#i know some people were interested in reading this so here you go

[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.

[generalburner]

Hey there, submitter here 👋 Now that it's long over and I can't influence anyone's answers, I wanted to share what the point of this was

(But before that let me concur with the disclaimers incognitopolls added. This poll is indeed trans inclusive, not about genitals, and disinterested in whether anyone is a "real" lesbian.)

So, personally, I'm a lesbian who is both not attracted any man and would never have sex with any man under any circumstances. 100% of all people who have ever heard that I was a lesbian and then still thought there was some chance I might like men have done so because they were homophobic, so I will go on assuming that anyone who does that to me in the future is being homophobic, regardless of the existence of lesbians who do have any interest in men. Seeing as the results here confirm my assumption that the majority of lesbians don't have any interest men or have very little interest in very limited circumstances, I think that's fair of me. I don't think that makes me an exclusionist or whatever.

There absolutely needs to be a word to refer to the concept of a woman who likes women but not men. The best word we have for that is "lesbian", regardless of if that doesn't describe 100% of all lesbians. Why does there need to be a word we can use when we mean a woman who likes women but not men? Well, I can't possibly give you a better explanation of the concept of hermeneutical injustice than cj the x did, so i'm just gonna splice in their explanation from a completely unrelated video here. (I'm linking to a short clip from it so I suggest you watch it if you care enough to be reading this.)

"The philosopher Miranda Fricker coined this concept of Hermeneutical Injustice. This is when you lack the social language to communicate what you are experiencing to other people, therefore isolating you in your experience, and rendering you unable to name it, understand it, share it with others, do something about it. If there's no socially understood name for the thing you're experiencing or if you do not know the name for the thing you're experiencing, you're damned to experience it alone, wondering if it's even real, if you even deserve to feel this way about this thing you can't even articulate."

The point isn't that you're an "invalid lesbian" or whatever if the meaning "woman who likes women but not men" doesn't fully apply to you. I myself am genderfluid. The point is that if someone tells you they're a lesbian, assuming that means they aren't interested in men at all is the right thing to do.

I made this poll because I just wanted to know how many other lesbians felt the way I do.

Just to be very, very clear: this blog supports trans women. This is not asking about genital preference, nor whether you would have sex with a trans person, nor if you're "really" a lesbian based on your answer. Sexuality is complex and there are countless reasons a person might choose to have sex with someone else.

Be polite in the comments/reblogs.

–

We ask your questions so you don’t have to! Submit your questions to have them posted anonymously as polls.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

i have a question can you describe Raverne personality and character

Here is all that we currently know about Raverne Draconia, aka Malleus's father:

Raverne is also known by his aliases as the "Left General" (Lilia is the "Right General") and the "Dragoneye Duke".

Lilia states that Raverne serves as an envoy. He describes the man as vital in diplomatic missions and as "her highness Maleanor's eyes, hands, and feet."

Raverne went missing ~400 years ago from modern day Twisted Wonderland. He was in charge of heading to the Silver Owls' western fortress to deliver a message from the Briarland royal family, but never returned. Lilia went on an expedition to the same destination hoping to find clues as to what happened to him.

People speculate that Raverne faced the Dawn Knight in battle. He is presumed to be dead by Lilia and his wife, Maleanor, but no one knows for sure what happened to him.

He is an aristocrat and is considered highly skilled.

We do not know what kind of fairy he is, though it is presumed to be some sort of nocturnal fae.

Raverne is described as kind and incapable of cruelty.

Maleanor is confident that her unborn child will take after her husband and grow up to be very beautiful.

Maleanor says that Raverne spent more years working with Lilia than he has being married to her; it seems that Raverne and Lilia were very close friends.

Before leaving on his mission to the Silver Owls' western fortress, Raverne entrusted Lilia to protect their princess and her egg while he is away.

Lilia says that both Raverne and Maleanor are in the habit of giving him extra work ever since they were young.

Raverne acts like "the paragon of good behavior" but still hid vegetables he did not like under the tablecloth.

Lilia, Raverne, and Maleanor have known each other since they were children.

Unlike his wife, who holds little love for humans, Raverne appears to be more patient and understanding of them.

He learned the common language and was the one responsible for teaching it to Lilia so they can communicate with humans. (The language of nocturnal fae is very animalistic and has sounds which are difficult for the human ear to perceive.)

Ravern may be credited as the first to encourage Lilia to open his heart to other races and cultures. For example, he would often tell Lilia, "We fae must learn more about humans, and teach humans more about ourselves.”

When Lilia first hears/sees OB Malleus, he mistakes Malleus's voice for Raverne's so we can asusme that Raverne has a deep, resonant voice as Malleus and/or may speak in a similar manner. However, Lilia then sees the horns on Malleus and realizes he is not Raverne; this would imply that Raverne does not have those horns.

Lilia received an invitation to Night Raven College 500 years ago but at the time he had no interest in enrolling and actually tore it up and tossed it out. However, “a certain someone picked up all the torn pieces, carefully put them back together, and stored the letter in the royal archive. For a nobleman he certainly had no qualms about digging through the trash." When he is asked who did that for him, Lilia says "an old friend" did. This friend is implied to be Raverne, as Lilia then follows up with, “Did you perchance envision the future and see that your son would go to school one day...?”

Maleanor says that Lilia “loved” Raverne and herself. Some fans speculate that this implies Lilia is bisexual for his friend Raverne (since Lilia confessed romantically to Maleanor), but it can also be read platonically since Maleanor says Lilia is capable of (platonically) loving their son. It is not clear one way or another.

[11queensupreme11]

Yes, I am making a reaction fic....... eventually lol

i know it says i started this back in 2023, but all i really did was make a cover. i didn't start making any chapters until a few months ago hehe

BUT ANYWAYS YES YOU READ THAT RIGHT! i am making a reaction/reading the books/watching the movies fic for arsenic blues!!!! in this case, it will be ror reacting to pjo

for anyone interested to learn more, go under the cut!

(this started off as me just giving you some info about cerulean cyanide, but then i ended up ranting about how much i loved the pjo tv show lol, soooo if you haven't watched it, don't go down)

first off, THIS IS MY FIRST TIME MAKING A REACTION FIC! i've read a lot of them, but i have no experience in actually making one. i'm kinda nervous ngl 😅

secondly, i've already started... somewhat. i've copied all chapters of the lightning thief into a google doc and made necessary edits, but i haven't written any reactions... YET. i want to include the ror gods AND humans as members of the audience, and since i haven't written about the ror humans as thoroughly yet, i won't be writing the reactions until i get to act 2 of arsenic blues, since that's when the ror humans are introduced. this is important for me because i don't have their characterizations down yet, and won't until i actually start writing about them and their dynamics with percy. same goes with cú chulainn, he's a literal love interest, but won't get introduced until act 2!

thirdly, because of what i said up there ^ cerulean cyanide won't be published until act 2 is finished to avoid spoiling what happens during ragnarok and the god's apocalypse.

fourthly, IT WILL BE INTERMIXED WITH THE TV SHOW!!! i fucking LOVED the show and (most of) the changes that were made, so i'm totally going to add them into percy's past that the ror characters will be reacting to.

so what elements of the show should you expect to see? glad you asked!

POSEIDON 💙

poseidon in the books is great, but i loooooove the new stuff they put in the tv show. in the books, we're mostly told that poseidon loves percy and there are times where it's shown, but it's kinda hard to pick up since the books are written in PERCY'S POV, and since poseidon is literally restricted from interacting with him, it's hard to notice how much he actually loves his son when he's not even allowed to be AROUND the dude who's perspective takes up the whole series.

but in the tv show, it's not just percy's perspective that's explored! that little moment poseidon had with sally told us SOOOO MUCH about how he actually felt for the both of them. and when he and percy finally met??? THE ANGST AND LONGING THEY BOTH SHOWED UHDFSIGVSVGD I LOVED IT SO MUCH

AND THE FACT THAT HE NOT ONLY SAVED PERCY FROM ZEUS BUT ALSO SURRENDERED??? HE GAVE UP HIS PRIDE AND PRIDE IS SUCH A HUGE AND IMPORTANT THING FOR GODS BUT HE GAVE IT UP WITH NO HESITATION AHHHHHHH 😭

so yes, expect to see a lot of the poseidon scenes from the tv show

HERMES BEING AT THE LOTUS CASINO

i actually really like the fact that hermes was shown in here instead of the next season. some people were confused as to what the point was for having him in the casino and why he tricked the kids into staying at the casino longer, but i found this post on tumblr that explains why he could've been there:

in the last olympian, we (and percy) find out that hermes knew all along what luke's fate would be; that he would rebel against the olympians, bring forth kronos, become his host, etc. he knew ALL OF THAT. but he was never allowed to tell him (ancient laws), so he tried to CHANGE luke's fate in order to save him even though he knew it was pointless.

we get a bit of that in the tv show. hermes was there because he wanted to change luke's fate. he tricked the kids into staying at the casino longer so they would pass the deadline. war would come, and luke would get away with his thievery and nobody would know it was him because they're all too busy trying to kill each other. but ofc, like always, it didn't work because you can never change fate.

i love how the show showed us that hermes was trying to change his fate in the first season whereas in the books, it only started in the second book where he was introduced for the first time.

THE GODS' CRUELTY AND THEIR LOVE

the gods' cruelty and apathy was much more obvious in the show's first season compared to the first book. in the first book, most of the gods shown were jerks at best but the tv show really showed us how horrible of a family they are (most of them at least) to each other and their kids

like what show!ares said, his family loves to stab each other in the back, they love to hurt each other to get a higher leg up; they're not really a family. the audience and percy becomes VERY aware of that unlike in the books where it's more sugar-coated at the start.

we're shown very early on that they're not good people, but at the same time, we're shown that some of them DO care.

hephaestus was abused and mistreated by his family, but he refuses to be like them which is why he released percy from his trap; because he realizes that he and annabeth are good kids (ending the cycle). hermes loves his son and desperately wants to change his fate despite being told over and over again that its pointless. poseidon loves percy and wishes to be a proper family with him and sally, but isn't allowed to.

there are some good gods out there, which is why percy decided to stand by them instead of taking luke's offer to bring it all down. he's been shown that some gods ARE good. unlike in the first book where you don't really meet any decent gods, so book!percy honestly didn't have much of a reason to defend them, yet he did anyway when luke left camp. the show gave him (and us) a better reason to actually defend them

in the show, he's exposed to the god's cruelty, but he sees that it's not as black and white as he once thought "oh all the gods are bad and none of them care for their kids >:(", he sees the good in some of them and it's enough to make him want to save them instead of letting them crash and burn (like luke, who's blinded by his anger and hatred *cough cough* fatal flaw!!!! *cough cough*).

LUKE AND PERCY'S RELATIONSHIP

SHOW!LUKE WAS SO MUCH BETTER THAN BOOK!LUKE IMO.

book!luke was trying to kill percy very early on and was pretty much pretending to be his friend the whole time. yes his intentions and character get fleshed out as the books go on, but his relationship with percy... didn't offer much.

then there's show!luke who genuinely liked him and wanted to recruit him rather than kill him (that's why there's no scorpion scene). his betrayal was more personal and painful for percy. the fact that annabeth was there to watch it all happen was even better (not for her though LOL).

(and dont even get me started on how show!luke didn't hate grover like in the books. the genuine fear in his eyes when he found out that percy gave the shoes to him and the way his eyes got all misty??? he fully blames thalia's "death" on him and him only THE ANGUISH WAS SO 😭😭😭)

AND I THINK THAT MIGHT BE ALL?

so yes, these are some of the changes you should expect to see!

i wanna really contrast how different things are between the ror and pjo verse. ror gods are very close and tight-knit whereas the pjo gods are... well, "a mess" as percy so eloquently put it.

ror gods aren't forced under the tyrannical rule of zeus, their zeus is chill and just wants to have fun. they have no restrictions to follow and their divine laws aren't as oppressive

whereas pjo gods are under the tyrant rule of zeus and can't even interact with their kids.

ror gods are independent while pjo gods have to rely on the preservation of western civilization to stay alive and use demigods to break rules, etc etc.

pjo gods (some, at least) are kinder and have no issues falling in love with humans and loving their demigod children while ror gods are cruel assholes who commit genocide against humanity despite being the ones to create them

and etc etc.

ANYWAY, I HOPE YOU GUYS ARE AS HYPED UP AS I AM!!!! 🥳🥳🥳 can't wait to start writing reactions for the first time ever 🫨

[mothmans-left-buttcheek]

This fic is just a treat, I’m dropping my in-time-reactions to it just cause I had a great time reading it😂

“His stride was casual as one could be, whilst battling both midwestern humidity and pit sweat in a white hand-me-down Jimi Hendrix shirt and sleeveless denim vest.” Oh my god… oh, my god.

“until one day your mother caught him by the ear and brought him in to mend his tattered jeans and offer up a hot meal.” HAHAHAHAHAHA!! Go mom!

“and making Stanley Kubrick films your new big boy personalities.” And some people never grow out of it oh my fucking god, on a personal note I went to film school and the film bro stereotype is so real. Now in this fic the reader is fem and there really isn’t a stereotype for women in film to fit into, so there’s hope that she’ll recover and allow Stanley Kubrick to be one of her interests and not her whole personality when she grows up😂

“You had wanted to write about Caligula so you could use the word ‘orgy’ in the report without getting in trouble” oh no

“but Eddie had insisted he had a better idea when he discovered a two years tumultuous ruling of brothers from 209 AD to 211 AD.” Oh no

“Also, here’s a better word for you to learn: fratricide.” OH NO

“Yes! Or the syph!” DOES SHE MEAN SYPHILIS??? WHERE WOULD A MIDDLE SCHOOL BOY GET SYPHILIS FROM????

“The kiss with Cindy was real, unfortunately. It happened way before Cindy was kept home with mono, and you remembered the incident well.” So then where did Cindy get mono that lying little eleven year old bitch???

“and that pretty soon he’d be popping girl’s cherries left and right.” BRO DOESNT GET LAID TILL HIS (first) SENIOR YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL PLEASE SOMEONE BRING THIS BABY BOYS HOPES DOWN BEFORE HE GETS LOST IN THE STRATOSPHERE

“Yet Cindy and Tommy Hagan swapped spit once, and both were out of commission.” SHUT THE FUCK UP TOMMY HAGAN??? That ass kisser the plot completely forgot about by season three??? Yeah of course he’d get mono in middle school that fucking cuck

“But no one would ever say anything about Tommy Hagan getting mono.” I WOULD!! SHIT I WILL, LEMME PICK ON A MIDDLE SCHOOLER PLEASE

“In a world of traitors— where brothers stabbed brothers in the arms of their mothers, or where violent men disowned each other with drug laced milk bottles to the face, you would always pick instead to be Eddie Munson’s loyal droog.” Okay that went hard af

“I HAVE SHARED OF THE COOTIE WITH A WOMAN-” KANGKANDISJDJDJ

“GOD SANCTIONED DROOG MARRIAGE CO-RULER ULTRA-VIOLENCE! MAZEL TOV!” L’chaim!!

“THE IMPERIAL HUSBAND NOW DEMANDS TO KISS THE DROOG BRIDE!” Eddie screamed, “PLANT ONE ON ME, GODDESS DIVINE OF THE REPUBLIC OF HAWKINS!!” No way, wait, you’re lying

“… when— without warning— you took off towards Eddie, and planted a fat wet kiss on his mouth. He froze for a moment, but returned the kiss with fervor, making an obnoxious hum and wet smack when you pulled away.” Oh my god kids are so gross😂 (this is a really cute moment though)

“Chessie had long since taken off for the gated community of Loch Nora on her bike.” I KNOW THATS RIGHT

“Hey… Only the best and finest gems and refreshments for Empress Droog the First of Hawkins, Indiana.” Eddie said with a confident smile.” Oh my lord I just know that’s gonna stick around till their married and own a house

Who knew a film about freewill, conditioning, and the conscious choices between good or evil could elicit such a sweet romance? It’s so innocent and wholesome, while taking inspiration from a film that’s anything but. But isn’t that just like Eddie and an MC who takes after him? Enjoying dark and taboo subjects while still being pleasant🖤

Be My Wife: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: A “friend” freaks out when you split a Coke with Eddie the Freak.

Warnings: references to A Clockwork Orange, bullying, STI/STD mention, backwash drinking

A/N: So… I know this isn’t a Christmas fic. But I wrote this because I had those times in my youth where someone spread horrid rumors about either me or my friends, and I had to make those split second decisions to determine my loyalty. I always try to be loyal as best I can.

Thank you to @writhingg for giving the green light on this fic. And big thanks to @rxqueenotd and @melodymunson as well. And big thanks to viewers like you. Thank you. ❤️

Resources: @strangergraphics-archive for the dividers.

Taglist: @ali-r3n @melodymunson @twihard28

“Hey droogie, can I have a sip of your Coke?”

You looked up from where you were perched on the pony wall by the Seven Eleven bike rack. You had been chatting with a classmate, Chessie Hagar, about purchasing a purse from her mother’s Avon Colorworks catalog. It was a new collection for the year 1977. Said eye catching magazine with its spread of rainbow themed products was currently held between the two of you, and the pages began to rattle as Chessie shook in fear upon hearing the deep voice.

A flutter-smack sounded from the girl dropping the catalog when Eddie The Freak approached. His stride was casual as one could be, whilst battling both midwestern humidity and pit sweat in a white hand-me-down Jimi Hendrix shirt and sleeveless denim vest. As one of the middle schoolers who had been blessed with a growth spurt, his lanky height, shredded second hand clothes, and shaved head often made those in your grade— and some of those above— piss their pants.

You alone did not fear him.

The Fates had elected to weave you both in a tangled web of coincidences: you had been his project partner in every shared class since you started at Hawkins Middle School together, and you just so happened to live in the same neighborhood on occasion. The distance from Al Munson’s janky two bedroom home to yours was but a hop skip and a jump. Eddie used to ding dong ditch your house when he was six, until one day your mother caught him by the ear and brought him in to mend his tattered jeans and offer up a hot meal.

To any other rando, he was an unstable pariah. But to you, he was just Eddie Munson— the cute boy next door who sometimes ate at your place. And you had become his droog after spending winter 1972 sneaking into the Hawk Theater, and making Stanley Kubrick films your new big boy personalities.

Without thinking, you handed the soft drink over. His fingers brushed against yours as he took the Coke out of your grip and went for a swig, with plush pink lips wrapping around the transparent jade glass of the lip and neck. His protruding Adam’s apple was bobbing with the rhythmic gulping, and you couldn’t stop staring.

“Thanks.” He belched out.

“You said a sip, not half the goddamn bottle!” You whined.

Eddie grinned sheepishly and backwashed a good mouthful. Giving a half assed apology and a promise to pay you back mumbled under his breath, he handed the bottle back.

“Still up for doing last minute project prep?” You asked, swirling the leftovers he’d saved for you.

“Nah, let’s take a break from the train wreck brothers. Catch you tomorrow, though?” He said, scratching a blackhead off his nose and snorting a bit, “I had an idea for the oral report that might earn us a little extra credit. Think you can mimic a British accent?”

“Eh. Can’t do an accent without sounding like fucking Alex DeLarge.” You groused.

“We can work on that. Leave your milk-plus at home, though. Don’t want me own droog reenacting some Roman ultra violence on me.”

“Just don’t go popping out from behind your curtains at me again, that’s a good way to get stabbed in the neck with my mom’s kitchen scissors.” You snorted.

“Ahhh, the droog’s no fun. I guess I can tone down the surprise pop ups, though. If you insist. Catch you later?” Eddie said, waving.

“Later. Peace out, man.”

Chessie let out a shaky, sobbing exhale when you made to drink the dregs of your soda, and you turned and raised an eyebrow.

“Whassamatter?” You asked.

“Are you nuts?! You just shared your drink with the freak!” She blurted out.

… since when the hell was sharing with Eddie a crime?

“Yeah, so? It’s hot out. He looked thirsty.” You said.

“Did you seriously forget everything we’ve heard about him?!” She whisper-screamed, “Don’t you care what everyone talks about?!”

You rolled your eyes. Everyone talked about Eddie. If you hadn’t heard at least one rumor from a faceless student whenever he walked by, you were either stupid or living under a rock. They said he was a bad boy— yes, even with a full vocabulary of slurs and insults available, they still called him a bad boy. Like if he was still in diapers drawing with crayon on the wall, and needed a spanking.

Depending on who you asked, Eddie either did or sold drugs, it was never clear which. Some of the other trailer park kids said he was a mean scrapper when he went to his uncle’s on alternate weeks. Women’s restroom lore stated that he carried a switchblade in the back pocket of his Wrangler jeans, and that he used it to torture animals for his Satanic rituals.

A million and one things were said about him on the daily, but you knew none of them were true in the slightest. None of the talk deterred you from spending time with him. Sometimes he came to your house, more often than not you went to his.

Every other day found the two of you parked in front of his mom’s turntable, jamming to Deep Purple and putting together an elaborate poster board with some spray painted fake leaves made into laurel crowns, along with a block of text about your chosen co-emperor of the early Roman Empire.

You had wanted to write about Caligula so you could use the word ‘orgy’ in the report without getting in trouble, but Eddie had insisted he had a better idea when he discovered a two years tumultuous ruling of brothers from 209 AD to 211 AD.

“As much as I love a good sex party on paper, you just know that’s what everyone else is gonna write about. Let’s write about this nut job Caracalla instead! Dude killed his brother in the arms of his mother, and struck his name from the record. That’s like, the most metal shit ever! Also, here’s a better word for you to learn: fratricide. Apparently there’s a whole list of technical terms for when you kill a family member.”

“… what’s the rumor mill gotta do with my Coke?” You deadpanned.

“If you drink after him, you’re gonna get mono like Cindy! You gotta throw it out!”

Cindy Bishop in your science class had told everyone that had functional ears— swearing up and down on her life— that Eddie Munson had kissed her and given her mononucleosis. A dreaded affliction whose nickname to you sounded like one of the variations of sound formats for any sort of audio.

“Mono…?”

“Yes! Or the syph!”

You knew Eddie had to have heard Chessie’s vitriol. Turning around, you could see him staring at the two of you from across the parking lot, one leg over his bike. There was a stinging look of betrayal on his face. Telltale signs of a wet cherry nose and shameful red cheeks gave away his mistrust; as if he was expecting you to do as your friend told, and throw the bottle he drank from in the trash.

His imaginary affliction was just that: imaginary. You knew that to be gospel.

The kiss with Cindy was real, unfortunately. It happened way before Cindy was kept home with mono, and you remembered the incident well. Eddie had come running to your house just to brag that he’d finally gotten his first kiss, and that pretty soon he’d be popping girl’s cherries left and right.

Just learning about the simple kiss had pissed you off, because the closest you’d ever gotten to kissing Eddie was sharing the same fork whenever you both roasted Vienna sausages on the gas burner in his kitchen. Eddie hadn’t been sick when Cindy stayed home, he came faithfully to school to trap you on the playground and speculate about the thousand and one hidden meanings behind the kiss.

With all the excitement, he never noticed the smallest details like you did. One of the guys in your PE class had been sent home with a rash and a high fever, and it was only a month after Cindy was rumored to have also kissed the collapsed boy that she got sick. You had always shared cups, utensils, and other things requiring mouth use with Eddie and had been fine. Yet Cindy and Tommy Hagan swapped spit once, and both were out of commission.

But no one would ever say anything about Tommy Hagan getting mono. They’d always redirect every disease outbreak to the poor loser who split time between Cherry Street and Forest Hills Trailer Park. The same poor loser who had the misfortune of wasting his first kiss with Cindy; a girl who frenched behind the portable classrooms with anything that had a pulse. People could be so blind and stupid, they failed to notice the sickness timelines were not matching up.

No one deserved their first anything to be with Cindy. Not with the way she stabbed people in the back.

You took a long, hard pause as you stared into Eddie’s wet brown eyes. He was asking you a silent question you already knew the answer to: were you a stinking traitorous droog, or a loyal one? Were you, his one friend in the entire world, going to stand against him?

Without saying a word, you looked at Chessie, then looked back again at Eddie.

In a world of traitors— where brothers stabbed brothers in the arms of their mothers, or where violent men disowned each other with drug laced milk bottles to the face, you would always pick instead to be Eddie Munson’s loyal droog.

You lathed at the lip of the bottle and stuck your tongue down the neck, and shotgunned all of Eddie’s backwash.

Chessie’s mouth dropped open as she began to gag, and Eddie opened his mouth in an obnoxious and breathless laugh as you chugged the entirety of his germs. The carbonation caught up to you, so you let a belch rip before turning back around to face him.

“I GOT YOUR MONO NOW, MUNSON!” You screamed out to him, “NOW YOU GOTTA MARRY ME!”

“IS THAT HOW IT WORKS, DROOGIE?” He shouted back, a shit eating grin stretched across his face, “YOU SHOULD HAVE LET ME KNOW BEFORE I TOOK A SWIG, I WOULD HAVE MADE SURE I GOT YOU A RING POP FIRST!”

“IT'S GODDAMN ROMAN CONFARREATIO LAWS, EDDIE! YOU GAVE ME MONO INSTEAD OF SPELT BREAD, NOW YOU GOTTA MARRY ME!” You joked.

You noticed from the big, smart ass grin that he was about to do something outrageous, and your heart began to sing. He immediately got to his knee on the asphalt, everyone in the Seven Eleven parking lot watching as he began to scream like an orator in the colosseum. He used your full government name and everything when he called out to the small parking lot audience.

“HEAR ME, CITIZENS OF HAWKINS! I AM BUT A VESSEL FOR THE GODS, A BEARER, A MESSENGER OF THAT MOST HOLY WORD FROM MOUNT OLYMPUS! I HAVE SHARED OF THE COOTIE WITH A WOMAN, AND THUS OUR MARRIAGE BETWEEN EMPEROR AND DROOG IS SOLEMNIZED-…!”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, FREAK!” Someone called out, immediately flinching back when Eddie rounded on him.

“THE GODS. HAVE. SPOKEN!” Eddie screeched, a glob of spit flying out of his mouth and onto the hot asphalt.

He was wide eyed. Deranged. Eddie lifted up the hem of his denim vest and held it out and to the side, to look like wings unfurling, screaming to the heavens as you began howling with him.

“YEAH!” You screamed out, raising your bottle and shouting every bit of nonsense you could think of, “GOD SANCTIONED DROOG MARRIAGE CO-RULER ULTRA-VIOLENCE! MAZEL TOV!”

“THE IMPERIAL HUSBAND NOW DEMANDS TO KISS THE DROOG BRIDE!” Eddie screamed, “PLANT ONE ON ME, GODDESS DIVINE OF THE REPUBLIC OF HAWKINS!!”

You looked at Chessie, who looked as if she was going to throw up or scream. It wasn’t immediately clear which. Instead of ending the joke, you grinned. Shrugged. The glossy magazine paper pages of the forgotten Avon Colorworks catalog ripped under the tread of your shoes when— without warning— you took off towards Eddie, and planted a fat wet kiss on his mouth. He froze for a moment, but returned the kiss with fervor, making an obnoxious hum and wet smack when you pulled away.

“Yum.” You gushed, licking your lips and changing your cadence to the unhinged Kubrick Cockney, “Them’s tasty cooties, they are, brother sir!”

“Yeah? Them false cytomegalovirus germs are what taste good to ya, droog?” He laughed, wrapping his arms around you and putting on his own terrible accent.

“That they are, sir, that’s what gives all me food and drink that plus flavor.” You grinned.

The two of you cackled, thoroughly enjoying throwing out random quotes and various insanities that to the normal person would put them off of your insanity and edge-lord humor. Chessie had long since taken off for the gated community of Loch Nora on her bike, but you didn’t care. You could live without a selection of eyeshadows, a rainbow tote purse, and all of your false friends if the choice came down to choosing them, or Eddie.

“Wanna go into the gas station and split another bottle of mono before we blow this joint?” You asked.

His grin could have rivaled that of Malcolm McDowell.

“Now, how can I say no to my new wife?” He grinned, holding out his arm for you to take, “But I am a man of my word, so you’re getting a new Coke, plus that Ring Pop so’s we can make this thing official.”

“Spare no expense, huh?” You grinned, and he pulled you in closer. Both of your hips knocking together.

“Hey… Only the best and finest gems and refreshments for Empress Droog the First of Hawkins, Indiana.” Eddie said with a confident smile.

You smiled at him, nudging one another with your bodies all the way into the gas station, until he pulled you in for another sloppy kiss in the middle of the snack aisle.

[pitchcom]

carcar survivor au, 2.2k

When Oscar received his new tribe buff, he knew that this was a chance for a fresh start.

The last vote had been…messy, to say the least. Daniel had approached him and Zhou with an idol and a plan to take out Pierre before he and Yuki could reach the merge and gain more control over the game. Oscar wasn’t naive enough to think that this meant any sort of alliance between them, but he had promised his sisters that he would do anything to try and win.

Yuki stood resolutely away from the rest of the tribe on the boat ride over. Oscar catches a glimpse of his hands, knuckles clenching white against the boat railing. He feels Daniel push past him, towards Yuki and raises an eyebrow at him questioningly.

Daniel turns back towards him. “Yuki’s scared of sharks.” he offers, as if they all hadn’t caused his face to crumple a couple nights ago as Pierre’s name was read over and over.

Oscar watches him walk next to Yuki, slinging an arm over his shoulder. Too soft, he thinks as he watches Yuki loosen his grip on the railing and lean into Daniel’s hold. He looks away towards the horizon as they travel to their new beach.

——

Oscar quickly finds himself escaping to the water well less than an hour after arriving on the new beach.

Strategically, he knows he should be at camp with everyone else. Should be talking to everyone, scouting out tribe dynamics, making first impressions that aren’t a stilted introduction before disappearing. But Oscar was never quite a social butterfly; still awkward at office parties despite working there for 2 years by now, never mind trying to ingratiate himself with 10 other strangers he had just seen briefly at challenges.

A voice interrupts his thoughts. “Huh. I guess you really were getting water. I bet George half a coconut that you were out idol searching already.”

Oscar startles and whirls around to come face to face with a shorter man with curly hair, crooked grin stuck on his face from tribe 1. Ah. He vaguely remembers him from the last challenge.

“Oh. Um. You’re the guy who kept falling off the balance beam, right?” Oscar kicked himself mentally. For all that first impressions mattered in the game, Oscar was failing miserably at them so far.

Balance Beam Guy’s mouth falls into a pout. “Alex already made fun of me for that at camp for three days! I thought that people would be over it by now.” he grumbles, moving next to Oscar to grab the water ladle from him.

“Sorry.” Oscar says, not particularly sorry. “I didn’t have a name for you, so.”

Balance Beam Guy sniffs. “It's Lando, so get that memory out of your head. I don’t need reminders that all of America saw me fail to walk in a straight line. You came over from tribe 3, right? Any deets on alliances, idols, advantages?”

Oscar shakes his head. “Nah, we’re kind of a mess. Daniel burned our idol at the last tribal, so if anyone was able to find it before we got on the boat I wouldn’t know. I’m uh, actually looking for some potential connections here.” And maybe it's a little desperate, a little shameless, but Oscar needed some kind of lifeline. So, even if he had to reveal his hand a little earlier then he would’ve liked, he was hoping the information would be interesting enough to make him worth keeping.

Luckily, Lando’s face breaks into a wide grin as he finishes filling his canteen. “Well, you’re in luck! Don’t tell anyone, but-“ Lando ducks closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “I do happen to be a part of quite a strong alliance with George and Alex. We’re trying to keep it on the downlow for now, but we’re looking for a solid fourth to help us swing a majority. You want in, um-?” Lando trails off, hand reaching out.

“Oscar,” he finishes as he takes Lando’s hand. “And I’d be happy to work with you.”

Lando’s grin slides back into its crooked default. “Great! I’ll tell them about it, and in a little bit we’ll go down to the water and chat. See you back at camp, Osc!”

Oscar’s face twitches a little at the nickname, but he doesn’t say anything as Lando walks away. We’re not friends, he wants to call after Lando. It's just strategy.

Oscar waits 5 minutes after Lando leaves before returning to camp. He gives an awkward half smile when Lando winks at him. Possible strategic liability, he notes to himself.

——

Oscar already considered himself particularly lucky to have fumbled his way through the premerge after losing Logan, not to mention Lando choosing to approach him with the offer of an alliance. In all honesty, he was waiting for the other shoe to drop and hoping it wouldn’t affect his game too badly.

That should’ve been warning already when Carlos decided to approach him on the beach.

Oscar was stretched across the sand, letting the suns rays lull him into a sleep. Half the tribe was out getting a reward (Lando included) leaving the rest of them to sulk around camp and try not to think of all the food the others were eating. Oscar chose to ignore the gnawing disappointment by getting some peace and quiet. Unfortunately, Carlos had other ideas.

“Oscar.” Carlos called from across the sand

Oscar squeezed his eyes closed. Maybe, he reasoned, if he pretended to be asleep already Carlos would get the hint and leave him alone.

“Oscar! Hello?” The voice got closer.

Oscar groaned internally before rolling back over and opening his eyes. He was immediately met with an extreme close up of Carlos, frown painted on his face.

“Why are you sleeping in the sun? Your skin, it will burn no?” were the first words Carlos spoke to him, voice too loud and face still too close.

Oscar blinked at him. “What?”

Carlos’ frown deepens. “Your skin. You will not tan, like this.”

“Well, sorry that not all of us were born with perfect genetics.” Oscar wants to drown this guy and his stupid island beauty in the ocean. “Why are you here anyways? Aren’t you supposed to be plotting the next vote with Max or something?”

Carlos’ face lights up. “Ah! That is what I have come to talk to you about!” He says, ignoring the obvious dismissal as he takes a seat next to Oscar on the sand. “You see, I have noticed that you sit alone at camp quite a lot. So, I assume that you do not have an alliance yet!”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “And what if I have a secret alliance with somebody else? Like Daniel, or Zhou?”

Carlos laughs, a cackle that sounds almost painful. “I have already talked to both of them, and they both say they have no tribe loyalty.”

“They might be lying, you know. Trying to lull you into a false sense of security and all that.”

Carlos grins, a big dopey thing. “Between you and them I think I believe them more. No offense, Oscar.”

Oscar wills back the growing irritation beneath his skin. He’s dealt with annoying over-confident and underestimating assholes before. He knows how to play this game. “You got me. Totally friendless and ally-less on this island. Probably the most boring castaway ever.” He drones, almost completely monotone.

Carlos frowns. “Do not say that, Oscar.” Ozz-car. “I am sure you are a very wonderful person. If you were not, I would not be here asking you to join my alliance.”

“You’re here to ask me to join your alliance?”

Carlos blinks, then snaps his fingers. “Ah! Yes! I have come here to ask you to join me, Charles, and Max at the next vote!” Carlos looks at Oscar eagerly, as if he should be jumping at his generous offer. “Since you have said yourself that you have no allies, we could help carry you farther in the game. It is a mutually beneficial partnership, no?”

Oscar snorts internally. “Beneficial for you, yes. For me? What happens when it comes down to me or Charles? Me or Max? Mate, I’m not stupid. I know there are hierarchies in alliances, and I’d be at the bottom. I don’t want to be just some fucking sheep you bring with you until the time is right.”

Carlos looks a little lost at this. Clearly, his plan to swoop in and grab a vote didn’t go as smoothly as he thought. Serves him right, Oscar thinks bitterly. It’d probably be the first time his stupid cow eyes and smooth accent didn’t get him what he wanted.

Oscar watches him wiggle his jaw for a couple of seconds, lost in thought. He sighs internally, before turning back over and closing his eyes again. “Look mate, I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got my own alliance. Find somebody else to be your number.”

Oscar doesn’t hear anything for a moment, then feels sand being kicked against his skin as Carlos gets up. “Fine. But I will not be so nice later after Tribal Council, when my alliance controls the vote. See you later, Oscar.”

Fuck that guy, Oscar thinks. He ends up staying out on the sand to spite him. He ignores the smirk Carlos gives him later as Lando laughs and pokes at his sunburned back.

——

Later, after Max wins the immunity challenge, George asks him who he’s thinking of voting tonight.

“I dunno, but I think Carlos is a good choice. Breaking up that alliance before they get a foothold in the game is probably a good idea. “ Oscar says, feigning nonchalance. It’s purely strategic, he tells himself.

George nods. “And you’re sure you can get Daniel and Zhou to vote with us?”

“Course he can!” Alex says, laying an arm around Oscars shoulder with an easy smile. “And even if he can’t, I think we’ll survive to another day. I mean, nobody even knows we’re allied. There's no way they think that a bunch of lanky and short guys are bigger threats than someone like Valterri or Fernando.”

Oscar nods along, a smile growing despite himself as he watches Lando shove Alex for calling him short. This is my endgame, he thinks to himself.

——

George is trembling on the way back from tribal. From rage or shock, Oscar doesn’t know. Lando is silent for once, white-knuckled grip on his pack and lips pursed into a sharp line.

Alex going home tonight was not part of the plan. They were supposed to have the numbers, with Lewis, Valterri, Zhou, and Daniel voting with them. I guess they found their number, Oscar thought bitterly and he watched Daniel and Max whisper to each other up ahead.

It was a good move. If Oscar were at home watching, he would be applauding them for identifying the threat within the tribe and dealing a significant blow to them. But now, as he was forced to trudge back to camp minus Alex, Oscar just feels a sort of sourness in his stomach.

This feeling is only amplified when they arrive back at camp, and Carlos turns to him with a big smile on his face. Oscar doesn’t think it's dopey anymore.

“I told you, Oscar!” Carlos sings to him as Oscar is trying to dig for his jacket in his pack. “I told you we would control the vote. Are you rethinking my offer now? Though, I think we are less in need of ‘sheep’ now.”

Oscar rethinks every post he’s ever made on Twitter calling out contestants for being butthurt for being on the wrong side of the vote. Tries to school his expression, tries to steady his breathing and refrain himself from punching Carlos straight in the face.

“Fuck off.” Is what he settles for instead, a shove that barely makes Carlos stumble. Oscar can hear his cackling laugh echo through the night air as he stomps down to the beach to meet with George and Lando.

“What the fuck just happened.” George starts. “We were supposed to be safe- We were not supposed to be the targets! It was supposed to be Fernando, or Valterri, or even fucking Lewis-“

”I just don’t understand how they knew,” Lando stresses, hand pulling through his curls. “We were keeping it a secret and everything!”

Oscar doesn’t say anything, because the sour feeling in his stomach has just curdled. Nobody said anything about an alliance, he realises, except for him. Except for that stupid throwaway line to Carlos on the beach. A throwaway line that he then latched onto, analyzed, and deduced a potential member from.

The guilt eats at him, in the silence. Nobody speaks for a bit. Oscar is about to open his mouth and apologize when Lando says “Franco.”

They both turn to look at him. ”Franco was in our old tribe, he voted with them tonight. He must’ve figured it out.” Lando continues.

And it’s an out. An easy way to avoid blame, to explain away the sudden target of Alex. Oscar only feels slightly bad when he nods along. After all, it makes perfect sense.

They talk for a little more, discuss further plans of action. But there is only one fact repeating in Oscars head by the time they get back to camp:

Carlos Sainz is bad for his game.

[epiicaricacy-arts]

hello manosouta/saintknight enjoyers. i bring you this: married in red AU

for those unfamiliar with married in red, it’s a short thriller RPG by studio investigrave (other games by them are elevator hitch and dead plate). the game is free as are all their other games and i highly recommend it!!

SPOILERS FOR MARRIED IN RED AND AAI2 UNDER THE CUT

unlike my sunjiao dead plate au i don’t have that solid of a story for this, mostly because i haven’t had the chance to replay the 2nd and 5th cases after finishing the game to fully grasp and contextualize their dynamic, so i will probably be able to elaborate on this more after doing that AND possibly replaying married in red.

i had a few routes for this to go down which i’ll talk about below.

the basic premise is that simeon is attending bronco’s wedding (to some unknown figure cause i couldn’t figure out anyone that could generally fit the role i needed so you can imagine whatever you want).

in this story, simeon and bronco were still childhood best friends, but after nearly freezing to death in the locked car, simeon ended up hospitalized and rather weak for most of his life with high susceptibility to illness. bronco promised he would always visit simeon whenever he was sick or in the hospital, but simeon never felt that bronco truly made up for his actions that day.

the whole thing with the president and the double doesn’t really happen i guess? the focus is what happened during their childhood but artie’s still gotta die unfortunately 🤷‍♀️

under the impression that carmelo was bronco’s father and killed frost, simeon made sure that bronco would also have to face the loss of a loved one and sabotaged his wedding. bronco would’ve wanted simeon to be his best man, but ultimately decided not to put him in that position due to his health. unlike in MIR i think simeon had to have been invited but just as a guest.

here’s where i came up with multiple versions of the story. you can choose whatever seems to make most sense or whatever you like more 🤷‍♀️

the first is just following the events of MIR. simeon kills the person bronco intended to marry, frames bronco for the murder, and gets him arrested for revenge, promising that he’ll visit bronco every day in prison!!!

the second involved a bit more manipulation on simeon’s part. although i’m not sure how much he could really pull this off but who knows that guy did some whacky shit. in this version, simeon informs bronco that something dangerous is going to occur at the event: someone there is a threat, and bronco, as the bodyguard he is, needs to neutralize it. simeon then tries to frame it so that bronco’s fiance was the threat and his pride in his profession took priority over his fiance and killed them.

i think the second one is more interesting but i’m not as confident in its plausibility for these characters but 🤷‍♀️ i would love to hear people’s thoughts if they have any :]

anyways, making these AUs with SIG games is such a blast, especially editing the screenshots and writing text. maybe i’ll make more for either the dead plate or MIR AU’s at some point but that’s a later me thought

simeon having a similar hairstyle to frost was on purpose btw. also god i hated drawing bronco’s hair wtf is going on with that guy 😔

thank you for reading !!!!

[rockybloo]

I mean if its unsolicited you deserve to ignore it. No one asked. But as an aartist who wants other people to enjoy your work, you should also find open time for crtiques that may be valid (like when creators use a dogwhistle they didnt know was a dogwhistle or such)

I once followed an artist who did a once a month critique hour for fans to add friendly input when they were in the headspace, and then called it good.

So that fans didn't add unsolicited stuff, and also so he felt like he had more control over his content even with fan input, as it was his, not theirs.

Idk if this would help you in any way but 👍🏾

I think unsolicited critiques are a neutral point so long as they are constructive and not worded rudely.

If one leaves an unsolicited critique, the artist doesn't have to listen and one shouldn't expect an artist to listen. HOWEVER I also think if a creator gets unsolicited critique on their work and it's constructive then it's also beneficial for them to consider what's been said so they can better themselves in the future.

I honestly am not the type of artist that's comfortable with a critique hour because I do this as a hobby and for fun and I strongly prefer getting advice from people whose words I trust and work I keep up with since there's an element of trust I have in what someone is saying versus a bunch of people I am unfamiliar with who may desire different things from my work that I don't.

BUT if I do get some unsolicited constructive critique from a follower, I do consider what's been said and weigh if it's something I want to do or not. There have been numerous times in the past I've had some unsolicited critiques from people that I let my inner OWA OWA dogs fight over before I eventually shifted a couple things in my work. One big one I used to get that I HATED but I bit the bullet one day and implemented was same face syndrome comments (this was back before I changed my style to what it is now) since in the past it was VERY anime. Another more recent occurrence was Nova and how she looked too young due to how she dressed and the style I drew her in.

Regardless of if I say I don't want unsolicited critiques or not, it's the internet, it's unavoidable. Especially with me having webcomics since, while they are free to read, people are paying with their time and many do not like to waste it. What's important is determining if what's been said is beneficial or not. And I think that's something that def varies from artist to artist.

I'm not really interested in popularity or money with my work. My end goal with my art is just to leave something behind on this Earth before I go that says I was here.

[lumiidragon]

This is probably a weird question but do you have any advice on spotting those scams where someone asks you if your commissions are open

I remember you posting about someone who asks if you can draw their kids pet or something (I can’t remember very well)

Are there any others you know of?

I'll be honest, I've rarely gotten potential scams that weren't PAINSTAKINGLY obvious, but my biggest red flags for the one that I had posted about were:

-They were a blank blog that wasn't even following me. Why would you commission an artist you're not even following, yanno? If you get a commission request from someone, do just a little basic check such as check out their account. If it's a blank account, an account that's not following you, or an account that has shady shit on it, then that needs to be your first sign that something is off.

-They sent me the exact same message they sent a friend of mine. It helps to be involved with other artists and the art community. You'll catch things like this easier. What they sent me was basically word-for-word to what they sent a friend of mine, and she wasn't even offering open commissions, just HTTYD head shot commissions. Commissioners aren't sending artists copy-paste messages. So if you see other artists saying something about a scam with those types of messages, watch for that.

-The type of commission didn't align with my usual subject. I am a fanart artist with some original work speckled in. I don't draw IRL stuff unless it's for IRL people simple because that's just not what comes my way. I draw HTTYD as my main with some other fandoms so my usual commissions are OCs. In fact, every commission is someone's OC, not someone's pet. So although there's nothing against someone wanting a commission of a subject you don't main in, it is weird to go and commission a fan-artist "your son's pet" (and weirder that it has to be specified as "their son's pet" as well.

-The BIGGEST one, they refused to go to my Commission Carrd link. I have a commission section on my Carrd that I expect people to go to, read up on, and fill out a form. I do this because I need people to known and understand how I work, what I do and don't do, and so I can guarantee that people are reading and accepting my terms. I don't want to do business with someone who can't be bothered to read my terms. When I offered my Carrd for them to read my rules, they flat out said "No. Just post your prices here." That reply alone made me tell them "professionally" to fuck off, I'm not interested then.

A super easy way to protect yourself from scams is to really make sure your bases are covered in your TOS and make sure that you're sending proper invoices with those terms and conditions and have all of the information set so people are less likely to scam you.

Most scams you're going to see are going to be pretty obvious, so follow your gut instinct. If something seems "off" or "uncomfy" about a client, politely decline the commission and move on.

The more "complicated" your hiring process is for a commission, the easier it is to spot a scammer in the process because most are not going to go through all of that. People who are actually interested in commissioning you are going to take time to read your rules, terms, prices, ect. If they don't have the time to bother with your commission information, then they aren't someone you're going to want to work with regardless if they're a scammer or not. I'm sure that there are a lot of other ways other artists' can provide, but these are just my basic takes on it~!

[cecilysass]

Beacon (2/6)

Read on AO3 | Tagging @today-in-fic and my poangpal @libbytxf

“And where did you say you saw this?” Scully is distracted, briskly unpacking her suit jackets, quickly pivoting between the suitcase on her bed to the modest closet.

“In the hall,” Mulder says impatiently. “Outside the room, like I said. Come on, Scully,” he urges. “Let’s go sit out there for a while and wait. Let’s see if she comes back.”

Scully gives him a look. “Mulder,” she says, like she’s trying to be patient, “we made an eight hour drive today. It’s seven-thirty, and we haven’t eaten. I propose we find some dinner and get some sleep. Ghosts can wait until morning.”

Mulder resists an urge to groan. “I take it you don’t believe me.”

“That you saw a ghost?” Scully widens her eyes in flat disbelief, folding one of the previously discussed sweaters. “Of course I don’t. I think you probably saw another guest going into her room, and you’re just … overtired from the drive.”

“Overtired? I’m not a five year old, Scully,” Mulder says, irritated. “She spoke directly to me. I very clearly observed her. I know what I saw.”

“She spoke to you?” Scully looks up in mild interest, then begins putting folded items in dresser drawers. “What did she say?”

He gnaws on his lip, feeling strangely self-conscious. “Uh, something about, ‘Come to me… my love,’” he mumbles.

Scully raises her eyebrows in amusement. “Pretty intimate, Mulder,” she says, folding another shirt. “Do you know this ghost?”

“It doesn’t sound like something a random living guest would just … say to a stranger, does it?”

She shrugs with a tiny smile. “Maybe the guest found you attractive. Maybe some nice lady was inviting you into her room.”

He feels the tips of his ears growing very warm, but smiles in an attempt to appear unruffled. “Well, admittedly it’s been a while, but I'm pretty sure you scare people off when you start talking about love right out of the gate.”

She shuts the dresser drawer and turns around to face him, folding her arms. “So is what you saw consistent with what this ghost is said to be like, Mulder? From the reports and the stories?”

He shifts positions uncomfortably. The truth is that he doesn’t know. He is much less informed than usual about the details of this case. He’d seized on this impulsively, based on Scully’s state of mind, and he didn’t take the time to do his normal deep dive into research beyond what was in the file. He didn't really read anything about the history of the inn.

“I’m not sure,” Mulder says. “I’m a little light on details, like I said, until we talk to Duncan.”

She fixes him with a searching look. “All right. Then let’s wait and talk to him,” she says.

Mulder huffs. “May I remind you that what we do know about this case is that people who reported seeing this ghost were dead from heart failure within the week?”

He’d think maybe she would want to check him out as his doctor at the very least—express some concern for his well-being—but she’s not even looking his way now. He feels petulant, even though he knows that Scully simply doesn’t believe in ghosts who can cause hearts to stop. That’s who Scully is.

“Yes, and speaking of, I had a thought about that,” she says, pulling her shoes out of the suitcase. “I was going to take some samples of the piles of renovation materials outside and send them to a lab. I was wondering if maybe some of the building materials being used might be aggravating pre-existing heart conditions in some guests.”

“Really?” Mulder thinks this over. “So… guests stay here, they inhale some dust or something, and it causes a heart attack?”

“Only if they had some unknown underlying cardiac issues already,” Scully says. “So it wouldn’t be that common—it would only affect a select few. This isn’t completely unknown in the literature. It seems like a possibility worth looking into, anyway.”

“Hmm,” agrees Mulder. “Yes. If the timing works out. If the renovations were happening at the same time as the deaths.”

“That’s the kind of thing we’re here to investigate, right?” Scully says with a wry smile. “Why they put the I in FBI and all that?”

She’s moving briskly back and forth from her suitcase, all energy, all purpose. And it hits him: he didn’t notice it before in his excitement over seeing the ghost, but Scully is in a much better mood. She’s practically bustling. A little flirty, a little argumentative, a spring in her step, a theory on the tip of her tongue.

The case has her, he thinks. Being in the field has her. He knew this was a good idea, even if it has already put him in the crosshairs of a murderous ghost.

“The toxic dust wouldn’t explain the ghost sightings,” he points out to her, in part because it’s true and in part because he craves her engagement again.

“No,” she admits, “it wouldn’t. But we’ll have to wait until tomorrow to learn anything else.” She points a firm finger towards him. “No ghost hunting tonight, Mulder.”

“Fine,” he acquiesces, raising his hands in surrender. “Fine.”

He sees her pull what certainly looks like some lacy scraps of underwear out of the suitcase. His eyes track hungrily as she places them in the drawer, and then he quickly looks away so she doesn’t notice him watching.

There is a moment’s pause. He quietly clears his throat.

“What are we doing for dinner?” he asks.

“Banoy said there was pizza delivery.” She looks at him hopefully, shutting the drawer. “Pizza in your room in 30 minutes?”

“It’s a date,” he says lightly. ***

They eat the pizza sitting side by side on his bed, looking out the large window into the black Vermont woods. Lamplight outside bounces off the falling snowflakes, each one flickering and sputtering against the dark canvas of the night. Mulder tells her a ghost story he remembers from the Vineyard, one about a whaling captain’s widow. She listens and rolls her eyes in the right places.

He walks her back to her door—just to be safe. She gives him a strange, bemused look as he does. Maybe because it’s exactly a three step walk.

That night he dreams of Scully with a flashlight in a field on a snowy night, Scully cracking jokes with flushed cheeks in the light of the moon, Scully calling out his name with snowflakes all around her. “Come with me, Mulder. How I miss you.” ***

“So you’re here to learn about our ghost,” Banoy says eagerly, pouring coffee at the stone counter. “All the way from Washington. All the way from the F.B.I..”

In the morning they meet Duncan and Banoy in the inn’s large and airy country kitchen. There is a breakfast nook with a round table and a cushioned bench seat surrounded by windows. Scully gazes admiringly at her surroundings as she sits down. Some of her best memories are of time spent in comfortable, cheerful kitchens like this. She thinks of cooking for the holidays in her grandmother’s large kitchen in California with all her female family members: mother, aunts, grandmother, cousin. Sister.

This kitchen is filled with bright white winter sunshine, the kind of light that has a pure, clear quality, like it was refracted through ice. She glances at Mulder’s face as he slides in next to her on the bench. His expression is serious, and the diffuse light gives him an ethereal look.

“I have lots of questions, as a matter of fact,” Mulder says.

“But we’re actually here to investigate the three deaths,” Scully corrects Banoy, trying to steer the conversation on track. Actual human deaths, not ghost stories. “Three deaths in six months, correct?”

“Yes,” Duncan says sadly, setting a platter of pastry in front of them on the table. “And it’s never happened like this before, has it, Banoy? I can’t understand it. That’s why I called you.”

“Maybe it’s not connected,” Banoy says, setting their coffee down on the table. “I have always said that. Maybe the deaths and the ghost are just a coincidence.”

“I’d like to talk through the deaths,” Scully says. “When did the first—”

“I saw her,” Mulder interrupts her, leaning urgently towards Duncan. “Last night, almost as soon as we arrived. Is that common? Do all guests see her?”

“Saw …?”

“The ghost,” Mulder says eagerly.

Well, Scully thinks with some irritation, there goes our opportunity to cling to the illusion of professionalism.

“Did you?” Duncan says, visibly taken aback.

Banoy smiles sympathetically and leans over to fluff Mulder’s hair. “Oh, you sweet boy.”

Scully frowns, failing to understand this reaction.

“What does that mean?” Mulder says, his eyes darting between the two men, apparently equally bewildered.

“Nobody’s explained about our Hero? Who she visits?”

“No,” Mulder says. “All we know is that she’s allegedly visited some people who later died of cardiac arrest.”

“No, no,” Duncan says, taking off his glasses to wipe them on his shirt. “She has been appearing for years. Decades. Long before the heart failures.”

“Hero is her name?”

“It’s what she called herself,” Duncan says. “Her real name was a mouthful, Sophronia Younge, a daughter of one of the town’s founders. The family built the original house we’re in, although it was expanded in the later nineteenth century to its current size and layout, of course.”

“And Hero has appeared to others?” Mulder asks, a crease deepening between his eyes.

“Well, not just to anyone…” Banoy says, winking at Mulder.

“By legend, she only appears to the lovelorn,” Duncan says. “Only those who hold deep and abiding love, like Hero did in life herself. You’re sure you haven’t heard this? It’s a reasonably famous local story.”

Scully’s gaze had been shifting out the window, to study the bird’s eye view of the town’s streets, but now her head swivels and her eyes lock on Mulder. She finds herself very curious to see his reaction.

“No, I had not,” Mulder says, raising his eyebrows. He straightens his posture in the seat, shifting uncomfortably. “But I’m a single guy, so she’s obviously wrong in this case.”

“Is she?” Banoy says.

“I’ve never heard of her being wrong,” Duncan says, amused.

“It’s not about being single,” Banoy says. “Single people can have longing in their heart. No lucky lady you pine for, Agent Mulder? Or man?”

“Sorry,” Mulder says with a tight smile. “I’m going to prove a pretty disappointing romantic hero.”

He picks up a piece of pastry and shifts his full attention to taking a bite.

Feeling inexplicably discomfited herself, Scully lets her eyes wander back to the window. The town’s streets are visible down the hill, and she can see two children marching down the road, dragging toboggans across the newly fallen snow. She stares at them like they are suddenly very interesting.

She knows Mulder has dated women before, and she even saw him interact once with an old paramour. But it’s hard for her to imagine him pining. It’s hard to imagine him giving that much thought to anything besides work, honestly. She can’t imagine him thinking about anything besides the Truth, besides some esoteric case he’s read about, about some work-related puzzle.

She tries to imagine him sitting at his desk thinking about a romantic partner with those kind of feelings. Or waiting in his apartment, sitting on his couch eager to see someone, eager for someone to come over.

The idea of him wanting someone—of having some walled-up secret desire—well, it unsettles her. It makes her ache to think of it, something so human and vulnerable inside of him that he’s intentionally holding back. Probably it’s because she isn’t used to thinking of him as an ordinary man, she tells herself.

Being so close to the windows gives her a little chill, makes goosebumps rise. She rubs her arms to warm them.

“Of course now you should be careful,” adds Duncan, his tone growing serious. “It used to be that seeing Hero was just fun, just local color. But it’s become so dangerous.”

“How’s your cardiac health, Agent Mulder?” queries Banoy.

“What do you mean?” Scully says, her attention now fully engaged.

“That’s exactly why I called you,” Duncan says. “Because lately people have … perished after seeing her. At least some people.”

“You should tell us all you know,” Scully insists.

“Starting with Hero?”

“Yes,” Scully says, making quick affirmative eye contact with Mulder, who looks stunned. “Starting with Hero.” ***

Her name wasn’t Hero. Her name was Sophronia, from the Greek for wisdom. Her father was a scholar, a classicist like all good 18th century educated men. He must have been some sort of eccentric to end up in Vermont, which was the frontier back then, but he was well-to-do enough to get some land and farm and start the town. At one point, Duncan tells them, their house—this inn—was the biggest, most impressive in the region.

Duncan recounts this with the precision and storytelling flair of an amateur historian, pausing to wipe his glasses with care.

“This is where the story becomes more local legend and less history,” he says. “Sophronia had a lover, a young man. But legend holds that her father disapproved, and so Sophronia had no choice but to meet her lover secretly. When she wrote him letters, she called herself ‘Hero’ and her lover ‘Leander.’ You know. Like the famous lovers in mythology who couldn’t be together.”

“I don’t recall that myth, as a matter of fact,” Scully says. She glances at Mulder, who is not asking the many questions he’d initially claimed to have. He’s listening, but his face is stone.

“Oh, it’s a tragic one,” Banoy says. “The ancient Greek lady Hero lives in a tower on an island, and her beloved Leander swims across the sea at midnight to meet her. She puts a beacon light in the window so he can find his way. But one night the light goes out, poof, and Leander is lost in the stormy sea. Hero is wracked with grief and throws herself out the window to join him in a watery grave soon after.”

“A beacon light,” Mulder says, speaking for the first time in a while. “Like the name of the inn?”

Duncan shrugs with a smile. “The drama of this story has been good business for us,” he says. His expression grows serious. “Until the deaths, that is.”

“So what happened?” Scully wonders. She gestures to the town and snowy Vermont landscape outside the window. “There’s no stormy sea here.”

“Well,” Duncan says, “somehow Sophronia’s father found out about her carrying on with her own personal Leander, and he kicked her out. Sometimes you hear he kicked her out in a snowstorm, but more often, it’s mild weather, which makes more sense given what happens next.”

“Just tell them the story,” Banoy urges with an eyeroll. “You say I’m the dramatic one.”

“The following morning, the two of them are found, Sophronia and her lover—Hero and Leander—drowned in the center of town. Soaking wet and completely dead, caught tragically in one another’s arms.”

“When you tasted the water saturating her dress,” Banoy says theatrically, “it was salty, even though we are seventy miles from the sea.”

There’s a pause, as though Duncan and Banoy are waiting for their tale to be fully appreciated by their audience. Scully clears her throat impatiently.

“A compelling story,” she says, “but what about the ghost?”

“Oh, well, ever since, people have occasionally seen Hero in the inn,” Duncan says. “Sophronia, really, although we always refer to her as Hero. She traditionally appears to people in love, and she speaks to them like they’re her Leander. It was a common ghost story, growing up here in Hellespont. In those days, members of the old family still lived in this house.”

“You’re from Hellespont originally?” Scully asks.

“Yes, I’m a local,” Duncan says. He looks around the kitchen with a look of wonder on his face. “I grew up adoring this house from afar. Used to sit on my bike outside and stare at it as a kid, make up fantasies about it. Eight years ago, Banoy and I were living in California, and I heard this place was up for sale. By that time, I had the money we didn’t have when I was a kid. I couldn’t resist coming back to make it ours.”

“We couldn’t resist,” Banoy adds softly. “A historic inn in Vermont? Please, it’s like living in White Christmas.” He smiles adoringly at Duncan. “With my very own Bing Crosby.”

Duncan smiles back at Banoy and reaches out to take his hand. Scully feels a pang of something that she worries might be envy.

“At first, some members of the Younge family—the descendants—were somewhat … hostile to us moving in,” Duncan says. “You know, years of the original family owning the place… and then a kid from a nobody family and his gay Filipino lover move in to make a bed and breakfast. Not everyone’s favorite thing. But … I think they’ve warmed up to us now. Don’t you, Banoy?”

Banoy smiles thinly and shrugs. Scully makes a mental note to follow up on that—local resentment of current inn owners. “Tell us about the deaths,” she says.

“The first was maybe six months ago,” Duncan says. “Right, Banoy? The beginning of summer. June. That first one was Austin Spantikow, a young man, in his twenties, vacationing with a girl he was looking to impress.”

“They started talking about seeing Hero at breakfast the first day. We teased them about his feelings,” Banoy says regretfully. “We thought it was cute.”

“Two days later we called for an ambulance, but it was too late,” Duncan says. “He was so young. No previously known heart problems. But if it had just been that one incident, we wouldn’t have thought anything about it. We definitely wouldn’t have thought Hero and his death were related.”

“I’m still not sure Hero and the deaths are related,” Banoy sniffs. “I’ve said it a thousand times. The other two people who died didn’t mention seeing her.”

“Mr. Knight, Jim, a guest in his fifties, staying here on a fishing trip to give his wife some space. Elena Denney, thirtysomething, who was talking to someone online the whole time she was here for a girls’ weekend,” Duncan continues. “Both of them dead within a few days – almost exactly the same situation as Mr. Spantikow. No prior heart conditions, found in their beds already unconscious by our staff.”

“Has anyone else mentioned seeing Hero?” Mulder says.

“A local couple, Gary and Pam Kromkowski, stayed here for a romantic night at Halloween,” Duncan says. “They claimed they saw her, too, and they left with no incident. But … Gary proposed that night, and I wondered if saying they saw the ghost just made for a good engagement story.”

Scully nods, making a mental note of that.

“Did any of the victims report seeing anything else unusual? Besides the ghost?” Scully asks. “Anything else that you might say would qualify as a hallucination?”

Duncan and Banoy look at one another, squinting in thought. “No,” Duncan says. “I can’t remember anything like that.”

“Me neither,” Banoy agrees. “And Mr. Knight and Ms. Denny, we don’t know for sure that they saw the ghost.”

Duncan has still been holding Banoy’s hand, and Scully sees him squeeze it. “It’s been upsetting, of course,” he says. “We love this place. We don’t want anything like this associated with it.” Banoy places his hand on Duncan’s forearm comfortingly.

“Please forgive me for asking such a potentially personal question,” Mulder says suddenly, his face very serious, “but have you seen Hero?”

There’s a pause as the two men look at one another again. “No,” Banoy says mournfully. “And we don’t know why.” Duncan shakes his head.

“Maybe she’s homophobic,” Duncan suggests with a shrug.

“Bigoted 18th century bitch,” Banoy adds wryly.

“I have another theory, too,” Duncan says. “I personally believe she doesn’t appear to people who are happily partnered, reciprocally in love. I think she appears to people who are yearning. You know. Looking across the water for the beacon.”

“Unrequited,” Banoy agrees with a judicious nod.

Mulder nods distractedly. Then, unexpectedly, he stands up.

“Mulder…?” Scully begins.

Without warning, he spins on his heel and walks out of the kitchen. Scully and the two men sit behind staring blankly after him.

“Oh no,” Banoy says in a hushed voice. “Did we… strike a nerve?”

Duncan turns to Banoy. “God, what if he had a recent break-up or something?”

“We’re over here practically saying he’s unloved,” Banoy says, shaking his head.

“I apologize.” Duncan turns to Scully. “I sometimes say too much.”

“No, no,” Scully says inadequately, “he doesn’t … no. No recent break-up.”

“He just seemed upset,” Banoy says.

Scully suddenly feels a bubble of frustration well up inside of her. How typical, for Mulder to be upset for reasons she doesn’t entirely understand, by a ghost story, of all things. No doubt there’s more to this story she didn’t know in advance that has caused him only to rush off to some unknown location.

“It’s just how he is,” she explains. “He’s … an unusual man.” Her voice sounds more exasperated than she expects.

“Hmm,” Banoy says, nodding at her appraisingly.

Swallowing back her annoyance, she makes her apologies and goes to search for Mulder.

She can’t think of where he could have possibly gone, and she has a well-earned suspicion he might have gone off investigating on his own, possibly seeking out his precious ghost.

But she rounds the corner from the kitchen to find him standing in the living room, staring at the open door that leads to the staircase, his expression frozen.

“Mulder?” she says.

He doesn’t move or respond, like he’s been hypnotized.

“Mulder.”

He startles, swiveling to face her suddenly. His face is ashen.

“Hey,” she says in concern, walking to his side. “Are you okay? Did you see something?”

He turns to look back at the staircase, and her gaze follows his. There’s absolutely nothing to see. Just empty wooden stairs, old-fashioned wallpaper, a well-worn hand rail. It’s the same staircase they came uneventfully downstairs on this morning.

“What’s wrong with you, Mulder?” she asks him.

He’s still staring at the empty stairs, his face expressionless. “Uh, nothing,” he says. “I thought I saw something. Probably just my mind playing tricks.”

“Something like before? What you thought was ….?”

“Maybe,” he says. He scratches the back of his neck. His eyes and mouth show no sign of his emotion.

Scully peers at the stairs again, seeing nothing but the most commonplace details. “Maybe? You’re not sure?”

“I don’t know,” he says suddenly. “Maybe.” He shrugs violently. “The truth is … having heard what Duncan said, I don’t know about before either. Maybe you were right.”

Scully blinks, somewhat taken aback.

“I guess it is possible … I misunderstood what I saw,” he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Maybe I did just see another guest and I somehow just misinterpreted.”

“You misinterpreted,” she repeats incredulously. “You were so confident earlier.”

“Yeah,” he says, looking away awkwardly. “But … well…”

He doesn’t finish, but in a bolt of certainty she realizes what this change of heart is about.

He believes Duncan’s tale. And he really doesn’t like what being able to see Hero’s ghost reveals about him. To him, it uncovers something private. Something he’d preferred others not know, not even his partner.

This idea shocks Scully into complete silence. Her mind races furiously as she tries to process this, the possibility that Mulder actually could be harboring some kind of secret feelings of love. Which would mean Mulder could be actually seeing someone. She remembers in the car earlier when he said he had a hot date for Christmas. She’d taken it as a self-deprecating joke, but why did she assume that? Why wouldn’t he have a hot date for Christmas? He’s single, good-looking, capable of wit and charm.

And apparently … capable of deep and abiding love. According to a ghost, anyway.

Maybe it’s only me who lives outside the boundaries of ordinary human life.

“Anyway,” Mulder says, apparently eager to change the subject. “I was thinking maybe we should do some research this morning, then meet up later and check in. What do you think?”

“Okay,” she says, trying to match his businesslike, conversational tone. “I should go to the medical examiner and check into their records on the victims.”

“Yeah,” agrees Mulder. “I was going to check out the town’s historical archives. See if I can look further into the inn’s history.”

“All right,” she says, falsely cheerful. He still isn’t meeting her eyes. “Should we meet back here for lunch? One?”

“Sure,” he says. “I’m… going to go upstairs and put on a sweater before I go.” His eyes rise to the stairs again, and he looks hesitant.

“Me, too,” she says, after a beat.

He doesn’t respond or look at her, but walks up the stairs decisively. Scully, left standing by herself in the living room, is suddenly aware of being entirely alone.

Maybe that’s what a ghost is, really, she thinks, looking around the inn’s living room lobby slowly. An absence. A form given by our minds, by our subconsciousness, to what is simply a lack of presence. Isn’t that the tragedy of the dead, after all? The negative space left by what we once cherished. It’s the most cruel that nothing can be.

But the dead are not really nothing, she reminds herself. They’re merely unseen. And what’s unseen isn't necessarily what’s unreal. That’s precisely what faith is, belief in the God of things seen and unseen, like the familiar words of the Nicene Creed say. Just because you don’t see someone with your physical eyes doesn’t mean they’re truly gone. Just because you’re looking at a lump of flesh in an autopsy bay doesn’t mean you’re seeing anything real or meaningful about that person.

This has been something she’s been holding on to as of late. Since Melissa, since she came back to the church.

She stands there a moment, hyperaware of absence around her. The dead, the unborn, the lost, the unrealized. In her imagination all of the absence in her life seems to be congealing in the air, growing thick and oppressive, making breathing impossible, choking the life out of her.

She shakes her head, impatient with herself. This is silly. There’s work to do. After a moment she follows Mulder upstairs to get ready to go. ***

[naminethewriter]

First Date and Spies

This was written for @artisticallygay as part of the @sanderssidesgiftxchange! The requests were Remus and Logan going on a date, Virgil and Logan stargazing and Roman and Remus getting along! I hope you enjoy!

Summary: Logan and Remus both don't have any experiences with going on dates and as the former's best friend and the latter's brother, Virgil and Roman just want to make sure nothing goes wrong.

Content Warnings: None

Read here on Ao3!

~~*~~

“It is not too cold, is it?” Logan asks and Virgil squints at him.

“No, it’s fine, but you’re being weird, dude.”

“I do not know what you’re talking about,” he says stiffly. Virgil is getting annoyed. Logan’s been his best friend since they were five. He can read him like a book, and he knows that, so why does he insist on doing stuff like this when he knows it doesn’t work?

Virgil sighs, letting himself fall from his sitting position into a lying one and stares at the stars. It’s been a sort of tradition for the two of them to stargaze together at least once every few months in Logan’s backyard, ever since he’d been gifted that telescope when they’d been eight or so. Now they were both eighteen, in their last year of high school and Virgil did his best not to think about the fact that they might not be able to do this as frequently anymore once they graduate.

So instead, he goes back to what’s been bothering him initially.

By now, Logan has taken his seat next to him, though he seems to have decided to remain upright, staring up into the stars with a strange expression on his face.

“Lo, c’mon. You know you can tell me anything,” Virgil prompts gently, propping himself up on his arms to get a better look at Logan’s face in the low light.

He did not expect his friend’s face to turn red.

Not deep red, but he does still flush.

“I… Um…” Logan stutters, even more uncharacteristic of him but Virgil gives him time to find his words. “I was asked on… a romantic outing. At school. Today,” he finishes eventually. Virgil’s eyebrows shoot up and he hurries into a sitting position.

“Wow. What did you say?”

“I agreed.”

A smile spreads across Virgil’s lips, until a thought crosses his mind.

“It wasn’t a threat thing or a prank though, right?” he asks, seriously. Logan immediately shakes his head.

“Not at all. Remus was very clear that he would accept any answer I gave him and that I could take my time to do so. And I do not think he is the type of person to play such a horrible prank.”

“Remus?! Remus Prince?”

“Yes. He is a friend of yours, correct?”

“Well, yeah. And I knew he had kind of a thing for you, but I didn’t think he’d act on it! He talks a lot about his attractions to certain people, makes sex jokes all the time, but never actual relationships. Now that I think about it, he has started talking more about weird conversations you were having and not so much about your butt anymore.”

That gets another flush on Logan’s cheeks and Virgil snickers.

“You are right that he would never ask anyone out as a prank though. Not only does he think it’s cruel, but his brother would also kick his ass. You know how Roman’s obsessed with true love and relationships and stuff.”

“Yes, I am aware,” Logan says after clearing his throat. “Be that as it may, Remus has invited me to the science museum and has explicitly stated that he intends it to be a date. And while I am interested to explore that kind of relationship with him, I am not sure how to prepare for such an event.”

Virgil has to try really hard not to giggle at how formal Logan is being. It’s clear that he’s embarrassed by his lack of experience and Virgil would never judge him for it, but he can’t help but think his stiff way of asking for help is kinda cute.

“Don’t worry, Lo. I’ll help you get ready. I don’t know a lot about dating myself but I’m sure together we can figure out some sort of game plan.”

“Thank you.”

~~*~~

“Remus, I know you love it, and I hate to admit you do look good in it, but you’re not going to wear mesh or fishnets on your date!”

“The hell not?!”

“Because you invited Logan to the science museum! On a school holiday! There will be tons of kids and it’s a bit of a classy place! At least try to match the vibe a bit.”

“So, I can’t be slutty?” Remus pouts at his brother who is sitting on his bed. Roman has experience dating so Remus thought it might be good to ask him for some tips, but he is starting to regret it just a bit. Even if Roman has a point.

“You can be a bit but dial it down to like 10% or something. I mean, Logan also hasn’t seen you much outside of school, right? Hitting him with too much ‘sluttiness’ might scare him off or fluster him too much.”

Remus snorts as Roman actually uses air quotes around the word ‘sluttiness’. At least he’s gotten him to stop reprimanding him for improper language two years ago.

“Fine, fine! I will cover up more. But I am taking the leather jacket with all the pins.”

“At least take the middle finger one off. And keep a distance from any children or you’ll have to deal with Karen’s yelling about you corrupting their children again. Let me tell you, it’s kinda fun to watch you mess with them from a distance but if I’m next to you and in spitting range? Not so much. And I do hope you’re not planning to go around the museum without Logan.”

“Stop being so smart, it’s kinda annoying,” Remus complains with no real bite as he grabs his leather jacket and removes the advised pin as well as one or two more with rather large and easy-to-read fonts.

“Thank you for noticing my brilliance.”

“Shut up!” Remus giggles as he puts the pins away in a safe place and launches himself at his brother for a short, friendly fight atop his bed.

~~*~~

He’s a genius, Roman decides as he crouches behind a bush outside of the science museum, pretending to look for a coin he ‘accidentally’ dropped. Through the holes in the thicket, he can just make out his brother and his date talking on the steps before the entrance. His mission has officially begun.

While he does have a good vantage point to spy on Remus, he should be pretty much invisible to them, especially since he planned his outfit with this in mind, for once going with a darker color palette than his usual, even though he couldn’t resist some lighter accents – he didn’t want to end up looking like an emo after all.

“What are you doing in a bush, princey?” a voice suddenly whispers right next to his ear and Roman squeaks. Thankfully he had been present enough to not literally jump and blow his cover completely and a glance towards the entrance shows him that his brother and his date are making their way inside none the wiser to his presence.

He sharply turns to the person next to him with a scowl.

“What the hell was that?!” he hisses. “You almost blew my cover!”

Virgil Storm simply grins at him in a way that just infuriates him further.

“Cover? I thought you were looking for your coin you so convincingly, accidentally dropped.”

“You— I— That— Ugh! Just shut it!” Confirming with another glance that Remus and Logan have indeed gone inside, Roman stands up. “What I do here is none of your business!”

“So you weren’t spying on your brother and my best friend as they’re going on their first date?”

“Of course not! Who do you take me for!” Roman scoffs, even though that has been exactly what he had been doing. And was still intending to do.

“Right, sorry, your royal highness would of course never stoop so low, it’s not very honorable now, is it?”

Roman can see the teasing smile on Virgil’s lips and yet he can’t help but be a bit hurt by his words.

“I’m just worried about him,” he admits, his willingness to argue having left him. “He’s had crushes before but never as intense as this one. I just don’t want him to do anything stupid because he got nervous or something.”

Roman avoids looking at Virgil, staring firmly at the museum’s entrance as if his words might summon an angry Logan storming outside. He startles as a hand is placed on his shoulder.

“You don’t need to justify yourself, princey. It’s not like I’m here to look at the exhibits.”

His mouth falls open as Roman takes Virgil’s words in before he smacks him in the side, albeit lightly.

“What are you judging me for then if you’re here for the same reason?!”

“One, because you looked like you were trying so hard to play the spy it was ridiculous and I couldn’t not tease you and two, because I’m not ashamed that’s what I’m here for. Lo’s my best friend and while I do kinda trust Remus, I know he’s a bit of a loose canon at times. I’ve got anxiety, thinking up the worst-case scenarios is kinda my thing.”

“I was so being casual,” Roman grumbles. Virgil rolls his eyes before he walks past him.

“No, you weren’t. Now let’s go in before we lose them completely and this will have been a complete waste of time.”

With a huff, Roman follows his lead.

~~*~~

“So, how long are we gonna let them follow us?” Remus asks about half an hour into their date. Logan turns from where he’d been studying the plaque of an exhibit to see Remus watching the room’s entrance with a grin on his face.

“Oh, I wasn’t really considering telling them to stop. I know Virgil is here out of concern for me and while I do not know the motives of your brother, I assumed they would leave once they were satisfied that we are not about to tear each other to shreds.”

“That sounds like it could be kinda fun though! I wonder who of us would win if we were in a death match. I mean, I am probably stronger than you and have more experience fighting but you’re surprisingly nimble and have a great reaction time, so you might be able to outmaneuver me.”

“Interesting points,” Logan hums, considering the scenario. “I would need more data to come to a conclusion on the matter I believe, so I propose to table this discussion for another time.”

Remus grins at him now, no longer watching the entrance. Logan watches a flash of purple hurry past it.

“You already proposing a second date?”

“So far I am not opposed. But I will leave the final judgement to later in the day.”

“Fair. Anyway, back to the actual topic, when’d you figure out we were being tailed?”

“Before we even came in. As you know, Virgil and I have been friends for a very long time and I know his habits probably even better than his parents. I spotted his bicycle as I made my way towards the entrance. I believe Virgil, due to his heightened anxiety, wanted to make sure that he arrived here on time and hid in the coffee shop across the street until we met up.”

Remus raises an eyebrow at him.

“You can tell which bike was his? The park out back was pretty full, there must’ve been a lot of bikes.”

“Yes, there were. But Virgil does not like to park his bicycle where most would park it since he is afraid of not being able to find it later but also does not want to leave it in a hidden spot where it can be more easily stolen. Add in the factor of not wanting to be found out, it was reasonable to assume he would leave his bicycle in an area with some others to blend in but not unable to be found. Not to mention, the only thing I need to do to confirm my suspicions about it being Virgil’s vehicle, I just needed to check how it was locked. Again, due to his anxiety, Virgil is very particular about how he locks it. He has one lock with a numbered code and one that requires a key. He makes sure to connect his bicycle to a stable object with one and uses the other to secure the back tire to the frame.”

“Wow, I feel like I’m learning more about the Emo than I am you,” Remus chuckles. Logan feels his face heat up with embarrassment. Maybe that was too detailed an explanation for a date.

“I apologize.”

“Nah, don’t. It’s fascinating stuff. Your observation skills are impressive.”

“As are yours. When did you notice them?”

“I can distinguish Roman’s high-pitched yelp from thousand others. Your little nightmare of a best friend startled him quite bad outside.”

“I see. Well, considering how they have now taken over our topic of conversation, I do believe it might be appropriate to tell them to stop after all. I would like to give you my full attention.”

“Yeaaaaaaahhhhhhh, I guess you’re right,” Remus sighs. “It would be kinda fun to turn this around on them and scare them or something, but I guess I can mess with Roman some other time and I don’t actually want your purple cat to hate me.”

“I do not own a cat,” Logan blinks, confused. He and Remus have talked about pets previously, had he forgotten? And how does that relate to their current conversation anyway?

“I meant Virgil. He hisses like a cat sometimes and follows you around like he’s your pet, it’s kind of a bad attempt at a nickname.”

“I see. I will endeavor to understand your humor more.”

“Aw, thanks!” Remus giggles and Logan finds he likes the sound.

“I will text Virgil now.”

“Tell him I said hi.”

~~*~~

From Logan

While I do appreciate you worrying about me, I am having a very good time with Remus. If you could please take Roman and leave, I would be very grateful.

Also, Remus says ‘hi.’

Virgil looks down at his phone and snorts.

“C’mon, princey, we’re leaving.” He grabs Roman’s arm and starts dragging him towards the exit.

“Wha-! Why? I’m not done!”

“Our cover’s blown, so it doesn’t matter anyway.”

Roman stops struggling but stops moving, too.

“What do you mean?”

“Here,” Virgil says as he holds up his phone to show Roman the text he just got from Logan. “My guess is they’ve known for a while.”

Roman’s eyes flutter across the screen and his face turns a bit red.

“I thought we were being so subtle though!” he whines but does start following Virgil outside.

“As if subtlety is something you’re capable of,” Virgil snorts and dodges the responding attempt of Roman to smack him in the side again. “Let me buy you a coffee or something. This was a lot less stressful with someone else.” Roman smiles at that, looking so genuinely happy that Virgil can’t resist teasing him again, “Especially with someone so much worse at it than me.”

“Hey!” Roman calls after him, pouting once again, as Virgil speed walks ahead of him, unable to contain his grin.

[kaija-rayne-author]

Rubs eyes and the wrinkle in my forehead.

Really, if you don't like someone's critical post? Maybe roll your eyes and move on? Basic social media manners there.

Girlstandstill, perhaps you should've stuck to your 'you usually don't'. You probably bit off more than you can chew with me. I'm in pain, and I'm not in the mood to allow someone to call something I wrote for me and like minded people, from my broken heart, be called a bad take.

Chibichibisa, thank you for your measured response.

Epler is on record as saying he disliked Solas and wanted to punch him. I'm not pulling it out of my ass. Frankly, at this point, after the interviews, the AMAs and the probable lies, I'm not minded to believe a word he says. Judging anyone's mood based on a social media post is... a choice. Fool me once, shame on me and all. Harassment is never okay. I've also unfollowed all the devs for behavior unbecoming a creative professional on social media.

You're right, it didn’t go anywhere 'til Corinne came on board. I wish she hadn't. Because now she's doing interviews claiming it's 'identity politics' and 'culture wars' making the game tank rather than just owning that the team fucked up and shipped a game that just isn’t good on so many levels I honestly probably couldn't list them all. She also claimed somewhere they were going back to the roots of DA. That's bloody laughable at this point.

I would much rather this game had remained in developmental hell than ever have been released as it is. Or never even made at all. I'm really tired of people defending the devs like they're some poor coal miners working for company scrip. They. Are. Not.

These are supposed to be seasoned professionals with the skills to make a game that fits with the other games in the series. Someone made decisions every step of the way. Someone had a creative vision that did not work in the DA world. And they went with it, anyway. No matter how many things they had to twist out of shape to make it happen. Am I unfair in blaming the Creative Director for that? Isn't that his actual job?

And I highly doubt EA was going over the script with a magnifying glass and saying 'here, make the writing worse here'. Why? EA likes to make money. They would've wanted a successful game. DAV is not a successful game. Every single clue points at it sinking so badly. And Corinne's most recent interview read more like a resume.

I was more in my feelings with my original post, (on my wall, tagged appropriately with the critical tags) but I write from the perspective of a professional creative, working in a similarly brutal industry who makes a product for people to buy.

I'm not just a fan who knows very little. I've worked in creative industries for fifteen or more years. I know of what I speak.

If my product sucks, I expect to be scolded at best for it. I expect to own anything I fucked up because that is how a professional creative acts. The devs act like they had nothing at all to do with how bad it came out.

They've misled us from the start, they blamed the marketing team for 'misrepresenting the game' in the gameplay reveals when the marketing team actually did a pretty good job at showing the game for what it is.

The devs were the ones we all depended on to make it at least decent. Which, on a number of levels, they did not. That is their responsibility, as the creators of the game, to own. Just like it's my responsibility if my product sucks. Is it hard? Yup. It's hard in every single creative industry on the planet.

It's not right, but that is the world we live in.

Does late stage capitalism suck? Yup. Do I want capitalism to die? Unregulated capitalism, absolutely. Are most of, if not all AAA studios struggling? The ones I know of are. And they're going to keep on struggling while they keep working the way they do.

Personally, I've developed a greater interest in indie games since playing DAV. My money won't be going to AAA/corporate owned studios anymore, no matter how much I love pretty graphics.

BioWare has always been very clear that they have a lot of control over the games they make. So either they're lying about that, and EA really is the big, evil monster. Or people are blaming EA unfairly, and it really is BioWare's fault. In all fairness, it's very possibly a bit of both. (To be clear, I hate EA. I hate late stage capitalism. It should not be this way.) But unless someone spills the beans, we will never know who is truly responsible for the poor product they released.

It's all guessing.

All we can honestly know is that they released a poor product. One that is under fair critique by reasonable people (I'm ignoring the existence of the arsewipes because this isn’t about them.) It's about regular gamers who are disappointed in a product they purchased and are fairly communicating their disappointment with it.

I suspect for a number of reasons that the decision makers knew it was bad and gamers wouldn't like it, too.

What we do know? They paid tons of money to big game magazines for positive reviews (because that's how magazines like that work) while denying game keys to honest reviewers.

We know the game doesn't follow established Lore.

We know 80% of the writing is poor, at best.

By the time they laid off the writers, the game was being test played. So it's an unlikely reason for it to suck.

Most of us had to work through covid. I wouldn’t expect people to give me any leeway on a bad product because of it.

As far as insulting to the devs? Since when is it insulting to say, 'hey, this product you made isn't good'. That's the basic right of people who paid money (that a lot of gamers often don't have a lot of) for a product, and were disappointed in the product.

Devs see this kind of stuff? Yeah, you know, that's called professional development. It sucks. Every creative deals with it on some level. And it's not as if I tagged them, or posted that anywhere but properly tagged with the critical tags on my wall.

One of the first things they try to teach newer creative folks regardless of industry is to not go looking for reviews. If they do that and find my honest reactions to their game, that's on them. Not me for writing about my feelings on my blog.

I followed the devs closely for years. I never once got the impression they were struggling with EA all that much.

Romance in these games sells. And, again, EA wants to make money.

When exactly did Corinne say that? I've already seen her lie, in print, about this game. And easily provable lies, too. Was it after people complained about the objectively poor romances?

I didn't say anything about the marketing team in my original post. Though I have had a few things to say about their treatment elsewhere. (Spidey senses activating.)

The dev team cared, huh?

They cared enough to get the lore right? (They did not.)

They cared enough to decently edit the text? (Nope)

They cared enough to make a balanced game where a rogue player can enjoy it as much as a tank player? (Again, nope.)

Am I willing to believe whoever came up with Joplin wanted to make a good game that most gamers would enjoy? Absolutely.

But there's a thing called creative exhaustion. At some point, every creative can reach a point of 'fuck it, I don't give a shit about this product anymore, I never want to see it again.' Am I inclined to believe that's what we're dealing with regarding DAV? Yup.

Did they love it? Maybe. You can't really tell that from most of the game itself, and media critique, editing, and writing is my actual job. One I'm pretty decent at.

I can tell when someone loved the thing they made. I believe Sylvia truly loved Emmerich and his story. Because it shows. I believe the arts department loved their work, because it shows. It always does.

You seem to be writing under the delusion that I haven't thought about the devs' experiences and feelings. That I haven't followed them, talked to them, watched closely, hoping for a decent game that did the story justice. You seem to be writing from the concept that I don't work in a similarly brutal field. Those are incorrect assumptions.

I even told Epler he needed decent developmental, content, and diversity editors after playing DAI. (No. I absolutely do not want to work for bloody BioWare, it had nothing to do with that, and everything to do with the issues I saw in DAI that I hoped would be addressed for DAV.) I asked Trick if there was any hope of a happy ending for Solavellan. They led me to believe there was. "There is a suggestion of a happy ending." I'm happy for people who liked that ending. It does not fit the industry requirements for a happy ending.

This entire game feels like a shitshow of the highest calibre. And the devs are at least partially responsible for that.

Pardon me if I hold professional creatives pulling probably decent paychecks with benefits responsible for the product they want people to buy.

And I will absolutely hold them professionally responsible for their behavior in the face of legitimate, fair critique.

Please just do us all a favour and let the post you shouldn't have responded to drop. I'm more likely to fry your face off next time. Given how your reblog has made me feel, (which, to be clear, is very bad) I've been remarkably polite, thus far.

Dragon Age, as a series, deserved so much better than Veilguard.

Spoilers for Veilguard and maybe other DA stuff.

Obligatory 'I'm not an asshole' disclaimer. Feel free to jump to the cut if you've read it.

Something came to my attention. I need to make it crystal clear that I utterly love the diversity in DAV. It's fantastic. I'm also a heavily left leaning, non-binary, queer as fuck reviewer, editor, and author.

I was on media blackout while I played DAV. Please be safe and take care of yourselves. Arguing with incels and white supremacists is completely pointless. They sea lion worse than an actual sea lion. Your mental health is important.

Though, every single time the anti-queer brigade comes out for a new DA game, I sit there thinking 'have you bozos ever played any DA game, like, ever?' My guess is nope.

Note. None of my writing on DA, but especially DAV, is edited. This is just my off the cuff writing. I don't have the time, energy, or heart to edit them properly.

The Solavellan romance deserved a much better end than 'die and go to fade prison'. I agree that Inky would likely be happy to leave. She's as traumatized as Solas for having to lead when she didn't want to. But I needed more than a craptastic Romeo and Juliet ending.

I refuse to do the heavy lifting for the writers. If it wasn't shown in the game or in supplementary materials, it didn't happen. Showing us the story was the writers' and devs job, not mine.

I mourn what will never be, even as I work on a Solavellan fix it fic.

How could they betray the IP so badly?

How could they betray their fanbase so badly? The fanbase that kept hope for that game alive for 10 years. I've seen so many people saying they've lost their interest or passion for the entirety of Dragon age. That they're not even remotely interested in another game because absolutely none of the choices we made in previous games matters anymore. They've wiped everything clean... or blighted it anyway. (I have absolutely no interest in another DA game. Not with Epler/Busche/Weekes involved. And whoever designed that ridiculous fighting system.)

The only way I could possibly be interested in another game would be if they loudly decanonized DAV, gave us a DLC (they've already confirmed there will be no DLC) that showed us Solas and Inky happy and not in a horrible place. One that showed us that somehow, something changed for the elves.

But that's so unlikely it's laughable.

The elves deserved a better ending. Are the survivors still enslaved or living in alienages? What actually changed for the elves except the largest portion of the Dalish being dead from blight? (That’s a real elvish win, isn't it?)

I'm a stubborn person. I refuse to let Epler's 'hate-revenge on Solas fan fic' ruin something I've loved for years. I still have the first 3 games. I'll make an actual happy ending and a decent romance for Rook in my fic.

And by the fact they paid a fortune to big gaming magazines while denying game keys to bigger honest reviewers... they knew.

They knew gamers wouldn't like it and tried to blow so much smoke up our asses with the interviews and AMAs.

How do they even sleep at night?

I'm a creative too, I write, do graphic design, digital (learning) and traditional (good) art.

My stories are important to me. They deserve not only an ending, but an ending that respects the characters, lore, and world that I've created.

My readers deserve that, too.

I, as the creator of my stories, deserve a decent, respectful ending.

Dragon age deserved it, too. A good, well thought out, and well written ending to the story of the Dreadwolf storyline, which, if you're paying attention, is intertwined through all 3 games. It's not just in Inquisition. One that made sense to the collected Lore, his struggles and mistakes, his literary role as an anti-hero.

I would never be able to do what they've done to a beloved series. I could never knowingly mislead fans like they did.

It's just a really painful reminder that beloved stories can be utterly destroyed in the wrong hands. And a reminder that there's so much talent and skill in Fan fic.

Busche worked on the Sims. No wonder the companions often feel as interesting as wet cardboard. Most Sims NPCs do, too. (I actually enjoy the Sims, but the NPCs aren't why I like it.)

And she had the gall to blame 'culture wars' and 'identity politics' for why the game is tanking. Rather than take ownership of the incredibly bad calls made for DAV.

It's just gross. I wish I could stop thinking about it. But Dragon Age got me through some tough times. It means a lot to me.

And it just deserved better. So did we.

[demonslayedher]

I finished posting the unabashedly educational Sword Fic.

It includes a detailed (but hopefully beginner-friendly) explanation of all the steps of making a Nichirin blade from a sunny mountain like Mt. Youkou, a touch of swordsmith and metalworker folk lore (including demons), meta about what must make Kimetsu no Yaiba's swordsmithing methods different from real life methods, some character exploration for Haganezuka and his polishing method, vocabulary and additional resources in the chapter notes, and hopefully, an endearing, silly POV character to learn this all through.

[icewindandboringhorror]

I occasionally wish to reach out to old friends/acquaintances I haven't spoken to since high school/some other even earlier time in my life, but I have SOOO little social energy even for required tasks (like making dr phone calls or etc), I never have any leftover for extra ones, and it would be very odd to message someone I haven't spoken to in like 5 years out of the blue but then take 4 entire months to respond back lol.. My natural curiosity with nostalgia/collecting details of the past/etc. (literally if I were born a little earlier I would definitely do scrapbooking or something lol) is very strong, but, alas, not strong enough to beat out the Social Issues Demons apparently

[mulders-too-large-shirt]

s2 episode 22 thoughts

i am actually the bravest human alive for surviving this episode

(lmao i joke. MOSTLY. but op lore: i suffer from a chronic illness that gives me terrible nausea and MAN this was NOT the episode you want to sit down and unwind with if you’re feeling ill. for the plague be upon them all. and yet! here we are. my love for these agents must be quite boundless.)

“diseaseee episode… okay so it is probably body horror time maybe idk” <- first thing in my notes, and yes. yes, it was body horror time.

(we open with a fellow in the rainforest catching bugs) and to me it’s giving “he was in the amazon with my mom when she was researching spiders just before she died” which was such a funny meme. we moved on from this too quickly. those words will always make me giggle.

that is a turkey vulture… do they have those in Costa Rica? yes they do! wow, bird facts <3

ohh nasty, we see a dead hog in the rainforest, being consumed by bugs… bug scientist takes some of them while it pulsates… and my nausea strikes!!!

AUGHHH the boil blew up on his face. this is eeeeevil!! i was diverting my attention AWAY from the screen at this point and really staring at my notes in the hope they could shield me from the nastiness

NOOOO now the bug scientist’s face is covered in the boils… the vultures got him and so did the bugs, and i am getting the impression this is gonna be a tough watch, but i’m in too far now!!!! (it had been like. 5 minutes lmao but i meant it!)

scene change: prison time.

(is this the outside of the prison they used to film the Please Please Please music video or do they all just look the same?)

a prisoner has been sent a package. it is…. some kind of meat??? can you send meat in the mail…? just wrapped up in newspaper? i find this hard to believe, but maybe things were different in the 90’s, or we can suspend disbelief for the sake of the alien show

the meat is pulsating and now the prisoner who received it has the same boils…… deeply unfortunate for all parties involved

and now boil disease is spreading in the prison!! two guards escaped on a cart carrying the infected man's dirty sheets. so they are pretty much gonna die. but will they spread the sickness to the outside world before they do so?

enter our agents!!

this dude who claims to be in charge is a real jerk. and the agents don’t even know why they got sent there beyond to help with a manhunt, which seems beneath them. but there are some people in hazmat suits, so it’s not adding up.

the convicts are hiding in a rest stop and stole a camper from a poor family :( way to ruin vacation.

scully can tell everyone is LYING and she hates lies and bursts into the hospital area, despite the doctor trying to keep her out… it’s a serve, but at what cost to her health???

here, we learn what is at stake: 14 men have been infected, and 10 have died so far. YIKES! this is not good news.

she always answers the phone with “mulder, it’s me” and idk why I find that so endearing. but maybe I’m just at the point where everything these nerds do wins me over 

NOOOO the dad from the camper was killed…  vacation ruined even more than previously thought 

back at the prison, a dude in a hazmat suit tried to kick scully out by saying that she is violating federal orders by being there, and she says “i’m a federal agent”…. a queen of dealing with nonsense. she needs to know if the escaped men are out and about spreading this!!

“you see what I let you see”, says a man drunk on the power of a lot of people dying around him. and i love that these men think they can handle whatever this disease is without any help whatsoever (/s) the arrogance of men has no limits. 

the convict is coming home… to his gf and baby… SPARE THE BABY from the bubbling disease!!!

one of the dudes who escaped is on the floor of the gas station bathroom, moaning and groaning and covered in boils, and the other convict smacks the poor cashier helping him on the head with a wrench... truly despicable behaviors. and he was probably doing all of this for minimum wage!!

scully in da incinerator room... what is she doing there! she has a mask and some gloves and some bodies to investigate. she cuts one of the bagged bodies open. 

NOOO the doctor tries to stop her and the juice gets in his eye… he runs away. rip doctor. your fate has been sealed.

(rolling up to the gas station w the marshals and a million dudes in sunglasses that look like horrible people to catch the escaped convicts)

mulder finds the poor cashier that got whacked and says “kid’s got a lot of hair, probably absorbed the blow” which is a crazy thing to say 

now he is trying to track the phone call the convict made to figure out where he went, but he’s using the same payphone as the sick man, and the germs... i’m scared!

mulder gives his badge number to the operator. It’s JTT-047101111. will this information be of any use at any time? no. but I still wrote it down <3

woah loud noise! a helicopter arrives to put the cashier in some sort of incubator. this cashier has really had a bad time. and no one is explaining anything!!!! so he doesn’t even know where they are taking him or why!! transparency has never been anyone in the government’s strong suit, i guess.

convict cam. he is reunited with his gf. they are smooching. and that is not good for her survival rate i would guess. after they make out a lil, he shows her the other mostly dead guy in his car. i assume he will be joining the family but not for long. i'd be pissed if my man brought someone home after his prison escape. this was supposed to be about US and not some dude i don't know named paul dying in our bed...

okay the package of the meat was sent from kansas… sus…. from a pharmaceutical company?? could it be a fake return address… (spoiler: no, it was not!)

OUGHHHH the camera cuts to dead flesh and boils and blood BLEAGGHH and scully extracts a BUG from it…. 

back to the convicts. the woman is trying to help the guy who is filled with pus, and she bends down to try and cool off his fever, and just as this happens the boil bursts!!! her face is splashed with nastiness and i moaned “nooooo” and hit pause so fast because I nearly gagged... but this was not a foolproof plan, because it paused on all the stuff getting on her face, so i saw it even more, which was SO NASTY EVIL EVIL NASTY GROSSSSSS JAIL. she’s trying to scrub it off. 

just as she tries to get it off, the marshals burst in and get her. so now they might get the boils… also someone scoops up the baby… put him in a better situation… but the other prisoner is gone!! where did his slippery ass sneak out to?!?

(we see an outside shot of the prison again and AGAIN I think this is the same one from the please please please mv. sabrina carpenter can you confirm or deny? i know you read this blog)

the doctor who was earlier splashed upon has revealed his boils to scully. but this is not all he reveals: he was LYING about the CDC being involved!!! it’s the pharmaceutical company that sent the package to the prison that did all this, and he works for them!! they finance discovering stuff in the rainforest to use in drugs… and they found the bug. and the bug has a parasite on it that makes the boils and the larvae are in the explosion. so explosion = infection.

NOOO she was there when his boil blew up so she might also be infected..... lord her medical history is complicated enough. let her escape the clutches of these damn bugs.

talk with skinner time!!!!! BUT... CIG MAN IS IN THE CORNER. mulder goes over to talk to him directly. is he trying to get them killed!!!!! because it looks like cigarette man put them on this case involving lethal infectious diseases because he wanted to get rid of them. oh, mulder is ANGRY about them lying to the public

meeting with skinner was NOT a success. he angrily fumbles with his seatbelt when scully calls to report the latest in plague news 

they disagree on what to do here: he says the public has to know about the situation, and she says that they don't because the panic will spread faster than the contagion. oooo, juicy moral conflict! but i must admit. pandemic questions interest me less having lived through one of my own.

despite his frustration that she is making a point about not being able to tell the world just yet, he asks "are you okay in there scully?”, and she says yes, tells him to catch the fugitive, and to "take care of yourself out there"... and her not knowing if she is gonna live or die, so she tells him to take care of himself...... has me very emo

now, she is locked into quarantine with the infected doctor, who is testing her for the disease, which involves trapping a bug to her arm and waiting for it to bite her. which is quite hellish. she looks truly disturbed by the event and frankly so was i.

mulder interrogating the woman whose bf is the escaped convict. trying to find him, but being distracted by her moral questions on who deserves to know the truth... not now, ask these heavy things later. success! convict boil man is on his way to the bus station.

cutscene to the convict trying to buy a bus ticket. and coughing all over the ticket woman. another minimum wage worker victimized by disease. wear ur masks people!

back at the lab, the bug has FINALLY bitten her, but the doctor from the company is going down. he says she has to tell the world if her test is negative because it WILL happen again. way to push your guilt onto someone else, mister pharmaceutical man!

cut to her extracting blood from bugs. how in the hell did they film that scene??? she takes a deep breath and looks at the blood to see if she’s gonna die or not. and she sighs but that isn’t an answer for us, the audience. (spoilers: it was negative...... thank god)

in the incinerator of the prison, they are destroying all the evidence!!! by tossing all the bodies into a fire!!! the pharmaceutical company is covering its tracks!!! they say it was unavoidable but she says “we'll leave that up to others to decide!!!” oh he pulls the “no one will believe you” card… but she’s sneaky, maybe she’ll think of something that can prove it all to the rest of the world

back to the marshals and mulder at the bus station. no pressure but the prisoner who is about to die HAS to make a statement or else everything will be entirely covered up by the pharmaceutical company that killed these people. again, no pressure!! 

mulder going on the bus with the infected convict.... nooo mulder, be careful, i whisper softly to the screen. and sensing his tricks, the sick man holds a boy with a gun to his head once he gets on there!!!

mulder's voice is all growly- you know how it gets when he’s serious. but the sick man is coughing all over the little boy. and foaming at the mouth. mulder convinces him to let the kid go, and tries to get that statement that will prove everything... but....

NOOOOOOOO!!!! the marshals shoot the guy before he can learn what was in the package!!!!!!

so, in all: the pharmaceutical company was using the prisoners as guinea pigs to get their drug on the market without FDA testing… truly sick and twisted!!!

mulder is reporting this to skinner, and he’s gonna tell the public!!! mulder says that covering the truth makes skinner just as guilty as the men who infected the prisoners (which i'm not sure i agree with but i love a man obsessed with the moral weight of his actions)!! but scully bursts in and says they can’t prove anything because the tracks were so thoroughly covered.

mulder is adding things up... that’s why they were given the assignment, so that if they tried to expose the whole thing, they would be discredited!!!

skinner says “you never had a chance, mulder; for every step you take, they’re three steps ahead” “where do you stand?” “i stand right on the line that you keep crossing” <- OHHHHH zinger.

but i'm conflicted... i thought skinner and i were tight after he intervened to save mulder a few episodes ago, but now I don’t know… skinner, my feelings towards you are complex and unnavigable 

“i’m saying this as a friend: watch your back. This is just the beginning” <- WHAT DO YOU KNOW SKINNER!!!!!

there are questions here- such as, to what point does skinner knowingly go along with the corruption in the government? if the government was involved with killing prisoners on behalf of a drug company, what other evil twisted things are they hiding? to what extent can skinner, and every other person in the FBI, be blamed for complicity? is it at all possible to make positive change in a corrupt system?

also, are these the same guys who are hiding the aliens, or do you think that 's a different evil government department?

what was cig man doing there and why does skinner keep letting him into his office like a stray cat that gets one free meal from a nice human? (but that stray cat is evil and was involved in kidnapping scully) should we send skinner to the cancel chambers or is he a real mfer deep down? also, where the hell is krycek? not that I give a fuck. he sucked. 

much to ponder, but i end there for now, because. bleurgh. flesh.

[a-dragons-explanations]

Okay, I'd initially decided not to respond to this chain any further because it didn't seem like we were going to get anywhere other than stressing us both out, but in the interest of... idk, respecting the fact that I appreciate you stopping to explain what this has looked like from your end and clarifying some things, I guess? I do want to actually respond.

Which - thank you for doing that, genuinely, because I think we've been talking past each other for a lot of this conversation, and I apologize for my part in that. I have clearly misunderstood some things you've been saying. (For instance: at no point did I get the message that you thought I'd misunderstood something, and to be honest even reading back I can't parse that out of anything said prior to this response.)

I will be honest in saying that I do think that disagreeing on whether people are allowed to exist or not is not "just having a different opinion." I did not start thinking you were interacting in bad faith until the last couple of messages (where if I'm completely honest, I started getting the same "being dense on purpose" impression you've clearly been getting from me in turn), however expressing disbelief in the legitimacy of someone's experience is not really something you can just agree to disagree on. (Bad faith is different from malice.) I do appreciate that you weren't trying to be rude, but the fact remains that coming onto someone's post defending endogenic systems calling me "genuinely insane" and "probably why people say leftists are sensitive" for doing so is rude by I think anyone's measure. That's not a very neutral or respectful way to express an opinion, and it came off to me as starting an argument on purpose, which is why I responded the way I did.

My second response, to your initial "I don't want to discuss this right now" reblog, was not me getting upset about it again - it was me trying to explain why I'd gotten frustrated, while acknowledging that forgetting to respond to stuff happens and that explained why it had looked like you'd ignored me the first time.

The context that you lost the headspace for having the discussion after the initial comment explains why you suddenly reversed course after you started the conversation initially, and that's much more understandable now that I know that - if I'd known that to start with I wouldn't have been so annoyed. Without that context, from my perspective, the exchange basically looked like:

A: here's my opinion defending an often-bullied group's right to exist. B: hey this is a stupid opinion you have and I disagree. A: why do you think it's stupid and disagree? I'd like to talk about it. B: I don't want to talk about it actually.

Does it make sense why that felt frustrating and like shit-starting for no reason to me? (I don't want to keep overexplaining myself, just - this conversation looked very different without that piece of context you just provided, which is why I've been reacting the way I have.)

I'll be honest, I completely misunderstood what you were apologizing for. It sounded to me like you were apologizing for either not realizing I was the same person (???), or more likely apologizing for doing this twice on my posts/reblogs, without acknowledging the thing I was actually annoyed about, which was the perceived A-B interaction I just described above. This was a misread on my part, and I probably should have asked for clarification; that seemed clear enough to me that it didn't even occur to me that I might have misunderstood. (To the point where to be honest, even rereading it now knowing that's an incorrect interpretation, it still reads that way to my brain.) I apologize for that; that one's on me.

Given that understanding that the apology was actually meant to be for the thing I was annoyed about and not the mostly-unrelated things it seemed to be about, I appreciate the apology, and I think we can probably let this conversation rest there, unless some part of my explanation for why I've responded the way I have to all this needs more clarification?

Genuine question, does our system need to label ourselves as ‘endo-neutral’? (Mostly because we just really, really cannot bring ourselves to care. Also people are people and we can’t care (low empathy))

I ask asking because I (and the system) are not involved in syscourse, and I’m not sure what to put in the tags to prevent people from being upset.

Ignore this ask if it is rude in any way (genuinely)

(This was written by the co-host)

If you want my opinion, if you want to say “we don’t want to be actively involved in syscourse,” that exact sentence is the only way to say it.

Personally, I’m kind of of the opinion that “endo-neutral” isn’t a real thing unless you’re “neutral” in the sense that you haven’t done enough research on it yet to have formed an opinion (which, that’s valid but a different thing than true neutrality). You can’t really be neutral on whether people are allowed to exist or not. Either you’re okay with people fakeclaiming other people, or you’re not. “Endo-neutral” just tells me you are okay with it, you’re just not actively doing it yourself - which is a little like this comic:

Y’feel?

This is not me saying you have to involve yourself actively in syscourse. As a matter of fact, I recommend you don’t actively seek that out, in most cases - it’s not really good for you, generally speaking. Not wanting people to drop syscourse on your doorstep is perfectly reasonable. But unfortunately, if you interact with other systems much, it’s probably going to come up eventually, whether you like it or not. Eventually you are going to be in a space where someone starts talking about how endogenic systems aren’t real, and you’re going to have to decide how to respond to that and whether you’re willing to tolerate it.

Ultimately, I don’t think you have to be emotionally invested to decide whether you think something is right or wrong. I know there’s probably some extra energy investment required for that for you, but unfortunately I think that’s just something you’re going to have to deal with, as harsh as that might sound. I don’t really see a way around it. Which, it’s as good a time as any to ask yourself - where do your morals lie? What basic principles do you build your morality on? Are they internally consistent, and if not, what needs to change to make it so? And if you follow those principles to their natural conclusion, what does that tell you about the situation you’ve been given?

(Also, entirely pragmatically, if your goal is to avoid people getting mad at you, “endo-neutral” in my experience kind of just gets both sides upset anyway - endo supporters because of everything I just said, anti-endos because anyone who tolerates endos is the enemy according to them. You’re probably better off just stating you don’t want to argue about syscourse to achieve that goal.)

But that’s just my two cents’ worth. Hopefully it’s good food for thought at least.