Wet races are my thing. Blame teenage me for that.”

He smirked, clearly intrigued. “Teenage you, huh? What’d she do, enroll in rain driving school or something?”

“Not exactly,” I replied, the memory drawing a small laugh from me. “Off-season boredom was my teacher. Back when I didn’t have much to do, I’d find empty roads or parking lots when it rained, crank the wheel, and let the car drift. It was the perfect way to burn off energy and practice handling low traction.”

Landon gave me a mock look of disapproval. “And this is the kind of behavior we’re supposed to encourage in kids these days?”

“Absolutely not,” I said, deadpan, then grinned. “But you can’t blame me. Adrenaline deprivation is a serious condition for a teenager in the off-season.”

He let out a laugh. “I’ll give you that. Guess it worked out in the end. Your wet-weather skills are basically legendary at this point.”

“Let’s hope they hold up,” I said, my tone turning a little more serious. “If I can keep the car on the track and avoid anyone spinning out too close to me, I should be fine.”

“You’ll do more than fine,” Landon said confidently. “But just to be safe, let’s go over the setup for wet conditions later. I want to make sure you’ve got everything you need to stay ahead.”

“Sounds good,” I said, nodding.

As we approached the team building, the faint rumble of thunder echoed in the distance, a reminder of what the weekend had in store. While some drivers dreaded wet weekends, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of anticipation. Rain had a way of leveling the playing field and letting skill shine through. This was my chance to show everyone—again—why I deserved to be here.

And, as I reminded myself, it was a distraction. The rain would demand my full focus, leaving little room for the creeping thoughts of Henry or the weight of everything else going on.

The moment I stepped into the garage, I could already feel the weight of the dreaded engineering pre-weekend meeting with Henry looming over me. The hustle and noise of the team getting everything prepped for the weekend provided little comfort when I spotted him standing near the back, holding his ever-present clipboard. He was scanning the space until his eyes landed on me, a too-familiar smug grin spreading across his face.

“Ah, there she is,” he called out, closing the distance between us far too quickly. Before I could react, his arm draped across my shoulder. I stiffened instinctively, but he didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he just didn’t care.

“Let’s get started, yeah?” he said, steering me toward a small side room tucked away from the rest of the garage. “Got us a nice little space where we won’t be disturbed. Just the two of us.”

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stay calm. I didn’t respond, just nodded stiffly as he guided me into the room. It was cramped, with a single table and two chairs, and the sound of the bustling garage was muted by the closed door.

As I sat down across from him, I reached into my pocket, pretending to adjust my phone, and quickly set it to record. I placed it face down on the table next to my water bottle, angling it just enough to capture the interaction.

At first, things seemed relatively normal—or as normal as they could be with Henry. He reviewed some data from the previous race, pointing out areas where the car could be improved for wet conditions. I nodded along, taking notes and asking a few questions when necessary, trying to keep the conversation strictly professional.

But it didn’t take long for the shift to happen. It never did.

“You know,” Henry said, leaning back in his chair with a grin, “I’ve always been impressed by how you handle wet races. It’s like you and the car just… click. It’s kind of sexy, really.”

I froze for a split second before forcing myself to brush it off. “Thanks,” I said flatly, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “So about the tire strategy—”

He cut me off, leaning forward slightly. “You know, I’ve been thinking. We spend so much time working together, maybe we should, I don’t know, get to know each other better. Outside of the garage.”

I stiffened, my hands tightening into fists under the table. “I don’t think that’s appropriate,” I said carefully, my voice steady but firm. “We’re colleagues, Henry. Let’s keep it professional.”

But my words barely registered. He smirked, pushing his chair back and standing up. My heart sank as he walked around the table, closing the distance between us. I leaned back instinctively, my chair scraping slightly against the floor.

“Oh, come on,” he said, his tone low and dripping with fake charm. “Don’t be so uptight. You’re amazing, you know that? Gorgeous, talented, a total package. It’s no wonder the team’s been doing better with you around.”

I stood abruptly, creating as much space between us as the tiny room would allow. “Henry,” I said, my voice sharper now, “I’ve told you before—I don’t like this. Stop.”

He chuckled, stepping closer. “Relax, I’m just trying to pay you a compliment. You should really learn how to take one.”

I felt a cold wave of disgust wash over me, but I forced myself to remain calm. Every part of me wanted to shove him away, but I knew I needed to stay composed—for now. “I’m not interested,” I said firmly. “And this conversation is over.”

Henry’s grin faltered for a moment, his expression shifting to something darker, more frustrated. But before he could say anything else, I grabbed my water bottle and phone, ending the recording as discreetly as I could.

“I’ll see you on the pit wall,” I said, pushing past him and out the door. My heart was pounding, my skin crawling, but I kept my head high as I walked back into the bustling garage.

I was going to make it through this. I had to. And soon, I’d have the proof I needed to make sure Henry would never pull this kind of crap again.

I practically sprinted to my driver’s room after leaving that suffocating meeting, shutting the door behind me with a force that rattled the frame. The sound of the lock clicking into place was the only thing grounding me in that moment, a small barrier between me and the world. My breathing was uneven, and as much as I wanted to hold it in, the tears welled up faster than I could stop them.

I sat down heavily on the small couch, burying my face in my hands. It wasn’t just what had just happened—it was the realization of how deep this went. Henry wasn’t just some creep I could report and be done with. He’d been with the team for years, a trusted member of the garage. I was the outsider, the new driver. No matter how good my results were, no matter how much respect I earned on track, it was my word against his.

And it was going to get worse before it got better.

The weight of that truth pressed down on me like a boulder, and for a moment, I let myself feel it. The frustration, the helplessness, the anger. My hands clenched into fists against my knees as a few more tears slipped free. I hated feeling this way—weak, powerless. But I wasn’t powerless, not entirely. I still had the recordings I’d started collecting, and I was going to keep at it. I’d do whatever it took to make sure Henry couldn’t keep getting away with this.

Sniffling, I wiped my face with the sleeve of my hoodie and forced myself to take a deep breath. One thing at a time. First, I had a job to do—a race to prepare for. And for as long as I was in that car, none of this mattered. It was just me, the machine, and the track.

Standing up, I grabbed my racing suit from where it hung neatly in the corner of the room. I changed quickly, letting the routine of suiting up calm my nerves. Each step—pulling on the fireproof base layer, zipping up the suit, lacing up my boots—was a reminder of why I was here. I wasn’t just some newbie. I was a driver, one who’d clawed her way into this seat.

By the time I pulled on my gloves, I’d forced the tears back and replaced them with a mask of focus. The weight in my chest was still there, but I shoved it to the back of my mind. I couldn’t afford to let it distract me now.

Heading back to the garage, I was greeted by the usual buzz of activity. Mechanics darted around, checking every inch of the car, while engineers monitored data on screens. I nodded to a few of them as I made my way over to my car, setting my helmet and gloves on the workbench beside it.

Landon approached with a tablet in hand, his expression professional but warm. “We’ve got a few adjustments based on the data from last weekend,” he said, walking me through the setup changes. “It should help with stability in the rain, but let us know how it feels during the session.”

“Got it,” I replied, keeping my tone steady as I reviewed the notes with him.

I went through the routine checks with the team, nodding and responding where necessary but staying mostly quiet. The focus I’d forced myself into earlier had settled in, giving me the clarity I needed. This was my space—the car, the garage, the track. And for now, nothing else existed outside of it.

Sliding into the cockpit, I felt the familiar rush of adrenaline as the mechanics strapped me in and adjusted the belts. The engine roared to life, and all the noise of the world faded away, replaced by the hum of power beneath me.

Free Practice 1 had gone smoother than I could have hoped for. The car felt balanced, the adjustments the team made held up well, and my lap times were competitive. By the end of the session, the data showed I was on track for a promising position for sprint qualifying. The rain everyone had been bracing for still hadn’t arrived, but the sky was a heavy gray, the forecast ominously predicting that race day was going to be a drenched battle.

After parking the car and climbing out, I took a moment to savor the positive outcome. Landon handed me a water bottle as he went over the session’s feedback, and I nodded along, already mentally preparing for what was to come. “Looks solid,” he said, giving me an encouraging smile. “If we can hold this pace, you’ll be in a great spot for tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I replied, taking a long sip of water. I hung around the garage for a bit, leaning against the workbench while the mechanics checked over the car. It was a rare moment of peace—one I knew wouldn’t last long. I caught sight of Henry lingering on the other side of the garage, his eyes scanning for me like a predator seeking its prey. The sight sent a chill down my spine, and I quickly looked away, pretending to focus on the data screen in front of me.

Eventually, it was time to head out for the sprint qualifying session. I slipped back into the car, grateful for the excuse to leave the garage and Henry behind. As I made my way onto the track, the sky remained stubbornly dry, but the tension in the air was palpable. Everyone knew the rain was coming, and it was only a matter of time.

The sprint qualifying session was intense. The track was crowded, every driver pushing their car to its absolute limit. My focus narrowed to the black asphalt ahead, my mind in full race mode. The car felt incredible beneath me, the adjustments giving me the confidence to brake later, turn sharper, and accelerate harder. I fought tooth and nail to put in fast lap times, battling traffic and finding every ounce of grip on the circuit.

By the time the checkered flag waved, I’d done it—P3. Only Oscar and Lando had managed to edge me out. Pulling back into the garage, I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my lips. It was a hard-earned result, and I was proud of it.

But my relief was short-lived.

The second I climbed out of the car, I spotted Henry approaching, his smug expression already making my stomach churn. I could see the congratulatory words forming on his lips, but I wasn’t about to stick around to hear whatever inappropriate twist he’d add to them.

Grabbing my helmet and gloves, I shot a quick glance at Landon, who gave me a subtle nod of understanding. “Gotta head to media,” I said quickly, not giving Henry a chance to corner me.

With practiced speed, I made my way out of the garage, weaving through the crowd as I headed toward the media zone. My heart raced—not from the qualifying session, but from the near escape. I knew I couldn’t avoid Henry forever, but every second I stayed out of his grasp felt like a small victory.

Once I reached the media area, I took a deep breath, letting the adrenaline from the session replace the lingering discomfort. Cameras flashed, microphones were thrust in my direction, and questions flew at me from all angles. I smiled, answered politely, and kept the focus on the track. For now, the spotlight was on my performance, and I was determined to keep it that way.

P3. A great result to start the sprint weekend. And with any luck, I’d make it count on race day—rain or shine.

The media duties were draining, as always, but I’d kept my composure, deflecting any tricky questions and keeping the focus on the race. By the time it was over, my cheeks ached from smiling and my voice was hoarse from repeating variations of the same answers. Heading back to my driver’s room felt like walking toward a safe haven.

Once inside, I shut the door and leaned against it for a moment, exhaling deeply. The silence was comforting. I peeled off my race suit, hanging it neatly in the small wardrobe before slipping into comfortable joggers and a hoodie. As much as I wanted to crash right there, the promise of my hotel room, a shower, and a good night’s sleep was too tempting. Grabbing my bag, I slung it over my shoulder and exited the room.

I didn’t get far.

Henry was there, lurking just outside my door like a shadow I couldn’t shake. My heart sank at the sight of him. His predatory grin made my skin crawl. “You’re really something, you know that?” he started, stepping into my path.

I froze, trying to keep my expression neutral. “I need to get to the hotel, Henry,” I said flatly, hoping he’d take the hint and move.

Instead, he leaned in closer, his eyes raking over me in a way that made my stomach churn. “Relax,” he drawled, his voice low and insidious. “No need to be so uptight. You’ve had a good day. I’m just here to congratulate you… personally.”

I tried to sidestep him, but he blocked my way, his smirk widening. “You really don’t get it, do you?” he said, his tone turning darker. “All this talent, all this potential... but you still need someone to guide you. Someone who knows what’s best for you.”

“Henry, I’m tired. Please move,” I said, my voice sharper now, though my hands were trembling.

He didn’t budge. Instead, he reached out, his hands clamping around my waist with a grip so tight it made me wince. “You’ll see reason one day,” he whispered, his voice cold and deliberate. “I’ll make sure of that.”

The words sent a chill down my spine, and before I could respond, he finally stepped aside, releasing me abruptly. I stumbled back, my pulse pounding in my ears as I watched him walk away, his confidence unshaken.

For a moment, I just stood there, rooted to the spot, unable to move. Fear and disgust churned in my stomach, and my mind raced with the implications of what had just happened. His words played on a loop in my head, each repetition tightening the knot of anxiety in my chest.

When I finally forced my legs to move, my steps were shaky, my breathing uneven. I hugged my bag closer to me as I made my way through the paddock, feeling smaller and more exposed with each passing second. The bustling atmosphere of the paddock, usually so energizing, now felt overwhelming, the noise pressing in on me from all sides.

As I passed by other teams and drivers, I kept my head down, unwilling to make eye contact. I didn’t want anyone to see the fear etched across my face, the way my hands were trembling, or the tears threatening to spill over. I had to keep it together, at least until I reached the safety of my hotel room.

But no matter how hard I tried to steady myself, Henry’s words lingered in my mind, a sinister reminder of just how far he was willing to go—and how alone I truly felt in this fight.

I was so deep in my own thoughts, replaying Henry’s words over and over, that I didn’t even notice someone approaching me. When a hand landed gently on my shoulder, I stiffened instantly, my entire body locking up as a gasp escaped my lips. Without thinking, I shoved the hand away, spinning around with wide, panicked eyes.

“Hey, hey!” a familiar voice called out, concern lacing every syllable.

I blinked rapidly, my vision clearing to reveal Charles standing there, his brow furrowed deeply. Beside him, Carlos looked equally concerned, his hands raised in a placating gesture.

“Cariño, what’s wrong?” Carlos asked, stepping closer but keeping his movements slow, cautious. “You never react like that. Are you okay?”

My pulse was still racing, and I struggled to breathe evenly as I realized how I must have looked. Panicked. Vulnerable. I couldn’t let them see that. Swallowing hard, I forced a smile onto my face, though it felt like a fragile mask threatening to crack.

“I’m fine,” I lied, trying to sound casual. “Just... startled, that’s all. Long day.”

Charles didn’t look convinced. His sharp eyes scanned my face as if searching for the real reason behind my reaction. “You sure? You seem... different tonight,” he said softly, his tone gentle but probing.

“I’m fine,” I repeated, more firmly this time, though my voice still wavered slightly. “Just tired. Really, don’t worry about it.”

Carlos exchanged a glance with Charles, doubt flickering between them, but neither pushed further. I couldn’t bear to stay there any longer, their concern feeling like a spotlight on everything I was trying to hide. Clutching my bag tighter, I stepped back. “I need to get to the hotel. I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” I said quickly before turning on my heel and walking away, my pace brisk as I left them behind.

In the quiet of the paddock, after she disappeared around the corner, Carlos crossed his arms over his chest and let out a heavy sigh. “That wasn’t normal,” he said, his voice low but firm.

Charles nodded, his expression troubled. “No, it wasn’t. Did you see how scared she looked? Like she thought someone was going to hurt her.”

“Exactly,” Carlos agreed. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling to the surface. “And the way she just brushed us off... She never does that. Even if she’s tired, she usually talks to us for a bit.”

Charles frowned, leaning against the wall as he replayed the scene in his mind. “Something’s going on,” he said quietly. “Something she doesn’t want us—or anyone else—to know.”

Carlos looked at him, his jaw tightening. “Do you think it’s... exactly as Max said?” he asked hesitantly. “Or maybe they’re just putting too much pressure on her?”

Charles considered this, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Maybe. But that reaction... It felt like more than just stress. It felt personal.”

Carlos let out another sigh, shaking his head. “Whatever it is, it’s not good. We can’t just ignore this, Charles. She’s our friend.”

“I know,” Charles said, his tone resolute. “But we can’t force her to talk, either. She’s too proud—too stubborn. If we push too hard, she’ll just shut us out completely.”

Carlos nodded reluctantly. “So what do we do? Just... wait until she’s ready to tell us?”

“Not exactly,” Charles replied. His gaze hardened with determination. “For now, we keep an eye on her. Pay attention. And if we see anything—anything—that looks off, we step in. Whether she wants us to or not.”

Carlos’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. “Agreed. She might not think she needs help, but we’re not going to let her deal with this alone.”

With that, the two drivers fell into a heavy silence, their shared worry for their friend weighing on them as they stood there in the fading light of the paddock.

#x reader #driver!reader #f1 #f1 angst #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #formula 1 #max verstappen #charles leclerc #oscar piastri #lando norris #franco colapinto #lewis hamilton #carlos sainz #george russell #grill the grid #f1 grid x reader

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radar-chaos · 3 months ago

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Guess who has the sheer electricity needed to use my drawing tablet again?

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cornetespoir · 1 month ago

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Guess who got a drawing tablet >:)

This is my first attempt at trying to use it:

(Yes I know it's a picture of my screen. But the colors looked more accurate to what I want this way fjsjdjd)

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kenobiwanx · 1 month ago

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Happy New Year!!! 🌟

First of all, I want to thank each and every one of you. Thank you for supporting me and my art. This past year was a good one for me, and that's thanks to all of you!

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I live by my art. This is my full-time job—it’s what pays my bills. And 2024 started off great: I received commissions every single month, something that hadn’t happened in previous years. That was a huge change for me, truly life-changing. I’m so grateful to everyone who decided to spend their money on my art, to trust me with your ideas, characters, and stories. It means SO much to me, and I say this from the bottom of my heart. I put everything I have into creating the best art I can for you, truly. When you message me saying how much you loved it and how much my work means to you, I cry for real. It moves me deeply. So thank you for all the kind words and support.

This is going to be a long message because I feel like I need to thank you and share a bit about myself. So, if you read all of this, you're a warrior, lol.

I don’t usually share much about myself or my personal life, but here are a few things. Well, I’m from Brazil—you probably already know that. I’m a self-taught artist, and honestly, I’m like that with everything I know how to do. I love learning on my own with the resources I have available. When I set my mind on doing something, I go all in. Drawing came into my life as a form of therapy, a way to focus on something other than my negative thoughts. I’ve always been a very anxious and depressive person and went through a lot of trauma that made things worse. Since I didn’t have the resources or support to seek professional help, I tried to find my own way—and that’s how I learned to draw!

I won’t say I’m 100% okay now because life hasn’t been easy for me. I lost my mom to breast cancer six years ago, and it had a massive impact on me and my mental health. She was my rock, my world, and losing her was devastating. She fought the disease for five years, and during that time, I was the one taking care of her, keeping the house running, and looking after my two younger siblings. I was just a teenager, but I suddenly had so many responsibilities. It messed me up a lot, but if I had to do it all over again just to have more time with my mom, I would.

I wish she were here to see how far I’ve come with my art because she was the only one who supported me back then. I know she’d be so proud of me for not giving up.

I used to do realistic traditional art before, spending a whole month on one piece. It was fun for a while, but it was just a hobby—I only sold a few pieces to family members. Then, in 2020, during the pandemic, I decided to switch to digital art. I wanted something that gave me more freedom to express myself creatively, and digital art offers that. So, I started learning. And guess who became my muse for this journey?

Yep, Pedro Pascal, lol. From my very first digital drawing, he was my go-to subject. And let me tell you, those early drawings weren’t great, poor guy, lmao. But thank God, I improved! I’m still drawing him to this day, and he’s been a huge reason I’ve gotten so many commissions since most of them are of his characters. I’m incredibly grateful to him and the roles he plays.

Anyway, I’m working on rebuilding myself, trying to move forward, achieve my goals, and take things step by step. This Christmas, I was able to buy a huge drawing tablet, which was a big milestone for me. I used to do everything on a small tablet, so this was a major upgrade—and it’s all thanks to everyone who commissioned me this year. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

I hope 2025 will be just as good. I hope you’ll all stick with me and keep asking for commissions, lol. I wish you all the best in life, that you achieve everything you dream of, and that you stay healthy. Please take care of your mental health too; it’s just as important as your physical health.

I have a lot of personal projects I want to work on this year—art ideas I’ve set aside for years that I hope to finish in 2025.

This year, I plan to open commissions every month. The only exception will be if my waitlist gets full before I open them officially, like who Dm me to reserve a slot earlier, which happened in December. My DMs are always open!

I’ll also be updating my price sheet, adding new information to my terms and conditions, and increasing my prices. It’s been about two years since I last updated them, so it’s time. But don’t worry—it’ll only be an increase of about $10-$15. I still want to keep my art affordable for everyone.

I’ll sort all of that out in the coming days, so stay tuned for updates!

My January waitlist is already open, and there are a few people in line. If you want to reserve a spot, feel free! Just keep in mind the price adjustment I mentioned earlier.

I think that’s everything! I know this was a lot of text, lmao.

Thank you again, everyone! Happy New Year, and I love you all! And I love you, Pedro Pascal!

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inkandtension · 3 months ago

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Cupid’s Bow.

Request: Minho x fem reader, angst, Enemies to lovers, inspired by : the beach by the neighbourhood

requested by: @hannamoon143

this is kinda long…. Sorry it took a long time! 😀🧍🏽‍♀️

Y/N, a fiercely dedicated archer training for an upcoming national competition, finds her already packed schedule upended when she's forced to collaborate with Minho, a renowned digital artist, on a promotional campaign celebrating diverse skill sets. From the moment they meet, sparks fly—but not the good kind. Minho, known for his sharp tongue and stunning creativity, quickly dismisses archery as “a medieval hobby trying to stay relevant,” while Y/N fires back with equal venom, calling digital art nothing more than "drawing for lazy people who don't know how to use a pencil."

The tension is palpable during their first brainstorming session, held in a sleek, minimalist studio that feels worlds away from Y/N's earthy training grounds. Minho's snide remarks about her calloused fingers and outdated sport clash with Y/N's pointed criticisms of his reliance on technology. Neither wants to back down, their arguments simmering with the kind of intensity that draws everyone's attention.

“Guys, please stop, now’s not the time!” they’d all start complaining and half of them lose the will to work seeing the fight almost everyday.

Y/N is at the archery range, her focus razor-sharp as she nocks an arrow and lets it fly, hitting the bullseye with ease. As she adjusts her archer's glove, Minho strolls in, a sketchpad and tablet under his arm. His amused smirk makes her blood boil before he even speaks.

“So this is it? Shooting at a target over and over again? Sounds thrilling,” he says, sarcasm dripping from his words.

She glares at him, holding up her glove-covered hand.

“This is precision and skill. Not that you’d understand with your stylus and Photoshop shortcuts.” Minho lifts his own gloved hand and wiggles it mockingly.

“Right, because my work, which takes hours of layering and digital rendering, is just so easy. Sure.”

Y/N narrows her eyes, stepping off the shooting line to face him fully, the faint creak of her leather glove breaking the silence. "It is easy," she fires back, her voice calm but cutting. "You make a mistake? Undo button. I make a mistake? That arrow’s gone. There's no second chance."

Minho raises an eyebrow, his smirk widening as he sets his sketchpad and tablet on the nearest bench. "You think every line I draw is perfect the first time? Newsflash, Robin Hood, creativity doesn’t come with a manual. At least you’ve got a fixed target to aim at. My job is creating something from nothing."

Her lips tighten into a thin line, the insult stinging despite her resolve to keep her cool. “Creating from nothing? Is that what you call copying filters and adding shadows? My three-year-old nephew could do that.”

Minho lets out a short laugh, the kind that feels more like a jab. “Oh, sure. And let me guess—he could also spend days conceptualizing a campaign while having to work with someone who thinks flinging pointy sticks at hay bales is the pinnacle of human achievement?”

Y/N’s jaw tightens, her patience thinning. She takes a slow step toward him, each word deliberate. “It’s not about flinging arrows, Minho. It’s about discipline, control, and hitting a goal with precision every single time. Something tells me that’s a little out of your league.”

He mimics her slow step, closing the distance between them, his smirk fading into something sharper, more competitive. “And you think shooting at the same target all day makes you superior? Try creating something people actually care about—something that’ll outlive you. That’s real skill.”

The air between them crackles with tension, their glares locked as if daring the other to make the next move. Finally, Y/N breaks the silence, her voice steady but icy. “You know, you talk a lot of trash for someone who’s never even held a bow.”

Minho’s eyes flash with challenge. “Oh, is that an invitation? Because I wouldn’t mind showing you up at your own game.”

Y/N crosses her arms, a smirk tugging at her lips now. “Go ahead. But don’t cry when you miss every shot.”

Minho picks up the nearest bow, holding it awkwardly as Y/N watches with thinly veiled amusement. The moment he tries to nock an arrow and fumbles, her laugh escapes, low and mocking.

“Precision and skill, huh?” he mutters, fumbling with the string again.

“And patience,” she says, leaning against a post as she watches him struggle. “But I wouldn’t expect you to have that, either.”

He tries once, his aim steady but completely off-target, and instead of hitting the mark, he accidentally strikes the ground near a worm. She gasps in mock horror, dramatically rushing toward the unsuspecting creature as if to shield it from further harm. Kneeling down, she peers at the worm, her expression turning to exaggerated relief.

“You didn’t even hit the worm. Not even close. The worm didn’t even flinch.” She raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure you’re aiming at all, or are you just trying to give the worm a heart attack?” “I bet you won’t be good at drawing, either” He said.

“I never said I was.”

…

She’d just released a perfect arrow, the kind that sliced cleanly through the air and struck the target dead center, when her focus wavered. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Minho sitting a few feet away, cross-legged and absorbed in his tablet. His stylus moved deftly over the screen, his brow furrowed in concentration, though his expression carried a hint of annoyance.

“Don’t you have a real job to do?” she snapped, lowering her bow and fixing him with a sharp glare.

Minho didn’t even flinch at her tone. His eyes stayed locked on his screen as he added another stroke to his sketch, shading with meticulous precision. “Funny,” he murmured without looking up, “I thought the same about you.”

He tapped his screen once, then swiveled it around to face her. The drawing was a surprisingly detailed sketch of her—her stance, her bow mid-draw, and her intense focus on the target. But there was an unmistakable exaggeration in her expression: her eyes were wild, her jaw tense, her features twisted with mock ferocity.

“Look,” he said dryly, holding it out with a smirk. “It’s a very angry archer.”

Y/N bristled, her grip tightening on the bow. “At least I’m not hiding behind a screen all day, imagining what it’s like to actually do something,” she shot back, her voice clipped.

Finally, Minho tilted his head up to meet her glare, his lips curving into an infuriatingly slow smirk. “Well, some of us use our creativity a little more… digitally,” he countered, his tone maddeningly calm.

Her frustration flared, and she stepped closer, extending her gloved hand toward him. “You think this is just imagination?” she challenged, her voice low but charged with irritation. She held up her hand, pointing out the distinct design of her glove—the archer’s glove, snugly fitted to her hand, with the fingers for the index, middle, and thumb covered for grip and precision.

Minho’s gaze flicked to her hand and then to his own. He raised his hand slightly, revealing his own glove, sleek and minimal, with only the pinky and ring fingers covered to avoid smudging his screen.

“See?” she said, her tone icy. “We’re just cut from different cloths.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them as they stood there, their gloves a stark contrast to each other. Minho’s smirk softened, replaced by something quieter, more thoughtful. He let out a soft laugh, glancing down at their hands before meeting her eyes again.

“Maybe,” he said, his voice calmer now, almost musing. “But maybe that just means we could complement each other. I mean if you look closely, our gloves together make a whole.”

Her eyes narrowed, suspicion lingering. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged, his lips twitching as if suppressing another smirk. “Who knows? Maybe you’re good at hitting targets, and I’m good at seeing the bigger picture. You never know what that could lead to.”

She scoffed, but there was a faint flush creeping up her neck that she didn’t care to explain. “Get back to your drawing, Minho,” she muttered, turning away before he could notice.

“Gladly,” he replied, his voice laced with amusement. As she stepped back to the range, she could still feel his gaze on her, a quiet tension lingering in the air between them.

…

something terrific happened.

Something that absolutely ruined well, everything.

Y/N arrived at the studio early, as always. She was already irritated, not just by the thought of spending the entire day with Minho, but by the very fact that he had been the one to suggest she’d be the problem. The studio itself was newly constructed, still echoing with the sounds of a place trying to find its identity. The walls were barely dry with paint, and the sharp scent of fresh lumber lingered in the air. There was an unfinished quality to everything—the kind of rawness that made her skin crawl.

She set her bag down with a sigh, pulling out her gear for the shoot—her bow and quiver, her leather gloves. The anticipation for the day’s work was drowned out by the vague sense of discomfort that settled in her chest. She was already imagining the hours ahead: forced smiles, shallow small talk, and of course, Minho’s smug attitude.

She didn’t have to wait long for him to arrive, though. Of course, he showed up late, walking through the door with the same casual stride, as if time was something he could bend to his will. He muttered something under his breath, loud enough for her to hear, though he likely didn’t care if she did. “What’s the rush? Archers must have nothing better to do than sit around and wait.”

Y/N shot him a look, her eyes narrowing with the same irritation that had already been brewing. He didn’t even seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t care. She ignored his comment, choosing to focus on the task at hand—setting up her gear, making sure everything was in place. She was too professional to get caught up in petty remarks.

Minho, on the other hand, took one look around and immediately began to complain. “This place looks like a construction zone,” he said loudly, as if no one else could hear. “How is anyone supposed to focus with all this mess? This is unprofessional.”

Y/N gritted her teeth but held her tongue, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. But her patience was wearing thin. “Maybe if you spent less time whining and more time doing your job, we’d already be done,” she snapped, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Minho’s gaze flicked toward her, his expression amused. “I’m just trying to make sure this whole thing doesn’t end up being a disaster,” he retorted, completely unfazed. The session proceeded like this, with them bickering back and forth—her quick to respond to his jabs, him seemingly incapable of shutting up for more than a few seconds at a time.

The photographer kept trying to get them both to focus, but the tension between them was palpable, and the shoot felt anything but smooth. Y/N’s frustration only grew as the minutes ticked by, with Minho’s commentary getting more and more grating. She was starting to wonder if this day would ever end.

Then, just as she was adjusting her stance for another shot, a loud creak echoed through the room. The noise was unsettling, like the very structure of the building was groaning under pressure. Y/N froze, her eyes darting upward as the ceiling above them groaned again, a deep, foreboding sound.

Before anyone could react, a loud crack rang through the room, followed by the distinct sound of something large and heavy breaking free from its supports. The floor beneath them seemed to shudder as part of the ceiling collapsed in a sudden crash, sending debris scattering in all directions. The dust clouded the air, making it impossible to see for a moment.

Y/N was on instinct, ducking as a chunk of wood fell inches from where she’d been standing. Her heart hammered in her chest as she scrambled to her feet, adrenaline flooding her system. She could hear Minho cursing, his voice rising above the chaos.

“What the hell?!” he yelled, coughing through the dust. He sounded genuinely rattled now, a rare occurrence for him. Y/N didn’t waste time looking back at him—her focus shifted entirely to the damage, the pieces of the ceiling that had fallen, some still dangling precariously from the exposed beams above.

“Is everyone alright?” the photographer called out, voice shaking.

As Y/N took a step back to assess the damage, her foot caught on a loose piece of rubble, sending her stumbling forward. She barely registered the movement before something heavy crashed down from above—a massive chunk of ceiling, debris still tumbling in its wake, slammed directly onto her arm.

The pain was immediate and sharp, a searing agony that shot through her entire body as she let out a strangled gasp. Her vision blurred for a moment, the weight of the fallen ceiling pressing down on her arm, pinning her to the floor.

Minho's voice cut through the chaos, sharp with panic. “Y/N!” He was at her side in an instant, his hands reaching to lift the debris, but it was heavy, too heavy for him to move alone. “Shit, are you okay?!” His voice was frantic now, the usual arrogance replaced by something far more raw and urgent.

Y/N gritted her teeth, refusing to let the pain break her focus. She tried to shift her arm, but the pressure from the broken ceiling was relentless. The dust was thick in the air, and every breath she took seemed to make her chest tighten more.

Minho immediately reacted, pulling at the debris with all his strength, but the piece was large, and it barely budged. His face was taut with concentration, his usual smirk completely gone. “Hold on,” he said, voice shaky, but his hands were steady as he tried to lift the chunk of ceiling.

Y/N winced, biting back a cry of pain as the weight shifted slightly.

Finally, Minho managed to shift enough of the debris off, as staff rushed there to help and evacuate the place. It revealed her arm, now bruising quickly from the force. She inhaled sharply as the weight finally lifted, but the relief was short-lived. Her arm felt heavy, almost useless. She could feel the pain radiating from her wrist, where the ceiling had come down the hardest.

“Shit,” Minho muttered under his breath, looking at her arm with wide eyes. He knelt down beside her, his voice softer now. “Is it broken?”

Y/N clenched her teeth, unwilling to show how badly it hurt. “I don’t know,” she snapped, pulling her arm back slightly to test it. The pain flared up again, sharper this time. “Just help me get out of here.”

When the ambulance finally arrived, its sirens wailing in the distance, Y/N felt a mix of relief and anxiety wash over her. The pain in her arm had only intensified as the adrenaline began to wear off, but she clenched her teeth and focused on the paramedics as they carefully worked to stabilize her.

Minho, however, wasn’t about to let anyone else take charge. As the paramedics made their way to assess her injury, he immediately stepped forward, blocking their path with a protective glare. His usual aloofness had disappeared completely, replaced by a fierce determination.

“I'm coming with her,” he said, his voice low but firm. The paramedics exchanged a quick glance, but neither of them argued, clearly used to people being adamant about staying with loved ones.

Y/N couldn’t help but watch him, her mind a blur of pain and confusion. What was he doing? Why was he being so... concerned? He wasn’t supposed to care. They were just colleagues—rivals, even. Yet, here he was, hovering over her like he couldn’t bear to let go.

When the paramedics gently helped her onto the stretcher and into the back of the ambulance, Minho slid in beside her without a second thought, his hand immediately finding hers. He squeezed it gently, as though reassuring himself more than her.

Y/N’s breath hitched slightly as the door slammed shut behind them, the engine roaring to life as they sped toward the hospital. She was grateful for the warmth of his hand, but she couldn’t quite understand why he was doing this. The words from earlier about how they were “cut from different cloths” echoed in her mind, but his actions now seemed to contradict that.

His thumb brushed over her knuckles in a comforting motion, his gaze fixed on her face. “You okay?” he asked softly, the usual teasing edge gone from his voice.

She didn’t answer right away, not because she didn’t want to, but because she wasn’t sure how to respond. She hated feeling vulnerable, especially in front of him. But his steady presence, the way he refused to let go of her hand, made something inside her shift.

“Do you think it’s broken?” she asked, her voice tight from the pain. She hadn’t even dared look at it yet, but she could feel the weight of the injury in every movement, a dull throb that was becoming sharper with each passing minute.

Minho’s expression darkened slightly, his jaw clenched as he looked at her arm. “I’m not sure. But we’ll know soon enough.” He shifted closer, almost unconsciously leaning over her, like he was willing to shield her from whatever came next.

Y/N felt her chest tighten, her mind swirling with thoughts she didn’t want to address. She could hear the ambulance’s sirens fading as they raced through the streets, and for a fleeting moment, everything outside of the small space between her and Minho seemed to vanish. The only thing that mattered was the pressure of his hand in hers, the soft rhythm of his breathing, and the unspoken understanding that had settled between them.

She glanced at him, catching his eye. “Why are you really here?” she asked, her voice softer now, almost vulnerable.

Minho didn’t flinch or back away, his gaze unwavering as he held her stare. “Because you’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he said with a small, but genuine, smile that reached his eyes. “And because I don’t think you’d let me, even if I tried.”

Y/N couldn’t suppress the tiny spark of warmth that flared up at his words, despite everything. She wanted to argue, to tell him to stop pretending like he cared, but deep down, a part of her was grateful for his presence.

The ambulance continued its swift journey toward the hospital, the distance between them closing in ways Y/N hadn’t expected. In that moment, the smirk, the teasing, the tension—all of it faded away, and she was left with only one undeniable truth: Minho wasn’t going anywhere.

The sterile, bright hospital room felt suffocating as Y/N sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of the doctor’s words pressing down on her like a boulder. The doctor had just finished delivering the devastating news, and the silence that followed felt suffocating.

“I’m sorry, but with these injuries, archery is not something you’ll be able to pursue again at the competitive level,” the doctor had said. His tone was gentle, but it made the words no less crushing. “Your fingers will need time to heal, but they may never fully recover.”

Y/N felt her heart drop to her stomach as she processed what the doctor had said. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, her mind racing through a whirlwind of disbelief and dread. She stared at her arm, still wrapped in a cast, and then down at her fingers, which felt oddly stiff and foreign, as if they were no longer a part of her.

My fingers… Her mind spiraled. Archery had been her life, her passion—her future. She’d spent years working to get to this point, training endlessly, sacrificing everything for the sport. To hear that all of that could be taken away in an instant was like being ripped apart from the inside out.

The tears threatened to surface, but she refused to let them fall. She’d never been one to show weakness, not when everything she’d worked for was being stripped away in one cruel blow. Instead, she clenched her jaw, willing the tears to stay back, even as her chest tightened painfully.

The doctor gave her a sympathetic glance before walking out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. She didn’t notice his departure; she couldn’t focus on anything but the silence that now filled the room, the stillness that matched the numbness creeping into her bones.

The only sound that broke through the heavy silence was the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, and the soft scrape of a chair being moved. She glanced up to see Minho standing by the door, his posture tense as he took in the situation.

He hadn’t said a word since the doctor left, but she could feel his presence like a weight in the room. He didn’t have to speak; his quiet support was enough. Y/N hated that, hated how much it comforted her, how much his silent understanding meant in that moment.

Minho took a few steps toward her, his eyes avoiding her gaze for a moment before locking with hers. His usual smirk was absent, replaced by something deeper—something unspoken, but heavy. He didn’t offer empty platitudes or pretend to know how she felt. He simply stood there, a steady presence in the storm of emotions swirling inside her.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Y/N muttered, her voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. She wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or to herself. “I know what it means.”

Minho’s gaze softened, and he sat down in the chair beside her bed. For a moment, he said nothing, just letting the silence stretch between them. Then, quietly, almost as if he were speaking to himself, he said, “I know how much it meant to you. It’s… it’s unfair.”

Y/N blinked, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. It wasn’t something she expected from him—not the way he usually teased her or the sharpness he often wore as armor. This felt different. Real.

“I’ve worked so damn hard for this,” she murmured, her voice shaking just a little. “And now… now I’ll never get it back.”

Minho didn’t say anything for a long time, his eyes fixed on her fingers, the ones that had been her lifeline, now broken and uncertain. Then, after a beat of silence, he spoke again, his words slow, deliberate.

“Maybe you don’t need to be an archer to be… you.”

The words hung in the air between them, and Y/N didn’t know how to respond. Part of her wanted to shout, to tell him that he didn’t understand—that she was nothing without archery, that it was her whole identity. But another part of her, buried deep beneath the shock and grief, felt the pull of his words, like a lifeline thrown out in the dark.

He gave her hand a tentative squeeze, his thumb brushing against her skin gently. “Whatever happens… you’re not alone in this,” he said quietly.

Y/N didn’t know what to say to that. She was used to carrying everything on her own, used to handling things alone. But in that moment, she found herself reluctantly leaning into his presence, the weight of his words settling into her chest.

She didn’t say anything else, just looked at her casted arm and the mess of emotions swirling within her. Minho didn’t push her to talk. He stayed with her, silent and steady, his presence an anchor in the midst of a storm that threatened to tear her apart.

And for the first time in a long time, Y/N didn’t feel quite as alone.

As the days blurred into weeks, Y/N’s world continued to shift beneath her. The weight of her injury hung heavily over her, a constant reminder of what she had lost. Archery had been her life, her identity, and now, it seemed as if that identity had been stripped away in the blink of an eye.

Her parents, furious and protective, rallied around her in their own way. They had always been fiercely invested in her success, and the sight of their daughter in pain triggered something primal in them. They couldn’t bear the thought of her suffering without justice. The idea of her future—her dreams—being destroyed without any accountability gnawed at them until they decided to take matters into their own hands.

They hired a lawyer and filed a lawsuit against the studio. The claim was simple: negligence. The studio had failed to properly inspect the building before using it for interviews and promotional shoots, and it was this failure that had caused the ceiling to collapse, injuring their daughter beyond repair. They argued that the accident wasn’t just a freak incident—it was a direct result of the company’s lack of care and attention.

Y/N hadn’t wanted to get involved. She wasn’t interested in dragging things out or seeking revenge. She just wanted to heal, to find a way to move forward. But her parents insisted, convinced that justice could only be found through legal action.

The court case dragged on for months, a bitter reminder that her life was no longer in her own hands. Every time she thought about the process, she felt her chest tighten. It wasn’t about the money, not for her. But her parents insisted it was a matter of principle. They fought for accountability, for the principle that a company shouldn’t get away with causing harm so carelessly.

And in the end, the court found the studio guilty. The evidence was clear—the building had not been properly inspected, and the structure had been deemed unsafe before being used for commercial purposes. The company was ordered to pay a significant settlement to Y/N, though the amount seemed paltry compared to the injury she’d suffered, the career she’d lost, and the dreams that had been shattered.

When Y/N found out about the ruling, she felt numb. She sat in the sterile waiting room of the hospital as the lawyer called her parents to relay the news. The words blurred together, but the impact was undeniable. The settlement was a victory for her parents, something they could hold on to, but to Y/N, it felt hollow. It didn’t change anything. The money wouldn’t heal her fingers. It wouldn’t erase the long nights of training, the years spent perfecting her craft, the agonizing loss of something that had been everything to her.

Her parents were thrilled, their anger temporarily quelled by the ruling. But Y/N couldn’t bring herself to share in their relief. All she could think about was how much the settlement had cost her. The studio had paid for their mistake, but the price for her was far steeper than any check could cover.

Later that evening, after the celebrations had died down, Minho came to visit her. His presence was a steady comfort, but tonight, it felt like there was an unspoken weight between them, something they hadn’t addressed in all the chaos that had surrounded the lawsuit and her recovery.

When Minho entered her room, he didn’t offer any words of congratulations. Instead, he sat beside her, his expression serious. “You okay?” he asked quietly, looking at her like he was waiting for her to crack.

Y/N stared out the window, watching the lights of the city twinkle in the distance. The hospital room felt cold, sterile, a place she never thought she’d be spending so much time in. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve got money. I’ve got a settlement. But what’s it all worth? It doesn’t bring back what I lost.”

Minho didn’t try to offer words of comfort or reassurance. Instead, he just sat there, quietly, letting her process. He knew better than anyone how difficult it was to watch something you loved be taken from you. He had seen it in the way she held her bow before the accident, the way her whole body came alive when she shot, like she was a part of something bigger. The way her spirit had dimmed since the accident had left a mark on him too.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, breaking the silence. “I don’t know what it’s like to lose something like that. But... I know you’ll find a way to get through it. Even if it takes time.”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. She just leaned back against her pillow, her gaze distant. There were so many things she didn’t know anymore—so many things that had been ripped from her hands. But for the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to admit that maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t have to face it alone.

The legal battle had given her parents what they wanted, but it hadn’t given her what she truly needed. Justice was one thing, but healing—true healing—was something only time could offer.

And, perhaps, with Minho’s quiet support, maybe even a little bit of hope.

In the days that followed the accident, Minho never stopped showing up, despite the fact that Y/N kept pushing him away. He came to her room with the quiet persistence of someone who understood more than he let on, but also respected her need for space—even if she didn’t realize it.

Each time he appeared at her door, a mixture of frustration and longing flickered in her chest. She didn’t want him here—not like this. She didn’t want his sympathy, his pity, or his attempts to help her in a way that only made her feel more helpless.

One evening, after he suggested helping her with simple tasks—like tying her shoelaces or even feeding her left-handed—Y/N snapped. The anger that had been building within her over the last few weeks finally erupted, spilling out in a sharp, jagged voice.

“I don’t need you to ‘teach’ me how to be anything,” she hissed, her gaze hard and unforgiving. Her fingers, stiff from the injury, curled into a fist. “Just… leave me alone.”

Minho took a step back, his expression unchanged but his eyes betraying a flicker of hurt. Yet, he didn’t leave. He never did.

“Okay,” he said quietly, as if letting her have her moment. But the silence that followed felt like a heavy weight, a shared understanding hanging in the air between them. He didn’t push any further that day, though he left behind a small package on her bedside table—one she hadn’t even noticed.

The next day, Y/N opened the package to find a book of poetry—one she had mentioned loving before. Her fingers brushed over the cover, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she softened. Minho was still finding ways to care for her without demanding anything in return. She knew he wasn’t expecting a thank-you, but she couldn’t help the pang of guilt that hit her.

Over the next week, his visits became a mix of awkwardness and tentative kindness. He’d show up with bags of food from her favorite takeout place—nothing fancy, just comfort food that somehow felt like a small balm for the chaos of her life. He even brought her a sketch one evening, left silently by her door.

It was of her—his hand-drawn portrait of her in her prime, holding her bow with the same fire that used to light up her world. His delicate lines captured the way she held herself, strong and focused. The drawing felt so real it almost hurt. It was like he had seen her, really seen her, not just the version of herself she had become after the accident. She swallowed back a lump in her throat.

Despite her resistance, despite her frustration, his quiet presence seeped into the cracks of her heart, mending parts she hadn’t even realized were broken. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t forced kindness. It was the kind of gentleness that spoke of understanding, of time spent in silence, waiting for her to heal at her own pace.

One evening, as she struggled with trying to tie her own shoelaces with her left hand, Minho appeared again, standing in the doorway, arms laden with a small basket of fresh fruit.

“You’re trying to tie your shoes with your non-dominant hand again?” he asked, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “You know, the doctor said you’re supposed to take it easy for a while.”

“I’m fine,” she muttered, not looking up, irritated by the truth she didn’t want to admit. “It’s just a stupid shoelace.”

Minho walked over slowly, setting the basket down on the table beside her. Without a word, he crouched down, taking the laces from her clumsy hands. He worked in silence, his movements deft as he tied the shoes with the care he had shown for her in the past few weeks. When he was done, he stood back up and met her gaze, his expression serious but soft.

“Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to carry the world on your shoulders alone.”

She opened her mouth to snap at him again, but the words didn’t come. Instead, she looked at him, truly looked at him, and for the first time in a long while, her anger faded into something else.

Minho wasn’t here because he thought she was weak. He wasn’t here because he pitied her. He was here because he saw her—he saw the woman who had been so strong before, and he believed she could be that woman again, even if it took time.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” she muttered, but this time, it lacked the bite of her earlier words.

“I know,” Minho replied simply, his voice warm and steady. “But I’m not leaving.”

Y/N didn’t know how to respond to that. She wasn’t ready to admit that she might need him, but in the quiet moments that followed, she couldn’t deny the comfort his presence gave her. Even in her resistance, she felt something softening within her, a fragile thread of trust she hadn’t realized she was willing to weave again.

“I can help you, please let me, you know I’m ambidextrous.”

…

One night, Minho comes to her house, as he has so many times before. Y/N’s frustration has reached its peak, and she can’t hold it back anymore.

“I’m not a broken doll that needs fixing. I’m not someone you have to pity.”

Minho sits down across from her, knowing it’s her daily depressing hour. his expression unreadable. For a moment, the silence feels suffocating. Then, he speaks softly. “I can’t teach you archery, but I can teach you how to draw. I can teach you how to use your other hand.”

She looks at him, and for the first time, the bitterness fades just enough to let a tiny flicker of hope in. Maybe she can still create something. Maybe it won’t be the same as archery, but it could be something new. Later that evening, her mother enters the room with a tray of snacks, trying to lighten the mood. She sits down next to Y/N, looking between her and Minho.

“You should’ve been more careful, sweetie. You’re an archer. You should’ve known how to take care of yourself.”

That’s the breaking point.

Y/N stands up abruptly, the frustration boiling over. “It’s not my fault! I couldn’t have known the ceiling was going to fall! it’s not like I give everywhere assuming unexpected things happen !” She’s shaking with the intensity of it now.

“I didn’t choose this! I didn’t choose for this to happen. I didn’t choose for everything I’ve worked for to get destroyed in an instant!” Minho watches her, his gaze soft but firm. He steps closer, resting a hand on her shoulder.

Y/N’s breath is shaky, her chest tight with the rawness of her emotions. She blinks rapidly, trying to stop the tears that threaten to spill over, but they come anyway, hot and relentless. Her hands tremble as she wipes them away, but it’s futile—no amount of effort can hide the grief that swells inside her.

“I don’t know how to live without it,” she whispers, her voice cracking as the pain surges. “Archery wasn’t just something I did. It was who I was. It was everything to me. And now… now I’m just… broken.”

Her words crack like glass shattering, each one a reminder of the life she thought she had and the future that was ripped away in a single moment. She had spent years training, dedicating herself to something that made her feel whole, something that defined her in a world that often felt too large. And now, that piece of her was gone. The path she had been walking for so long had been torn away, leaving nothing but jagged edges and an aching emptiness.

Minho’s heart twists as he watches her, the storm of emotions in her eyes threatening to consume her. He doesn’t know what to say—he can’t fix this. He can’t give her back what she lost, no matter how much he wishes he could.

“I know,” he says quietly, his voice soft but resolute. “I know it feels like everything’s falling apart right now. But you’re not broken. You’re… you’re just lost. And it’s okay to feel like that. You don’t have to have all the answers right away.”

Y/N shakes her head. “You’re wrong. I am broken, Minho. I’ve lost the one thing that gave me purpose. How can I be anything but broken?”

Minho’s heart aches, but he doesn’t step away. He doesn’t let go of her shoulder, grounding her as she trembles. “I don’t think you’re broken, Y/N,” he says softly. “I think you’re hurting. And that’s okay. It’s okay to hurt.”

She pulls away from him abruptly, her face flushed with frustration and sorrow. “You don’t get it. You’re not the one who had everything—everything—taken away in an instant. You don’t know what it feels like to lose yourself.”

Minho stands still, the weight of her words settling deep into his chest. “No, I don’t know what it feels like,” he admits. “But I do know that I’m not going to let you go through this alone. I may not be able to fix what’s broken, but I’ll be here to help you pick up the pieces. Even if you can’t see it now, I believe you’re strong enough to rebuild. I believe in you, Y/N.”

Y/N doesn’t know how to respond. Her anger and sorrow have clouded her judgment, making her feel like she’s trapped in a storm she can’t escape. Her gaze drifts to the window, where the soft evening light pours through the curtains, casting long shadows across the room. The stillness of the world outside is so far removed from the chaos in her heart.

“I didn’t choose this,” she murmurs again, this time more quietly, as if the words are a confession rather than an accusation. “I didn’t choose to be here… like this.”

Minho watches her carefully, his voice gentle. “No, you didn’t. But sometimes, life doesn’t give us a choice. All we can do is keep going, one step at a time.”

Y/N is silent for a long moment, her thoughts tangled in the mess of her grief and anger. Finally, she lifts her eyes to meet his, her gaze softened by the exhaustion of it all. There’s a flicker of something—something small but there—inside of her.

“I don’t know how to keep going,” she admits softly, her voice barely a whisper.

Minho steps forward, his heart aching for her, and pulls her into a hug. She stiffens at first, not used to accepting comfort, but after a few moments, she melts into his embrace, her body trembling with the weight of everything she’s been holding back.

“Then let me help you find your way,” Minho murmurs, his voice low and steady. “One step at a time.”

And for the first time in weeks, Y/N lets herself lean into someone, just a little, feeling the fragile thread of hope that Minho’s words offer. It’s not a solution. It’s not a cure. But it’s a start.

Minho knows that words won’t fix this. So, he takes her to the beach the next day—just the two of them, no distractions. Her arm is still in a sling, but they sit down on the shore, letting the sound of the waves fill the silence.

Y/N’s emotions are raw, and the weight of everything hits her again. The tears she’s been holding back finally spill over, and she doesn’t try to stop them. She doesn’t want him to look, but she can’t control it.

“I’m sorry,” she says through her sobs, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to burden you with all this. I don’t want to need you. I don’t want to need anyone.”

Minho doesn’t look at her. He knows. But he stays by her side, silent and steady.

When she calms down, he reaches out, gently cupping her face in his hands. She looks up at him, her eyes red from crying.

“You’re not a burden to me, Y/N,” he says softly. “I’m here for you. I’ll always be here.”

She shakes her head, her tears still fresh. “But I don’t know how to do this anymore. I don’t know how to be anything without archery.”

Minho smiles, his eyes filled with an understanding that she’s not ready to face yet. “You’ll find a new way. And if you need me, I’m here. We’ll figure it out together.”

“You’re still you,” he says softly. “And you’re going to find a way to be even more.”

Y/N swallows the lump in her throat, feeling a flicker of something deep inside her—a spark, barely there, but present. It’s not a solution, not even close. It’s just the tiniest glimmer of hope. But right now, that’s enough.

She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself, and nods slowly. "I’m not sure what the future holds, Minho," she says, her voice quieter now. "But maybe, for the first time, I’m starting to think it’s okay not to have everything figured out."

Minho smiles, a small but genuine smile that reaches his eyes. “Good. Because you don’t have to have it all figured out. Not yet.”

They sit in silence again, letting the sound of the waves wash over them, and for the first time in a long while, Y/N doesn’t feel completely broken. She still doesn’t have all the answers, and she knows the road ahead won’t be easy. But with Minho by her side, maybe she doesn’t have to face it alone. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a way forward after all.

You’re dangerous with your bow anyway, he thought, you’re Cupid.

And you close your eyes, in peace.

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