#that's how it reads to me. he finally gives himself the satisfaction. and maybe that's supposed to be the catalyst for the hoffmanator in 3d

[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!

chapter 2 will be up tomorrow <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.

[visceravalentines]

hey you're the only person who's ever been right about anything actually and I just needed these tags on my blog. tysm

i like saw 3D if i’m in the right headspace to disassociate it from the prior 6 movies but aside from lawrence’s rightfully bemoaned character assassination hoffman’s personality shift is also more than a little upsetting

[seduzist]

marriage lesson

alicent hightower x rhaenyra’s daughter! reader

cw. totally based on this drabble, but can be read individually. pseudo-incest smut but mentions of real incest (uncle-niece by arranged marriage), age gap (alicent is old enough to be reader’s mother), can be interpreted as being taken advantage of but it’s consensual so i will add dubcon just to be safe.

as not only a princess, but a targaryen, you knew you had your duties with the throne, doesn’t matter how much you tried to run and hide from it, it was useless, and the time finally came, viserys, the king himself, decided that a marriage between you, the loved daughter of rhaenyra targaryen, and aemond, his middle child, would seal the peace between his children and wife when he’s gone. you had no choice but do it, aemond wasn’t that bad, he always treated you with respect, respect he didn’t have for your bastard brothers and you resented him for it, but decided to ignore since you would have to marry him. you didn’t think many things would change between you after your marriage except for the fact that you would have to have his heir, to lay with him. and that’s exactly what made you nervous.

the anxiety running through your veins on the night before the marriage made you unable to sleep, so you thought that walk around the garden would help to calm your nerves, maybe even fully accept your undeniable future. you ordered your sworn sword to ignore your midnight walk, with the promise that you wouldn’t leave the castle. your steps silently echoed through the dark halls of the red fortress, trying to find anything that could take your mind off the day followed, until you saw the queen at the garden, sitting on a bench next to the middle tree.

“princess.” her soft voice reached your ears before you could think about going back to your bedroom, scared that she might be mad about your late night walks, but she seemed nothing more than pleased at the sight of you, she looked beautiful with her long hair down in curls falling over her back with her white nightgown exposing her arms and shoulders.

“your grace… i couldn’t sleep.” you said, taking a step closer to her, explaining yourself without any hesitation.

“it’s fine, it’s normal to be nervous before your marriage.” she scoffed, suggesting you to sit by her side with a hand gesture. you obeyed, feeling much more comfortable to be on her side, maybe comfortable enough to voice some of your thoughts.

“it’s not the marriage that bothers me… it’s the consumption of it.” you refused to look at her face, preferring to face the garden instead, but you were sure that she was smiling.

“what are you scared of?”

“my mother said it hurts the first time.” the queen let out a little chuckle at your response and you felt like an idiot for a second, before she speaks again, in a much lower tone, something different in her voice.

“indeed, it’s much easier for the man gain the pleasure in the first time than for the woman, perhaps… there’s something you can do that may ease the pain, and give you just as much satisfaction.” that’s when you face her, curiosity in your eyes while doing so.

“what that would be, my queen?”

she seemed very pleased by your question “we should not talk about such things here.” that’s what you remembered before end up in her chambers, almost begging her to teach you how to not feel pain during the act, her answer would be the relief of all the agony you felt the last days, you said, and the merciful queen couldn’t help but give in to your pleads.

“lay down on the bed, i’m gonna show you.” you obeyed immediately, waiting for her next instruction, but that didn’t come, instead, she sits by your side, looking at you for a minute or two, almost like she was in a intern battle, about to do something she could regret later, but soon enough her hand rest upon your leg, going up and hiking up your silk nightgown till your thighs, your entire body shivered at her touch, and she seemed just as much as affected as you. when her hand reached under your core, she stopped, breathing heavily, almost telling herself that was her last chance to stop, she didn’t.

“he’s gonna be on top of you, like this.” she opened your legs slowly and gently, positioning herself between them, but not laying down on top of you, unable to do such a thing, one of her hand held her body up and the other hand was touching you, watching carefully your expressions, mixed in shyness and nervousness, but she could tell you were aroused as her fingers pulled your underwear to the side, finally contacting your warm core. “oh gods…” she paused, whispering those words to herself, still unbelieving she was really doing it, but the whine you let out at the contact made her smile. “when he enters you… that’s when it hurts.” her voice was just above a whisper, if you were just a few more inches away, you couldn’t hear her, the whole atmosphere felt like a secret. “but then, if you touch yourself right here…” her middle finger made contact with your clit and your body had a entire reaction, you put your hand on her shoulder, by reflection, your mouth opened in a loud, surprised sigh, the queen’s smiled grew as she saw your reaction, she could feel her own excitement start to create a discomfort between her legs, but she ignored it.

her fingers started to rub your, once untouched, pussy, playing with your clit, rolling under her fingers in circle motions, you lets out moans under her, as a thin layer of sweat started to form on your skin, your reactions seemed to please the queen.

“see? how good it is? you can ease the pain, you can pleasure yourself.” her words were sincere but you wasn’t the one pleasuring yourself, no, it was her, your queen, right on top of you, her experienced fingers playing with your most sensitive part in the best way on the night before your marriage with her son. you could be naive, but not dumb, in someway, this was wrong, a sin, could be the reason why you were even more eager for it.

“feels really good, your grace.” the title slipped of your lips as a reminder of her place, of your place, but she couldn’t help herself at this point, she was dripping wet and your needy voice whispering those words felt intoxicating, a encouragement for her to continue, she approached her face of yours, and your immediate reaction was leaning in to kiss her, but you couldn’t reach, so you tried again, free from any shame, looking like a adorable desperate mess for her eyes, that’s when she gives in, not just kissing you, but claiming your lips, you were inexperienced, but learned quickly her pace as her tongue entered your mouth, exploring eagerly, you tasted like candy for her, the sweetest of the candies with a pinch of forbidden.

“gods, you’re gonna be the ruin of me.” she finally lets herself fall on top of you, whispering those words before kissing you again, your skins in much more contact, warm and sweaty, eager and hot, she was all over you, her fingers worked so well, her presence intoxicating all your senses, all you could feel was her, the pleasure she was giving you, the pleasure she felt just by touching you, you called the gods name, lost in your pleasure, but that was in vain, not even the gods could help you now, she would be the ruin of you.

[vivvangel]

fantasize | sim jake (extended ver.)

synopsis: nerd jake who's known to be quite self reserved, but he cannot seem to get you and your skirt out of his mind. › pairings & contents: nerd!jake x classmate reader, dom!jake x sub!afab!reader. smut with plot ✧ warnings: kissing and teasing!! - perverted thoughts, jealousy, fist-fucking (jake), blowjob, doggy position, guided mastrubation, jake has a thing for skirts, heavy degradation.

can be read by itself, however, reading the headcannons is advised !

wc: 1.5k

ever since he jerked off to the imagination of fucking you in that pretty skirt — jake thinks he's lost his mind. jerking off so often, getting horny so often, that wasn't his thing before, but you absolutely ruined his brain wearing that skirt.

"ah, fuck" he hisses, rubbing his tip. every time he closes his eyes and strokes his cock just a little faster, jake can't help but fantasize about the ways you probably would swallow all of his cum, maybe even whimper his name,, how your pussy would be throbbing, dripping wet for him only. he didn't even know he could crave someone so much, so desperately, so fucking desperately.

with his swift hip movements, jake continues to thrust his cock into his tight fist, in desperate hopes of recreating the sweet tightness of your perfect cunt. he was mentally cursing at myself for fucking his fist so many times at just the mere sight of you, but nonetheless, he tightens his grasp around his cock to mimic the tightness of your, what he imagined to be your perfect pussy, his head falls against the bed's headboard of his bed, as literal shocks of warm satisfaction blurred his peripheral vision — "f-fuck", jake grunts, letting his eyes roll back.

this can't be this way. he has to have you, one way or another. he scoffs, thinking to himself that this is completely ridiculous. why would someone like you even look at someone like ... him? he brushes his thoughts off, and goes to his desk to finish some assignments off.

the day after went as bad as it could. he was sitting in his usual place, a row or two behind you, and what does he see? he glares at the guy next to you, with his arm around your shoulder. he wants to approach the guy in question, and do something he would regret. he groans to himself, and as the lecture continues, he grows more and more restless, and if it was even possible, even more jealous. once the lecture finally ends, he's the first to get out of the room, and to his other class. that night, jake didn't get off to you, resulting in him being extremely, ungodly, horny the next day.

he can't bring himself to approach you, knowing you might have a boyfriend, but he gets over his nervousness and goes up to you — and holy shit, you're wearing a short skirt again. "hey, uh y/n -- do you have-" he pauses, his eyes travelling down to your legs and thighs, but he looks back at you. "uh, yesterday's notes?", you tilt your head, as a smirk spreads on your lips, but you play dumb to his sudden question, you nod. "you could've just texted me, jake", you softly say, taking out your notebook out of your bag. he has no idea how he's keeping his cool, but you know his name? oh fucking hell. "u-uh, i could've but, i don't have your number" he awkwardly scratches the back of his neck, making you chuckle. "give me your phone, i'll put it in if you need me next time" you smile, giving him your notebook. jake almost hurriedly takes his phone out, motioning it to you and letting out a dry chuckle, "t-thanks" god, he felt fucking stupid. how did you have him stumbling over his words? little did he know, you thought he was so fucking cute.

you grab his phone from him, putting your number in, saving the contact as "y/n baby💋" and when jake reads that, his eyes widen. "y/n baby?" he hesitantly asks, "yes?" you respond, the smirk never left your face, and his jaw drops. "no, i meant --" he's unsure of what to say, he's literally flabbergasted. you let out a chuckle, "i'm messing with you, i get it" — "don't you have a boyfriend, though?" he abruptly asks, his tone almost coming off as protective. "me? what?, no" you tell him, completely confused as to how he came to that conclusion. "the guy, yesterday, arm around your shoulder and all-"

"you were watching me yesterday, too?"

"that's not what i asked"

"so, you were watching me yesterday, too"

"for god's sake, y/n — wait, what do you mean 'too'"

you stand up, crossing your arms. "do you think i don't see you staring at me, jakey?" you smirk, and he's trying to form a coherent sentence. "i'm not-- 'm not staring, just.." he trails off, unsure how to end that sentence. you break the silence, "jake, i have another class in a bit, i'll see you later today? i'll text you! bye?" you wave, rushing out of the room to get to your class. all while jake stood there, dumbfounded.

jake has no idea how he was in deep inside you and you on the other hand, had no idea how someone that cute could be this hot. you felt almost stupid for thinking he'd be the submissive type. boy, were you so so wrong. you didn't know that that a mere skirt, and some teasing was all it took jake to smash his lips onto yours, and pulling you onto his lap — in his dorm, may i add. you were flustered, how could someone who looked so innocent be so . . . sexy?

and what exactly followed afterwards?

his hands explored your body under your crop-top, and you couldn't help but let out a moan into his mouth, in the heat of the moment, riling him up further. he pulls out of the kiss, slapping your thigh, making you whimper. "what a fucking slut, do you just let anyone touch you, huh?" you shake your head, signalling a no — you expected him to be nicer with your response, but you earn another slap on your exposed thigh. (you think to yourself, "maybe wearing a skirt is useful after al"l)

"wear skirts these days intentionally, don't you? you like the attention you get? what a desperate slut" he scoffs, resulting in you biting your lip. how was he degrading you so bad, but you liked it? "j-jakey.. please do something, anything" you breathe out, and he lets out a dry, almost dark, chuckle. "anything? mhm, you'll take anything i give you like the good girl you are, right baby?" you nod your head, feeling your panties drenching by the second. "hmm, 'm not gonna let you off so easily, earn it, slut" — your eyes widen,, "are you okay with this, pretty?" he asks, his tone coming off more kind and soft, it's almost like a whisper. "treat me like the slut i am, jakey" — "is that so?"

you don't understand why, but his voice makes your core keep tingling. you choke over your own words, making jake smirk. "on your knees, pretty girl" he demands, and you reciprocate immediately, getting on your knees on the floor, as jake slouches on the couch, you can see his raging boner under his sweatpants — and holy shit. your hands hurried pull down his pants, quietly gasping at his length, making him smirk. "too big for your pretty little mouth, mhm? too bad, baby". you wrap your hand around his cock, jake's own hand enveloping yours, "fuck slut, cmon, it's all yours" he uses your hand to stroke himself up and down, jerking himself off while you look up at him with glazed eyes. "f-fuck baby, your hand feels so good, mind letting me how your pretty mouth feels?"

you would never ever deny, wrapping your lips around his cock, your tongue eagerly licking and teasing his cock, making him grunt. "d-don't tease, baby". jake suddenly felt your lips sliding up and down the head of his length, feeling his cock hit the back of your neck. jake groans when you take him deeper, and deeper into your mouth. he brushes a strand of hair out of your face, his hands then going to the back of your head, holding you as he starts thrusting his hips unintentionally. you almost gag, but you control it. as jake pushes his dick down your throat for one last time, he lets go. his cum filling your mouth, and dripping down your chin, "fucking hell, baby. you look so pretty my baby" he says, picking you up. you'd think as a nerd, jake wouldn't have time to work out, but you were so wrong. he was rather . . . strong, to your surprise.

taking you to his bedroom, he wastes no time. "i'm asking just to be sure, though you're clearly more than ready, but-- can i do this, baby? fill your cunt to the brim, baby?" he asks softly, putting you down on his bed. "please, jakey, please..." is all you could say, and that's all it took him to undress you, not taking your skirt off, you tug at your skirt, but he puts your hand away. "what?"

"want the skirt on" he simply answers,

"you have a thing for skirts?"

"just on you, i guess" he awkwardly chuckles.

"should wear them more often"

"that-- that, you should"

he kisses you, "day dreamt about this, baby, got off to the thought of you so many times" he whispers in your ear, sending shivers down your spine. "on your stomach for me, please, pretty?"

what can he say? he can't get over the thought of fucking you in a skirt

and, let's just say, assignment completed !

viv's note 💌: thank you for waiting so patiently for this, lovies. hope yall like it. and before u complain about the ending!!! i wanna give you guys a separate smut drabble of that instead of having it here! hope you all aren't disappointed:/ love u guys sm<3

taglist: @strayy-kidz @raelyaa @myspamera @spabrin @ikaw-at-ikaw @kenzory @yaatrickyaaa @nakedsim @heelvsted @isa-2007 @keepingupwithjaeyun @jellyporo @woooooya @sussyjake @jaeyunology @maryismad @maoyueze tagged some of my moots too ♡

[familyfriendlydilfartist]

Bedtime (Short)

Synopsis; you can’t fall asleep so you seek comfort.

Warnings; None

One thing everyone in camp knew was Astarion enjoyed reading. They would always catch him with his nose in a book, crimson eyes taking in every word moving slowly from the top to the bottom of the page. Astarion often held onto the books he found when looting crates and shelves during your adventures.

It was midnight and everyone was getting ready to settle down for the night. Shadowheart sat In her tent unbraiding her hair and then running a brush through her raven strands before finally heading to bed. Lae’zel sharpened the last of her weapons, a ritual she refuses to neglect. Gale lay in his tent attempting to fall asleep as he used magic to mimic rainfall white noise. Everyone else slept soundly in their tent, or so you assumed.

Well, everyone except yourself. Tonight you lacked the capacity of falling into a deep slumber.

You were kind of like Scratch. At times Scratch couldn’t sleep, too hyper to even lie down. Halsin calls this zoomies so maybe you had zoomies as well.

You lie in your own tent staring at the roof. Gods how you wish dawn would arrive sooner. You huffed sitting up, you couldn’t lie in this uncomfortable tent for much longer, it was driving you crazy. You carefully peer out from the flaps of your tent. You observed the outside. Everyone was asleep, except for one. Astarion. A warm light illuminated his red tent, outlining his shadow. He lay in his tent, with what you could tell was a heavy book.

Astarion and you shared...well could you even call it a relationship? You slept together once or twice and Astarion enjoyed flirting with you but it didn’t seem like he wanted anything more. Whenever you slept together it seemed like he wasn’t entirely there. The only time he truly took satisfaction in the act is if he was allowed a bite from your neck. You it saddened you, to say the least. You really liked Astarion, not just for his stunning look but for his charming character as a whole. However, if all he wanted was to have a fling then so be it. That wouldn’t stop you from being his good friend though.

You slowly crawled from your tent and then tiptoed over to Astarion’s tent. You weren’t hoping to surprise Astarion; his heightened senses wouldn’t allow you the luxury. Your quietness was in favor of Shadowheart and Lae’zel, two people who would stir awake at the slightest snore. Astarion had his eyes on you already, waiting for you to call out to him first.

“Astarion,” you whisper, “It’s me.”

“I could tell.” He states matter of factly, turing the page of his novel. “Whatever is the matter?”

You lower yourself to the tent opening, pushing a flap aside. “I can’t sleep, could I hang out with you?” Astarion stares at you with an unimpressed look. “Please?” you pester.

“I guess so, besides who am I to deny you the pleasure.” Astarion sighs like a bothered mother giving in to her child’s request. You grin and immediately crawl inside. You sit beside him with a silly smile on your lips. There's a silence for a moment, you trying to gain the courage to ask him questions while he read to himself.

“Whatever you want to ask go ahead, the more eager you grow to ask, the more it’ll bother me.” Astarion lowers his novel. The slightly bothered expression he wears provokes an uneasiness in the pit of your stomach. You shyly mess with your nails. “Oh, well, I was just wondering what you were reading.”

“A novel about a boy venturing into vampire territory and what he has learned about my species. His assumptions are quite laughable.” Astarion’s pale pink lips quirk into a brief smile and a small laugh falls from them. “Here he states,” Astarion changes his voice into a mocking one, “One of the known weaknesses to a Vampire is garlic. Garlic will frighten a vampire, so always wear some on your neck to scare them away.”

You giggle too, “I’ve heard that one before. To be honest, I assumed you’d be scared of garlic as well because all the other tales of vampire’s weaknesses were debunked as true by you.”

Astarion shakes his head, “No, darling. It is simply the scent. Truly odorous. And if garlic were truly a weakness of vampires then Gale’s breath after dinner would be my demise.”

You both share a laugh then the silence returns.

“...Could you read to me?” you ask out of the blue. After the moment shared between the two of you before, you had hoped the question wouldn’t be answered too harshly. “-I mean, I like stories too but my mind often drifts from the pages. I prefer being read to than reading it myself and you have the perfect voice.”

Astarion contemplates for a second, observing you as he does. He taps his bed, “Fine.” You do as instructed, tugging the blanket until you’re all warm and cozy. Once you’re settled in Astarion starts on the page he stopped on. His voice is soft and relaxing. As the night goes on you finally fall into a deep slumber.

[blackleatherjacketz]

First

Frankie Morales x Female Reader

Summary: After finding out that Santi has been texting you behind his back, Frankie wants to make sure he gets to have you before his best friend does.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Explicit Smut, Kissing, Biting, Marking, Hair-Pulling, Nipple Play, Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Cream Pie, Choking, Slight Breeding Kink, Jealousy, Stalking, Reunions, Secret Trysts, Hints of Infidelity, Competition, Territorial Frankie, A Missed Phone Call From Santi

Word Count: 1.7k+

Prequel to FAVORITE

Tags: @bullet-prooflove @likedovesinthewnd @letsby @skittle479

Read more of my work HERE!

“So, Pope’s trying to keep you all to himself again, huh?” You can hear the bitter tinge of jealousy in Frankie’s voice as he kisses his way down your throat and clavicle, his mustache tickling the sensitive skin on your neck as he nuzzles his question into it. Instead of waiting for an answer, he continues kissing a sloppy trail of desire down your chest before recklessly pulling your shirt off over your head.

“Maybe,” you tease, almost forgetting how carelessly hungry his affection for you always is. Your eyes slowly adjust to the image of him on top of you in the pale moonlight as he grins up at you in sheer satisfaction, his eager mouth sending a pattern of gooseflesh up and down your torso as your toes curl preemptively. “Is that all it takes to get your attention, Frankie? A healthy sense of competition?”

“Maybe,” he mocks you with a raised eyebrow, tossing your shirt behind him and pulling your bra down to expose your breasts. “Is there a reason I had to find out you were single again by spying on his fucking texts?”

“Hey, he texted me first.” You hiss as he licks his way down to your nipple, encircling it with his tongue before finally biting down hard, those beautiful brown eyes of his shooting back up to capture your reaction. Your back arches instinctively, pushing yourself into his mouth as he hums a triumphant little laugh against your skin, exciting every nerve in your body.

“I wasn’t sure you’d still be interested,” you confess in a breathy whisper.

“Oh, I’m always interested,” he winks. “You should know that by now.” He takes your other nipple between his fingers, twisting it as he bites down one more time to deliver that quick jolt of pain he knows will drive you crazy.

His brash and blatant nature always sparked something primal in you that no one else was able to draw out so quickly, igniting a need deep within you that only he could satisfy; and he knew it. Only he could make all those years seem to disappear like it was only yesterday that you collided together amidst the sweltering heat of the war-torn desert. Only he could show up on your doorstep unannounced and expect you to hold the door open as he waltzed back into your life. Only he could make you feel this way.

“Okay,” you smile as your hands graze over his neck and shoulders until your fingers find their way between his messy curls, tugging on them as you moan in delight. You let your body rock into him at a slow, rhythmic pace as an all too familiar knot forms in your stomach, tensing your muscles as your arousal begins to collect between your legs. You hear him moan back in response as he torments that thin, delicate layer of your skin, each surge of pain followed by a languid lick of his tongue as your groans grow louder than his.

BZZZ BZZZ BZZZ

Your phone vibrates on your bedside table, an old picture of Santi popping up on the screen as his call goes unanswered.

Frankie stops his suckling and drags his teeth across your nipple, pulling it taut with an audible pop before it bounces back into place, giving you a knowing look. He hovers over you for a moment before deciding to pull back and stare at your phone, his Adam's Apple bobbing up and down in his throat as he looks at the picture of his partner, of his best friend, of your ex.

“Is he still coming over here tomorrow?” He pushes his hands and knees into the mattress to stand up at the foot of the bed.

“Who?” You attempt to play stupid, unsure of just how much of your conversation with Santi he actually read.

“Pope,” he starts to unbuckle his belt, eyes fixated on you as he casually nods toward your phone. “And don’t act so fucking innocent, we both know he wants to see you again.”

“Then what are you doing here?” You challenge as the buzzing of your phone finally stops and your screen falls dark.

Instead of giving you a direct answer, he tilts his head to look at you, his salacious glare more than enough to tie that knot right back into your stomach. He continues unfastening his jeans in silence, pushing them down past his thighs and calves along with his boxers before stepping out of them completely.

“I wanted to make sure I got you first.” The honest desperation in his voice drops it an octave, making you want him even more as he gratuitously strokes himself before climbing back into bed with you, kissing his way up your belly.

“Really?”

“I want him to smell me on you the second he walks through that door.” He crawls up your body with his confession, his words making your complicated past with both of them seem trivial as he unfastens the button on your jeans. He makes quick work of pulling your pants down, nearly ripping them off your ankles as he adds them to the crumpled pile of laundry on the floor behind him.

“Yeah?” You encourage, spreading your legs just to feel his bare body against yours for the first time in years as he kisses your arms and shoulders, nipping at your clavicle before finally sucking a tantalizing bruise into your neck.

“Yeah,” he presses a kiss into the wet, reddened flesh where he’d just marked you, knowing good and well that Santi will see it on you tomorrow as he moves his lips up to your face.

Wasting no time in kissing your lips, he grabs a fistful of your hair, forcing you to look into his eyes as he brushes the tip of his dick against your soaking wet folds. He tastes just like he did the very first time in that dive bar so many years ago, whiskey and Coke coating his tongue as it hurriedly brushes against yours. You relish that unique flavor of his saliva mixing in with the alcohol as his facial hair scratches at your chin, his kiss only deepenening with a melodic hum against your lips.

“I want him to taste my come when he goes down on you tomorrow night.” He whispers as he glides the head of his cock over your clit a few times just to watch your face change, a gleeful grin wrinkling the skin around his eyes.

“Frankie!” You gasp, his brash statement shocking you just as much as the tiny sparks of bliss he’s building with the movement of his hips. You’d forgotten how big he was, the sight of him alone not doing him enough justice as he teases your entrance over and over again with the promise of penetration before finally pushing inside your slick, velvety walls.

“Fuck, you feel good.” He whispers as if it’s a sin to say out loud, his stifled breath wisping away the stray hairs on your forehead as he carefully stretches you out.

“Oh, my god.” You whine into his mouth as he kisses you again, those little sparks of pleasure now catching fire with each pulsating thrust he delivers, bottoming out against your thighs each and every time he fans the flames of your euphoria.

“I forgot how fucking tight you are,” he nearly stutters, grabbing hold of both your thighs and pushing them up toward your head for a more delicious angle as the sweat drips down his face.

“I forgot how fucking big you are,” you praise in return, feeling that fire stoke inside you as he picks up the pace, that aching pleasure burning it’s way through you as he grinds against your muscles.

“Yeah?” He leans down and wraps his hand around your throat, pulling you slightly toward him as he gently massages your carotid with his thumb. “You gonna be a good girl and come for me, then?”

Jesus Fucking Christ. After all these years, he still knows exactly what to say to practically push you over the edge.

“Uh-huh,” you nod, swallowing against his palm as you hold onto his shoulders for dear life, every nerve in your body beginning to tingle from his valiant efforts.

“Good,” he smirks. “Then do it.”

It’s almost too much for you to handle, his girth stretching you out far beyond the size of your last lover as his head continually glides across that internal bundle of nerves he always knows how to find. It sends surge after surge of warm, delectable rapture up into your core, forcing your eyes to roll back into your head as you allow that feeling to take over entirely. Your greedy sex has no other choice but to envelop him completely, legs wrapped around his back to hold him near as he continues chasing his own pleasure in the depths of your desire.

Your grip on his shoulders loosens only to fall down to the center of his chest, the tips of your fingernails marking him in your own way as those flames finally combust in an all encompassing inferno. You can’t help but scream his name as that incendiary flash blazes up through your spine, short circuiting every synapse in your body until it singes every inch of your skin in a deafening torrent of ecstasy. The sensation nearly puts you out, incinerating your very lips, fingers and toes to the point of leaving you unrecognizable as you turn and wither beneath his hips.

A feral growl brews in his chest as he somehow quickens his pace, straining your burnt-out muscles by feeding his own cum deeper into your well spent heat. He grunts and groans as he fills you to capacity, the sweat from his brow evaporating onto your skin mere seconds after dripping down onto you. Thrust after thrust keeps that fire stoked until his fluid starts spilling out of you and down your inner thigh.

“You’re gonna feel me dripping out of you all day tomorrow.” He whispers into your ear before releasing his grip on your throat, feathering his fingertips over your neck and chest before letting go completely. “It’ll be like we’re both inside you at the same time.”

BZZZ BZZZ BZZZ

Santi’s picture pops up on your screen again as Frankie sighs in exhaustion, falling onto his side before laying down next to you.

“You should answer it.”

[jujutsukgojo]

The Fourth Leg chapter 2

Summary: How it began.

tw: yandere, stalking, kidnapping, death, adult scenes/implied, violence, flashback scenes (a lot but that just happens), angst

an: this took me so long to edit omg.

Chapter one

------

       THEN

 Chrollo stands with his friends, his comrades in this endeavor for a safer Meteor City. The first one to arrive at the meeting is Uvogin, of course, then Phinks. Phinks combs his hair and yawns. “What’d ya plan this time, boss?”

  He’s decided to create a plan to steal a map. It’s going to be dangerous. However, he knows they can handle it. They are thieves and take what they please, especially if he commands it. Besides, they owe him. He hasn’t forgotten their stupid plan all those years ago and how innocent blood is splattered on everyone’s hands. Well, except for Phinks, he assumes.

  Even if all of these people argue with him about it, nothing can take away his satisfaction. Yesterday, he had the time of his life. Finally, after years of adoring and pining, he’s claimed you. Not as a friend whose heart already knew who it belonged to, but as a man and your boss. He’ll never forget it. He read so much on how to please and did it just for you. 

  It meant everything to get you to join and for you to submit to him. He, Chrollo Lucilfer, tamed you. Without violence or black mail. Just pure delight and passion. He’s taken your virginity that you so willingly gave to him in the house of mirrors, and greedily took all he could afford. Seeing your tears from your orgasms, how you tried to cling onto everything you could as he ravaged you, how amazing you felt, is something he’ll never forget. Such sweet cries and moans left you so tired. 

And God, how you taste is more addicting than any wine. More satisfying than any substance imagined. You will never deny him of that. Of all of this. He’s mapped you out and is determined to feel you clench around him again. How could he not? You were his the moment he met you. Everyone knew it except for you. He took you under his wing and protected you. Catered to your every whim and was patient beyond belief. 

  Now, he’s proven himself to you as a man. One that can hit the deepest part of you and make you shake and have your eyes roll. As your boss, one that you submit to, and only him. No worries, he’ll always treat you like a treasure that a dragon would cherish. After all this time he has wanted you. He has always been completely besotted with you. There is not a power or ant in the world to make him let you go. 

  You took him wonderfully and made him see heaven. A place he didn’t think he’d step foot in. Maybe you’re the way there. Every look you give, noise you make, your touch, the dreams you have, and your glorious taste, lets him know it's true. 

 He takes a deep breath to calm himself down at the memory of last night. The remaining bits of the Phantom Troupe come into the broken-down building. Some sit on debris, the others stand with their arms crossed. Recently, a new recruit has entered the fray, number eight. It’s a man of average height, thick wavy hair, and pure green eyes. He decided he was done with not fitting in with the world and joined. 

  Chrollo doesn’t know his nen ability. From the looks of things, he might be an emitter. He’ll give him one thing: number eight is smart by not telling him what his nen ability is. 

Chrollo hears the crunching and ruffling of a bag. He looks towards the noise and sees you come in. He can’t help but feel a smidge of pride when he sees your slight limp. No one knows what transpired between the two of you. So, maybe your dignity will be spared. 

   He can see their disappointment at your arrival. He shoots it down quickly. "Enough, she's part of the Spider now." His eyes never leave you. Machi asks how you're useful. You stick out your tongue and refuse to share your chips. Phinks groans at that and crosses his arms.

 “She’s the fourth leg.” He declares, clearing away the disappointment they have, especially when it's revealed that you're an exorcist. You look up at him with such pretty eyes. Do you know how beautiful you are? How cute you look right now, crunching on a bag of chips? Not to mention, you sat down next to him without complaint. You just automatically did it. Finally, you’ve realized you belong to him. His thoughts are interrupted by number eight. 

“Very nice.” Chrollo’s eyes flick over to him. The bastard’s head is cocked to the side and his fingers are on his chin, like he’s appraising you. Pakunoda nudges him and tells him to stop. The damage is already done. Chrollo will not tolerate this. 

  In due time, he’ll make an example of him. Not in front of you, of course. Chrollo would hate to scare you. So, he’ll wait. He has always been patient. 

________________

A few years later, Chrollo has once again come up with a plan. It all started with Sheila telling one of the members about the Kurta. As he is told, they are responsible for Sarasa’s death. Not only that, but they hold scarlet eyes which are one of the wonders of the world. You only heard the last part. You completely skipped over their alleged part of everyone’s dear friend’s demise. 

  Her name still causes soreness. Especially with you. Although you understand and have accepted that she is gone, it still hurts you. It was unexpected for Sarasa to end up the way she did. 

  Now is not the time to think about that. Especially when he welcomed you into his place after planning on making your favorites. Once, he had read that a date could be something simple, like cooking together. That was the plan. Dinner and a movie maybe trade the movie in with him reading to you. You always loved to hear him read.

    The two of you get your stomach full of mediocre food. The plainness of the dish was mainly because of Chrollo, he’d say. He’s studied up on cooking before and watched all of those channels but still cannot hold a candle to you. The two of you settled on a couch he stole a while back. You had sat on it one day and demanded to have it. Of course, he did as you wished. However, he put it in his house as an excuse for you to come over more often. It worked, surprisingly.

After getting cleaned up and a few more kisses, he tells you only a little about his gift. “Our next heist is going to give you something beautiful. Something you will really love. Are you excited?”

   You sleepily nod. He leans back, letting you snuggle to his chest. He wraps his arms around you like a lover would. No, he is your lover as you are his. Lately, the two of you have been doing things together a lot more. Just like a couple would.

  He rubs your back and speaks in a soft voice, “In order for it to succeed, I need your absolute cooperation, understand?” You nod. He can’t help but give you kisses wherever he can. He swears he hears you purr when you hug him back. He’s so happy. 

  The next day, the Spider leaves to find the Kurta. Everyone thinks it is the Scarlet Eyes he’s looking for, and while that is partially true, what he really wants is the Dark Sonata that the clan holds. It’s cursed, so you’ll need to purify it. Your gift will be beautiful and done masterfully. While Feitan’s beloved fancies odd gifts like flesh or appreciates whatever he finds, Chrollo doesn’t think you would like a random toe for a gift.

  To perform the most legendary music for you…the smile you’d have would be picture worthy. Something to belong in only the highest museum. 

   He’d have the Troupe play it since everyone has been told to take up an instrument. He told them that it’d help with their nen. In reality, they’ll play it for you. Your very own orchestra. Besides, they owe him. Forever, and always. He loves them dearly. They are his friends. 

  The elder meets him at the center of their settlement. The Kurta stands around, encircling them. Most are close to their homes, tents with blue fabric with Kurta clan symbols on it or the few buildings around with the same fabric draped on the stone.

They look nervously at the thirteen guests. 

Chrollo gives him a dazzling smile and kind eyes. He speaks to the elder calmly. The Kurta’s eyes widen with horror etched onto their faces. Chrollo knows you can’t hear what is being said since you are a bit farther away. You can’t tell that he is demanding their eyes and next will be something magnificent. The Head leans in and whispers to the elder, “Where is the Dark Sonata?”

“I’ll never say.” The elder shakily, and stubbornly, states. Chrollo hums and decides to perform. He loudly asks, “And why did you commit such a sin against Meteor City?”

  The members of the Troupe subtly look relieved. Had he been anyone else, it wouldn’t have been caught. Alas, he is a connoisseur of observing people. He loves to study them. Plus, he is familiar with his friends.

  “Boss, you really want those eyes, huh?” Nobunaga asks. Chrollo smiles. “Hm, among other things. Let us revel in their glory. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  “Chrollie…what are you talking about?” Your nervous and sweet voice, asks. “This is the job, darling. You have your role, and you’ll get to play. As long as the eyes shine bright.”

  You gasp in horror, your beautiful eyes round. “This is insane! Stop this right now!” Right when he thinks you’ve learned your place you retreat back into that attitude of yours. He takes a deep breath. “Enough! Just do your job.”

   The elder looks at you. Chrollo hates it. He cannot stand the compassion, the care, you have for this nobody. Why are your pretty eyes looking at this worm like that? He’s doing this for you. Getting the eyes for you to see and for the city to benefit from. Digging for the Dark Sonata for you to hear safely.

  The elder is about to speak when Chrollo interrupts. “Uvo.”

 Suddenly, Uvogin strikes one of the Kurta’s legs and reveals a woman’s red eyes from across them. She doesn’t hesitate to go to the fallen woman who cries for her missing legs. Right then, Uvogin gouges the Scarlet Eyes out. Number eight uses his nen to preserve them and places them in a jar. With a flick of his wrist, the rest of the members go on the attack. He turns his head slightly only to see you horrified and disgusted. You run to him, pulling on his arm, demanding him to stop this. Him, the Head, your boss, your lover. 

He jerks his arm out of your pleading hold. “Do as you are told.” 

  “You-thi-this is wrong! They haven’t done anything to us!” You see Machi begin to use her nen. “No!” You call out to her. You tug on him again and again. “Tell them to stop! This is evil, disgusting!”

  Irritation continues to grow heavier by the second.

  “Go and do your fucking job.” He points to a small group that is being guarded by two scared adults. The few children behind them don’t go unnoticed. “Don’t be this way, Chrollie. You're my friend. You can’t be this way.”

Friend.  Friend? After everything he’s done for you. Provided, protected, cared, loved? You let him make love to you and fuck your brains out when needed. You had him lavish you with everything you wished for. Reading to you in the dead of night when you couldn’t sleep. You let him vent with his head on your lap and listen to his ideas, just like he listens to yours. 

He gave himself to you. And he’s your friend? After the sin he committed and can’t forgive himself for, and done it for you?

  Darkness clouds his mind. He pushes you off of him. You land harshly on the dirt ground. He points to the exit of their little village. “Go and catch stragglers. Miss one, and you won’t get a head start.”

  You gasp and run. He remembers being this angry only twice. When you wanted to leave, and when Sarasa died. The only bright thing of that day was that number eight died and Chrollo let it happen. He couldn’t do it himself since the rule he placed for you. Members are not allowed to fight each other.

 The Phantom Troupe watched as number eight begged for help from a Kurta warrior, knowing better than to help him. 

  He admits that he began to get callous. Numb to the pain and had lessened his caring hold of you. He pinned a lot of responsibility on you now. Everyone was surprised at this new behavior. You took it in stride, though. Even as the two of you withdrew from each other, he wouldn’t let you get far. Him doing this was to discipline you. To let you have a taste of what he does for you. For you to once again trust him like you are supposed to. 

   Not long after, the two of you came across Silva Zoldyck. He knew you weren’t equipped to handle someone of this caliber, but he pushed anyway. He thought you trusted him enough to rely on him, to let him be the offense and you the defense. Then, the unthinkable happened. Stupidly, you ran right to Silva and attacked. 

  Chrollo held your dying form in his arms. He cried apologies and prayed every prayer in the good book. Nothing was working. He expected something to snap or crush. He has read that his heart should break and it to be literally felt. He expected a part of him to go with you. Instead, he started to feel whole. And he hates it. He feels the true burden of himself, something he assumes he split with you. There is no heated desire for vengeance or even death. 

  He feels…lost. There is no plan or even an identity, he thinks. Did it die with you? Did the compass of himself leave with you? The name you gave him, did you take it with you. That’s fine with him. His name is yours; he is yours. 

 He kisses you with tears streaming down his face, some landing on his lips and blending with yours. 

I love you, I love you. It was real, my love. No book in the world could ever describe it. Is this what it’s like for a soul to leave a body? To be a hollow shell for anything to fill in it, even the darkest of monsters. Or could this be what I was the whole time? 

Who gives a damn about the monsters even if they share his face? None of that matters now that you’re gone…you’re gone. You died. 

He squeezes you tighter, closer to him. He buries his face in the crook of your neck while your chest is pressed against his. If he was insane, he'd swear he could still feel your heartbeat. 

The members rushed to him and were shocked at your departure. He thought he’d hear their cheers or see smiles. Never would he have thought they would actually be saddened to a degree. Some more so than others. 

  Like a strike of lightning, a giant bright light brings its force. It’s a smaller version of what took you, he sees. It comes down and in a moment of reflex, Franklin yanks him away from your body. There is a rumble underneath their feet. Dust flies up and around the strike that makes a perfect, deep circle. It was aimed directly at the Troupe. Chrollo had looked at it and your body was gone. 

 He couldn’t even bury you. 

It was this event that completely changed Chrollo. Rather than the group staying together, they go their separate ways until he calls them, disappearing completely. Little do they know, he would frequent the places you loved most. That cottage that you and Chrollo would spend calm days, the meadow, Meteor City's library, and the church that the both of you grew up in. They are sacred places that he isn’t worthy of going to. They are practically holy, a place to cleanse a sinner such as himself.

--------

PRESENT

Here you are, sleeping like you didn’t run away from him. Your toes twitch and curl. You stretch your legs and yawn, slowly blinking awake. Chrollo sat in front of you, studying intently. After your betrayal, he’ll never admit to how you look like a cute cat. No, that’d only lead you to believe that you have a hold on him. And that, you will never have again. 

  The more he studies your face, the more he tries not to laugh at the situation. The whole thing is absurd. To think, he only discovered that you were alive is because of that Zoldyck kid. The little menace was teasing them about letting a spider slip. No one could figure out what he meant until Chrollo was abducted. He didn't have a plan and didn't inform the rest of them why they were rampaging that quaint village. He was just focused on the truth and the possibility of your existence. 

   Your eyes flutter open and focus on him. “C-Chrollo?”

It only takes a few seconds for you to understand the situation. His intentions, beliefs, and your place. You were right before. Number four is taken. As well as eight. Now, the other numbers of the members lost are filled as well. Have you figured out that there is no room for you? That this cushy bed is temporary?

  Do you remember the hours before you fainted? He does. That and all of the memories he has of you. 

  You take a few deep breaths. “What’s going to happen to me?” He stands and looks down at you. Your eyes remain on the ground. He hates that. Worst of all, he hates that

------

THEN

   He walks in the church with another basket of flowers. He hears Father Rizole talk to a nun around the corner. Before he can even make out what they’re saying, he sees a little girl stand next to the priest. Fists balled, eyes red, and surprisingly, in decent clothes. You can’t be from here. Not when you have name brand shoes that fit perfectly, and a hair that looks properly taken care of. Plus, you have a healthy structure. 

  With you in front of the window, the sun shines behind you, creating a halo. He can’t help but stare. Is this how the outside looks? Like angels? You have to be a little younger than him. But is it possible that someone young can be a wrathful angel? There’s no way you’re not one. Not with how fires burn in your eyes and the glow of your skin looking heavenly.

  Unable to stop, Chrollo walks towards you with sweaty palms. His basket suddenly feels heavier the closer he gets. He gulps as he stands right in front of you. Your eyes remain low, like you don’t even register him. 

  “My name is Chrollo. What’s yours?” His voice is shaky. You don’t answer much to his dislike. Father Rizole speaks. “This is (Y/n) (L/n), a new resident. (Y/n) has only been here for a few days. I haven’t gotten around to giving a tour. Actually, Chrollo, will you watch (Y/n) for a moment? Maybe look around the church.” 

  Chrollo’s eyes light up at the proposition even though he wonders if the priest is lying about something. “I’d love to! Leave it to me!” Father Rizole presses his hand on your upper back and gives you a slight push to Chrollo. “Here, look around. Meet some friends. You know what? I bet you can use a snack. How about that?”

  “I’ll take (Y/n) to the kitchen!” He’s excited. Not only can he hang out with you but you can share a snack. “Sarasa made some cookies with Sister Mary. Find her and have fun!”

  Father Rizole asks to speak to the nun in private. She hurries away with one last slightly scared look at you. They leave you to Chrollo’s charge. “We’re going to have a lot of fun, okay? I’ll show you everything.” He tries to grab your hand but you yank it away. He doesn’t like that at all. His eye twitches a little. Especially since you still won’t look at him. 

  The two of you still haven’t found Sarasa with the cookies. Truly, Chrollo is starting to feel a little embarrassed. Here he is saying you can have cookies and he can’t provide them. “H-hey, I’ll show you one of my favorite spots. It’s safe so don’t worry.”

  He guides you to a meadow of the same wild flowers he carries in his basket. Your eyes are still to the ground, not taking in its beauty. He’s twitching again. 

  “Why won’t you look? Can you not see?” His voice raises when he doesn’t mean too. Before he can say anything else, you plop to the ground. He gasps and tends to you. “Are you okay?” 

  There’s a heaviness in the pit of his stomach and a fear of you being hurt. “I-I’ll get a grown up!” 

You sniffle. He waits to see what you’ll do next. Again, you sniffle and start to shake. “Y-you’re crying…are you okay?”

“I’m not crying! I don’t cry!” You yell as you shed tears. You finally look at him. “I don’t cry. I don’t care! I’m not…not…” You struggle to speak. Your eyes widen in surprise when you touch your face.  You throw yourself on Chrollo, with your head on his chest. He instinctively wraps his arms around you as you wail. “I-I don’t know!” 

You struggle with articulating your feelings, opting to scream, cry, and smack his chest instead. He knows you aren’t meaning to hurt him which is why they don’t. 

  He pets your hair that is decorated with barrettes. You smell and feel nice. “It’ll be okay. I’ll protect you. We’ll have lots of fun too.” He pats your back. After a bit, you calm down and are back to sniffling and heavy breaths. He takes some flowers and puts them in the hair between the barrettes. 

“Am I pretty?” You touch the flowers in your hair gently. The look on your face is so innocent and vulnerable. He wants to cradle and protect it forever. He gives you a warm smile and with pure honesty, he confesses, “The mostest. Nothing compares.”

  Sarasa appears with a plate of cookies. “Father Rizole said you were looking for me?” 

-----

   PRESENT

“Get that fake look off your face.” He cuts through with a tongue as sharp as a knife. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Reluctantly, you do. “Do you understand your place?”

  You close your eyes for a second. “Not in the Spider. It’s filled.” He hums in affirmation. “So, where do you go?”

“The grave?” You sound too hopeful for his liking. He gets up from the chair and grabs your face. His eye twitches slightly, a dead giveaway of his anger. “That’s too sweet, isn’t it? Too poetic.” 

  “Chrollo, please let me go. It’s time, Chrollo.” He is a master at masking his emotions. Someone who had lost himself enough to fit any puzzle piece needed for a mission. For Neon, he just needed a mask that barely required effort. It was a person who he created for someone as naive as Neon. Over time, he has been able to handle so many personalities. He’s trained to keep emotions inside. Ha, leave it to you to rip that away.

   He starts to shake in anger at the audacity of not only you and your question, but his reaction. His heart had hurt at the thought of you leaving again. Images of the day he lost you do nothing but run wild. The day he met you to the last, to the present, all rush before him. 

   When your body disappeared, he thought of where he’d put your memory. It didn’t take long to think of the meadow. Where he put flowers in your hair, calmed you down, the place where you first hugged him and cried into his chest and was unable to fully articulate your emotions about your asshole parent. He went to the meadow and created a small shrine in your honor, right where you first hugged him. 

  It was the right thing to do. The perfect place, one that no one has visited in a while. He regretted that immensely. 

   He lets your face go. With a low voice he declared, “Darling, you will never leave me again.” 

  You begin to sink at his words, fists balling against the bare mattress. 

-------

THEN

“Chrollo, I have to go sometime.” He doesn’t like this. Lately, you’ve grown into that phase of wanting to explore. Talking of how life is outside, away from the city. You remember some of it and long for its familiarity. Years ago, Chrollo had been fascinated by it. It was one of the reasons he was so drawn to you. 

  “Not alone.” He says with finality. His words cause you to glare at him. “You don’t tell me what to do. I’ll go as I please. I’m practically an adult!”

  You're fourteen, the same age he was when he created the Spider. He clenches his fist. “You’re fourteen! That’s a child.”

“Oh, look at you! You murdered countless people since you were eleven and created your little clique when you were fourteen. All I want is to go home!” 

  He slams his fist down on the table. Clearly, you force yourself not to jump. “That’s different! And this is your home!” 

He can tell you didn’t like that one bit. You point around the area. “I am not from this God forsaken place. This is not my home or my people.” 

  “This is your home. You are staying!” He shouts. He’s never raised his voice at you before.  Your eyes widen for a split second then fill with determination. 

  “No, I’m not. You can’t tell me what to do. You're making it seem like a bad thing. Whi le I just want to go home, you and your posse run havoc and ruin everything! What’s so wrong with me going home?”

  The Phantom Troupe is his sensitive spot, and you know it. Yet you deliberately push it every single time just to hurt him. Chrollo is weak for you, he admits it and everyone knows it. Despite his love, there is an anger that brews inside him wanting to lash out. Degrading the spider is not allowed, you leaving is definitely off the table. Finally, he lets a tiny bit of that venom out for you to feel.

He leans in close to you, not breaking eye contact. 

“Do you expect them to just open their arms to you? That doesn’t happen! You’ll die out there. And you think you’re ready for them, ha! You look for validation and throw a tantrum when it’s not given. How far do you think that will get you, huh? No one will care.”

He’s breathing heavy, panicking at the image of your back turned, leaving the city limits. He sees you live a life of poverty again or worse, a life without him. Marrying someone, having children, a cat and dog, and living in a house. He doesn’t see himself in these scenarios. It’s driving him mad with rage. 

Look at him. Look at him! Stop looking down!

 Your body starts to shake. Your head hasn’t lifted to face him since he spoke. When it does, he immediately regrets his wish. 

  Filled with hurt, you strike back. “At least I know what things are without having to read about it! Experience them without stalking people! I know who I am and don’t depend on a book to find the answer,” You rub your eyes. “But I have a name! I’m not staying here and wasting it anymore.” 

  You run away from Chrollo who stands stiff. He didn’t mean to make you cry. He was just mad that you thought of leaving. Your words hurt a lot, but nothing compared to the knowledge that he made you cry. 

   Much to his dismay, you don’t talk to him. In fact, you avoid him all together. 

At least that thought of you leaving left your mind. 

Over the course of a few years, you avoided him and didn’t talk to him. He had to watch you from the sidelines, growing and learning. He wanted to help you read and do math. Proving him wrong every time you did it. Chrollo, thankfully, got a nen ability that allowed him to be invisible. He’d watch you closely, seeing how much you followed Father Rizole and his studies. 

  You even took up various weaponry since you still had pent up aggression. Father Rizole was hesitant at first lest you aim at someone who annoyed you. Chrollo supported your hobby wholly. He went directly to Father Rizole and encouraged the priest to allow it. Chrollo even provided the equipment, unbeknownst to you.

  The old priest wondered how he knew but Chrollo managed to convince him that he had heard through the grapevine and that people marveled at your talent. Upon hearing this, the caring priest caved. Despite everything, the children of Meteor city were like his own, including the Troupe and you. 

  After your training and studies, you go to your room and throw yourself on the bed. Chrollo managed to sneak in just in time. Suddenly, the most shocking thing happened. 

  You’re touching yourself. Your hands slip under your shirt. He sees your hands move and massage your chest. By the expression on your face, something soft and curious, you’re beginning to like it. Who did this to you? A rageful red is all he can see now. 

Right before you can explore further, you gasp at the knock at the door. 

The same day, he heads to the books, trying to calm himself down. Remaining on the sidelines and respecting your space was not the right move. Or perhaps it was, and he just let it go on for too long. Not when someone is latching on to you, making you feel things you shouldn't. As angry as that thought makes him, he couldn't just go up and demand for you to return to him. So, he figured it was best to look in a book for some kind of answer. 

The book had an excellent plot with a sweet side of romance. He studies it closely. He’s seen it in movies and plays, but books just explain it better. None of the characters share similarities with you. He can become and act like any of these people. You, however, are an immovable force of nature. They do not compare to you. 

  Book after book after book, shows nothing that you’d accept. What’s he going to do? After looking at the sky, Chrollo remembers what you had said.

“At least I know what things are without having to read about it! Experience them without stalking people! I know who I am and don’t depend on a book to find the answer,”

That’s right. He can’t go to a book for this. Getting you can’t be written unless in the stars. However, he’s experienced this before. Knowing who you are and what love is.  He perks his head up. The meadow. How he put flowers in your hair after comforting you. He closes whatever book that was and puts it with the twenty others he was reading to study.

  He asks Father Rizole your whereabouts. “Last I know, she was talking to Ray.” 

  Is that the one who made you desperate? On your bed, touching places you wished were caressed by someone else? Schooled in controlling his expressions, Father Rizole doesn’t know any different. Chrollo excuses himself and gives a lame excuse of why he asked. 

 Once he leaves, he sets out to find Ray. From what he remembers, Ray was an average looking boy who, in Chrollo’s opinion, was annoying. He chewed and slurped too loud, his laugh was obnoxious and for some reason, felt the need to always be right even when wrong. Chrollo distinctly remembers how Ray talked to you when you were younger. He was always flirtatious and tried to get close to you. So, in a dubbing performance when Chrollo played a villain, he looked directly at Ray through it all. Apparently, Chrollo was terrifying at that moment.

   By luck, he spots Ray blushing. The boy doesn’t notice the predator yet. The one who's eying every move Ray makes, waiting to strike.

“Chrollo? Is that you?”

He smiles and walks towards Ray, whose eyes are big. The Troupe has a reputation that has reached many ears. No doubt that is the reason for Ray’s nervous behavior. 

  “How have you been?” The boy nervously laughs. “Uh, good. Y-you? Y’know, besides the killing and stuff.” 

  “I’ve been fine. Actually, I need your help.” 

Ray squeaks and backs away. “No, Ray. Not like that. It’s for more personal matters. Man to man.”

   He visibly starts to relax around Chrollo the more the latter talks. “So, do you think white flowers will do?”

  “Hm, I like red better.” Chrollo nods his head, taking in this information. “And your beloved?”

“I-I, uh, don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ray’s cheeks are red. Chrollo chuckles, “Come on, I’ve heard some things. Tell me about it. It’ll make me feel more comfortable making my move.”

  “Oh, well, I haven’t asked (Y/n) out yet.” Chrollo pats Ray on the back a little too harshly. “Why don’t you? I mean, she’s here, right?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know…”

“Go for it. You helped me a lot.” 

“Alright, I will! If she says yes…where would I even take her? It’s not like Meteor City has a lot to offer.” Chrollo has his arm around Ray’s shoulders. 

“Where else? There’s a meadow not too far from here. There are lots of flowers there. Just tell her you’ll meet her there. She’ll love it.”

  “Thanks, Chrollo!” He practically skips away, heading to you. 

“Tell me how it goes!” Chrollo calls out and gives him a thumbs up. Now, all he has to do is wait. Chrollo leans against the wall with his arms crossed. No one is around in the halls. He cracks his neck and sighs, taking in the few rays of the sun that peek through the windows. Ray soon runs back to him with a wide smile on his face. 

  “She said yes! She’ll be there this afternoon. I couldn’t have done it without you, Chrollo.” 

  “No, no. You did this yourself. Just needed a little push. Hey, do you know where the meadow is exactly?”

  “Um, it’s-”

“Towards the forest. Just go west, a few feet in. It’ll be paradise.” 

This scene feels so familiar. 

Chrollo sits in the meadow, taking in the scent of the wildflowers. He hears footsteps and already knows who it is. He calms his heartbeat and looks to the source of the noise.  You say nothing. Even though it eats at him, he takes you acknowledging his existence as a win. 

Play it cool, play it cool. 

   “Hi, (Y/n).” His voice gives a slight crack. Dear God, he must sound lame.

   “Hello, Lucilfer.” Your voice is as sweet as honey though your tone is slightly bitter. Your use of his last name stings a little but is softened when he remembers that you’re the one who gave him that name years ago.

“How have you been?” His legs lay long and unbothered, and he rests on his hands. He hopes he looks calm, maybe even suave. He’s matured in these few years despite his voice cracking a few seconds ago. 

“You can’t be here. I have a date.” You continue to stare down at him with indifference. 

“A date? With whom?” Your face remains the same. “With Ray. Leave.” Chrollo in the nick of time, stops his facade of nonchalance from cracking. “Well, if that’s the case, I’ll leave.”

  Your eyebrows raise at his willingness.

The moon has come out and the sun is gone. There are no stars above, just clouds. Lightning bugs float around to make up for those lost twinkles in the sky. Chrollo then makes his move. “How’d it go?”

“Shut up, Lucilfer.” 

“Damn…that badly? What happened? Did he do something?” Chrollo’s voice raises in concern despite the fact he knew good and damn well nothing happened. 

  You mumble something incoherent. “What?” Chrollo walks a little closer. When you fall to your knees, he’s next to you in an instant. “No! What’s wro-”

“He didn’t show up!” You yell with tears running down your face, illuminated by the moonlight. “So, there! Laugh it up! You were right.”

  Chrollo’s is now confused and worried. He doesn’t like you crying. He hates to see you sad. 

“You said no one would care and you were right. So, laugh! I know you want to!” He’s genuinely taken back. He didn’t remember saying that at all. His shoulders drop. So, this is what’s wrong...

  “I care about you. I want you. He might not see you, but I do. Do you understand? I want you.” Your lip wobbles just before you throw yourself on him, cuddling to his chest, just like the first time. This time, he feels more capable. 

   He lets you cry it out. He decides to apologize. “I’m sorry for saying that. I’m just a big dummy.”

You cry for several minutes. Finally, you settle for sniffles. “Here, these will make you happy.”  Chrollo puts wildflowers in your hair. He doesn’t go near the red ones. 

  You gently touch them, tears drying on your face. “Does it look good?”

“Gorgeous.”  You’re not leaving him again. 

----

  PRESENT

Much to your reluctance, he drags you out of the room. Your bare feet skid along the wooden floor, trying to resist his pull. This only makes him tug harder. You wince and lessen your fight.  

  Chrollo sees you look around, taking it all in. He has a more modern taste that is complete with an extensive library. You were always one to throw in some kind of weird decoration for it to not look so ‘bland’. That’s what you wanted. He preferred to have simplicity and elegance. 

 You say nothing as he continues to lead you out of a bedroom and land in the foyer. “Where are we going?” 

   “Down memory lane.” He opens a green portal from his book. It rotates like a flipping coin.

  “Do you remember this?” He’s holding your hand, guiding you through the carnival. It looks the same as it did last time. Even the night sky looks similar. The stars still shine and twinkle as they did before. The cotton candy vendor is different, but it’s made the same way. The elephant ears are still bigger than a human’s head. Laughing families are still joyous and oblivious to the monster with a book.

 “What about this?” He brings you to that damn roller coaster. He notices how your legs rub together ever so slightly. You probably don't even realize that you did it. “I’ve seen better.” 

  He clutches your hand tighter. “How about here? Have you seen better?” He guides you into the house of mirrors. The place where you lost your virginity. The blue striped building still looks the same and is still barely used. Back then, he made sure to make the experience special for you even if it happened in the heat of the moment. Not just because of the pact that was cemented, but because it was you. 

His tone is bitter after the memory of your legs wrapped around him and the understanding he had. At the time, he could feel the promise of him being your only. Until he found out that you gave yourself to another. Like it all meant nothing. As if you giving him a name meant nothing. As if he meant nothing. 

You gave him his last name. Before that, he didn’t have one. Here you came into his bleak life and lightened it up with an identity. A compass on the open ocean and a light in the darkest of tunnels. Apparently to you none of it matters.

  Chrollo wears a smile. “I haven’t been here in years. You?” 

“I haven’t either, Lucilfer.” Although you named him, it stung that you don’t address him properly. A nickname he never wanted to stop hearing. 

   “You sure? You didn’t fuck anyone else in here?” You gasp a little. “No. Even if I did, it’s none of your business.”

  He clutches your hand tighter. “Let us reminisce then, dearest.” 

  The two of you waltz in the house of mirrors. The glass is confusing, and the lighting gives an eerie feel. It’s brighter than last time. “What’re we doing in here anyway?”

  “Showing you what you left. Do you remember the fun we had over the years? The passion?”

“I remem-” You stop talking when you hear rattling. “Keep your voice down, someone else is here.” You warn.

  “Are you scared, my darling?” He notices that you hold his hand closer to you. “No! I can take care of myself just fine. I’m embarrassed. Here you are talking about old shit and someone can hear!”

  “Old shit…” He whispers. You nod. Suddenly, the noise gets closer until you see a familiar blond head. “Kurapika!” 

  Your eyes light up when you see him, the red eyed killer. His eyes are the purest form of the color. Filled with rage and wrath in them, they glow. Before you can even take a step forward, Kurapika launches his attack. Brutal chains race towards you with the intent to kill and scare. You don’t even realize it, Chrollo notes. 

  “(Y/n)!” He grabs you one handedly to dodge it. You are in his right arm, shocked and heartbroken. “Pika…”

   The boy you took care of shouts obscene things at you. Chrollo growls and puts you behind him protectively. “(Y/n), run away!”

  “No! Are you joking? I’m not leaving.” You shout back. Kurapika runs towards you, ready to attack again. “Kurapika, kid, please just list-”

  Chrollo once again picks you up and takes you out of the house. The beach is calm and void of people. He puts you down far enough to where he thinks you’ll be safe. “Stay here!”

  “Chrollo, please, don’t kill him!” You sit on the cool sand illuminated by the moonlight. You grab his hand and plead. 

  “After this? After Paku and Uvo?” You nod. “Please, that…that’s my boy.” Your body is shaking not from fear, but from disorientation as the killer runs out of the building and spots you. Your lip wobbles and Chrollo leans down and touches your cheek. 

 “I’ll try to avoid it. But love, if it can’t be helped, please forgive me.”

   A tear slides down your cheek. He wipes it away and faces the furious Kurapika who has yet to address you with manners. That alone is reason enough for death. Chrollo opens his book, pretending not to notice your flinch. He flips through the pages, dodging every chain the boy sends. 

   It’s a fight that rivals the Zoldyck’s. The one where he thought of you when Silva launched his nen ability directly at him and Silva’s father, Zeno. Chrollo at the time had wondered what you were thinking when it happened to you. How funny is it that you were alive and well the whole time?

  None of the boy’s chains touch him. He gets closer and closer to the blond. Every kick and twist the boy sends is futile. Chrollo has years of experience on him. 

  Sand lifts up from one of the kid’s kicks. The sand blocks the view momentarily then shows the boy on the ground once it settles. Chrollo’s book flips the page when the scarlet eyes try to raise up again. 

  “Chrollo, no!” You scream. The fight was happening so fast, and you were so confused that you didn’t act or even process it. You run towards them to separate it. “Please, please, he’s just a kid! He’s mad and scared-”

  You finally realize why the boy is on the ground. There is a big gash on his side. A wound so deep that allows blood to soak the earth. “N-no…” 

  You try to touch him but you’re panicking. Chrollo can see your eyes widen and your pupils dilate. Never has he seen you so scared, delirious even. It breaks his heart. 

   “Love, breathe, breathe.” He calmly encourages. You take little breaths. “W-why? How could you?”

“I’ll fix it. Tell me how. I need to know.”

“I can do it!” You try to push his hand away. He sighs and shakes his head no. “You can’t stop shaking. Please, let me help you.”

  You explain it the best you can. Chrollo watches as you stutter and stumble over your words. It isn’t much but it’ll do. “I don’t understand fully. Show me!”

 "Stop fucki-stop screaming!" Your eyes flick over the boy's body repeatedly. Chrollo can see it in your eyes that you are drifting as you make eye contact with the boy's scarlet eyes.

Chrollo's eye twitches. "(Y/n)!" 

  There’s an urgency in his voice once the blond kid’s breathing becomes ragged. "I’m a-an exorcist not a healer. Oh God, what if I can’t-” 

“Try your best, my love.” He kisses the side of your head and rubs your back. Your eyes are still fearful and shocked despite his efforts. Finally, your hand is out, and you whisper words that only the chanter and nen itself can understand. A symbol displays itself on the ground, surrounding the bloody young man on the ground. 

Then it immediately stops. All of it does. Not only does your technique leave you, but the image of the teen disappears. There is no blood, no death before you. Only Chrollo Lucilfer and a guy with an undercut. 

  “Kurapika? Kurapika!” You search the sand in the spot he was laying on. You mutter his name repeatedly. You look up and study the guy before you.

  He can see you recognize him: Milluka Zoldyck. With a handy ability to give illusions. It’s an odd choice for a Zoldyck, especially one that never leaves the house. The young man laughs at you and your devastation. There's a flame in Chrollo's chest that is too familiar as he watches you be laughed at. 

   “Thank you for your service.” Chrollo says. Milluka doesn't have time to respond when a gun conjures in Chrollo’s hand. He fires without hesitancy or remorse. The guy falls down with a look of betrayal. Although Milluka had a handy technique, he wasn't worth anything. 

   Chrollo turns around to look at you. To his surprise, you are on your back with your arm over your eyes, weeping. You were so caught up in the scarlet eye boy that you didn’t notice anything off. You couldn’t even control yourself from meeting his conditions. Him questioning it and your answer, then having to witness your nen ability. That went according to plan, but the kicker is that you touched his book on accident. You were so distressed that you didn't realize your hand landed directly on it when you went to the boy's side. 

  Distracted and careless is what you are. He taught you better than that. “(Y/n), get up.” His voice is colder now, more commanding than it had been seconds ago. 

You don’t get up or even look at him. Your arm is still over your eyes, only letting tears flow. “Let me go.”

  He grabs the sides of your face, pulling you up. “I did what I had to do. The house of mirrors was just to remind you.”

   “Of what?” You whisper. He can see the despair in your eyes. 

   “Of us. Of the lengths I will go for it. Your nen means nothing to me. That boy is nothing. You my love, my dear,” 

  He places a kiss with each word. “My heart,”

“My compass,” He presses his forehead to yours, his hands still holding on. “My very soul. You are everything to me and I will not lose you again.”

 You sob. “You’re insane…where’s the boy I once knew? How did you end up this way?” You try to separate yourself from him. His hands shake your head a little.

 With a hiss, Chrollo clears, “I was always this way.”   

[just-some-random-blogger]

hey gorgeous! it's me! thank you so much for writing it! tbh, it's not what i expected but AGWHWHWG bc soft!daemon? i LOVE it!! such a cutie!! i still do need him to suffer more, though... what do you think about maybe a part 2? where he's the one who (finally) gets teased and gets the taste of his own medicine (reader flirting with HM ser stong?). so the demanded apology with tears on the knees (not nsfw) because this pretty prick deserves it :) again, thank u so much for writing it! sorry if it's too much, never wanted to make you uncomfortable! take care!

Since You Asked So Nicely

Daemon Targaryen x Reader + Harwin Strong x Reader

Summary: Your feud with your husband was about to meet a swift and strong end.

Word Count: 1k+

Warnings: mentions/descriptions of violence, daemon's still such a man, fem!reader, wife!reader, i love strong puns XD, married couple quarrels, harwin daddy, jealous!daemon, fluff, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: the title of this fic is my reaction to you nonnie. honestly i kinda felt both bad that my fic wasn't enough T_T LIKE PLEASE I TRIED then annoyed like HOW DARE YOU NOT LIKE IT THEN MAKE ME WRITE SMTH ELSE HADhASLHDA HAHAHAH nah but then you asked me so nicely so i thought ok fine i'll give it another wack i hope that i'll finally be enough for you T_T i guess our theme for today is petty 🥰 WIAT GURL THESE GIFS SIDE BY SIDE TOGETHER FUCK THAT SHIT IM DEAD BYE Tagging: @pinksirensong @deniixlovezelda @targaryenmoony Part 1 (which I think you should read) "It Takes Two"

We had not spoken since our struggle last night. In the flames of my anger, I woke up before him and made no effort to alert him of my errands or duties for the day. That of course, also meant, he was certainly riveting in annoyance and betrayal having woken up alone after pleading mercy to me until he and I both fell asleep.

In all his pride and morose wailing, still, he did not find it in himself to ask for pardon. He instead wasted his breath in trying to convince me he did it as a game, and that I should not have thought much of it, that he would happily get on his knees but for the exact opposite thing I truly want him to do.

And even now, the man is as insufferable as he can get. Since it seems it was nary clear that I did not enjoy the sight of him divulging his attentions to other ladies at court, he did, what? Yes of course, the very exact thing.

Each ear of his had a young lady giggling bashfully into it. I had gone a great many lengths to ignore it, but then it began to be unbearable when I finally noticed the lords and ladies turn from my husband to me, muttering and laughing under their breath.

Normally, I wouldn't even bat an eye over the opinions the pricks had of me or my husband. Here and now however, it was hard not to feel like a dunce, when I was the princess, yet I was standing alone, and my prince had ladies fawning over him left and right.

Enough.

I will not grant him the satisfaction of humiliating me any more than he has. I'm leaving.

Daemon watches, perking at the sight of the exit. He steps forward, away from the irritating voices, smirk falling, for it was never truly genuine in the first place.

His face hardens when there is an interception.

"My princess," a deep voice speaks, as a large man blocks me.

I lift my gaze and stop before we collide. Immediately, my spirits are lifted at the sight of the dark man's hair and beard, "Harwin."

His lips curve at the familiarity of my addressing.

"I thought you were off, doing gods-know-what again?"

Harwin chuckles, shaking his head, "the gods have allowed me to accomplish my tasks swiftly.

He raises a brow and places his hands behind him, "you're not leaving when the festivities have not even commenced yet, are you?"

I scoff, crossing my arms, "festivities are naught this eve, ser Strong."

"That is because," he steps forward, taking my hand slowly, "you and I have not yet shared a dance."

I roll my eyes at him, "you're a poor partner."

"And that is precisely why the festivities will commence."

I snort, smiling up at him, as he smiles back down. He takes my expression as wordless agreement. Harwin spins me once before leading me to the dancefloor. I chuckle at his theatrics. Poor he may be in dancing, he's always been good at making me smile.

I press slightly against him as his hand falls to my back, the other clutching my arm delicately.

"Tell me, Winne," I grip his firm shoulder as we glide with the music.

He snorts at my archaic pet name for him, rolling his eyes as he licks his teeth in amusement.

I am amused by his reaction, pleased to know that the name still held him tightly in annoyance, exactly like how it did when we were younger. I chuckle before deflating, "do men normally think it a game to toy with their wives' feelings?"

Harwin's amused expression fades. He grunts and spins me around, using the opportunity to eye Daemon, who was undoubtedly already looking at us.

When his eyes dart back to me, he purses his lips, "indeed this night is not at all festive to you, little doe."

I turn away from him, aimlessly looking at his collar to avert my glare elsewhere. He did not mean to trigger my anger, what he said was his pet name for me as children, but it had been since overshadowed by my husband's musing of the name; he called me his little doe in times he came to me as a predator and I appeared to him like prey.

My gut groans in annoyance.

Harwin notices my discomfort and does me the courtesy of changing the subject, "tis unfortunate for me to announce a tonne of men believe riling wives a thrilling sport."

I turn back to him; the darkness in my face melts when I catch the concern in his. I purse my lips tightly, pushing a stray curl away from his face, "and do you hold the same regard, Strong?"

"Hmm," he looks away to think, "my princess would be pleased to learn that as a child, I had a terrible playmate," Harwin turns back to me, raising his brows, "she was the most entitled little girl I ever met, was so viscous and strong."

I snort.

He mimics, "though perhaps not as strong as me. Still, I am aghast to ever think of crossing or treating a woman poorly, not even because I think it descent, but merely for I fear the rage of she."

I cannot help the fond smile that spreads on my lips. I tilt my head as we circle the room, continuing our movements, "I suppose it is the gods irony that the Strong boy fears a strong girl."

Harwin laughs, twirling me around once more. I break into a chuckle as he does so, a bit dizzy when he pulls me back close to him. I am heaving slightly when he pulls me close.

"I suppose it is, princess," he tilts his head.

In that moment, the song ends and each dance partner parts, clapping as they did, us included.

"Care for another dance, Winnie?" I ask, extending my hand to him.

"Actually," he leads me to the side, "I was wondering if you wanted a change of pace," Harwin brings us by a column, "I feel that, in all his pettiness, the prince has not yet told you that the flowers he requested for you have recently just been planted in the gardens."

"What?"

Harwin huffs, "I had the same reaction when I heard of it. Your husband is a fu-"

Instantaneously, I am pulled aside and a string of, what I knew to be High Valyrian curses, were muttered tightly. Daemon seethes, gripping me with his iron hand, "and what of her husband, Strong?"

Harwin is unfazed by the glare Daemon throws.

I wince at how rough his grip is on me, "unhand me!" I bark, shoving Daemon off me. He does not budge and tightens his grip further. It is clear to me Daemon is too blinded by his rage to realize he is hurting me.

It is because of this, Harwin finally steps in. He barks, yanking Daemon off me, stepping between us, "you're hurting your wife, prince!"

Of course the action only caused further injury to me, Daemon's nails grazed my skin, and yet I am thankful for Harwin's interception.

The vein on Daemon's neck flares as he presses forward, closer to his opponent, "you have no right to tell me what I do with my wife!"

The area of my arm that Daemon grabbed throbs in pain. Tears fog my eyes as I watch the two of them squabble.

"I have every right to protect the princess," Harwin flares, "especially from the likes of you."

"From the likes of me?!" Daemon narrows his eyes.

The crowd breaks into a shocked gasp when the prince lunges and grabs Harwin by the collar, muttering something in High Valyrian, then threatening, "I best kill you. Who the fuck do think you are to tell me anything, vermin?!"

"Daemon!" I quip, prying him off Harwin, "unhand him!"

"YOU KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF MY WIFE!" Daemon seethes, hands digging deeper into Harwin's clothing.

"KEEP YOUR ATTENTIONS ON HER THEN!" Harwin barks back, overpowering him, twisting Daemon's hands off him and shoving him away.

The next instant, the attentions of the entire room is upon us. I feel my blood pump as my head spins, unsure of what to do next. I still manage to act swiftly before anything else can happen.

I walk over to Harwin, calling out to him. "that's enough, please just-"

"Why are you going to hi-" Daemon starts, grabbing me again. He cuts himself back and recoils when I whine and draw back at the contact he makes at my sore arm, the arm he most definitely bruised.

I snap at him, throwing him a hot glare. He looks bewildered. He looks guilty. He doesn't even meet my eyes and instead is staring at my arm. I point a finger at him, "I'll deal with you later."

I turn back to Harwin, placing my hands on his chest, pushing him away, "go home, Winnie."

Daemon's head cocks, his lips twitches in an unpleasant manner, "Winnie?"

Harwin gently takes my arm, leaning in, "he hurt you."

I feel tears prick at the corner of my eyes. I fight them off as I whimper, "please, just go."

Harwin brushes his calloused hand on my injured arm before walking back and storming off.

When I turn back to Daemon, he is looking at me with a stoic expression. I grit my teeth and grab him, dragging him away with me as we leave this damned hall.

I take him all the way to our shared chambers, but I stop just outside the door. I finally release him and begin to berate him, "are you satisfied?"

Daemon stiffens at the sound of my shrill voice.

I heave, "not only did you ruin my night, you ruined everyone else's!"

His eyes evade me. His lips part when he sees my arm. He reaches out to me and I recoil, "don't you dare fucking touch me."

"I didn't mean-"

"YOU DIDN'T MEAN TO DO ANYTHING BUT YOU STILL DID THEM!" I scream. I poke his chest in anger, "you claim it's all a game to you, and yet you're the only one that ever enjoys it!"

"It's all that cunt, St-"

"IT'S YOU, DAEMON!" I flare, "It's always you!"

Daemon's face contorts. His breath hitches. He walks closer, "my love, please-"

"You hurt me, Daemon!" I word carefully, wanting it to finally get through his thick skull, "not just tonight, but for the past weeks!"

He calls out my name but I raise a hand to silence him.

"You're either sleeping on the floor or sleeping elsewhere."

He gulps, ready to plead his case again. I cut him off before he can even open his mouth.

"Speak a word in protest over my generosity and I will chose a far crueler fate for you," I coldly spit, walking toward the door, pushing it open. I look over my shoulder as I walk in the room, "what's it going to be, prince?"

Daemon cringes at the call, brows tightening along with his fists. He deflates and mutters under his breath, "floor."

I turn to him, eyes narrowing, "you were so loud a while ago, where did your fire go, dragon?"

"Floor," he utters walking in the room, stopping once he is in front of me. Daemon's expression is grave as he mutters again, "I'd much rather sleep on the floor, wife."

I pull away from him before he can even attempt to touch me. I walk towards our bed, grabbing a pillow, haphazardly throwing over to him. I glare darkly, "if you are cold, sleep by the fire, dragon."

Daemon calls out my name, wanting to begin his pleas again, but then he stiffens when he watches me walk toward the door, "where are you going?"

I scoff, "how cruel of you to think I'd sleep with a throbbing arm."

"I'll come-"

I turn to him, tears finally running down my cheeks. Daemon freezes in his spot. I huff, looking away from him, "do not show your face to me until I've calmed."

Daemon frowns.

"I mean it."

At last, he finally has the brain to no longer push the matter further.

[cinnamooniee]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐬 [part 2]

Characters : college student jungkook x college student fem reader

Genre : Angst but comfort later on, fluff??

Warnings : Mentions of alcohol.

read part one <3

The sight of his name, even in that small font, made your stomach twist all over again. You hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. Part of you wanted to answer, to hear what he had to say, to let him try to explain himself—or maybe even apologize. But the other part of you, the part that was exhausted, that was hurting, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

With a shaky breath, you silenced the call, letting it ring out as you stared out of the window. The quiet hum of the car and the rhythmic flicker of streetlights through the window felt soothing, like a balm over the jagged edges of your heartache.

A few seconds later, your phone buzzed again. This time, it was a text.

Jungkook: Y/N, please pick up. We need to talk.

You felt a fresh wave of frustration as you read his message. The nerve he had to act like he cared now, after all those hurtful things he’d said. All you’d wanted was to understand, to find some kind of way back to the closeness you once shared. But instead, he’d pushed you away, dismissed your feelings, and thrown blame at you as if you were the one at fault.

Another text buzzed through, then another.

Jungkook: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say those things.

Jungkook: Can we just talk? I need to explain.

Your phone continued buzzing, message after message lighting up the screen. Each one made you grip your seatbelt a little tighter, fighting the urge to respond. You couldn’t—at least not right now. The words wouldn’t come, not when everything felt so tangled and raw inside.

Finally, there was a pause, a minute or two of silence. You exhaled, trying to ground yourself in that temporary calm. But the quiet didn’t last long.

Maybe you’re asleep already… I’m sorry for bothering you so late.

A pang hit you as you read that line. Did he really think you could just sleep after everything? He knew you better than that—at least, you thought he did. But maybe you’d been wrong all along.

Another text followed, slower, like he was second-guessing himself.

I just hope you got home safe.

You swallowed, feeling an ache settle in. He was probably picturing you curled up in bed, phone on silent, dozing off without a second thought. But here you were, staring at his words in the dim glow of your screen, unable to find peace in any of it.

Ok. I’ll check in tomorrow then, sleep well, Y/N.

The last message hung there, a final thread connecting the two of you, but it felt frayed—worn thin by all the words left unsaid, all the pieces you didn’t know how to put back together.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The next morning, you roll over to see your phone blinking with unread messages. You try to ignore it, but a knot of guilt tightens in your chest, knowing exactly who it’s from.

You can’t keep avoiding him forever. The thought pops up, uninvited, with a mix of dread and determination. It feels like every time you ignore him, it only makes things worse.

With a sigh, you open the texts. His messages are there, unreadable yet loud on the screen—probably asking if you got home safely, wondering why you didn’t reply. A wave of conflicted emotions rolls over you; you want to explain, but part of you is also tempted to stay hidden.

After a long minute of hesitation, you finally type a reply:

"I was tired last night."

Then you erase it.

"I got home fine, thanks."

Delete.

"Thanks for checking in on me."

Another delete.

With a frustrated sigh, you run a hand through your hair, feeling ridiculous for spending so long trying to find the perfect words. You don’t owe him an explanation; there’s no need to apologize or over-explain.

Finally, you settle on a message:

"I got home safe."

Plain, simple. It’s just enough to let him know you’re okay without giving away too much. You hit send before you can change your mind, then set your phone down, wondering if this will finally ease the tension… or make things even harder.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The morning drags on, and you keep glancing at your phone, half-expecting a response from Jungkook. But the silence only amplifies your nerves. Just as you’re about to drown yourself in the endless sea of homework, your phone buzzes, and it’s him.

"Hey, can I come over?"

Your heart races at the thought of him showing up, and you hesitate, staring at the screen. You want to tell him no, to reinforce the distance, but the words just won’t come. Instead, you let it go unanswered, hoping he’ll take the hint and change his mind.

Two hours pass, and just as you start to relax, a sudden knock on your door jolts you from your thoughts. You freeze, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Y/N?” Jungkook’s voice comes through, slightly muffled but unmistakable. “I brought you something.”

Your stomach sinks, surprised that he actually came over. You take a deep breath and make your way to the door, opening it just a crack. Jungkook stands there, looking a bit disheveled, holding a small bouquet of flowers that looks like it came from the local convenience store—a few wilted blooms tied together with a fraying ribbon.

“I, uh… I got these for you,” he says, awkwardly holding them out like a peace offering. “I didn’t want to come empty-handed. Can I come in?”

A wave of frustration crashes over you. He really thinks this is okay? After last night, he just shows up with cheap flowers? “Why do you think that’s going to change anything?” you snap, your anger bubbling to the surface. “You yelled at me and acted like it was no big deal . What do you mean? We had a fight and you dumped me--maybe?! And now you're just...

You don't even have the words to explain your frustration right now.

His eyes widen in surprise, and you can see the realization dawning on him, but you don’t give him a chance to respond. “Oh, and let’s not forget how you flirted with that girl right in front of me! And that you went right back to it after we fought."

He looks taken aback, mouth opening slightly as if to respond, but you cut him off once more. “I don’t even know what you want from me! You show up here like nothing happened. Do you think some wilting flowers are going to fix this?”

His expression shifts from surprise to guilt, and you can see he’s struggling for the right words. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way, Y/N. I just wanted to talk.”

“Talk?” You scoff, arms crossed tightly over your chest. “What’s there to talk about? You decided to bail when things got tough, and now you’re here with a lame excuse for an apology?”

“I didn’t bail! I just…” He runs a hand through his hair, looking frustrated. “I thought maybe if I came over, we could sort things out. I’m sorry for how I acted. I care about you, okay? I just didn’t know how to handle it.”

You roll your eyes, your heart racing with anger. “Care? If you really cared, you wouldn’t have treated me like that. You think I can just forget that?”

Jungkook’s shoulders slump, and he looks down at the flowers in his hands, the weight of your words clearly hitting him. “I know I messed up. I just thought—”

“Thought what? That this would all be okay just because you showed up with stupid flowers? You’re delusional,” you cut in. “I can’t keep avoiding you, but I’m not just going to pretend like everything’s fine!”

He looks hurt, his eyes searching yours for some sign of understanding. “I just wanted to fix things. I thought you’d want to talk about it too.”

You take a step back, feeling overwhelmed by everything—your anger, your confusion, the weight of his gaze. “I’m busy, Jungkook. Just… just go.”

Please,” he finally says, his voice quiet but firm. “I just want to talk to you. I’m not leaving until we sort this out.”

“What do you want me to say?” you shoot back, your frustration boiling over. “You come here with flowers like that fixes everything, and you expect me to just let you in? You really think I’m going to be okay after last night?”

“I know I messed up!” he replies, his frustration matching yours. “But I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t realize how it would come across, and I want to explain myself. Can we at least talk about what happened?”

You stare at him, the determination in his eyes making it hard to look away. As much as you want to slam the door in his face, a part of you is curious—maybe even hopeful. But that hope is buried deep under layers of anger and confusion.

“I’m not interested in hearing excuses,” you finally say, trying to keep your voice steady. “You’ve already made it clear how you feel.”

“I know,” he admits, his voice dropping. “And I get why you’re angry. But please, just give me a chance to explain. I don’t want to lose you over this.”

You feel a mix of emotions swirling inside you—anger, hurt, and a hint of the connection you’ve had with him. You want to scream at him, to tell him to leave, but another part of you just wants to hear what he has to say.

“Fine,” you say finally, your voice low. “But you better not waste my time.”

As you step back and open the door wider, Jungkook enters, his gaze focused on you as he takes a seat on the edge of your bed. He looks around your room, a hint of nervousness in his posture.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, his voice softer now. “I just… I messed up, and I’m trying to fix it. I didn’t mean to flirt with that girl; it was stupid, and I didn’t think about how it would affect you. I get that it made you feel uncomfortable, and I should have been more aware. You’re the only one I want to be with.”

You hold his gaze, searching for sincerity in his eyes. “You don’t get to just play around with my feelings, Jungkook. You can’t expect me to just forget everything because you’re suddenly apologetic.”

“I know, I know,” he replies, desperation creeping into his voice. “But I’m here now. I want to make things right. Just tell me what I need to do. I’ll do anything.”

You take a deep breath, fighting the urge to soften. “You don’t get it. It’s not about flowers or grand gestures. It’s about respect and understanding. If you want to be with me, you need to start acting like it.”

“I will. I promise,” he says, leaning forward, his sincerity palpable. “I care about you, and I’ll do whatever it takes to prove that.”

You stare at him, the walls around your heart feeling like they’re starting to crack just a little. But the anger still simmers beneath the surface. “Just know that I’m not going to make it easy for you.”

“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” he replies, a small smile breaking through the tension. “Just let me try.”

You give him a reluctant look, still wary, maybe—just maybe—this could be a step toward something better..? Maybe he meant it. Maybe he truly was sorry.

As the tension hangs heavy in the air, Jungkook shifts slightly, a mixture of determination and vulnerability in his expression. You can see the sincerity in his eyes, and it stirs something within you—an urge to let go of the anger, if only for a moment.

He leans closer, and without thinking, you hold your breath, your heart racing as he reaches out. His fingers graze your arm softly, and it sends a jolt of electricity through you. Then, in a surprising yet gentle motion, he cups your face, tilting it toward him.

“I’m really sorry,” he whispers, his voice barely above a murmur. “For everything. Last night was a mess, and I shouldn’t have treated you like that.”

Before you can respond, his lips brush against yours—soft and hesitant at first, as if he’s testing the waters. The kiss is sweet, laced with an apology that goes deeper than words. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, and for a fleeting moment, the anger dissipates, replaced by a wave of emotions you thought were buried.

He pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, breathing heavily. “I swear, nothing happened with that girl. It was all just… nothing. I don’t want anyone else but you, Y/N. You mean too much to me.”

Your heart flutters at his words, and he continues, his voice earnest. “You’re amazing. You’re smart, beautiful, and so much more than I deserve. I take back every single thing I said last night. I was an idiot. I was half drunk, and we had been fighting for weeks before that- and I just didn’t know how to handle it."

You look into his eyes, searching for any hint of insincerity, but all you see is raw honesty. “I messed up,” he admits, his expression vulnerable. “But I want to make it right. I want to show you that I care.”

The sincerity in his voice tugs at your heart, and you find yourself softening. “It’s just hard for me to trust you right now,” you confess, your voice wavering slightly.

“I get it,” he replies, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. “But I’ll prove it to you. I’m here, and I want to be with you. Just give me a chance.”

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of his gaze. In that moment, everything else fades away, and it’s just the two of you—raw, real, and vulnerable. You nod slowly, your heart racing as the anger you held onto begins to melt away, replaced by something warm and hopeful.

“Okay,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Just… show me.”

Jungkook’s expression brightens, relief washing over him as he leans in once more, capturing your lips with his in another soft kiss. This time, it feels different—deeper, more meaningful, as if it’s sealing a promise between you.

As you pull away, you can’t help but smile a little, the tension easing between you. “You better keep that promise,” you tease lightly, though your heart still flutters at the warmth of his presence.

“I will,” he assures you, his eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and sincerity. "I love you Y/N, I really do"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

tags<3 : @thelittlecatonthecake

[nogenderbee]

♡˗ˏ✎*ೃ˚ 𝕋𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕖 𝕓𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕧𝕚𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕞 ₊˚ˑ༄

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ anon request: Hello Bee! I was wondering if you could write Rui with a flirty reader? i think it would be fun considering hes very teasing :3

Thanks for reading <3

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Hi there!! Omg yeah absolutely!! I swear I love the idea sm!! They'd be so chaotic and HWSODUSY

Just see! Hope you like it <3

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ fluff

Affiliation with @virtualbookstore

✧ Rui is a flirt himself, in fact, he could probably fluster anyone in the blink of an eye if he tries!

✧ bur something curious about him is that when he meets someone as flirt as him, or even more... he easily becomes flustered himself~

✧ comebacks don't work on him that well since he kinda expects them, but if you began flirting with him out of the blue first, his face will most likely immidietly heat up

✧ and then you get to see this rare sight~ of Kamishiro being at loss for words, not even being able to move an inch

"Oh~ Seems someone's been missing me~"

"You don't even know how much! I mean... how could I not miss that pretty face of yours and those sweet kisses~?"

"Ah-"

"Seems like someone's speechless for the first time~"

"I-It's nothing... Let's just.. Let me walk you to your next class..."

✧ sometimes, he does come with comeback tho! If your flirting isn't too intense...

✧ if you do it in front of WxS, they're all gonna be between surprised that Rui could get red like that (except for Nene) and look of satisfaction ad he finally gets what he gives!

✧ but if a bit more time passes.. he'd most likely get a little bit used to your flirting and it'll be easier for him to maintain his composure and maybe even flirt back~?

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

@bleachtheidiot @akitosheart @yulikesminori @toyaswif3y @bl4cktourmaline @r4wrclwz @superstar-ethereal @stellas-starry-stove13 @alicewinterway18 - come get your crazy inventor~

[redsummermoon]

Hello! I love your writing, to start. I know you said you only like to write for Charlie, buuuut sense you also asked for ideas, I thought I’d mention this one I had! So I’m the odd man out and actually have a fascination with Richard Cameron. I know, don’t hurt me. But I was thinking of a scenario with a female reader and a sort of “enemies to lovers” fic with Cameron? Basically where they’re complete opposites. Maybe the reader is popular and rebellious, and of course Cameron is himself. They’ve got nothing in common except the poetry meetings they like to go to, and they really just make snarky comments back and forth the whole time. Then finally (sense it’s fall) they end up going to a Halloween party. (Perhaps there’s drinking involved?) And Cameron ends up seeing the reader in her costume, that by 50’s standards might be a little risqué, and he’s like “how tacky, girls shouldn’t dress like that”, but secretly he ends up like … 👀❤️ And then smooch

Anyways, that’s my idea. Feel free to ignore. Thanks, love 💗

Of course my first request is cameron😒 (IM KIDDING) 

Thanks for requesting!! I hope I did your fascination justice❤️

Something More

Richard Cameron x reader CW: use of Y/N, female reader, blonde hair reader, underage drinking, making fun of nervous stuttering [2.9k words] 

Cameron had never understood Y/N.

Sure, she was smart. Probably too smart for someone who spent most of her time breaking rules with Charlie Dalton or getting involved in Neil Perry’s theatrical antics. Cameron could almost tolerate Charlie’s rebellious streak. After all, they were roommates, and you had to pick your battles. But Y/N… there was something about her that made it impossible for him to simply look the other way.

It wasn’t that he hated her. At least, Cameron didn’t think it was hatred. Maybe it was the way she always seemed to one-up him. Like when she managed to sweet-talk her way out of trouble for sneaking into the theater building late at night, or when she got away with challenging the headmaster’s every word without consequence. Charlie thought she was brilliant, and Neil seemed to gravitate toward her, especially during their impromptu play rehearsals. But to Cameron, Y/N was the embodiment of everything he wasn’t. Free-spirited, fearless, and… reckless.

He sighed, adjusting his tie in the reflection of the small dorm mirror. "Rivals," he muttered under his breath. That was what he’d settled on. They were rivals. Even if he didn’t quite understand why it bothered him so much.

Cameron knew he was no rebel. He liked rules, structure, and order. It was what made him who he was. But then came Neil’s ridiculous idea of reviving the Dead Poets Society. Neil had made it sound poetic and adventurous, a hidden escape from the suffocating walls of Welton. It was, of course, the exact sort of thing Charlie and Y/N would love.

Naturally, Cameron wanted no part of it. Sneaking out after curfew, wandering into the woods, all for the sake of reading poetry in secret? It was a direct violation of school policy, and Cameron wasn’t about to jeopardize his future over some poetry club. At least, that’s what he had been planning to say when Neil invited him.

But then, of course, he overheard Neil mentioning Y/N would be there.

He had no idea why that changed things, but suddenly, Cameron felt a knot tighten in his stomach. She’d be there, laughing, breaking the rules, and Cameron knew exactly how it would play out. She’d have that smug look on her face, as if she’d won some unspoken battle between them. She’d act as if she was braver, bolder, and once again, she’d leave Cameron in her dust.

"Fine," Cameron said to Neil, trying to hide the nervous edge in his voice. "I’ll go."

He hated the way his palms started sweating the moment he agreed, and the anxiety that knotted in his chest only tightened as the hours passed. Sneaking out wasn’t his thing. But he couldn’t let Y/N have this. Not this time. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of thinking she was more daring than him.

Later that night, as Cameron made his way through the shadows of Welton’s halls, he tried to calm the rising tide of his nerves. His heart pounded in his chest, each footstep feeling heavier than the last. This was wrong. Everything about it was wrong. He shouldn’t be sneaking out to the woods, shouldn’t be joining some secret society that defied everything Welton stood for.

But when he thought of Y/N, laughing and teasing him about being too scared to join them, he gritted his teeth and pressed forward.

The night was heavy with silence, the kind that pressed against Cameron's ears, heightening his anxiety as they made their way into the woods. Neil and Charlie led the group, their low murmurs and laughter breaking the stillness every now and then. Cameron lagged behind, mentally cataloging every risk, every infraction, every possible way this could go horribly wrong.

Then there was Y/N.

She darted ahead of the group, her footsteps loud as she ran through the leaves, laughing as she threw her arms out wide. “This is it, boys! The start of our revolution!” she shouted into the night air.

Cameron winced. “Shut up,” he hissed, jogging up to catch her. “We’re still too close to the school!”

Y/N only grinned, glancing over her shoulder at him with a playful glint in her eyes. “Relax, Cameron. No one’s going to hear us out here.”

“They will if you keep yelling like that.” He grabbed her arm, tugging her back toward the group. “Do you ever think? We’re supposed to be sneaky, and you’re—”

Before he could finish, Y/N spun around, eyes wide in mock innocence. “Me? You think I’m the problem?”

“Yes!” Cameron’s voice cracked slightly, his frustration rising. “You’re always so loud—”

Y/N leaned in closer, yelling, “Am I?”

He groaned, placing his hand over her mouth to stop whatever retort she had coming. “Just... quiet.”

For a moment, Y/N’s eyes locked onto his. They glimmered with mischief as Cameron rambled on about the consequences if they got caught. She wasn’t even listening. She never listened. Then, without warning, she licked his hand.

“Ugh!” Cameron pulled back, wiping his hand on his blazer.

Y/N smirked. “Thanks for the taste, Cameron!” She winked, then darted ahead, disappearing into the trees.

Cameron stood there for a moment, seething as her laughter echoed back at him. “That damn girl,” he muttered under his breath, before hurrying to catch up with the others.

• • • • • ☽ ☼ ☾ • • • • •

A few weeks later, they’d settled into their usual spot in the woods, the group began their poetry readings. Neil always read with confidence, Charlie with charm, and even Knox, when not obsessing over some girl, could manage to stumble through his lines.

Then there was Cameron, who dreaded his turn.

“I-I think I’ll go next,” Cameron announced, clearing his throat as he stood up, gripping the poetry book a little too tightly.

Y/N leaned over to Neil, whispering loud enough for Cameron to hear, “Brace yourselves, boys. Here comes another thrilling performance from Mr. Perfection himself.”

Cameron’s face burned. He shot her a look, but Y/N just smiled sweetly, batting her eyelashes in mock innocence. He started to read, his voice wavering on the first line.

“Wh-Whose woods these are I think-I think I know. H-His-his house is in the-the village though.”

Y/N leaned in closer, whispering to Charlie. Cameron figured she would be making fun of his stuttering.

Cameron shot her another glare, stumbling on his next line. “H-He will not see m-me stopping he-here.”

Charlie snorted under his breath, but Neil shot Y/N a warning look. She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms and leaning back against a rock. Still, the damage was done, and Cameron barely made it through the rest of the poem without losing his nerve.

Later, when Knox started talking (again) about his girl troubles, Y/N took it as her cue to play matchmaker. “You just need to be bolder, Knox! Girls love confidence. You’ve gotta show her you’re the one!”

Cameron sighed, rubbing his temples. “Y/N, can you not? We’re trying to read poetry, not solve Knox’s love life.”

She turned to him, eyebrows raised. “What’s wrong, Cameron? Jealous? I can help you with your stuttering and your girl problems.”

He scoffed. “I don’t have girl problems.”

“Oh, really? Then why is your face red every time I’m around?” Y/N shot back.

• • • • • ☽ ☼ ☾ • • • • •

Lately, Y/N has been… different. She’d still tease him, but it wasn’t with the same sharpness, the same eagerness to provoke a reaction. Her jokes seemed half-hearted, like she was holding something back.

One evening, after Cameron had finished reading his poem, without stuttering for once, he looked up to see Y/N staring at him. Not smirking or rolling her eyes, but actually staring. For a second, Cameron thought he might’ve imagined it, but when he caught her gaze, she quickly looked away, focusing on the ground.

What was that about?

“Hey, Y/N,” Cameron asked after the meeting had ended, the others already making their way back toward the school. She stopped, turning to face him, the moonlight casting soft shadows over her face. “You… didn’t make fun of me tonight.”

She blinked, a slow smile creeping onto her lips. “Would you rather I had?”

Cameron shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to respond. “No, I just… I noticed.”

“Maybe I’m getting soft. Or maybe you’re getting better,” Y/N shrugged. “See you at the Halloween party tomorrow.”

Before Cameron could reply, she brushed past him, her arm grazing his as she walked by. He stood there for a moment, confused, flustered, and less irritated than he usually was after one of their encounters.

That damn girl.

• • • • • ☽ ☼ ☾ • • • • •

Cameron adjusted his soldier's uniform for the tenth time, nervously scanning the cafeteria. The decorations were tacky but festive, with paper bats hanging from the ceiling and pumpkins lining the tables. People had gone all out with their costumes, and the music blaring from the speakers set the perfect atmosphere for the Halloween party at Chris’s high school.

Cameron wasn’t usually one for these kinds of things, but tonight, he was trying to make an effort. His friends were really excited and that kind of energy was contagious. He spotted Knox and Chris almost immediately. Knox was beaming, dressed as Batman, and Chris, right beside him in a Batwoman costume, clung to his arm like they were in their own little world.

Knox caught Cameron’s eye and waved him over. “Cameron! You made it!”

“Yeah, wouldn’t miss it,” Cameron said, though his eyes were still darting around the room. “You guys seen Charlie or Y/N?”

Chris and Knox exchanged a look before laughing.

Cameron frowned. “What?”

Knox shrugged, grinning. “You don’t want to know.”

Cameron’s confusion only deepened. “What do you mean by that?”

Neil strolled up at that moment, wearing a Dracula costume that, somehow, actually suited him. His cape billowed dramatically as he greeted them. Cameron wasted no time.

“Neil, where’s Charlie and Y/N? They said they’d be here.”

Neil shook his head, chuckling softly. “Trust me, Cameron, you don’t want to know.”

Before Cameron could press further, the doors swung open, and Charlie made his grand entrance. Dressed as a pirate, complete with an eyepatch, a fake sword strapped to his waist, and a slightly tipsy grin, Charlie swaggered into the cafeteria.

“There he is,” Knox said, laughing as Charlie made his way over.

“Cameron!” Charlie greeted him loudly, saluting to his friend. “Good to see ya, soldier boy!”

Cameron’s nose crinkled. “You’ve been drinking already?”

“Sir yes, sir!” Charlie smirked, holding up a cup of punch. He shoved the cup into Cameron’s hand. “Here, have some. Courtesy of me and Y/N.”

Cameron eyed the cup warily but took a sip. His throat burned slightly from the spike of alcohol, and he shot Charlie a look. “You spiked the punch?”

Charlie wiggled his eyebrows. “Of course. It’s a party, Cam! Loosen up!”

Cameron sighed, lowering the cup. “Speaking of Y/N... where is she?”

Charlie’s eyes lit up with mischief, and he let out a low whistle. “Oh, just wait until you see her. She’s… well, you’ll see.”

The noise of the party seemed to dull as the doors swung open again, and in walked Y/N, dressed as Marilyn Monroe. The crowd parted like the Red Sea as she moved through, her heels clicking against the floor, and every head, boy and girl alike, turned to stare.

Y/N wore a tight, black dress that shimmered under the dim lights, with a plunging neckline that left little to the imagination. The back was almost entirely see-through, revealing glimpses of her skin with every step. The dress ended high on her thighs, adorned with frills that swayed as she walked. A long strand of pearls hung from her neck, falling gracefully down from her ruby-red lips as she held a pearl between them. Her hair was perfectly styled in soft, platinum blonde curls, pinned in a way that mimicked the iconic Marilyn Monroe look.

Cameron could only stare. His breath caught in his throat, and he felt his cheeks burning. He should’ve known from Charlie’s reaction that Y/N would come dressed to impress, but this… this was something else.

“Holy...,” he muttered under his breath. “Girls shouldn’t dress like that.”

Charlie elbowed him with a grin. “Come on, man. Just enjoy it.”

But Cameron couldn’t. Or rather, he couldn’t stop himself from looking. As Y/N made her way through the crowd, it was as if the entire room was drawn to her. She moved with confidence, a playful smirk on her lips as people whispered and gawked at her.

Charlie nudged Cameron again, this time a bit harder. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I…” Cameron stammered, quickly downing the rest of the punch in his cup. The alcohol did nothing to calm his nerves.

And then, she was there. Right in front of them.

Y/N smiled, looking between Charlie and Cameron. “Hey, boys.”

Charlie gave her a whistle again. “Y/N, you’ve outdone yourself.”

Y/N gave a little twirl, the frills of her dress bouncing playfully. “You like it?” Her eyes landed on Cameron, and her smile grew wider. “What about you, Cameron?”

Cameron swallowed hard. “I, uh... well...”

Before he could gather his thoughts, Charlie cut in, laughing. “Cameron’s jaw was on the floor the second you walked in. Couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

Y/N’s eyes sparkled with amusement as she turned her full attention to Cameron. “Really?” Her voice was teasing, but there was a warmth in her expression that made Cameron’s face heat up even more.

“I-I wasn’t—” Cameron started to protest, but he felt his cheeks growing even redder, and he knew there was no denying it.

Y/N’s smile widened, clearly pleased. “Well, I’m glad you approve.” She reached out and lightly touched his arm. “I think your costume is great too, by the way. Very handsome.”

Cameron opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He nodded quickly, feeling more flustered than ever, and Charlie burst out laughing at the sight of him. Cameron couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or the heat rising in his cheeks, but either way, he was in over his head.

As Charlie walked away, giving Cameron a playful wink before disappearing into the crowd, Y/N stayed by Cameron’s side. The music had shifted to something slower, softer, and the energy in the room had mellowed. Y/N turned to Cameron, her smile softening as she caught his gaze.

“So,” she began, taking a small step closer, “what do you say? Want to dance with me?”

Cameron blinked, taken aback. “Dance? With… me?”

Y/N laughed, nodding. “Yes, you. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

Still confused, Cameron hesitated. “Why are you being so… nice to me?” He glanced down, feeling the weight of her attention more than ever. “I mean, we’re not exactly… friends.”

Y/N’s smile faded slightly, but there was a tenderness in her expression. “I guess something’s changed,” she said, shrugging lightly. “I don’t want to be rivals anymore. I don’t think we need to be.”

Cameron’s brow furrowed. “You don’t?”

“No,” Y/N said simply. She looked him in the eyes, her expression sincere. “I don’t want to argue with you all the time. It’s exhausting. I think we could be something else. What do you think, Cameron? Is that okay with you?”

Cameron felt his heart race. She was being so open, so honest. He hadn’t expected this. “I... yeah. That’s okay with me.”

Y/N’s eyes twinkled as she took another step closer, her voice dropping to a soft, almost teasing tone. “Good. So... what do you think we should be, then?”

Cameron swallowed nervously, unsure of how to answer. “I... I don’t know. What do you want to be?”

Y/N’s smile grew wider, playful but warm. “Well,” she said, her fingers lightly brushing against his arm, “maybe this can be our first date. You know, to figure out if we should just be friends... or something more.”

Cameron’s mind went blank for a second, but deep down, he knew what he wanted. He had always been drawn to her, even through their bickering, even when he told himself it was just rivalry. The truth was, it had always been something more.

“I think…” he began, his voice a little shaky but determined. “I think I’d like to be something more.”

Y/N’s eyes lit up, her smile becoming something softer, more genuine. She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Prove it.”

Without thinking, Cameron closed the distance between them, his lips meeting hers in a soft, tentative kiss. The world seemed to disappear for a moment. The party, the music, the people; everything faded into the background. It was just them, standing in the middle of the dance floor, sharing something neither of them had expected.

When they pulled apart, Y/N was smiling, her cheeks flushed. “Well, that’s a good start.”

Cameron smiled back, feeling lighter than he had in a long time. “So... does that mean we’re not rivals anymore?”

Y/N laughed, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the center of the dance floor. “Nope. From now on, we’re on the same team.”

As they began to dance, moving in time with the soft music, Cameron couldn’t help but feel like this was the best first date he could’ve imagined. Y/N, with all her teasing and fire, was someone he’d always admired, and now, she was something more.

(Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening By Robert Frost included (one of my fav poems))

[pugh-bug]

No.42 Chapter 7

Art Donaldson x reader slow burn

If you’re still reading this series I appreciate you so much 🫶🏻 this is a pretty angsty chapter - vague implications of an eating disorder.

Part 6

——————————————————————

You had twelve texts, mostly from Liam, with the most recent being:

11:49am - Text from Liam

Thanks for coming you looked great haha

get home safe ok ;)

The wink you barely registered in your exhausted morning state, instead you rolled over to see Art asleep on your floor. He was in last nights clothes, as were you, and curled up in the foetus position. The temperature outside had finally dropped enough degrees to let a light breeze through your open window, brushing Art’s curls off his cheek. He looked angelic.

‘He might need you more.’

What did he need you for? He had Art for friendship, Liam for rivalry, his family for financial stability and himself setting his future aspirational lifestyle in motion. All of these thoughts swam in your head like hunting gators as you listened to Art’s peaceful breathing. What was he dreaming about? You hoped something good, your recent dreams had caused you nothing but high blood pressure.

CLANG!

Ah…Patrick. Morning coffee time.

‘Hmmm?’ Art mumbled, opening his eyes slowly. The poor boy must have the worst hangover of anyone’s life (you’d say of his but it was likely Art’s first real one). ‘How are we feeling?’ You cooed, sitting cross legged on your bed staring down at him. For a moment you received no response other than groaning, as Art clambered to a seating position. His eyes were still foggy when he cleared his throat to ask what time it was.

‘It’s 12.’

Another groan. ‘Shit…where are my - I’m sorry why am I in your room?’ He looked around frantically for his phone or water, so you gestured to your nightstand which stocked both. You smiled slightly at Art’s sleepy, confused voice. ‘You tell me,’ you shrugged, trying to remember. ‘We probably got out the Uber and just collapsed in here instead of your room cos it’s closer…Pat’s slept on the couch maybe?’

Art ran his fingers through his hair, straining his neck up with wide but distant eyes. He looked, for a moment, like he’d stopped breathing. Like he’d severed the oxygen to his brain and he was going to sit and wait to crack. His nails were even starting to dig in on his own arm.

‘Art.’ You snapped your fingers in his face and he seemed to come back from wherever he’d been. ‘Are you okay?’ Art solemnly took in your concerned frown for a moment before standing up and saying ‘Thanks for looking after me.’ on his way out.

——————————————————————

Art had been too exhausted to go to practise but not too exhausted, apparently, to do press ups in the kitchen. You walked in, after your shower, expecting to find the two of them watching tv not working out - well Patrick wasn’t. ‘I know I know, you try telling him.’ Was all Patrick offered in response to your look of total disbelief.

‘Twenty six…twenty seven…twenty eight…’

Any other day you might have been impressed but this? This was ridiculous.

‘Art, what are you doing?’

‘Twenty nine…thirty…thirty one…’

He was sweating, not as much as when he played tennis but he’d need a shower. His lips, in between counts, were trembling ever so slightly from the effort as he pushed and pushed to fight against sleep. It was a sad sight, one you wished to dissolve one way or another.

‘Art, this is fucking ridiculous. You’ve barely slept you’re hungover you just need one lazy day.‘

No response.

‘This isn’t normal.’

Patrick gave you one last look of defeat before going for his shower, clearly desperate to leave the room. You hesitated before kneeling on the floor beside Art’s head.

‘Thirty seven…thirty eight…’

His body was giving up on him - just screaming at him to let it rest.

‘Thirty…nine…’

When he got to forty you hoped you’d see a flicker of satisfaction on his face, followed by a prompt end but no. No, he just kept going.

‘Forty two…forty thr’

‘Fucking stop!’ You yelled and he did. Finally. Art dusted off his hands and sat up, staring at you in complete silence. He looked almost horrified at the intrusion.

‘I’m not your Mum but you need to look after yourself, you’re never going to win matches if you turn up to them half dead because you refuse to relax.’ You sighed, heavily, waiting for the lengthy disagreement Art would throw at you. The defensiveness. It never came.

‘I know.’ He pulled his knees up to his chest and stared at the poorly woven carpet, looking lost. ‘I just…I can’t afford to take days off I’m not Patrick. I have to work and work and work at it constantly. If I get into the habit of taking days off whenever I feel a bit shitty what will that get me? It won’t get me into Challengers, it won’t make me win any Opens. I won’t win Wimbledon Y/N,’ Art looked up at you, his eyes glassy. ‘What will it have all been for if…if after everything I’m just average?’

‘You’re telling me you can’t win Wimbledon if when you’re hungover you watch tv instead of working out?’ You rubbed your face, studying his for any negative reaction. ‘Sometimes one small set back is all it takes.’ He looked utterly defeated, you’d never seen someone look so low. It was hard for you to understand the tennis obsession but of course, like most things, you knew it wasn’t as simple as it seemed.

‘Have you eaten yet?’

He shook his head.

‘Well, you really should - actually you will. There should be leftovers.’

You managed to convince Art to eat and drink plenty of water before he resisted. ‘Maybe go back to bed?’ Was your advice - which he did not take. Patrick was half gaming half texting girls and only chimed in to make the odd sarcastic comment. He didn’t hear what Art said next.

‘Y/N,’ When you took your eyes away from your coffee you saw Art’s hand trailing closer to yours, his eyes apologetic. ‘I think you’re kinder than anyone I’ve ever met.’ Before you could say anything he was coughing, interrupting himself before he could share further. It took a while for his diaphragm to ease up but by then the moment had passed. His hand had returned to his side of the table.

Chapter 8

Masterlist

Taglist: @gatorgirl007 @imblushingrn @soy-garbage @blahhucantmakeme

[jgys-hat]

Now I've rewatched The Untamed having now read MDZS, here are some thoughts (in no particular order):

I found myself liking Jin Zixuan a lot more this time around - the first time I watched I found him kind of boring, but this time I really appreciated him for seemingly trying to be kind and fair despite being posh and privileged. I also found his awkwardness endearing... Oh, and Wei Wuxian is a total dick to him on several occasions, to be honest.

I also liked Su She a lot more this time.

I liked Wangxian a more in CQL than in the novel. I think this is because in the novel, WWX can't read LWJ very well, so sometimes I felt that novel!LWJ came off as somewhat of a flat character, whereas in the show the acting gives a better sense of what he might be thinking and feeling at any given moment.

The flashback episode scenes at Cloud Recesses where they're all young, alive and more or less happy are Painful to watch knowing what's coming next...

I really intensely dislike CQL's inclusion of the second flautist plot point. I think the story is more interesting and tragic if WWX really did just overextend himself and lose control.

On a similar note, I preferred that in the novel the curse put on Jin Zixuan was nothing to do with WWX at all - I think something that's got nothing to do with him being pinned on him anyway adds an extra level of tragedy to the story and adds to the themes the story is trying to put across.

I much preferred the greater level of moral ambiguity that the novel had - it made me really sad that WWX does some really awful things but eventually gets to live happily ever after having had a chance to redeem himself, whereas JGY never gets that chance and just dies horribly :(((

I really enjoyed the extra development that CQL gave to the female supporting characters! I feel like CQL gives a much better sense of how Wen Qing is as a person than the novel does.

JIN GUANGYAO THE CHARACTER EVER... Everything I could possibly say about him has already been said by people who are much smarter and better at writing than me, but I love his character so much... He does do some pretty awful things, BUT he gets put in a lot of impossible situations where he would have been absolutely pilloried no matter what he did, poor guy. "JGY did some awful things" and "JGY was genuinely badly treated by a lot of people" are statements that can and should coexist.

The other thing that I find really sad is that JGY meets his end because of the person he (at least in the novel) killed in self-defence and was genuinely afraid of, and not because of anything actually evil he did, like having his dad's pet serial killer murder twenty women... It's really not justice at all, but I think that's likely the point the story is trying to make.

Listen, I'm just so sad about A-Yao... Maybe people should have been nice to him and he wouldn't have committed crimes :)))

He lived so much of his life in fear of one kind or another and then dies humiliated :))) I'm fine this is fine :)))

I am continually astonished that the censors decided "no zombies for you" but something as gross and horrible as the way Jin Guangshan was bumped off is A-OK.

I think that given how different the structure of the drama is from that of the novel, introducing the Yi City trio earlier on was an understandable and sensible change to make.

I think I may need to scream forever about Nie Huaisang's character arc... The fact that by using LXC to kill JGY he's become as manipulative as the person he hated, and has also forced Jin Ling into becoming sect leader at a very young age, just like NHS himself was by the death of his brother, makes me Feel Things...

...As does the fact that his face as he leaves the Guanyin Temple in CQL is not the face of a happy man - it comes across to me as though he's realised that getting revenge hasn't really given him any sense of satisfaction at all. He must know that his peers are unlikely to really trust him again. I love how in his final scene he's dropped the buffoonish act totally, because now his plan has come to fruition he can outwardly be the person he has been inside for a very long time.

NHS is clearly just as capable of Rage as his brother once was, he just expresses it very differently.

Also, the fact that by the end of the story NHS is likely older than his brother ever got to be :)))

I wish CQL had had some way of working in the scene from the novel where NMJ had NHS' things burned - I think it was nice on getting some background on the brothers and on NHS' relationship with JGY.

JGY and NHS were clearly close once, so watching this happen to their relationship is so interesting to me... The betrayal on both sides is just *chef's kiss*... I actually think they're both quite similar in a lot of ways, but that's probably a topic for a separate post!!!

They are both such cool and interesting characters and I love them both!!

[annepsilvaauthor]

You Belong With Me - Jamie Dutton

Pairing: Jamie Dutton x OC (Ava North)

Summary: Ava only wanted one thing: to be a horse tamer. And when she had the chance, she took it. Ava became the new horse tamer of Yellowstone, a totally different ranch from the others she met, either because of its immensity or because of family problems. Ava thought her problems were big, but when she met the Dutton family that thought dies. However, there is a Dutton who is a point out of the curve, a lawyer mistreated by the problems and by his own family. Meeting Jamie Dutton may not have been the work of chance, after all one broken understands the other.

Warnings: Subtle sexual innuendos, brief language, alcohol consumption, angst, smut, fluffy.

Author's note: Can someone tell me how I put the "read more" by app? Please, help me!

Part III

Someone I can't have

The days went by and Ava became more and more connected with the cowboys and especially with the foreman. They didn't have another moment as intimate as that, since Ava no longer showed any interest beyond the conversations and Lee seemed to understand this. She respected him and liked to see that he respected her equally. This fact alone could have made him even more attractive, but something got in the way. He was kind, capable and kissed very well, he was a man. Why didn't she feel attracted to him?

One day the Duttons invented to have a family reunion on top of the horses. She could see Lee, Jamie and another brother she later discovered was Kayce, John's youngest son. There was a boy with him and from the way John looked at that boy, he was his grandson. But there was no sign of Kayce's wife, if he had any. Ava knew there were more children, a woman, but she didn't leave the House much and she certainly wouldn't share that moment with them.

Ava rode on one of the horses and joined the other cowboys, waiting for the Duttons to gather on the horses. Lee was the first and stood next to her at a distance considered far enough not to cause suspicion, but close enough to take care of her. Ava can observe Rip's look on himself, curious and mocking. She knew he understood what was happening between them, but had let her bear her own decisions. And she would thank him for that.

Jamie was the second to climb the horse. That stallion was one of the most docile and calm in the stable, which made it clear how far Jamie was from the farm and the routine of the cowboys. He certainly wasn't a landowner. At least, Jamie didn't get out of balance and managed to guide his horse to where Lee was, keeping his eyes fit, of course, on John Dutton. He helped his grandson to climb on his horse with satisfaction and love, with a look that she had not yet seen launch even to Lee, let alone Jamie.

Jamie, at a rare moment, looked away from John to Ava. It was a quick moment, maybe milliseconds, but she can glimpse a look of sadness. He fixed his gaze on Kayce, calling him to ride, but Ava kept watching him. Once again he had dressed differently from the suit and tie, wore boots, jeans, a white shirt and a cream jacket. However, as much as he dressed like a cowboy, he wasn't one. The well-aligned hair was certainly not from a cowboy. Jamie represented everything that Ava never managed to stay close to, that she never saw in that small town. He represented a class very far from her. Still, her body kept burning whenever she saw him.

Kayce finally joined the rest of the family and everyone headed to the countryside, where they guided the immense buffaloes from one valley to another. They did that from time to time to give the land time to recover while the buffaloes fed on the other part. The land trembled with the noise of the strong footsteps of the animals, both buffaloes and horses and Ava admired the beautiful and raw landscape of Yellowstone. The clean air, green and blue of the sky enchanted her every day as if it were the first time.

"I'll get him going for you." Kayce informed Lee with a playful smile.

"Race you!" Lee took the challenge and rode next to his brother, pairing the speeds in the middle of the herd.

"Men." She laughed alone when she watched the two brothers increase their speed more and more and the buffaloes follow them downhill.

"Think they should hold here." Jamie announced to his father, who ignored him for a few minutes.

"Kayce might be the only man who can outride him." John replied calmly as he watched the two sons ride through his land and then walked away from Jamie taking Tate with him.

The cowboys continued with their work and followed John, but Ava took a few seconds to watch Jamie. He stood there after hearing that from his father, with a sad and disappointed expression. John had said with all the letters that Jamie was not good enough to defeat Lee. And that statement didn't seem to be just about the race. Jamie was destined to be just the family's lawyer forever, at least according to John Dutton.

Before following the same direction as the others, Ava noticed a mucca on the back loins of Jamie's horse and rode to him. Jamie received her with a question mark on his face, after all, their last meeting had not been so friendly for her to want to approach him again.

"There's a mucca on your horse, sir. Don't move. I'm going to remove it." Ava informed respectfully when she got close enough to him. Jamie was reluctant for a moment, as if he didn't believe she was helping him, but gave in with a nod. If that mucca stung the horse, God knew how far he would take Jamie.

"Be quick." Jamie ordered by observing that the herd and the cowboys were distancing themselves. Ava rolled her eyes without him noticing and stretched towards Jamie's horse, pushing the mucca away with the thick gloves.

"Quick enough?" She didn't contain the sarcastic comment. "Oh, sorry...sir."

Jamie shook his head in front of her comment and left towards the others without looking back.

"Thank you, Ava. You were very kind." She replied to herself and rode quickly in the direction of the other cowboys.

After they guided the herd to valley nine, the Duttons took a different turn on the way back. They took a turn and rode towards the river. Ava and some cowboys remained at the top of the hill, waiting for the bosses to fish in the river. They prepared the baits and hoisted them over the water while still riding the horses. They seemed to be having fun and for a moment Ava wished she wasn't a cowgirl and could just had fun in that river.

Lee was the first to catch a fish and handed the fishing rod to Kayce, who gave it to Tate. John Dutton had gone up with the other cowboys to solve landowner problems and left his grandson with his father. Tate was an adorable boy who didn't seem to have much contact with nature, at least not like that.

"I got a fish!" Tate exclaimed excitedly to his father.

Ava observed that Jamie had positioned himself in the center of the river and after a few minutes he hooked a fish as well. Then Jamie got off the horse in a cumsy jump and wrapped the nylon thread of the fishing rod.

"Lee, get my horse. Whoo!" Jamie exulted when he could catch that fish as if he were a child, almost as excited as Tate. "Little late in the year for that!"

"Do they have the habit of coming here?" Ava asked Ryan, one of the cowboys who had been left behind.

"Not in recent years." He responded by watching the family downstairs. "Only Lee still shows up here from time to time."

"You can tell that."

Ava watched Jamie lift his huge fish from the river with a smile of satisfaction. He seemed very proud of his feat, it almost seemed that he had never done something so good that he deserved to be proud of or that someone had never given him due recognition. One thing or another, the fact was that Jamie seemed happy. It was the first time Ava saw him smile, most of the time Jamie was frowing, sad or worried. She could almost see every line of expression of his no longer so young face from above. He raised the fish so high that she thought he wanted to show her his big fish too. She laughed without warning.

"Oh, she's so beautiful." Jamie admired the dead fish in his hands.

The Dutton brothers lit a small bonfire by the river and roasted the two fish they had caught. They were more comfortable at that moment, taking off their jackets and sitting on small tree trunks. The moment seemed so intimate that Ava felt bad for having to watch them. She, more than anyone, knew the value of privacy and they deserved it.

"You're gonna raise him on a reservation?" Lee asked his brother about Tate while eating some of the roasted fish.

"People do it every day." He responded in disdain while taking care of his son's fish.

"Cause they have no choice, Kayce." Jamie entered the conversation after eating another piece of the fish, carrying a small knife between his big hands.

"Yeah, looks like you're ready to eat." Kayce ignored the brothers' comments to pay attention only to her son.

"It's a good day." Tate sentenced by finally tasting his fish.

"Every day, just like this." Jamie reported excitedly, but Kayce didn't buy that.

"Who are you kidding? Bet you haven't fished here in years."

"Only thing we haven't done in years is seeing you, Kayce." Jamie replied looking for another piece of fish meat.

"Well, he told me to leave."

"He told us all to leave." Lee recalled with the most serious voice. "You were just the only one who did."

"It's different. You know that."

"So you're gonna raise him in that meth-filled desert to prove a point." Lee continued to debate with his brother.

"What I'm proving you'll never understand." Kayce explained and the brothers laughed.

"Shit, I miss being young. You wake up in the morning and you just keep right on dreaming, huh?" Lee mocked his younger brother.

"You're a 38-year-old bachelor living in your father's house, working 100-hour week for a nibble of his approval." Kayce countered directly in a heavy argument. "Is that the dream, Lee? Sure as shit it ain't mine."

Ava could see the brothers talking from afar without being able to hear them, but she could notice a certain repulsion and anger in Lee's always cheerful expression. She wonder what they were talking about? Suddenly, Lee caught a pebble and threw it in the direction of Kayce, who deviated before the piece hit his face.

"Hey! Don't throw things at my dad!" Tate screamed anrily and got up to throw, with all his childish strength, the fish he had caught on Lee. The brother fell back more scared than by the force of the object. "Fucker!"

The brothers laughed because of the boy's behavior and verbiate. Even Ava laughed from up there. It was something so unexpected that she couldn't hold back her own laugh even if she didn't know what it was all about. Lee was hit by a little boy. She would definitely make fun of him later.

And there it was again, his smile. It was more surprised than happy, but it was still a beautiful smile. Jamie had big and wide teeth, but crooked. She was sure he could have left them straight if he wanted to, he had money for it. Ava didn't understand why someone who apparently cared so much about appearance didn't care about their own teeth. However, she had to admit that it matched him. A sign of imperfection on that plastic mountain. She liked that, it was fucking charming.

The brothers remained talking for a long time until Tate seemed tired and they decided to return home. The Duttons reunited again with the cowboys and they rode back. Jamie didn't ride as fast as his brothers, not even the cowboys, so he always ended up behind the crowd. And this distance allowed him to see a red handkerchief stuck in one of the branches of the trees. Jamie recognized it and approached to pick it up, keeping it in his jacket pocket.

Upon arriving at the stables, the cowboys collected the Duttons' horses to feed them inside the barn and they all entered the house, at least that's what Ava thought. She took care of the last horse in the stable, combing the mane while he fed, when she saw boots appear at the door. Ava raised her head to contemplate Jamie Dutton.

"Is there a problem, sir?" She asked with a frown, since he had never entered there since she had taken over the job.

"My father cares about his men as much as about animals and the land, Ava. He gives you everything you need to take care of what is his." He began his report by crossing his arms over his chest and staring at her with disdain.

"We are grateful for that, sir."

"Is it really? It doesn't look like it. Where's your handkerchief, Ava?"

She continued to frown at his question and looked for the piece on her neck, but did not find it. Ava widened her eyes and looked under her jacket, in her pockets and even in the cabin, but she couldn't find it. Holy shit! She sighed strongly and closed her eyes for a second trying to remember where she could have left it. Damn, the wind was so strong that day that it could have fallen anywhere.

"I lost it, sir." Ava responded after realizing that lying would not be the best option.

"Good. You were honest." Jamie let out a mini smile and rummaged through his jacket pocket, removing the red scarf. Ava opened her mouth slightly in surprise and closed it immediately. "It was near the river. It looks like you got distracted."

"This is not going to happen again, sir."

Jamie didn't answer by just studying her entirely with those huge and bright blue eyes. She had never been so close to him as to see them like that. They were beautiful, although a little sad. Jamie extended the handkerchief towards her and Ava picked it up, but not before she felt a remnant of his warm skin between her fingers. Sparks exploded from that touch.

"I feel like I know you from somewhere." Jamie resumed talking after the brief shock.

"I don't think so, sir. I would remember, for sure."

"You would?" Jamie asked almost choking and Ava felt a little powerful for making him disassemble like that.

"We are from completely different worlds, sir. If I'm in a place where you are, or that place is poorly frequented or it's from high society." Ava acquired a seductive tone that she had no intention of having. Jamie swallowed it dry over and over again. "I would definitely remember someone like you."

"Someone like me..."

"Yes, someone I can't have."

Ava didn't understand why she did that, in fact, she knew well, she just didn't understand why she couldn't contain herself. He was her boss, just like Lee. If she continued like that, she would lose the respect of cowboys and bosses. But she couldn't help but like everything that Jamie threw at her at that moment, in complete shock, as if he had never heard something like that from someone, especially from a woman. Ava saw him as an imposing man, smart enough to rid the ranch of many problems, but she realized that Jamie didn't seem to have many experiences with women. He seemed naive, disconcerted and fucking surprised. Probably, Jamie had never been desired by a woman before, at least, not one as attractive as Ava.

"IIII, I need to go." He stuttered and swallowed dry several times.

"OK, sir. Thank you for returning the handkerchief to me." Ava maintained the malicious tone and opened an irresistible smile, which Jamie almost disassembled in front of her. "Have a good day, Mr. Dutton."

"Likewise, Ava."

Jamie squeezed the step away from the stable and if she wasn't looking maybe he would have run out of there. Once alone, Ava allowed herself to laugh at the situation and bit her lower lip.

"Did you see that, Leon?" She talked to the horse that squeamed.

[penncilkid]

Alright since @angelicaether continues to enable me, welcome to:

Nick (the Neko) Headcanons

Because PK started getting too fixated on fleshing him out /lh

First off: He's fleshed out solely because I'm shipping him with Milo. This is the ONLY Nick rarepair I plan on doing, alright /lh

He's about 5 years younger than Milo

He's taller than Milo (no specific height headcanon yet but for context, my Milo is 5'5")

He's Mexican! (Because I'm not making him a white twink)

He's the only freelancer in a family full of coyote shifters (Yep, you read that right. Not cat shifters, coyote shifters)

He's also the child of an affair (Ssssssh don't worry about that /j)

He's studying at DAMN! The loose idea is he's studying shifter magic and/or healing magic as it pertains to shifters

I have a whole typed up explanation of how him and Milo first meet but the condensed sequence of events is Milo overhears him out on a date inching closer and closer to breaking covert, follows him and his date outside, narrowly avoids letting date see the neko bullshit, then puts the fear of God into Nick to ensure he's not gonna pull this shit again

Now, I can hear someone out there: "PK, what about Matt?" So glad you asked! I'm making Matt transphobic /lh

I decided that I wanted the cat shifter stuff to have a deeper meaning, some of which is gender affirming. So when I say Matt's transphobic, I'm saying it in a way where he swears up and down that he's not because he affirms binary trans people, but as soon as Nick half jokingly brings up that maybe the neko stuff could be more serious to him, suddenly he's too much and ridiculous and— (You catch my drift?)

Despite it being a brief fling, Nick takes it *really* hard. Milo ends up coming across the guy while he's out, puffy eyed with tear stained cheeks. Seeing as Milo hasn't heard of Nick pulling any stunts I thr time between these meetings, he offers to sit and talk with him for a bit. This is the catalyst for how they become friends.

At some point, Milo would invite Nick to a pack function as a friend (seeing as they're not dating yet) not only because he thinks Nick could use some more friends but because he also does wanna give him a chance (I also definitely see people going up to Milo and asking where the two of them stand because they're nosy)

And thus begins their slow burn arc!

There you have it. Far too many headcanons about what I fundamentally understand is nothing more than April Fool's joke character (/lh). I thought all this through yesterday and honestly, I really don't hate it (/pos). It's fun thinking about Nick in a more serious light and giving him all this backstory. So if you read this far, I hope you enjoyed it /lh /pos

(Bonus Headcanon Under The Cut)

Whatever you do, don't think about Nick finally figuring how to shift into a coyote form and looking at himself in the mirror and feeling *none* of the satisfaction he had hoped

:D! /lh

[takemebythehand-andsetmefree]

Here is a real quick projection onto Buck’s current live life. (And what I want from season 8????)

Quick background on myself, I am bisexual polyamorous, and non-binary. About two years ago I decided to finally step out of my comfort zone and start dating/hooking up with people for really the first time. I opened myself up to couples, other poly people, and basically anyone who would’ve be a fucking creep, but there is one situation I found myself in a few times that really stood out to me- being a third for a couple.

Now a lot of people DO NOT want to be a third/unicorn but I honestly really enjoyed it. I liked joining in on an existing dynamic, whatever that entailed. It also taught me how to read couples better.

Being a third (FOR SEX) is hard because you have to have some acceptance of the fact that you are essentially being used by the couple for their own satisfaction (if it’s a relationship dynamic you’re looking for it’s WAY different).

The reason I bring this up is because Im getting STRONG vibes that Tommy could be putting himself in the “third” situation right now. I feel like he’s been around Eddie enough to recognize the repression and compulsory heterosexuality (coming from Gerard’s 118, and the army) and then he recognized the longing for love in Buck.

I THINK that MAYBE if ABC is willing to go down this path, we could get a conversation with Buck and Tommy along the lines of “I know that you don’t love me that way. I know you’re working through shit, but Im going to Love You Anyway.” “I care about you enough as a person to help you through this journey, and while I might not be your endgame, Im what you are ready for right now, what you need right now, and Im okay being that.”

The idea that a relationship isn’t endgame isn’t something that most people are comfortable with, and I do know that Gay men characters are used for plot progression often, but I don’t think we see a lot of characters that are aware that this is their purpose, and OKAY with it.

I would love to see Tommy having seen both sides of Buddie, know that they are BOTH not ready, and deciding that maybe it’s okay. He can give Buck what he needs- his first boyfriend, someone to show him that love exists in a non toxic way, and someone to talk to, while getting what he needs in return- a boyfriend, a pseudo family at the 118, and someone to talk to.

And Eddie just needs a goddamn break and ALOT of therapy. So like, he isn’t ready for endgame either.