#this chapter is about as long as the last one but also feels so much: bigger

[violetszn]

one

summary ✩ you found it hard to believe that it could actually be this hard finding a roommate. when you take up your boss’s offer and end up letting his daughter move in, you find it even harder believe that a match could be this perfect.

warnings ✩ 5.3k ✩ swearing and drinking but that’s pretty much it for this chapter. also one little innuendo towards the end.

notes ✩ so this one is around 5k words but i haven't decided yet if i wanna leave the rest of the chapters around this length or if they'd be better longer. definitely let me know what you're feeling about the length !! <3

The Last Drop hummed with its usual late-night energy, laughter and low conversations falling over the clink of glasses and the occasional small argument among friends. You wiped down the counter, only half listening to a group of regulars argue over a card game while keeping an eye on the random drunkard who always underestimated his tolerance.

“I don’t need to slow down, I can handle my alcohol — I’m a grown man alright? Back off!”

Vander leaned against the bar beside you, arms crossed, surveying the crowd like a guard dog. His presence was grounding and authoritative. The kind that made people behave without him ever having to say much.

“You look tired,” he noted, his voice carrying over the noise.

You exhaled, pressing your hands against the cool surface of the bar. “Yeah, I’ve been dealing with a headache of a situation. Trying to find a decent roommate is way harder than I thought it’d be. Way harder. The last guy that sent in an application actually asked if he could have a pet puma, for ‘future references’.”

Vander raised a brow. “Sounds… rough to say the least. You put up a flyer?”

You gestured toward the message board near the entrance. “Couple days ago. I’ve had some applications, but nothing promising. Another guy asked if he could keep his pet tortoise in the bathtub.”

Vander let out a deep chuckle. “That’s a new one.”

“Yeah, so unless you know someone who won’t bring in a wild animal or hog my bathroom, I think I’m out of luck.”

Vander tilted his head slightly, considering something. 

“Actually… I do know someone.”

You glanced at him, intrigued.

“Vi.”

You hesitated. The name was familiar. You’d heard plenty about her from Vander and Powder, seen quick glimpses of her on Vander’s lockscreen or when Powder was excitedly showing off pictures. And yet, despite how often she supposedly came to the Last Drop, you’d never actually run into her. Just bad timing, you guessed.

“Your… daughter?”

“Yeah. She’s looking for a place closer to campus,” Vander continued, reaching for a clean glass and absentmindedly polishing it. “She’s responsible, keeps to herself most of the time. She can be a bit of trouble sometimes but I promise she’s got a good heart. Knows how to throw a punch if you ever need backup.”

You furrow your brows in confusion. “Why would I need backup?”

Vander gives you a raised brow in return. In a place like Zaun, that was a rhetorical question. 

You mulled it over. Vi was somewhat of a mystery to you, but if Vander recommended her, that meant something. Plus, finding a roommate was proving to be a nightmare. At this point, you’d take a mystery over a guy who collects wild animals.

“I’ll think about it,” you finally said, tossing the rag over your shoulder. “but it sounds promising.” 

Vander smirked. “I’ll let her know.”

And with that, the conversation shifted, but something told you your search for a roommate might be over sooner than you thought.

The steady hum of the city outside your window was almost comforting, a distant reminder that the world kept moving even as you buried yourself in coursework. You sat at your desk, fingers hovering over your keyboard, eyes blurring slightly from staring at the same paragraph for too long.

With a sigh, you leaned back in your chair, rolling out the tension in your shoulders. Just as you were about to force yourself to focus, your phone buzzed beside you.

A new email.

You grabbed your phone and squinted at the screen. 

Subject: Roommate Application – Vi

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. That was fast. You hadn’t expected Vi to actually apply so soon — hell, you weren’t even sure she’d be interested. But Vander must have mentioned it to her right away. You couldn’t help but wonder if he talked you up the way he did her.

Curious, you opened the email.

The application itself was pretty straightforward. 

Name: Violet. Preferred Name: Vi. Occupation: Student. Side gigs: Boxing instructor, part-time fighter. Hobbies: Same as my side gigs. 

You huffed a quiet laugh. At least she was honest.

Scrolling further, you skimmed through the standard details; her budget, preferred move-in date, and emergency contact which, unsurprisingly, was Vander. But what really caught your attention was the attached photo.

It wasn’t anything posed, just a casual shot, probably something Powder had taken. Vi sat at a gym bench, hands wrapped, sweaty and mid-laugh, her pink hair a little messy. Even through the screen, there was an energy to her, something sharp but effortless.

You sat back, tapping your fingers against your desk.

So, this was Vi.

Technically, you’d seen her before, but this was the first time you were really looking at her. And now, she might be your new roommate.

“Well,” you muttered to yourself, “could be worse, I guess.”

You were just about to close the email when something at the bottom caught your eye.

Socials: @ CherrybombVi

Your eyes flickered back to your assignment, then back to the email. You hesitated, then scoffed at yourself. It wasn’t even a question, you were obviously going to look. If she included it, that meant she didn’t care if you saw. And honestly? You needed to know what kind of person you’d be living with.

Tapping the link, you landed on her Instagram profile. The username fit, CherrybombVi. Bold, confident, and straight to the point. Her bio was just as simple: 🥊

Most of her posts were fight clips, training footage, or gym shots, but even those had an effortless appeal. One video showed her in the ring, body fluid and sharp as she dodged a punch before delivering a brutal counter. Some seemed to be borderline thirst traps but something tells you it isn’t even intentional - she just looks like that.

Then there were the more casual posts; Vi leaning against the ropes, smirking at the camera, a candid of her laughing with Powder, a rare mirror selfie that showed off her tattoos, muscles, and sweat-slicked skin in a way that had your brain misfiring.

Your face felt hot.

This was your potential new roommate? You had only ever caught glimpses of her in photos before, never enough to form a real impression, and yet somehow you hadn’t expected… this. Before you could spiral too much, your finger moved on autopilot and hit Follow.

You set your phone down, exhaling sharply, only for it to buzz almost immediately.

New DM from CherrybombVi.

Your stomach flipped as you opened the message.

CherrybombVi so ur the one vander’s been hyping up?

Your breath hitched slightly. She followed you back that fast? Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you tried to come up with a response that didn’t make you sound completely unhinged.

You depends what exactly has he been saying?

A typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

CherrybombVi that ur looking for a roommate that ur not an asshole and that u can make a decent drink

You huffed a quiet laugh.

You i mean yeah he’s not wrong

CherrybombVi cool so when do we meet?

Your stomach did another stupid little flip.

You how’s tomorrow?

CherrybombVi works for me Last Drop?

You figured you’d say that

CherrybombVi best place in town. vander pays me to say that

You does he?

CherrybombVi nah, but he should

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.

You alright, Last Drop tomorrow. we’ll talk, see if this’ll work

CherrybombVi sounds good hope ur not easily scared off ;)

You bit your lip.

You guess we’ll see.

As soon as you hit send, you set your phone down again and let your head fall back against the chair. Why did that make your heart race?

The Last Drop was busy tonight, the usual crowd packed into their favorite corners, drinks in hand, conversations rolling over the music playing from the old speakers overhead. You were behind the bar, moving on autopilot as you poured drinks and exchanged easy banter with the regulars.

Despite keeping yourself busy, there was a part of you that kept one eye on the door. You weren’t nervous exactly, just… anticipating. When the door finally swung open and she walked in, you knew immediately.

Even without the pink hair, Vi carried herself in a way that made her stand out. She was relaxed but sure-footed, like she belonged in every room she stepped into. She was dressed casually, hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket, eyes scanning the room until they landed on you.

Your stomach did something weird.

Vander, who had been stacking glasses nearby, glanced up and grinned. “Right on time.”

You barely had time to react before he clapped a hand on your shoulder. “Go on, take a break. I got the bar.”

You blinked. “You sure? It’s busy.”

“I’ve handled worse,” Vander said easily, already moving to take your spot. “Vi’s here to see you. Go talk.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. After drying your hands on a towel, you stepped out from behind the bar and made your way over to where Vi had already claimed a booth near the back.

Up close, she was... yeah. The photos hadn’t lied. Sharp jawline, freckled skin, toned arms resting on the table as she leaned back in her seat like she had all the time in the world.

“Hey,” she greeted, smirking just slightly. “Guess you’re real after all.”

You raised an eyebrow as you slid into the seat across from her. “Did you think I was fake?”

“Wouldn’t have been the weirdest thing I’ve seen on the internet,” she said, shrugging.

You snorted, shaking your head. “Fair enough.”

Vi leaned forward slightly, resting her arms on the table. “So. Roommates.”

“Roommates,” you echoed, feeling a little caught off guard by how direct she was. Not in a bad way, just… unexpected.

Vi tilted her head. “I’ll be real with you. I don’t make a mess, I always cover my share of the rent, and I don’t bring random women over. Schedule-wise, I’m out a lot for training and classes, but I’m usually home at night. I crash early when I can.”

That last part caught your attention. Not because it was weird, just that Vander made it sound like she was always busy.

“You sleep early?” you asked, more curious than anything.

Vi nodded easily. “Not super early. At a regular time, really. I get up early for workouts often. Kinda have to if I don’t wanna get my ass handed to me.” That made sense. If she was constantly training, she’d need the rest.

You nodded. “Vander did say you keep busy.”

Vi smirked. “That’s one way to put it.”

You leaned back in your seat, studying her. She was easy to talk to, even with how little you actually knew about her. It made the whole thing feel… simple. Like this might actually work.

“What about you?” Vi asked, tipping her head toward you. “Vander said you’re not an asshole, but that’s a pretty low bar.”

You huffed a laugh. “I’m clean, I don’t throw parties, and I pay on time. Only real downside is I have early mornings sometimes, so if you’re planning on sneaking in at sunrise, try not to slam the door.”

Vi grinned. “Deal.”

You looked at her for a moment, then exhaled. “This might actually work.”

Vi smirked. “Guess we’ll find out.”

And just like that, it was decided.

You and Vi shook on it, sealing the deal with a firm grip. Her handshake was just what you expected: strong, confident, and steady.

"Guess that makes it official," Vi said, smirking as she leaned back in her seat.

"Looks like it," you replied, mirroring her expression.

By the time your break was over, you had worked out the details; rent, move-in date, all the necessary logistics. Vi would be moving in the following week, giving you time to clear the spare room and make space for her things.

That night, you wasted no time. As soon as you got home, you started rearranging—cleaning out the closet, dusting off the shelves, and making sure everything was ready. You even sent her a quick message:

You room’s all set whenever ur ready

Vi’s reply came fast.

CherrybombVi damn ur quick i’ll be there next week

You stared at the message a little longer than necessary before shaking your head and setting your phone down. This could be good. It'll be nice sharing the burden of rent and livening up the quiet apartment a bit.

The knock at your door was solid, deliberate. You took a steadying breath before opening it, and there she was, duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a couple of boxes stacked neatly at her feet.

"Hey, roomie," Vi greeted, smirking slightly.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the way your stomach twisted at the casual way she said that. "Hey. You, uh… you travel light."

Vi glanced at her stuff and shrugged. "Don’t need much."

You nodded, stepping aside so she could come in. As Vi walked past, you could feel the presence she carried, like she was used to taking up space without trying.

Clearing your throat, you motioned down the hall. "Your room’s this way." Vi followed as you led her to the spare bedroom, pushing open the door to reveal the space you had cleared for her.

"It’s not much, but, uh…" You shifted slightly, tucking your hands into your pockets. "You can do whatever you want with it. Move stuff around, redecorate, it doesn’t really matter to me."

Vi stepped inside, scanning the room with a thoughtful nod. "Yeah, this works. Thanks."

You exhaled, relieved that she seemed satisfied. "Cool." For a beat, neither of you said anything. Then, remembering something, you added, "Oh, uh, Powder wants to come over for dinner later. Hope that’s okay."

Vi turned to look at you, eyebrows raised. "Powder?"

You nodded. "Yeah, she, um, she said she wants to throw you a welcome dinner where 'I do all the cooking and her presence is enough' or whatever it was she said."

Vi studied you for a moment, arms loosely crossed over her chest. "You and Powder are close?"

You hesitated, then shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so. We met a couple of years ago in an art class."

Vi’s brows lifted slightly in surprise. "She never mentioned that."

You smiled a little. "She probably doesn’t think it’s a big deal. She sat next to me the first day, and we just kinda clicked. She’s the one who told me about the job at the Last Drop, actually. Said Vander needed someone and that I should give it a shot."

Vi huffed a quiet laugh. "Figures. She always did like pulling people into her world."

You nodded, shifting on your feet. "So… dinner?"

Vi smirked. "Yeah, alright. Could be nice."

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. "Cool. I’ll start dinner in a little while."

Vi gave you a long look, something unreadable flickering in her eyes before she nodded. "Sounds like a plan, cupcake."

You tried not to think too hard about how that word made your heart do something weird.

The kitchen was warm, filled with the rich scent of garlic, tomatoes, and seared chicken as you finished up dinner. You’d gone with something comforting; pasta, creamy and packed with flavor, with garlic bread crisping up in the oven.

Powder arrived first, waltzing in like she lived there. "Damn, something smells amazing."

Vi followed behind, empty boxes in tow from her unpacking earlier. "Wait—you actually cooked?"

You glanced over your shoulder, stirring the sauce. "What, did you think I was bluffing?"

Vi smirked. "No, I just figured I was gonna be living off instant noodles and bar food."

"You still might, jury's not out yet," you teased. Powder snickered as she stole a piece of garlic bread straight off the pan.

Once everything was plated, the three of you gathered around the small dining table, Powder practically vibrating with excitement as she took her first bite.

"Okay, what the hell," she mumbled through a mouthful. "You made this? Like, from scratch?"

"That’s usually how cooking works, Pow." Vi grins, watching as you tease her sister in a similar fashion to the way she does.

Vi took a bite, pausing for a second before nodding approvingly. "Alright, yeah. I’m impressed."

You smirked as you grabbed the bottle of wine you’d set aside for you and Vi, pouring a glass for each of you. Powder gave you both a pointed look, crossing her arms.

"I feel like I’m missing out," she said.

"You are," Vi said, taking a sip.

Powder huffed dramatically before refocusing on her food.

The conversation flowed easily after that, mostly Powder bouncing between ridiculous stories from their childhood and Vi occasionally cutting in to correct the details.

"And then she—" Powder pointed at Vi with her fork, "—convinced Mylo that licking a frozen pipe wouldn’t actually make his tongue stick."

Vi grinned, unbothered. "To be fair, I thought he’d be fine."

"He had to drink hot water through a straw for a week!"

"Okay, but I was the one who got yelled at, so really, haven’t I suffered enough?"

You laughed, shaking your head. "Sounds like you two were menaces."

"We were," Vi confirmed, smirking. "What about you? Chaotic too?"

You shook your head. "Not really. I was pretty quiet. Spent most of my time drawing, painting, reading, or writing."

Vi tilted her head. "Writing, huh? What kind of stuff?"

"Just little things," you said, suddenly self-conscious. "Short stories and stuff—whatever came to mind."

Vi nodded, looking genuinely interested. "That’s cool. And what do you read?"

"Mystery, horror, romance – stuff like that."

Vi’s brows lifted. "That’s a mix."

You smirked. "I like a little balance."

"So you’ll read about a guy getting murdered in one book and then flip to people making out in the next?"

"Pretty much."

Vi huffed a laugh, shaking her head. "Alright, yeah. You’re an interesting one."

The night stretched on like that — easy conversation, laughter, and shared stories over empty plates. By the time you realized how late it had gotten, the food was long gone, Powder was curled up on the couch half-asleep, and the wine bottle between you and Vi was completely empty.

Vi stretched, rolling her shoulders as she leaned back in her chair. "Alright, now it feels official. I’m moved in."

You exhaled, smiling. "Yeah. Guess so."

She glanced at you, something unreadable in her expression before she smirked. "Not bad, roomie."

"Not bad yourself," you said, and for the first time since you’d started looking for a roommate, you actually felt relieved.

Maybe this was going to work out after all.

The night wound down slowly, the energy in the apartment settling into something quieter, warmer. Powder stretched out with a yawn, rubbing at her eyes before glancing at her phone.

"Alright, Ekko’s on his way to pick me up," she announced, pushing herself up from the couch.

Vi smirked. "Finally getting rid of you? Thought we’d have to drag you out."

Powder scoffed. "Please, I’m leaving before you two start acting all old and responsible." She turned to you. "You better keep her in check."

You let out a soft laugh, the wine making everything feel pleasantly hazy. "I’ll do my best."

Powder slung her bag over her shoulder, then pointed at Vi. "Don’t scare off your new roommate yet."

Vi rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah."

The night had settled into a comfortable quiet after Powder left, leaving just you and Vi in the kitchen as you worked together to clean up. The occasional clatter of dishes and the sound of running water filled the space, but neither of you seemed in any hurry to finish.

Vi leaned casually against the counter, drying off the last plate as she watched you with an amused smirk. "Gotta say, didn’t expect my new roommate to be such a responsible drunk."

You huffed a laugh, placing the last dish in the drying rack. "Yeah, well… unfortunately, I have class pretty damn early tomorrow, so I should head to sleep. Hopefully, I can sleep off this wine."

Vi pushed off the counter, stepping into your space just enough to make you notice. "Shame. You’re kinda fun when you’re a little tipsy."

Your stomach did a weird little flip at that. "Oh, so I’m not fun when I’m sober?"

Vi smirked, tilting her head like she was sizing you up. "Didn’t say that. Just means I’ll have to stick around to find out."

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close she was. The buzz from the wine definitely wasn’t helping.

Vi’s smirk deepened like she could tell. "You should drink plenty of water before bed. Wouldn’t want you waking up miserable."

You cleared your throat, ignoring the warmth creeping up your neck. "Yeah. Good idea."

Vi stepped back, giving you an easy grin. "Goodnight, then."

You hesitated for a second before nodding. "Goodnight, Vi."

And with that, you slipped into your room, shutting the door behind you. You were so in trouble.

Sure enough, you wake up at six with a pounding headache and the overwhelming regret of past decisions. The wine from last night lingers unpleasantly, a dull throb at your temples that makes you groan as you drag yourself out of bed.

You quickly pop some Tylenol and chug a glass of water, wincing at the way your stomach protests. The apartment is quiet. Vi’s still asleep, and you do your best to move through the space as quietly as possible, getting ready with slow, deliberate motions.

By the time you step out the door, the worst of the headache has dulled, but you’re still exhausted. And with your schedule ahead of you, you don’t have time to recover.

Mondays are always brutal. Between the early morning classes, tutoring sessions, and art class, you barely have a second to breathe. The hangover becomes background noise, something you push through as you move from one thing to the next. By the time you finally head home, you feel like you’re running on fumes.

When you step into the apartment, Vi is in the living room, dropping effortlessly into a set of push-ups. She looks up as you shut the door behind you, barely even out of breath.

"Damn," she grins. "You just getting home? Thought you might’ve died out there."

You groan, dropping your bag by the door. "Yeah, my Mondays are usually packed. It’s when I have my earliest classes as well as my art class. On top of that, of course, I had tutoring scheduled for this afternoon. I’m beat."

You rub your hands over your face, feeling the exhaustion settle deep in your bones.

Vi pushes herself up to sit back on her heels, resting her forearms on her knees. "Sounds like a lot."

"You have no idea," you mumble, kicking off your shoes.

She watches you for a second, then smirks. "You survive the hangover at least?"

"Barely," you mutter. "Didn’t really have time to deal with it."

Vi chuckles, shaking her head. "Damn. And here I was thinking I was the overachiever."

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small, tired smile that creeps onto your lips.

Vi stands up from the floor, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. She’s dressed in just a sports bra and a pair of sweats, her toned muscles catching the dim afternoon light.

"You look beat," she remarks, stepping closer, her gaze flicking over you like she’s assessing just how exhausted you really are.

You let out a tired sigh, rubbing your temples. "Long day."

"Yeah, no kidding." Vi tilts her head. "Why don’t you sit down for a bit? I’ll make you some tea or coffee — whichever gets you back to life."

She steps closer still, reaching out to touch your arm. It’s just a light, fleeting thing, but it’s enough to make you pause. "Seriously," she says, her voice softer now, edged with something almost… considerate. "You should take it easy tonight."

You exhale slowly, your body already sinking into the pull of exhaustion. "Some tea sounds nice… thanks, Vi."

She just nods and heads to the kitchen. You collapse onto the couch, your limbs aching as you listen to the quiet, rhythmic sounds of her moving around. Soon enough, she’s pressing a warm mug into your hands before settling beside you. The tea is perfect — soothing, the heat seeping into your fingers as you take slow sips.

Vi doesn’t rush you. She just sits there, the hum of the television filling the silence as you drink. Her presence is steady, grounding in a way you wouldn’t have expected.

Once you set the empty mug down, Vi stretches, then stands, shaking her head with a smirk. "Alright, time for you to crash."

You groan but make no move to get up. "I should probably—"

"Not push yourself until you pass out on the couch?" Vi interrupts, nudging your arm. "Yeah. Let’s not do that."

You sigh, dragging yourself upright. "Fine, fine. You win."

"Damn right I do," she quips, watching as you shuffle toward your room. "Drink more water before you knock out."

You mumble something unintelligible as you push open the door, already peeling off your clothes in favor of pajamas. The second your head hits the pillow, I’m you’re out.

You don’t hear Vi moving around the apartment.

You don’t hear the quiet stretch of tape wrapping around her knuckles, the slight pop of her joints as she shakes out her limbs in preparation.

You don’t hear the door unlatch or the way it clicks shut behind her as she slips out into the night, her steps light and deliberate, leading her toward the only place that gets her heart pounding the way she craves.

The underground pit calls to her, as it always does. The roar of a nameless crowd, the thrill of a fight that doesn't come with rules or restraints. It’s a part of her she refuses to let go of.

By the time you wake up the next morning, groggy and still half-buried in sleep, Vi’s already at the kitchen table, scrolling through her phone like it’s just another normal day.

She looks the same. Same easy smirk when she glances up at you, same casual posture.

But when you step closer, you notice the fresh bruises on her knuckles, the faint swell of her lip. Injuries that definitely weren’t there yesterday.

And yet, she doesn’t say a word about them. And, for some reason, you don’t ask.

After about a month of living together you pick up on Vi’s… personality. She’s a flirt through and through and honestly? A fucking menace. Guess you see where Powder gets it from.

You’re trying to read. Really, you are. But in your defense, it’s incredibly difficult when Vi has decided that the living room is her personal gym and you have a front-row seat to the show.

She’s in the middle of her workout, wearing nothing but a sports bra and sweatpants that hang low on her hips. Her abs flex with every movement, her arms tense and defined as she pushes through another set of sit-ups. She’s completely in the zone, brow furrowed in concentration, jaw tight, strands of pink hair falling onto her face.

And you, despite trying your hardest not to, are watching.

It’s not your fault. Vi is just… really fucking distracting. It’s an effortless kind of attractive. Like she isn’t even trying, like she has no idea how good she looks. But she has to know, right? There’s no way she doesn’t know.

You drag your eyes back down to your book, determined to focus. It works for all of ten seconds before Vi shifts into a plank position, muscles taut, posture flawless.

Shit.

You must be staring harder than you thought because, without even looking at you, Vi smirks.

“See something you like?”

Your entire body tenses up.

“No,” you say immediately, forcing your gaze back to the page in front of you. “I’m reading.”

“Uh-huh.” Her tone is full of amusement. “Didn’t realize your book was in my direction.”

You clench your jaw, refusing to take the bait. “It’s not.”

She finishes her set, stretching her arms over her head as she sits back.

“Oh, come on,” she teases, rolling out her shoulders. “You’ve been staring for, like, five minutes. I’m flattered, really.”

You huff, sinking further into the couch, arms crossed over your chest. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And you’re a bad liar.” Vi grins, leaning back on her hands. “But hey, it’s fine. I like looking at you too.”

Your brain practically short-circuits. Vi says it so easily, so casually, like she’s not making your stomach do flips. She’s so smug about it. Meanwhile, your stomach does something inconvenient, and you have to force yourself to maintain an expression that doesn’t immediately give you away.

You clear your throat, trying not to sound as flustered as you feel. “You’re messing with me.”

She tilts her head, all innocence. “Am I?”

You narrow your eyes at her, but she just smirks. Desperate to change the mood, you pick up the nearest pillow and chuck it at her. She catches it effortlessly, laughing.

“Shut up.”

“No shame in it.” She tosses the pillow back onto the couch before stretching her arms over her head again, arching her back slightly as she groans from the stretch. You force yourself to look away, determined not to give her the satisfaction of catching you again.

But even as you turn back to your book, you can still feel her watching you, like she’s just as entertained by your reaction as she is by the workout itself.

“So,” she starts, casually leaning back on her hands, “since you were so obviously checking me out, what’s the verdict?”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “The verdict?”

“Yeah. On me.” She smirks, flexing her arm like some over-the-top gym bro. “Do I pass inspection?”

You roll your eyes, fighting the urge to smile. “Oh, absolutely. Five stars. Would ogle again.”

Vi laughs, tilting her head as if considering. “Only five?”

You shoot her a flat look. “Vi. I wasn’t checking you out, alright?”

“Come on… I feel like I deserve at least a six.”

You finally set your book aside, leaning forward with a feigned serious expression. “Sorry, but I don’t go higher than five. Gotta keep my ratings fair and unbiased.”

Vi grins, clearly enjoying herself. “Unbiased, huh?” She shifts forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “So if I were, say, a random dude at the gym, you’d still rate me the same?”

You blink, caught off guard. “Well, no, because if you were a random dude at the gym, I wouldn’t be—” You stop short, realizing too late where that sentence is going.

Vi’s smirk widens. “Wouldn’t be what?”

Your face burns. “Nothing.”

“Oh no, that sounded important.” She leans in, elbows on her knees, like she’s trying to coax the answer out of you. “You wouldn’t be… checking me out? So I am your type, hmm? Good to know.”

You groan, pushing your hands against your face. “Oh my god, I hate you.”

Vi chuckles, shifting to sit cross-legged on the mat. “You love me.”

You peek at her through your fingers. “Bold assumption.”

She winks. “I’m a bold girl.”

You shake your head with a dramatic sigh. “I’m moving out.”

Vi gasps in mock horror, pressing a hand to her chest. “No, don’t go! Who else will stare at me while I work out?”

That finally pulls a laugh from you, and Vi grins like she’s just won something.

“Alright, alright,” she says, pushing herself to her feet. “I’ll stop messing with you… for now.” She grabs her water bottle, taking a long sip before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and shooting you a lazy grin. “But hey, next time you wanna watch, you could always just join me.”

You scoff playfully. “In your dreams.”

She throws you a look as she walks past, heading toward the kitchen. “Oh, you have no idea.”

Your heart does something foreign in your chest. You turn back to your book, pretending to read, but the words are still a blur. How are you meant to put up with her if she acts like this?

tags ✩ @jupitism @fungalinfectionyeast @mk-a-1 @rhian88 @baylegend6 @lovely-wisteria @antobooh @arahiraaai @eriiwaii @elliesngirl @avalovesmus1c @pryncess123

[starsinthesky5]

I was wondering if yail reader and Joe ever fought. Like do the long distance ever get to them? or maybe a photo from the wrong angle sparks some concerns for either of them? Maybe the media stirring things up making them question something (not questioning each other loyalty but u k sometimes things might get in their head and they need reassurance)😩

PSA: you are in love V (coming soon) takes place in May so these blurbs are following that timeline! also i got so carried away this is way longer than needed

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

they don't necessarily fight, but they do have disagreements here and there just like any ordinary couple :)

usually over mundane things like...

who left the cap off the toothpaste (it was definitely joe)

whether or not he should be allowed to get the same meal three times in a row (we get it. you're a buff football player but chill on the chicken and rice)

him insisting he doesn’t need sunscreen because he "doesn’t burn" (he does, every time)

her spending hours in the studio when she promised she’d be home by a certain time (she makes up for it by cuddling him to death and clearing out her entire day tomorrow to be with him)

him trying to get her to watch interstellar for the hundredth time when she just wants to watch reality TV

his tendency to throw everything in one bag when they pack for trips

her getting distracted mid-story and never finishing it (drives him crazy. but she get's lost in his starry eyes way too often to count)

him getting way too competitive over Mario Kart and refusing to let her win

him taking her skincare products even though he has his own

who takes up more of the bed (it’s joe. he denies it. she has photo evidence.)

the reason for them not fighting fighting is simple.

great communication.

aka, the foundation for every long-lasting, committed, healthy relationship.

he knew what she needed, and she knew what he needed. they always talked, never hiding anything from each other. no feelings were ignored, no conversations were ever left unfinished. if something was bothering them, they talked about it. if one of them felt off, the other noticed immediately. there was no sweeping things under the rug, no letting tension build up until it exploded.

they were honest, always. brutally, if needed. but never in a way that hurt--only in a way that healed.

because at the end of the day, they weren’t just lovers. they were best friends, too. and best friends don’t let anything stew. best friends work through things together.

and for them, working together was easy as breathing.

--

distance:

the distance can get to them sometimes, but not very often. more so in the beginning of their relationship compared to now since they're 9 months in.

home base is cincinnati for her, and has been for a while now since she moved in with him. and they say home is where the heart is, and god she loved him so much...so wherever he was, that was home.

he is home.

and for 90% of the year, that's in the queen city.

but sometimes she needs to travel to new york, LA, out of the country, and even other cities in the states for work, and joe can't come with her every time due to football or prior commitments. her career takes her quite literally anywhere but it had slowed down over the past 9-ish months given she had been away from the public eye and spending all her time in cincy. she still, however, took a few quiet trips to her previous homes during that initial period in their early days (especially because she didn't officially move in with him until december/january).

**they started dating in july. anniversary is july 31st. she moved in around dec-jan. 'i love you' was said between that time as well--written in YAIL chapter 1**

and when she took those trips, they couldn't help but think about each other every second they were apart. for example, those early september nights (just after their one month anniversary on august 31st).

the season had just started, she was in LA for a secret recording session for her new album, and god...the yearning was off the charts.

flashback

"baby," his voice is thick with sleep, scratchy and sluggish, and she swears she feels it in her bones.

"hi, joey," she whispers, curling deeper into the plush pillows on her bed. his hoodie--her favorite one--hangs loosely over her frame, smelling just like him. it’s not the same, though. nothing ever is when he’s not next to her.

joe sighs, shifting on his pillow, phone propped up in front of him. his eyes are barely open, but he’s still looking at her like she’s the only thing in the world that matters. "this sucks," he mumbles.

her lips twitch, "what sucks?".

"all of it. you being there, me being here, this stupid ass time difference," he grumbles, frustration evident in his voice. "it’s only been three days, and i feel like i’m losing my mind without hearing your laughter echo off the walls. it's way too fucking quiet, i miss seeing you reading your books in that nook by the window, i can't stand eating dinner...alone, and i just miss holding you,".

she breathes out a soft laugh, but god, she feels it too. this gnawing ache in her chest, this empty feeling that lingers no matter how many facetime calls they have, no matter how many texts they send throughout the day. nothing compares to being wrapped up in him, to the feeling of his hands on her skin, his warmth, his scent, his presence.

"i know, joey," she murmurs, her voice softer now. "i miss you so much it hurts,".

joe groans, running a hand down his face. "i hate sleeping without you,".

aw.

"me too," she admits, adjusting the phone slightly so she can see him better. "your side of the bed here is too cold, and your hoodies only do so much. i swear, if i could teleport, i’d be in your arms right now,".

"wish you could, too," he sighs, shifting again. his voice dips a little lower, sleepier but just as sincere. "but you’ll be home soon. and your box is ready for you, princess. reserved, tinted, no cameras, no seats around it--just you watching me do my thing,".

she smiles, blinking up at him. "i know. you’re the sweetest. my precious, thoughtful lover,".

his lips curve just slightly, but his eyes are still heavy, still glassy with exhaustion. "not as sweet as you," he rasps. "you gonna be there next week, right? you promise?".

"of course, joey," she assures him, her heart aching. "i wouldn’t miss it for the world. you know i live for this shit," she giggled, referring to her deep-rooted love for football tracing back to her childhood.

he hums, satisfied. "good." a pause. "need you there, baby. need you home," he mumbles, feeling sleepier and sleepier by the second.

the words knock the breath out of her chest, her throat tightening.

"i need to be home too," she whispers, voice barely audible. "i need you. being here...it's a lot right now. especially going to extra lengths to not be seen. it's exhausting, but i think i'm okay,".

joe blinks at her, lips parting slightly, something soft and helpless flickering in his gaze. then he exhales, shifting so his head is tucked into his pillow, eyes drooping. "you're amazing, Y/N," he mumbles. "you are so strong, you know that? and i'm so fucking proud of you. i promise you that you'll be back with me soon, it'll be like you were never in LA in the first place,".

her heart swells, her fingers curling into his hoodie. "thanks, quarterback," she coos. "you mean the world to me...what you say means so much. you don't even know,".

"i do know," he says while flashing a lazy smike. "because you mean the world to me, too. more than the world. you’re my everything, baby,".

she pauses for a second, letting the meaning behind his words sink into her bones before saying something. but the thing is, she was staring at him for too long...staring at his beautiful eyes for a heartbeat longer than intended, so by the time she regained composure, he was already out like a light. breath slow and even, face relaxed. she watches him for a long moment, memorizing the way he looks, the way he breathes, the way he just exists.

she misses him so much it’s unbearable.

but in a few days, she’ll be home. in his arms. right where she belongs.

end of flashback

--

rumors:

she wasn't oblivious to the fact that she was dating joe burrow. and he wasn't oblivious to the fact that he was dating her. she knew what came along with dating a superstar football player like him--the drama, the rumors, the chaos. and he knew what came along with dating someone like her--the paparazzi, the headlines, the unwanted opinions.

both had big reputations, no doubt. and with those big reputations came watchful eyes. came relentless chatter. it sometimes prevented them from keeping those boundaries and walls up, making them fear that even leaving the door open a smidge would be enough for them to come in and infiltrate their safe space.

it was a struggle for them individually--maintaining that boundary and keeping things tight-lipped regarding their lives. and together? together it was even harder.

it was mostly for him, though. there was never anything on her since she had been away from the public eye for nearly a year. and joe was one of the most private people out there, yet somehow, there was always chatter. a wrong-angled photo, a hand too close to someone else’s in a candid shot, a lingering glance captured mid-conversation. it didn’t take much for the internet to spin a story.

and for him, that happened constantly. downside of being the heartthrob of the NFL, you could say.

and normally, it didn’t get to him. normally, he laughed it off, rolled his eyes, mumbled something about how people would believe anything. but some days, when he was already exhausted, when he was halfway across the country from her, when he missed her so much it made his chest ache--those were the days when the noise crept in. he'd get worried she'd think something, feel something that would make her feel pain. that pain he'd been working so hard to alleviate. the pain instilled within her because of her past.

he wouldn't ever forgive himself if he made her doubt their relationship. ever doubt him.

she, however, was completely unfazed. she saw everything--every suggestive comment from strangers online, every playful, flirty exchange from celebrities who clearly found him attractive--but she never said a word about it. because she knew who he was. and he knew who he was.

he was hers. and he would always come home to her.

that was it. that was all there was to it.

but still, there were nights when he (surprisingly) needed to hear it, when he’d pull her into his arms the second he saw her, pressing his forehead against hers and murmuring, "you know it’s just you, right?".

and she’d just smile, tucking a hand against his jaw, brushing her thumb over his cheek. "of course, baby,".

because there was nothing to question. no space for doubt.

just them.

and that was all because of communication, clarity, and the support they gave one another.

[vorfreudevortex]

Fake It 'Til We Make It

-`♡´- 11. Made It!

-`♡´- a chaptered smau series featuring: editorial assistant!ino x copy editor!fem!reader

warnings // 3.3k words/12 min. read - cussing, mentions of drinking alcohol, angst, your toxic ex tries to freak you out again, mentions of fighting and arguing, crying, confessions, uhhh lmk if i missed anything!!

author's notes // well damn. i guess that's all folks! thank you all SO much for reading my silly little self-indulgent series!!! might write an epilogue? or something spicy/18+? haven't decided yet, all i know is that i love my lover boy ino and he deserves the entire world.

stay tuned for my next smau/written series starring mafia!toji x sweet!fem!reader :) let me know if you want to be on the taglist for it!! i also have some yuta and noritoshi smau ideas floating around in my brain so please feel free to recommend tropes or anything else you want to see!! love you all and thank you so much for reading!!

10 // series masterlist // my masterlist

Takuma cocks a brow when the large, tattooed man pulls out and sits in the linen-covered chair next to him. He figures right away that he wouldn’t ever be friends with the man as he takes in his appalling salmon-colored hair and the treacherously thick tattoos that cover his face and wrists.

The man doesn’t seem to be able to shop properly either, considering the pearly buttons on his white dress shirt seem to be precariously stretched to their fullest extent to keep the fabric together.

“I fucking hate weddings,” the man says with a grimace. Takuma casually shrugs and offers him a polite smile as takes another sip from the cup of beer in his hand.

“Meh, I kind of like ‘em,” Takuma responds politely.

The man scoffs. “What’s your name?”

“Ino. You?”

“Sukuna.”

“Nice to meet you, man,” Takuma smiles.

“How do you know the couple?”

“Oh, I don’t,” Takuma shakes his head. “I’m here with my girlfriend. She’s old friends with the bride.”

“Your girlfriend?” The corners of Sukuna’s lips twitch up. “Where is she? Maybe I know her.”

“Hah, probably. She’s been talking it up with old friends all night,” He quickly scans the room for your figure, but doesn’t spot you anywhere. So, he pulls out his phone and sends a quick text while he continues. “She’s probably still in the bathroom.”

“Maybe she’s hiding from me.”

Takuma glances at Sukuna with a wry smile, just to see him wearing his own smug grin. Okay… he’s weird, Takuma thinks. They offer each other a dry chuckle before Sukuna moves on. He lazily points to the white shoulder bag Takuma holds in his lap, the straps wrapped around one wrist.

“Cute,” He sneers. Dickhead, Takuma thinks. With a little bit of alcohol in his system, he has no problem giving the guy a little flak.

“I agree,” Takuma smiles sarcastically. “It matches her dress perfectly. Plus, I need to make sure she doesn’t lose anything while she dances.”

“Hm…” He responds. “Are you from this area?”

“Nah, I’ve lived around Tokyo for pretty much my whole life.” Takuma sends you another text before continuing the conversation. The last thing he’d ever want to be to a large man with face tattoos, is rude. “What about you?”

“I live in Tokyo, too. But I grew up around here.” Takuma just nods. “You know, I’m starting to think your little girlfriend left you here.”

“Nah, she would never,” Takuma laughs. Another text sent. “The line for the bathroom is long.”

“She seems like the type that would try to up and leave.”

Takuma gives the man a confused side eye, paired with an awkward smile of disbelief. What the fuck is his problem? “…You don’t even know her, man.”

Sukuna just laughs, loud and raspy, as he slaps a hand down on Takuma’s shoulder. “Relax, kid. What’s your deal?”

Your boyfriend doesn’t return the laugh, but holds his uneasy smile as he glances back and forth from the hand on his shoulder and the pink-haired man. Sukuna quiets and his eyes lock on something beyond Takuma with a smug glimmer.

“Hey there, princess.”

Confused, Takuma turns his head to find you standing just a few feet away. You look beautiful as ever, but your shoulders are tense and your lips are parted in disbelief. Your eyes don’t fall on Takuma, much to his disappointment, but to the man next to him. The alcohol in your boyfriend’s system delays the realization that there is nothing but fear in your eyes.

You turn and rush away. Sukuna rises from his seat and follows, Takuma does the same. He grabs a handful of Sukuna’s dress shirt, which is promptly slapped away. “Get off me, boy,” he snarls.

“What did you do?” Takuma spits out, yanking on his arm to slow his hasty strides.

“That’s my girl, you little fucker,” Sukuna growls back. “Know your place and—”

“—Ryomen.”

It’s the groom, with angry eyes but a warm smile. He pulls Sukuna away. “—I thought you promised not to—”

Takuma doesn’t hear or care about the rest, he’s already hurrying after you. He sees you push your way into one of the bathrooms and quickly lock the door. Takuma jiggles the knob and gently knocks.

“Hey, pretty? You in there?”

No response. He hears the soft sound of your whimpers and sniffles and Takuma feels a foreign feeling of hurt course through his chest. As different thoughts fill his mind, he realizes that Sukuna had to be your ex boyfriend. The unsettling way he spoke, the way he reacted, the way you reacted? There was just no other explanation.

“Let me in, please? That guy is gone now.”

“I’m fine, Takuma,” your muffled voice responds. It’s shaky and small.

Takuma remembers the discussion in the groupchat from long ago, about the guy that barged into the office and dragged you out. He suddenly notices that you’ve never spoken about Sukuna to him before, and even diverted conversation away from the topic during the few times it was brought up. It must have been…awful, Takuma thinks.

“Please?” Takuma asks. It comes out as more of a desperate plea.

There’s movement behind the door before the lock quietly clicks open. Takuma immediately slips inside to see you sit back down on the toilet and bury your face in your hands. He locks the door behind him. The bathroom is quite small, with just enough room for a toilet, sink, and a small stool.

You’re humiliated, trying to hide your tears from Takuma as he sits on the stool and gently wraps a hand around your calf.

“Are you alright?” He delicately asks. “That was your ex, wasn’t it?”

You say nothing and avoid his gaze. After a quiet moment of attempting to wipe away your tears, you offer him a small nod.

“I’m so sorry…” Takuma nervously chews on his bottom lip. He looks up at you from the tiny stool, his fingers unconsciously kneading your leg. If you weren’t so distraught, you may have even giggled at the way his long legs awkwardly bent up to fit in this space. “If I’d known, I would have never kept talking to him.”

You let out a sniffling sigh as you shake your head. “Not your fault,” you croak out.

Takuma stands, sets your purse on the sink, and gets a handful of paper towels. He takes your hands from your face and starts to blot away your tears as he awkwardly bends over you.

“God, please don’t cry,” He says with worried eyes and a slight grimace. His face is just inches away from yours. “You’re making my heart break, pretty. I have no idea what to do when people cry.”

You’ve never been so embarrassed, never felt so vulnerable. At the end of the day, Takuma is just your coworker. Technically, your boss. Someone you see 5 days a week, 8 hours a day. Who reads your writing, gives you a stamp of approval, and sends it to Nanami. And here he is, wiping your tears in a tiny bathroom as you sit on a dirty toilet with a lump in your throat and hurt in your heart.

“I was certain he wouldn’t come,” You sniffle, still avoiding eye contact with Takuma. “He doesn’t come to these types of things.”

Takuma, on the other hand, is a bit distracted. He stares at your swollen lips and ruddy cheeks as he carefully wipes away each teardrop that spills from your eyes. The mascara smudged around your lashes makes his heart leap a little. His eyes travel down to your hands in your lap, which fiddle and fumble with the hem of your dress. The dress that he bought for you, the one that made him blush when you first tried it on. To Takuma, you’re just simply beautiful.

“You think he came because he knew you’d be here?”

You nod. His soft finger swipes a hair from your face. “I think he’s been chasing me down for a while.”

Takuma’s movements still. “Chasing you? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” You shrug. “He just always seems to be everywhere I am. Even everywhere I’m not.”

“So he’s stalking you?”

With a small scoff, you shake your head. “I don’t know.”

Takuma sits back down on the stool, eyes filled with concern. “What do you mean?” He repeats. No response. He takes a hold of your hands with his, both of them now a warm bundle in your lap.

“Hey, I’m serious,” He says softly. “Is this Sukuna guy stalking you?”

You finally turn to look at him. The odd intimacy of direct eye contact feels suffocating for a moment. You’ve never seen Takuma so stressed as his big, brown eyes stare back at you. He doesn’t break away while he takes in the exhaustion and pain in your face.

The moment feels like a lifetime before you take out your phone and show him the texts you’ve received from your ex boyfriend throughout the past few months, before you finally blocked him. Takuma reads them in silence. There’s no movement or sound in the bathroom aside from his thumb scrolling and thick swallows as he reads the worst of it.

“This is insane…” He mutters with a disgusting face when he’s finished. “How long were you with this guy?”

“…Three? Four years?” You mumble, ashamed once more. “If you add everything between breakups together.”

“And you kept going back?”

“I…” A small, weird surge of irritation and helplessness courses through you. You pull your hands away from Takuma’s. “Do you really think I wanted to?”

“No!” Takuma’s eyes widen with guilt as he scrambles to find your hands again. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

In a second of silence, he realizes your face is turned to the wall again, and he’s lost a piece of the trust he’d built with you. A pit forms in his stomach. “What I meant is…” Takuma clears his throat. “…You deserve better.”

“Yeah, sure,” You respond dryly. A tear rolls down your cheek.

“I’m serious,” He presses. “You’re just so kind and considerate. Don’t you think you deserve that, too?”

“But I’m really not,” You scoff. “I’d scream and yell at him. I’d call him names, too. I would just up and leave in the middle of the night when I knew he’d find me anyways.”

“Yeah, well, from what I’ve seen, the fucker deserved it.”

“So, you’re saying we both deserved what we got?”

“No.” Takuma stands, gently pulling you up with him. Warm hands delicately hold your arms. “You never deserved any of the shit that Sukuna guy did and said to you, or any guy for that matter.”

“Hey,” He quietly calls when you don’t respond. When you still don’t meet his eyes, he delicately takes a hold of your face in his hands. “That asshole deserved every argument and name you called him, because I know for a fact that he was the one that started everything and drove you to the edge.”

“Just because you fought back, it doesn’t mean you’re a shitty person,” He continues. “You’re intelligent, kind, thoughtful and… you’re so beautiful. You deserve someone that actually likes you, and loves you. Someone that shows it all the time, not just when they feel like it.”

More tears fall down your cheeks, which Takuma catches with his thumbs every time. “Aw, please don’t cry? Please…” He mumbles. He looks exasperated and… desperate? The guilt and exhaustion of the situation bubbles up in your stomach once again.

“Takuma, he’s said it himself,” Your breath catches in your throat as another sharp sob escapes. It feels like you’ll never escape Sukuna. You’ll never be able to rid your life of his hurtful words or his dangerous presence. You’re exhausted. Although he may not be the first thought in your mind anymore, his existence still persists in the back of your head. He almost haunts you. “There’s no one like that left for me. I-I’m… ruined.”

“W-what?” Takuma sputters. “That’s just—that’s not true!” Another raspy sob bubbles out from your throat, and you bury your face in his chest. With furrowed brows, he instantly wraps his arms around you. He pulls you in tight with one hand in your hair and the other on your back, desperate to comfort you. “You know… I’m here.”

You don’t respond. You can’t, not through the painful cries you’re sending into his sternum.

“I’m here,” Takuma swallows. He hopes to God you can’t feel his heart relentlessly pounding in his chest. “I like you.”

“But you don’t like me, Takuma,” you hiccup, voice muffled in his shirt. “You don’t love me.”

“I…I’m pretty sure I’m in the process of it.”

You snap your head up, both of you staring at each other with racing pulses and bewildered eyes.

You’d be utterly lying to yourself if you said you didn’t feel the same. How could you not? It became harder and harder throughout the past few months to not look at Takuma with something that bordered on genuine affection when he complimented you, cooked you dinner, or simply asked about your day.

You remember just a few days ago, after he cooked you your favorite meal and watched your favorite movie with you on his couch. Takuma never checked his phone once, even though it was a cringe rom-com that you had “forced” upon him. As the night wore on, you went from sitting beside him with his arm resting on the back of the couch, to having your slouched body pressed into his side as he scratched your scalp and played with your hair.

It was the first time you had ever let yourself get that intimate with Takuma. You were half-asleep by the time the movie ended and he woke you up. When you had raised your head, you were met with his face just inches from yours. You hadn’t said anything, only a long silent stare at the shape of his eyes and the curve of his lips.

In a sleepy daze, you leaned in. But as soon as Takuma started to do the same, something in your head clicked, and you backed away. You remember the heart-racing confusion as you quietly stared at each other once again. You remembered his disbelieving wide eyes, lit up by the glow of the TV. Your gut had tumbled and turned.

“I better head home,” You had whispered. He had put on a warm smile and nodded. When you got home later, you could only pretend you didn’t know what he was asking about. Laying in bed for the night, you could’ve sworn you felt those all-too-familiar butterflies in your stomach— The same ones you felt when Sukuna kissed you for the first time.

But each time that fleeting feeling of affection would float through your mind or heart, you’d dismiss it immediately, reminding yourself that it was just pretend. It was for the sake of a good article. A promotion. It was for the sake of saving face at this wedding. It was for the sake of a ongoing office prank.

It’s all fake.

“Takuma,” You blink. “Don’t—Don’t say that.”

“I’m not,” He replies with a wry smile. “…This is really not how I wanted this to happen.”

“Don’t say that,” You persist, your grip on his dress shirt tightening. “It doesn’t mean anything. We’ve just spent a lot of time together and we’re confused.”

“We?”

Your mouth snaps shut. Takuma just looks at you with hopeful eyes. You realize you’re both still holding each other, his large hands around your nape and lower back, but neither of you dare to separate. “No—I—okay,” You sputter. “Yes, we. We are confused.”

“I’m not confused, though,” Deep brown eyes dart around your face as he gnaws nervously on his lip. “I’m certain that I’m not. Are you?”

A long, stretching silence follows his question. Every interaction, every word and memory you’ve shared with Takuma spins through your mind. You remember all the innocent touches, accidental or not, that sent shivers up your spine or a heat across your cheeks.

You have no idea that Takuma is remembering, too. All the times he hyped himself up before sending a flirty text, the giddiness he felt dropping you off after a date, the fluttering feeling in his heart when you flashed him a genuine smile, the raging jealousy that ran through his blood when he met that random dickhead date of yours— Takuma remembers everything.

“I just… want you to be happy,” He hesitantly continues with a sheepish smile. “…Preferably with me—”

“—No.”

Oh.

Takuma’s face falls the smallest bit before he recovers himself. “That’s alright,” He begins to remove his hand from your waist. “I completely underst—”

“—No! I mean I’m not confused.”

“You’re not?” His face is full of uncertainty.

It makes you wants to slap yourself for making him feel this way. You’ve felt it boiling in your bones for weeks now. You wanted to tell him, or at least accept it, that you wanted him. You wanted Takuma to look at you, to sit next to you during meetings, to text you even if it meant you would be too scared to flirt back. You wanted him to keep remembering your coffee orders, be your partner on work assignments, to ask you to proofread his articles.

You wanted him to touch you, but not like that. You wanted the innocent ways like a protective hand on your back, an arm around your shoulders during a movie, or how he’d fix your hair when something was off. God, you even want him to kiss you. Just once, to know what it’s like. You’ve thought about it over and over, but it’s only in this moment right now where you’re allowing these amassing feelings to finally settle.

“I’m not,” You whisper. “I’ve just been denying it. Attempting to, at least.”

“Yeah… I gave up on that like two months ago,” Takuma cracks a smile.

“2 months ago?” Your heart skips a beat. It never really occurred to you that he was having the same thoughts. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Eventually. Were you?”

“Eventually,” You can’t help but smile back. “…I knew all of this was a bad idea.”

“But you did it anyways,” He swipes away a stray tear that remained on your splotchy cheek as you both let out nervous giggles.

“…What do we do now?” You whisper.

“I always imagined that after months of pathetically yearning,” He starts playfully, “I’d finally get the courage to confess, you’d feel the same and be so smitten and overcome with emotion that you’d jump into my arms. I would finally kiss the fuck out of you, then we would ride off into the sunset in a cool car or something, leaving Nanami and Yuji to fend for themselves at work.”

“Then… what are you waiting for?” You blurt with a laugh. Takuma’s eyes widen.

“W-what do you mean?”

“Oh, God,” You mutter, shaking your head with a smile. You look up at his sweet, brown eyes, and sigh in relief. “I’m tired of denying it. Please, just kiss me, Takuma.”

With a fiery blush on his cheeks, Takuma pulls your body in flush with his and lifts your jaw with a gentle hand. The warmth of his hand on the small of your back and his breathe against your lips leaves you reeling in anticipation. You wrap an arm tightly around his neck as the other still grips his shirt. The tip of his nose nudges against yours and you both smile.

“Pretty girl,” The tip of his nose nudges yours, you both smile. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you to say that.”

10 // series masterlist // my masterlist

notes & fun facts! //

i'm kind depressed that this is over but i hope you all enjoyed the fluff and slow burn!!

i wanted to add more drama with sukuna but i ultimately decided against it because y'all have been through enough 😭

lowkey how do i write x reader without saying "you" all the time LMAO i fucking struggle everytime

if i wrote an epilogue it would delve more into their future at jj&k, they'd live together, and just be super fluffy and happy. idk if that's something people would care about tho but lmk and i'd be happy to write something out hehehe

thank you all again for reading :') i love you so much

taglist // @jayathelostdragon @vesserz @loveyislost @grierpilots @shokosbunny @darkstudentsaladbakery @rieamena @yourhornysister @emlient @shutuppeter @90s-belladonna @sttaejoon-blog @fuckisthatahotghost @aldebrana

banner from pinterest (help me credit the artist!) // divider by @/kodaswrld <3

© vorfreudevortex // all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, or repost my work.

[katsu28]

summer's golden haze - chapter seven

pairing: lando norris x reader

summary: a bracelet, a promise, and not a goodbye, but a see you later. (3.8k)

warnings: minimal swearing, a little bit of angst but mainly fluff

a/n: lando win gave me just enough inspo to finish up this chapter! sorry this one's so short, butttt next chap is halfway done rn so stay tuned <3

previous chapter | masterlist

Tonight is a bittersweet night. Like all good things inevitably do, your trip is coming to an end.

It’s the last night you’ll get to spend with Lando and all your new friends for a while. Come early tomorrow morning, you’ll be on different planes heading opposite directions of each other. 

You’re in the same place as the first night you all really bonded with each other, flames flicker bright in the firepit as you bask in the food coma of the enormous dinner you’d all had a hand in making happen.

It was a team effort from everyone, a whole day’s worth of prepping and cooking to make one big last meal to share together before going your separate ways. 

All the boys except Max were absolutely useless in the kitchen, but much better for sending back to the store to get something they’d forgotten. Pietra did eventually shoo Max out of the room for eating too much of the food before dinner was even ready. 

Lando fancied himself quite the DJ—if being a DJ meant pressing play on a carefully curated playlist, yet skipping the ones he didn’t like.

He also proved to be a great distraction, so much so that he also got himself banned from the kitchen after nearly making you burn your contribution to dinner. 

It’s warm out tonight, stars shining over the Greek countryside in a beautiful display of serenity. Crickets chirp in the distance loud enough to hear over the crackling fire.

Of course, now you’ve got Lando to keep you even warmer with the way you’re snuggled up together on one side of the same comfy sofa as last time.

You’ve got your head on his shoulder, the rest of you curled into his side as you laugh and reminisce about these past few weeks with everyone. Every so often, Lando presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, rubbing a hand up and down your arm. 

You’ll miss these nights of talking until the wee hours of the morning, making memories with these people who’ve become so important to you in such a short amount of time. 

You’ll miss Lando and everything about him. His quirks and bad habits, his squeaky cackles and big squinty smiles whenever he’s truly happy. The way he loves and cares and makes you feel like you’re walking on clouds all the time. 

Personally, you’ve had to fight from tearing up all day. Lando can probably tell, because he hasn't strayed far from you when you’re all together unless he has to. Or maybe he’s in the same boat as you. 

You know it’s not the last time you’ll see each other ever, but you’re going from seeing Lando almost everyday to not knowing when you’ll see him again. You haven’t even had the long distance talk yet. It has to happen tonight, yet you’re still dreading it. 

This might be as good of a time as any, with everyone in their own conversations and not paying attention to if the two of you sneak away for a bit. 

Lando is on you the second you’re out of view, brows furrowing when you stop him with a hand against his chest after a few seconds of making out. 

“I have something for you,” You say. His pouty expression morphs into one of curiosity, head cocking to the side not unlike an intrigued puppy. “It’s small, but I…I dunno, I thought you’d like it.” You press the bracelet into his palm carefully before you can chicken out, a hopeful smile aimed his way. 

Recognition dawns in his eyes immediately at the bracelet he’d had his eye on what seemed like ages ago, and he lets out a breathy chuckle. “Baby…when did you get this?” 

“Our first date, actually. The first first one, not the do over. I was gonna give it to you at the end, but uh, y’know,” You say sheepishly, shrugging. “I didn’t get to give it to you then, but I figured better late than never.” 

You’d done a little adjustment to the bracelet itself a few days ago, once you were absolutely certain you wanted to give it to him. Instead of securing the woven strip by tying the two ends together, you’d turned it into a tiny bead clasp, on which were the first letters of your two names with a plus sign in the middle etched in. 

It was small, not noticeable to the general eye, but something that would make him think about you while you were apart. Something that would remind him of your time together here.

He notices the subtle difference immediately, squinting at the small detailing for a better look and immediately perking up once he figures out what it means. 

“I love it,” He says softly. You help him secure it around his wrist amongst his other bracelets, the brightness of the blue and white standing out nicely in the pile of them. “I’m never taking it off.” 

“You can if you want, it’s fine,” You giggle. 

Lando all but tackles you in a hug, sweeping you off your feet in a much too grand way for your small gesture. “Never.” 

“Glad you like it.” 

“Oh! Wait here, I’ve got something for you too.” He starts off in a jog towards the house, but stops suddenly before he can get far, whirling around like he’d forgotten something. 

Before you can voice your confusion at his actions, he takes your face in his hands and he kisses you, hard. But just as quick as it happens, he runs off again, leaving you gawking after him, stunned into silence. 

You’ve barely managed to get your breath back before he’s in front of you again, pressing a small book into your hands. A photo album, you realize, upon opening it gently.

One of the first photos, you recognize as the impromptu pictures Lando had snapped of you on your first date, with your palm outstretched towards him as you’re mid laugh. It’s only been a few weeks, but that day feels like a lifetime ago as you remember it now. 

As you flip through the pages, every photo stirs up a memory. Meals you’ve all shared, things you’ve done together as a group, candids of all your friends. You don’t even recall Lando having his camera out for half of these things, but photos don’t lie. 

“You took these?” You ask. Lando nods, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “They’re gorgeous, Lan.” 

“You think so? I wasn’t sure if it was too much.”

“I love them.”

Warmth spreads through your chest every time you spot yourself, because you look…different. You’ve never really been one to enjoy having your photo taken, but Lando has managed to capture you in a way that nobody else has been able to before. 

For once, you look truly content and happy with your life. 

The last one is your favorite one out of the whole album. You don’t even fully recall where or by whom it was taken, but it’s of Lando and yourself, sitting next to each other at a table. Well, next to is putting it loosely. You’re well in each other’s space, fingers intertwined, seemingly mid conversation with one another. 

The way you’re looking at Lando, the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the only two people in the world despite not being the only people in the shot, gives you butterflies in your stomach. 

It’s the type of photo you want framed on your dresser at home, so you can look at it everyday and never forget how lucky you are to love and be loved by Lando Norris. 

Sadness hits you like an abruptly sudden punch to the gut right then.

Home. 

You wish you could call home wherever Lando is, but you can't. 

The atmosphere of love quickly grows somber with the weight of the conversation you’ve both been putting off hanging above you like a dark cloud. 

“Guess we should talk about the elephant in the room then, huh?” 

He shakes his head. “We don’t have to.” 

“Yeah, we kinda do. We’re leaving tomorrow.” 

“Shhh, don’t say that!” He huffs, casting a wide eyed glance around like saying the words out loud will make the time arrive faster. 

The conversation goes exactly as you assume. His schedule is unpredictable and busier than you ever could’ve imagined, and you don’t know when you’ll see each other again.

You’ll both do everything in your power to find time to talk, but it’ll be hard. Still, you’ve never been more determined to try and make things work, because what you have is worth the effort. 

Lando is worth the effort. 

You sigh, sliding your hands down to rest on his chest. “Will we be okay?”

“We’re gonna be more than okay,” He insists, nodding firmly. He cups your face in his hands, palms warm and broad against your cheeks. “We’ll be golden, baby. I promise.” 

His words do wonders to soothe your turbulent emotions, and deep, deep down, you know he’s right. No matter how far his life is away from yours, no matter how complicated, you’ll be just fine. 

-------

Lando drops you off at the airport early the next morning. 

You’re trying your hardest not to cry the whole way there, and you almost succeed. Your bags are on the pavement, Camille’s doling out your boarding passes—everything is going fine. 

But then you make the mistake of glancing over at Lando messing with his hair in the reflection of his car and suddenly you're hit in the chest with a whole flurry of emotion. He turns around just as you surge forward to wrap your arms around him, drawing a grunt of surprise as you plow right into him. 

“Hi there,” He hums, rocking you from side to side. “You alright?”

“No,” You grumble, face buried into his neck. It makes him chuckle and squeeze you tighter. “This is the worst day ever.” 

“I know,” He sighs. His nose dips into your hair, lips pressing a kiss there too. “But think of it this way, yeah? The next time we see each other will be so much better than this.” 

“How do people do this all the time? Saying goodbye.” 

“Don’t think of it as a goodbye then. Think of it as a…see you later,” He says thoughtfully. 

“See you later,” You repeat, a tinge disbelieving. Lando nods encouragingly. “Sure. I’ll keep that right next to ‘no, baby, you don’t have to worry about the media’.” 

“I know you’re just lashing out because you’re sad, so I’m not going to take that personally.”

“Thank you,” You sniff. “Thank you for everything, Lan, I—” Your voice breaks before you can finish your thought, but you don’t need to in order for Lando to know exactly what you’re trying to say. 

Thank you for filling that missing piece in my life. Thank you for being what I need, for loving me as I am with patience and without judgment. 

He smiles warmly. “I know. Me too. You’ve done more than you know for me, love, and I can’t thank you enough.” 

“Shut up,” You huff, pouting. “You’re gonna make me cry.” 

“Can’t have that now, can we?” He chuckles. 

“As much as I hate to break up this heartwarming moment, we have to go.” 

To Samira’s credit, she genuinely does look like she feels guilty pulling you away from Lando before you’re ready, but you're not mad at it. You’re not entirely sure you’d be able to leave him here on your own free will. 

You try your best not to look back at him as she marches you away with a firm hand in yours, but something in you itches for one last look and you give in just as you're about to pass through the ticket gate. Lando still stands right where you’d left him, hands shoved into his pockets. 

He waves when he sees you turn around—a small, sad wave that has your resolve breaking in an instant.

Nothing can stop you as you run back towards him, weaving through other airport goers like you’re an expert until you reach where he is once again. 

Lando catches you with fluid ease as you throw yourself at him like he’d been expecting you to run at him all along, arms tightening around your waist eagerly the second you’re in his embrace. 

“Long time no see,” He says, grinning ear to ear as he sets you back down on your feet. “That was really dramatic, by the way. Nice job.”

“I know. I think you might be rubbing off on me.” 

“Well, aren’t you lucky?” 

“Luckiest girl in the world,” You say softly, pressing a kiss to the tip of Lando’s nose. It makes his face scrunch up into that bashful expression you adore so much. As much as you don’t want him to hear your voice waver, it does. 

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” He murmurs, rubbing a hand down your back. “See you later, remember? Everything’s gonna be fine.” 

“I love you, Lan.” 

His concerned expression melts into something syrupy sweet as your name falls from his lips like it’s his favorite thing to say. “I love you too.” 

“How am I supposed to leave you?” You sigh, cupping his face in your hands. Lando leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut momentarily before refocusing with purpose. 

“You gotta go, baby,” He urges, though his tone of voice makes it sound like the last thing he wants you to do is leave. You shake your head, and it makes Lando chuckle quietly. “I know. But I can’t have you missing your flight because of me, and I can’t afford to miss my flight either. My team would have my head, and I’m pretty sure Samira would have yours.” 

“Your team,” You huff, rolling your eyes. 

Even the mention of McLaren leaves a bitter taste on your tongue. You want nothing but for Lando to give them a piece of his mind, but he’s been surprisingly level headed about things now that he's had some time off to think. 

“I’ve made my peace with it. You should too.” 

“No thanks. I’ll fight them if you want me to.” 

Lando chuckles, raising an amused brow. “All of them?” 

“Every single one of them.” 

“I’m sure you would. But no, it’s fine. I’m gonna keep pushing, keep trying my best. Try not to be too hard on myself,” He explains, shrugging. “Someone really wise gave me that advice, but I can’t quite put my finger on who.” 

“I don’t know, she sounds like a pretty smart person,” You hum, grinning at him. 

“Yeah, she’s amazing. She should really get going, though. Her friends are giving me a death glare right now.” 

You hasten a peek over your shoulder to see that, yes, all three of your girls are sporting various degrees of firm looks at the two of you. 

“Ugh, fine, I’ll go. But I’m not happy about it.” 

“Neither am I. Wish I could just whisk you off to the Netherlands with me.” 

“Maybe one day.” You smile, letting your hands slide down to rest on his chest. “But for now, I have to go. I’ll text when I land. Or you text me when you land, whichever happens first. Some of us are flying boring old commercial.” 

Lando rolls his eyes playfully at your teasing dig, cheeky smile only visible for a moment before he’s tilting your chin up with a finger and pressing his lips against yours. 

The kiss is short and sweet, yet so full of love that your heart threatens to beat right out of your chest. 

“See you later, Lan.” 

“Soon. See you soon.” 

-------

You’re dead on your feet. 

Getting off the plane had taken forever, finding an Uber to take all of you home was even worse. You want nothing more than to pass out in your bed as you finally make your way to your apartment, dragging your suitcase behind you with aching limbs. 

However, you know there are things you need to do before you can relax. Laundry, catching up on work emails, figuring out what to do for dinner, just to name a few.

You can almost see the to-do list in your near future as you dig around in your backpack for your keys, and you’re expecting it to take a while. 

What you’re not expecting is a massive bouquet of flowers sitting propped up against your door. 

Frowning, you pluck out the pristine white notecard nestled in the bunch, and through tired eyes, you see that it’s actually from Lando. 

A breath of laughter escapes you, face fighting the grin pulling at your lips as you let yourself in with all your things. As soon as you’re safely inside, you flop onto the sofa, grabbing your phone to give him a call. 

The line barely rings a few seconds before he picks up, beaming face filling your screen. “Hi babe!” He chirps. He props the phone up against something, pulling the hood of his jumper up over his head.

“Did you seriously send me flowers from forty thousand feet in the air?” 

“Aw mint, they got there! I had the florist put a rush order on them.” 

“What’re they for?” 

“Did you not read the note?” 

Your brows furrow, and you flip over the card to see something on the back. In all your excitement about the beautiful arrangement, you hadn't even noticed anything else. 

Neatly printed letters spell out a simple question—

Will you be my girlfriend? 

“So? Will you?” Lando asks earnestly upon seeing your mouth curve into a smile, looking hopeful even through the screen. 

“I thought I already was!” You exclaim, nose wrinkling in confusion. 

You’ve certainly been acting like his girlfriend, doing things a girlfriend would, caring about him the way a girlfriend would. So, and this is to your knowledge, you’ve been his girlfriend this whole time.

“Well, yeah, you are. Duh. But I realized that I never actually asked. So…yes, no? Please say yes, otherwise I’ll be so confused.” 

“Yes, of course, I’ll be your girlfriend, Lan,” You chuckle, tossing the card back onto the table. “You didn’t have to make a whole grand gesture of it, but thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.”  

“Of course. I miss you already.” 

“Ugh, tell me about it,” You whine. “I’ve never wanted to be in your arms more right now.” 

Lando tips his head back, groaning miserably. “Don’t say that to me, baby. I’ll have this jet turn right around, I swear.” 

Your focus is captured by the column of his throat, the way his neck flexes when he swallows, but you manage to put together a response. You clear your throat, composing yourself by the time he looks at you again. “You’ve got a car to race this weekend.” 

“Unfortunately.” 

You settle deeper into the comfy cushions to chat. “How’re you feeling about going back?” 

“Oh, y’know, fine,” He says airily, waving a vague hand. “Just this giant amount of weight from the championship fight looming over me like a massive storm cloud.” 

“So no pressure at all then.” 

“Nah, none.” 

“I know I don’t really know what I’m talking about when it comes to what you do, but I think you’re gonna do just fine, Lan.” 

Lando sucks in a breath through his teeth. “God, I hope you're right about that.” 

“I’m always right.” 

That gets him to laugh. “You are, aren’t you?” 

The call quality goes fuzzy for a moment, but when the camera refocuses it’s not Lando you see anymore. 

Max’s smug beaming face fills the screen. “Hey, you!” He exclaims. “How was your flight?” 

“Don’t even get me started,” You groan, rolling your eyes. Customs was such a pain in the ass, even Maren looked like she was about ready to deck someone.” 

“Maren?” He says, surprised. You nod. Maren would never harm a soul, and Max knows that. “Oh man, I’d pay to see that.”

“Max! Let me talk to my girlfriend, you fuck!” Lando huffs in the background. The phone shakes like he’s just hit Max, but it doesn’t phase him. He just laughs maniacally, stretching even further out of reach. 

“Mate, would you stop it? I’m trying to have a conversation with my friend here, if you don’t mind!”

Lando lets out a frustrated groan. “P, tell your boyfriend to give me my fucking phone back!” 

The phone gets plucked out of Max’s hand, and suddenly you're looking at Pietra, who has a look on her face somewhere between fondly amused and not at all surprised.

“Hi,” She says, moving over to the other end of the jet so as to not get accidentally smacked by either boy during their brotherly rough housing. “They’re being boys again, you know how it is.” 

“Boy, do I,” You chuckle softly, shaking your head. There’d been no shortage of them wrestling around with each other, playful jabs and things thrown at the other person. It was one of the things that endeared you the most about Lando—how he shows his affection towards the people he loves in different ways. 

A lump grows in your throat at the thought. 

Is it bad that you already miss all of them so much your chest aches a little bit? Is it completely and utterly clingy of you to want to be there on that jet instead of halfway across the world? 

Pietra must be able to tell you're deep in your head, because she smiles warmly at you. “He wishes you were here too. We all do. But he understands why you couldn't be. You have a whole life to get back to.” 

“Thank you, P. I think I needed to hear that.” You smile gratefully at your friend. 

You’re able to chat for a little while longer before Lando finally commandeers his phone back, plucking it out of Pietra’s hand much like Max did to him earlier. 

“Yeah, hi, remember me? Your boyfriend?” He bites out, only a little pouty at how long it’s taken to get you back to himself. 

“No,” You say, teasing brow arching. “Who’re you?” 

“Wow. Wow, I see how it is. Not even a day apart and you’ve already forgotten all about me.” 

“Always so dramatic,” You huff, rolling your eyes playfully. Your smile grows fonder than ever as you look at him. “I don’t think I could ever forget about you, Lando Norris.” 

“Promise?” All traces of humor are gone from his face, replaced with a flash of something more along the lines of worry. 

Under all that sass and good energy he always brings, Lando is worried. Worried you’ll forget about him, worried you’ll somehow fall out of love with him because of the situation you’ve found yourselves in. 

The thing about love is, it transcends distance. 

It doesn’t matter if he’s across the world or sitting right next to you, you love Lando just the same—with everything you’ve got, no matter what. 

“I promise.” 

follow @katsu-library to be notified when i post a new chapter :)

[freejanee]

Scorbus Fanfic recommendations?? Honestly I just want to yap

pt. 1? 🤔

Hide and Seek by ArdenCallaway,

Its not canon compliant and the rumor surrounding Scorpius has changed but its awesome!! It goes through their Hogwarts years, along with some of the other characters, then some of their adult years. It includes ocs that i’ve grown attached to. The Chimera club my beloved… It really makes you feel a lot of things, be prepared for a rollercoaster of emotions if you read! And if you’re a marauders fan theres some nice hints to some of that fandoms popular fanfics i’ve heard. After this fanfic I had a tough time reading other fanfics because it just didn’t feel right… Also it’s incredibly long, it’ll last you a few if you really take your time with it, let it absorb into ur very skin AUGHHH. I think about this fanfic at least thrice a day, it really did leave a mark on me. Well every fanfic here left a mark on me, but this one definitely is more persistent. I think its because I just woke up everyday and read and read this fanfic whenever I could,, felt so empty after I finished it. Like dhmu…

A World of Darkness by KeybladeJediMaster & Yer_Erster,

This one just HURT ME 💔 Poor Albus, he really gets it in this one. Okay think dark alternative timeline BUT Albus doesn’t stop existing. Scorpius is really trying his best in this but i kept thinking he was an idiot(BUT NOT REALLY BC I LOVE SCORPIUS, never ever… im no traitor…)but really, if I was in his place I would freak out and try to immediately run away with my bestie, ending in us both being killed… yea…

So i think the way he went about it was more logical and better than I ever would be in that situation. I have NO IDEA how he was as chill as he was, if Umbridge was carrying away my best friend/lover I WOULD CRASH OUT.

This fic is technically finished? I think there might be more coming out but the latest chapter could read as the end.

It’s a Potter/Malfoy Thing by Asexual_Enjolras (They also have nice oneshots),

This one was what really cemented my hyperfixation with Scorbus, its so heart warming, WHY CANT LOVE BE REAL?! But also because it was some time ago I can’t really remember much of the details, im going based off some of my journal entrees in where I talk of it. This series honestly made my whole summer of last year (yes yes im very new here). Seeing Scorpius be accepted apart of the Potter family was so adorable, so was the second part with Draco. The scorbus in this made me SOO jealous, their bond is so special 😭💗

Building up like waves by dustyspines,

IM NOT GOING TO LIE, my memory has been getting worse and worse I think I’m going to have to reread all of these. But what I remember of this one was how I felt, its shorter than the other ones but really packs a punch. The yearning is just OVERLOAD and Albus is just the realest in this. The writing is incredible and I swear I was feeling what he was feeling. Its like poetry the whole time and is incredibly clever, it has BANGER lines 😭 Honestly whatever I say cant give it justice (with all of the other ones too), its just a masterpiece. Once I started reading I couldn’t stop, it really does lure you in entirely.

5) How To Avoid Bullies; A Series by QueenKatelynTheAristocrat,

Now I barely remember what happened in this because its been SO long, but it is in my favorite Scorbus fic list in my journal, as all these are… But its basically Scorpius and Albus making up a list of rules on how to avoid their bullies. Im going to reread this after I write this because GAWD ive been meaning to. Like I need some co dependent scorbus avoiding their bullies right now instead of being in MATH CLASS. Its not finished and is on the shorter side but I still recommend this 💗

Something worth taking the Time

(Not scorbus, but its focused on them and is incredibly good!), anonymous author

This one isn’t finished yet but so far its been soo promising!! This fanfic is like all i’ve been searching for and more, i’m so thankful I found it when I desperately needed more content of my bouys 😭 I regularly re read recent chapters because it gets me stimming and all happy, scorpius and albus being trapped in a past time period (Golden era or marauders era) is like my favorite genre (SHOULD BE A GENRE I HAVE A PETITION). I hope to eventually make art for it, as well as some other fanfics but i’m just a TOP TIER procrastinator. ITS GONNA HAPPEN THOUGH. It will… mark my words..

I also think about this fanfic like thrice a day. I read it while walking to school everyday too, really gives me the energy to get through the day. Seeing how Albus interacts with his father never fails to make me laugh, or ANYONE really, I swear its like he has a stick up his butt 24/7 I LOVE HIM. But the reason why he’s that way makes me cry, GAWD. Like he’s been acting like he’s in a war before he even came to this past time period and he never lets his guard down because of all the bullying he’s been through, but he’s slowly learning to trust people beyond Scorpius. It just breaks my heart its some people that died in the second wizarding war, LIKE THATS NOT RIGHT. I wonder constantly how he’s going to be in present time without them (yes im being vague, but its a simple process of elimination LMAO). I can continue but I think I might give it its own post at some point ;p

and i see black (while you see white) by inkwellhell

i really don’t remember, Im going to have to re read but I STILL RECOMMEND. Its on my faves list so im sure that it made me feel indescribable things, TRUST MY JUDGEMENT ON THIS even if its been a long time and can’t really say anything besides it being a short recount of hpcc from dark timeline onwards by Scorpius pov ^_^

The Tea Time series by ellizablue,

Not completely finished. I haven’t read the one that hasn’t been finished because I didn’t want to be heartbroken but I know i’ll eventually get to it, I’ve only heard good things of it! I loved Put Your Curse in Reverse, I just finished it, so this will probably be a little more detailed than the others. Honestly Iset was my favorite side character, she deserves SO much more. Everything in this fic just feels so… real?? Like god, everyone was so awesome and had amazing characterization. I wasn’t just looking forward to scorbus in this, everyone had their own stuff going on and it does a really good job at making you care. At some point I just kept waiting for Iset to appear, I WAS #1 FAN. I needed to know what was up with her. Her and Rose are so adorable too. Kills me that shes an oc, SHE NEEDS TO BE CANON NOW!! Sorry this became more of an Iset thing than a Scorbus thing, don’t worry their still very much the focus of this series!

Hope anyone who hasn’t read these who will read them because of this likes them c:

Plus im really desperate for people to discuss these fanfics, I WILL NEVER MISS THE OPPORTUNITY TO YAP ABT MY FAVE FICS. Which is why this exists. Because I saw an opportunity. And I took it. (๑❛ᴗ❛๑) looks at you with my beady innocent eyes.

(this makes more sense because originally this was a reblog but I just decided to make it a post instead, but I don’t want to delete this part so wtv…)

OK SCHOOL OVER, TIME TO GO READ MORE FANFIC BYEEE

[atleastpleasetelephone]

Ain't That a Lotta Love - Chapter 7

A story that starts on the set of the 68 Special, with Elvis and his long-term girlfriend Dorothy Valens. Dorothy has been with Elvis for a long time for good reason - she's no pushover, and she has a habit of getting exactly what she wants. As Elvis' career starts to get back on track, their relationship fundamentally changes too.

Need to catch up? Masterlist is here.

A/N: We've finally reached the cum part of the cumback special...

Pairing: Elvis x Dorothy

Word count: 3.3K

TWs: Jealous!Elvis, internalised homophobia (specific warning for the use of the f word here), Elvis gets a bit overexcited on stage.

Elvis wakes up early after not that much sleep, rolling over to look at Dorothy’s sleeping form. She looks so angelic in sleep that he can’t believe how devilish she can be when she’s awake. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he pulls his body against hers and kisses her neck. 

“Mmmm. Steve.”

His heart sinks and he selfishly pokes her in the side to rouse her properly. “No, not Steve. Elvis. Yer goddamn boyfriend.”

Her stomach lurches with being forced into consciousness so quickly, and also with the news that she’d accidentally called out Steve’s name in her sleep. Probably what comes of having such a vivid sex dream about him. She rubs her thighs together and thinks it was probably a bit of a wet dream too. Rolling over, she wraps her arms around Elvis. 

“Sorry, pumpkin.”

“Don’t pumpkin me.” He pouts, looking sulky and petulant with a trace of anger too. 

“Sorry, El,” she tries, instead. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was asleep.”

“Dreamin’ of him now too?”

She can’t help the little smile that plays on her lips. It’s not like she means to hurt Elvis’ feelings, but it had been a very sexy dream and she did think it was going to sustain her through the rest of what would probably be a very tiring day. 

��You were!” He declares, indignantly. 

“I can’t help what I dream about.”

“Hmph.”

“Aw, baby.”

“What’s he got that I don’t, ay? Ya like his dick better than mine?”

“Of course not,” she replies quickly. “You know I think Little Elvis is perfect.”

“What is it, then?”

“You’re being very jealous, you know that? I didn’t ask you what you liked about the other girls.”

“That’s because you liked them too.”

“Oh and you don’t like Steve? All I heard from you for weeks was Steve this and Steve that, Steve thinks I should do such and such a thing, Steve is honest with me…”

Elvis narrows his eyes at her. “That’s not the same thing,” he replies, blushing a little despite himself. “I don’t wanna fuck Steve.”

“You sure about that?”

“Dodo!” 

“What? Steve’s cute.”

“I’m not a fucking faggot, Dodo.”

Dorothy’s eyes go wide at his use of the word. “Elvis.”

He sighs deeply and sits up, reaching for a cigarette and silently lighting it. She sits up next to him and gestures for it but he shakes his head. 

“Get yer own.”

Frowning at him, she gets up instead, walking into the bathroom to shower. Standing under the shower head she wonders if she’s taken this whole thing too far. Having been into women as well as men for as long as she can remember being into anyone, she doesn’t see the big deal about Elvis having the odd stray feeling for Steve. She’d noticed their curiosity about one another’s bodies during strip poker, and the way Steve’s hand was on Elvis’ bare shoulder when she’d got out of the shower last night. What harm would there be in them getting a little closer? She rinses the soap off her body and thinks that probably the harm would be any of the guys finding out about it. However badly Elvis had reacted to the suggestion just now is absolutely nothing in comparison to the reaction of someone like Red West. She steps back out of the shower again. Probably best to leave it alone. Concentrate on being there for Elvis on the first proper day of filming. 

***

Elvis tries not to spend the whole of the morning’s filming thinking about Dorothy’s question, which is particularly difficult considering the fact that when he’s not seeing Steve every five minutes, directing and making suggestions, he’s hearing his voice booming out over the tannoy asking for more takes. The worst part is when his jeans split and he has to get everyone to stop the scene and wait for new ones. Dorothy doesn’t help at all by yelling about it to Steve, making him blush heavily under his make up. Steve grins, calling cut and asking wardrobe to bring another pair.

“You really went for it that time, huh?” He remarks, amused. 

Elvis just hums and says something about going to wardrobe himself. Steve is about to contradict him when he remembers the fact that he’d learned at strip poker about the other man’s tendency to go without underwear. He finds himself watching Elvis scamper towards wardrobe, trying to see whether today was another no-underwear day. 

***

Even though it’s long, the day passes quickly. Once the filming is over, there’s a full rehearsal of the improv section, Elvis sitting with Scotty and DJ and some of the other guys, banging out songs like they’re sitting in the dressing room. Steve is happy with the way that’s going, but he’s spent the day decidedly unhappy about the fact that the Colonel has failed to give away the tickets like he promised. He’s furious about it, actually, but he tries to keep a lid on it and just find a way to fix it. He doesn’t tell Elvis, who is starting to look a little on edge as the recording time gets closer, the studio rearranged properly to take an audience. He doesn’t tell Dorothy either, although he’s more tempted by that. No, this is the time to be professional and get the job done. 

***

Elvis is sitting on a chair in his dressing room, leaning so far forward his head is almost between his knees, staring at the floor. One of his feet is tapping impatient time and his thumb and forefinger are pressed into his temples. What if I freeze up? What if I forget the lyrics? What if I don’t know what to say? The questions keep shuttling through his mind at a million miles a minute. He can feel himself sweating already in his damn leather suit. His mouth is dry. What if I try to speak, and nothing comes out?

“Elvis, they’re ready for you.” Steve’s voice is gentle but commanding. He expects Elvis to get up, any minute now, and walk out there in front of all those people. 

“Elvis?” He tries again, when there’s no response. 

“St-st-st-steve ah c-can’t. Ah can’t go out there. I-I-I… what if I freeze up? Ah can’t remember anythin’ ya told me to say between songs… ah…”

Elvis looks distraught. Steve spends about a second feeling terrible for him and then leaps into action. 

“Alright, look, this is uh… this is roughly the setlist…” He grabs a pen and hurriedly starts to scribble down songs as he thinks of them. “And some of the things we said you could talk about…” desperately trying to remember himself, he scribbles down some notes about Elvis wiggling his little finger and the early days where they just had a guitar and a double bass. “Here.” He pushes the paper into Elvis’ hand. “Take it with you.”

Elvis stares at the words uncomprehendingly. He knows they mean something, but he can’t figure out what. “What if I freeze up Steve? W-what if ah go out there and can’t do a-a thing?”

Steve swallows, hard. There’s a big part of him that wants to comfort the other man, to tell him it’s going to be okay, to put his arms around those big strong shoulders and kiss his temple and… he has to pull himself together. The sensible part of him that knows that isn’t what will bring him out onto the stage takes over, and he looks right into the other man’s eyes. 

“If you freeze up, you just come right back to the dressing room.” He pauses, making sure he has Elvis’ full attention before he says the last part. “But you’re going out there.”

He turns on his heel and walks out of the room, not looking back once. Tough love. That’s what Elvis needs right now. Tough love. Or maybe this is going to fuck up horribly and he won’t come out of the room and all of the people who he’s managed to get here last minute are going to be disappointed… he looks up at the ceiling and briefly considers praying, and then his eyes move back to centre and land directly on Dorothy. 

“He’s afraid to go on,” he tells her, simply, after she takes one look at Steve’s harried face and asks what’s wrong. 

She just nods, wordlessly, and carries on past him into the dressing room. He tries not to hold his breath waiting. If anyone could persuade Elvis to do something, it’s Dorothy. 

She finds him still on the chair, the piece of paper Steve had given him held tightly in his fist as he stares down at it. 

“El?”

He looks up, and lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Dodo.”

“Steve says you don’t wanna go on?”

He shakes his head. “I’m gonna freeze up. Ah…”

She moves to stand between his legs, her hands gently on either side of his face. “You are not going to freeze up. You’re Elvis Fucking Presley and you were born to be on that stage. You’re gonna go out there and kill it, and all those girls watching you are going to scream and faint and cry like they used to in the fifties.” She leans down and kisses his lips softly. “Go out and show them all who you are. Show me too. I’ll be waiting.”

Without realising, she does exactly the same as Steve, turning and walking out of the room, not waiting for a reply. She can hear him stuttering behind her but she just keeps walking until she finds her seat, a way back so she’s not too distracting, but close enough that he can see her still. She holds her breath until he finally walks out onto the little stage in that leather suit, looking around him with a smile playing on his lips, nodding. He sits down and says a few words and then starts to play. She looks over at Steve and she can tell he’s just exhaled the same enormous breath that she has. Thank God he came out. And he didn’t freeze up. Thank God. 

***

Dorothy spends the next 20 minutes in awe. Of course she knew he was Elvis Fucking Presley, she’d told him as much. And she knew that he was good, she’d been around enough jam sessions to know he could play the guitar better than most people thought, and of course his singing voice was divine. But she’s never seen him in front of an audience like this, and she sees immediately how much it gives him life. She can’t take her eyes off him in that outfit, he’s somehow more beautiful than he’s ever looked before, and he keeps smiling, such a genuine gorgeous smile that it almost knocks the wind out of her. He’s laughing and joking and then singing with such wild abandon she thinks she could cum just from watching him. 

There’s a half an hour break between sets where she tries to have a breather, getting up and looking for a drink to calm herself. He’s surrounded by people back in the dressing room and for a change she doesn’t try to get herself into the middle of them, standing outside instead, nursing a scotch. Seeing her standing there alone, Steve decides he has a couple of spare minutes and walks over. 

“Want one?” He asks, holding out a pack of cigarettes. 

She nods gratefully, guiding one between her lips and leaning forward to let Steve light it for her. “Thanks. Feels like I’m having this after round one, getting ready for round two.”

Her smirk makes Steve blush, realising what she means. “Yeah it was intense, wasn’t it?”

Another nod, as she lets out a plume of smoke from between her lips. “You can say that again.”

Taking another drag, she purses her lips and then opens them with a pop, managing quite a wobbly smoke ring. “Used to be able to do those, you know.” Letting the rest of the breath go with a giggle, her eyes meet Steve’s again. “Phew! I didn’t know he could be that sexy and I have sex with him!”

They both crack up, her leaning back against the door and him grinning at her like a fool.  

“Thanks, by the way. Whatever you said to him, it worked.”

She shrugs. “Teamwork. I saw him clutching that piece of paper. I don’t think it was all me.”

***

By the time he’s half way through the second sit-down show, Elvis has hit his stride. He’s laughing and joking, telling stories, making the audience laugh and swoon. He’s also sweating like nobody’s business, it's running down his face as he loses himself singing and playing again. He’d been afraid to leave the dressing room, but when he finally did and saw all those people waiting for him… it all came flooding back. The thrill of performing. Being able to see the whites of people’s eyes. Losing himself completely in the music. 

He’s so lost, actually, that he barely realises he’s bucking his hips up into his guitar, dick straining against the leather pants he’s wearing. The intensity of the feeling of being onstage, coupled with the tightness of the pants is causing a delicious friction that he can’t help trying to get a little more of, even in front of all these people. It had happened during the first sit-down show, he found his legs even more out of control than usual as he scrunched his face up in ecstasy. But he hadn’t quite got there, and they’d moved on to Memories and he’d calmed down. This time, though, he’s got Scotty’s guitar and one foot on a chair, growling into the mic about praying for one night with you, hips rolling into the back of the guitar in a way that’s anything but subtle but seems to be driving the crowd wild anyway. He fumbles the lyrics again, going back to the old censored version, the things I did and I saw would make the earth stand still… he catches a glimpse of Steve looking at him as he sings those words, and something about the look on the other man’s face makes adrenaline course through his veins even faster, whipping the guitar back and forth so quickly the lead comes out. 

Somebody pulled the plug… he sings, jokingly, hair falling down into his face as sweat pools on his chest. Fumbling the lead back in again he insists on another round, he’s not finished yet. One night with you… why can’t he stop himself looking for Steve again, pleasure amping up for the third or fourth time that evening, screams from the crowd, and then suddenly those brown eyes staring at him like he’s the only thing on earth and Elvis can’t help himself, squeezing his eyes shut as he bares his teeth, shaking the guitar to within an inch of its life. Been too lonely too long… his limbs are out of control for just a second as the little extra bit of friction brings sweet release and his orgasm explodes inside him. Warmth fills his body as he finishes the song, more gentle than before now the immediate need is over, but the final line is still passionate …would make my dreams come true…. He smirks as he finishes, sitting back down again and starting something gentler, chatting to the audience, joking around with Scotty who still very clearly wants his guitar back. 

***

Dorothy is desperately trying to get Elvis out of the leather suit, but he’d sweated so much it seems like it’s glued to him. She gets him out of the top half with the help of some baby powder, but all she can do with the pants is unzip them and then finally manage to push them down over his ass. 

That’s when she notices the stain. 

“Pumpkin?” She asks, biting her lip. 

Elvis is still high after the performance, and his eyes are shining when he looks at her. “Yeah?”

“Have you been naughty?” She nods down at the inside of his pants. 

He looks down too, and then giggles. “Yes, mama.” He’s giddy and carefree and almost completely free of embarrassment.

Dorothy giggles too, sliding her hands onto his ass cheeks. “You need mama to punish you?”

He’s just about to tell her yes, he really does want her to punish him, or do whatever fun thing she might have in mind, he doesn’t care he’s so full of joy right now, when they both hear a shout from outside. 

“Hey! Wardrobe need the suit to clean before tomorrow!” 

Still giggling, Elvis turns around slightly and tries to cover himself with his hands. 

“Uh, it’s a bit stuck, Steve,” Dorothy shouts back. 

Without waiting to be asked, Steve storms in. There really isn’t much time for the suit to be cleaned and he thinks maybe someone a bit stronger than Dorothy needs to help with getting it off. Of course he’s completely forgotten the underwear thing again, and so he half-jumps when he sees the state of undress Elvis is in. 

“Oh, uh… sorry. But they really need it.”

Dorothy giggles. “Yeah, it really does need cleaning,” she replies. 

Steve frowns. ‘What do you…oh…” he stops midway through his sentence as he sees the stain she’s referring to. “Oh.”

He hastily tries to compartmentalise, now is not the time to think about the whens and whys of Elvis cumming on stage, now is the time to figure out how to get these pants off his legs. He leans down, tugging at one leg as Dorothy tries again with the other. Keeping his hands where they are, trying to somehow protect his modesty even though he was in bed with both of the people hauling on his pants just last night, Elvis tries not to think about how near Steve’s head is to his dick right now. 

“Did you glue these on?” Steve asks, frustrated as the pants stay resolutely where they were. 

“Try some of this,” Dorothy suggests, putting some baby powder on the leg she’s working on and then passing it to him. 

Steve sighs, but it does actually help a little, and they carry on struggling until finally both legs are down to Elvis’ knees. Telling him to sit down, they grab an end each, sitting down on the floor and pulling. They pull so much they’re almost dizzy with effort and both start laughing like lunatics. 

“Goddamnit,” Elvis mutters, looking down at the ridiculous scene in front of him. “Didn’t ya think ta get another pair made?”

“No,” Steve replies, finally getting one leg off and collapsing sideways with the effort. “Won’t make that mistake again.”

Dorothy is still giggling and eventually has to have help from Steve as she’s too insensible to keep pulling. At last Elvis is free from the suit, sitting there buck naked on the chair as it’s gathered up around him and a still heavily breathing Steve gives him a quick nod. 

“That was unbelievable. Can’t wait for tomorrow.” 

And then he’s gone, leaving Dorothy and Elvis alone for all of about two minutes, until Joe is knocking on the door and shouting something about gospel. Getting up a little wearily, Elvis throws on some clothes, shouting back about being a few minutes as he does it. 

“C’mon Dodo,” he says, with a grin. “Ya might have ta punish me later.”

***

Taglist:

@arg-xoxo @from-memphis-with-love @msamarican @blursedblegh @returntopresley @eapep @everythingelvispresley @i-r-i-n-a-a @arrolyn1114 @jhoneybees @polksaladava @lookingforrainbows @jkdaddy01 @epthedream69 @lustnhim @elvisslut @pomtherine @that-hotdog @ladelinee @angschrof @fairybloodsucker @deltafalax @makethemorning @elviswhore69 @ilovequeen978 @wildhorseinkansas @pocketfulofpresley @dkayfixates @iloveelvisss @kxnnxy @presleyhearted @lvrdollep @nebulamorada @iloveelvis2 @18lkpeters @elvisbdoll

[fiber-optic-alligator]

Hello,Hi!

Just wanted to stop by and tell you that I love your 'New Safe Haven' Fiction!

I love it so much that I've been rotating it in my head 360° for the past days.

But seriously the way you depict the three dough boys and how all that mindfuck is pulling the player/reader through an absolute wringer is just chefs kiss. I especially like the whole trust issues and slowburn way of attempting to better it and the realistic/serious handling of the PTSD and traumatic experiences the player has been though.

Latter is also the reason why I love that vore is included because the trust/fear/comfort concept you can do with it and how well it is utilized in the fiction is just sooo good! Nom-enjoyers stay winning and well fed with this one!

Though as I was re-reading the last scene from chapter two,where Kevin is threatening the reader -also as an emotional/stress outlet from how I interpreted it- I was thinking about the possibility of there being a scene where Kevin eats the reader prematurely,as in the sense that things are still too turbulent and hostile between him and the reader for it to be safe/comforting,like how it is with Mathew.

I mainly thought this hypothetical scene to be caused by Kevin getting overwhelmed by a stressful situation that escalated,which threatens to endanger his brothers too,that causes his anger and hurt to overflow and in the heat of the situation to turn on reader,despite it not even necessarily being their fault.

In this scene I also like to think that through rather extreme means,Kevin and Reader learn to begin to trust/bond with each other. By extreme means I mean that once Kevin has Reader in his mouth,he is on the brink of ending their life. About to crush and tear them up between his teeth,though before that happens I think that reader tries to reason with him -although in a full blown panic attack- and during that,reader says some very heartfelt apologies and regrets that just tug at Kevin's heartstrings to the point he realizes that ending them isn't the right thing to do. However I like to think that during his outburst Kevin injured Reader's arm or leg when he got them into his mouth and between his jaws/teeth,knowing that despite not wanting to harm them anymore,letting them out of his mouth wouldn't be smart or bettering their situation,hence Kevin ends up swallowing the reader.

Which understandably causes their panic to flair up all over again,pleading Kevin not to do it,unknowing that he changed his mind and wants to protect them now. I imagine that the scene ends with Kevin not explaining himself,due to regreting his behavior and thus trying to process his thoughts and feelings first and leaving the reader curled and shaking but at least safe within his belly.

Sorry that this is so long,I just really love 'A new Safe Haven' and your portraying of Kevin,Matthew and Jack.

I also planned to do fanart for my favorite scenes from the fic too and perhaps when I don't feel like a coward anymore,I might send the fanarts to you without the anonymity.

Hope you have a good day/afternoon/night!

THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! I am so happy you are enjoying the fic!!! I love Matthew, Kevin, and Jack, and I wanted to give them a story in which they receive the happy endings they deserve, with the reader eventually taking care of them and giving them the love they never got from anyone in Playtime Co.! There is definitely a lot for the reader to process while in the presence of these boys; on the one hand; they desperately want to trust them and fit into the mother role given to them. On the other hand, they are severely traumatized from everything they’ve experienced, and they are absolutely TERRIFIED of the boys. There are little moments where their terror fades and they allow themselves to be more open and trusting, as you’ve seen in the three chapters out. But for the most part, Matthew, Kevin, and Jack scare them, and they are convinced the boys will turn on them and kill them at some point.

I’d say the reader is scared of Kevin the most. He clearly doesn’t like them, and may even want them dead. So far, they’ve steered clear of him, and definitely will continue to after his threat at the end of chapter 2. I’ll say that it’s not impossible for Kevin to find himself in a highly stressful situation where him and his brothers are in danger, and he ends up lashing out at the reader. After all, he is a kid who is hurt, and holds a lot of pain in his heart. He has no healthy outlet to direct this pain, and the only way he knows how to express his negative feelings is by taking it out on others. So yeah, he’d take his anger out on you. I LOVE the angsty scenario where he has them in his mouth, ready to crush them between his teeth and end them once and for all, when suddenly he tastes tears on his tongue. He listens to the reader sob out apologies, telling him that it’s not his fault, no one was there for him when he needed support the most. All he wants to do is protect others from those who would hurt them. He’s just a kid. And as Kevin listens to the reader’s apologies…he knows this isn’t the right thing to do. Of course, he’s always known that. Kevin isn’t a malicious kid who enjoys hurting others. He just doesn’t know what else to do with his frustration and sadness and helplessness. He hides behind a wall of fear that disguises itself as aggression.

You don’t deserve this pain. You’re just as scared and helpless as him. If he kills you…he’s no better than the scientists who hurt him. Because he’s using his strength to overpower you, and that…that isn’t right.

Cue being swallowed down into his belly with an injured arm or leg and sobbing yourself straight into passing out. I love angst LOL.

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE send me your fanart if you decide to make any! I adore seeing fanart from others, you have no idea how much it makes my day!!! I would be honored and so so thankful to see it!!! Again, THANK YOU for reading the fic, and I appreciate your support and sticking around! :D

[kyouka-supremacy]

(╥﹏╥)

[tsubasakawanadefenseforce]

moko calling takumi a babyface is so funny. moko voice You will be the company’s top merch seller.

[allisonreader]

Laundry is done for now. We'll see if any writing actually gets done.

[reignpage]

Husband!Nanami missing you

Usually it was Husband!Nanami leaving for business trips, not you. But for one reason or another, the roles have been reversed and he doesn’t quite know how to feel.

“Bye, sweetheart. Text me when you get there, alright?” He says, stroking your cheek with his thumb. Everything you could possibly need for your week-long trip is organised meticulously in your suitcase so you’re all packed and ready to go, thanks to him. 

Giggling, you peck your husband on his lips. “Yes, I will. I’ll text you so often you’re going to get sick of me.”

Husband!Nanami smiles. How could he not?

“That won’t ever happen, sweetheart. You should get going now; you still have to get through security. I love you.”

“I love you more!” You yell out, rushing away with a final wave goodbye. 

Under his breath, he mutters, “I love you most.”

And so that was that.

Husband!Nanami returns to an empty home, already feeling your absence. He knew he’d have a difficult time — he always did. Whenever he was away to Kyoto or Osaka or even further, he would count the days till he gets to come back to you. But now, he’s counting down the days till you get back to him and gosh, time really does move slowly when you’re not having fun.

On the first day, he busies himself with all the things he doesn’t really get to do when you’re home. Things like reading a book (you find him absolutely adorable with his reading glasses and he can barely get through a chapter before you’re snuggling up in his lap and distracting him with kisses), watching the news (you much prefer fiction over cold, harsh reality and he obliges you every time), and taking a nice, long and relaxing bath on his own (he always has wife-shaped bathing buddy occupying the tight space with him).

Husband!Nanami never complains about the fact that most days he has go without the solo activities he used to cherish before being in a relationship with you. Of course not. It wasn’t as if he ever ‘gave up’ or ‘sacrificed’ anything. Things were just different.

But a good different. 

He knew that getting with, proposing and marrying you. And he knows that now. 

Especially when he realises that none of his books from his ‘to be read’ file are very interesting, what with them all being about the same thing — he really ought to branch out into other genres. The news is depressing and all there seems to be these days are bloodshed and destruction — as a sorcerer that’s all he’s ever know, so why would he subject himself to anymore of it at home?. And baths?

Overrated. 

Unless, of course, they’re shared with you; he’d much rather feel your soft, warm flesh against his. 

That sole thought occupies his mind as he spontaneously boards a plane and counts down the hours until he gets to see your face, likely full of surprise but also, hopefully, of acceptance and love. 

Husband!Nanami isn’t ashamed to admit he couldn’t last a day without his wife. He isn’t ashamed to admit that living alone, without you, is his worst nightmare. And he will never be ashamed to declare to the world that he doesn’t even think he exists outside of you. 

Because to your Kento, he is a husband first, and everything else second.

[midwesternfields]

BOOK REVIEW 📖

This is the one for February – I was reminded of this book half way through the month and decided to reread it again because I couldn't remember how it ended; plus a short mystery is always nice to read (side note: this ended up as an ebook read bc I couldn't remember where in my storage boxes I have my copy – it's in storage because it's a paperback edition and old and I don't want it to die on me yet lol)

[tender-rosiey]

from me to you — gojo satoru x f!reader

a/n: this takes place in chapter 268, soo sort of spoilers ahead? also long live gojo satoru; gojo leaves you a letter 🙏

“y/n-sensei, there is a letter for you as well!”

that catches your attention, and you look up at the first years. you tilt your head slightly, and yuuji hands you an envelope.

you gently take it from him, and the first thing you notice is “wifey” written on it then the doodle of satoru with his blindfold on. you feel your throat tighten, and your hands shake slightly.

you let out a small breath then shakily open the letter.

hey, honey!!

it first reads.

I feel like there is still much I didn’t tell you in our last meeting, so here I, your beautiful and handsome husband, am writing them down.

you swallow lightly, and a small smile appears on your face as you imagine satoru saying that, then you continue to the next line.

first, I changed all your computer passwords to variations of “satoruisthebest” at one point. your confusion was so cute!!

you quirk an eyebrow at the admission, but when you rack your brain, you remember that one day when you couldn’t log into your computer.

what you vividly remember was satoru being sat beside you the whole time, and now that you think about it. he was smiling so widely the entire time, letting out small chuckles every now and then. oh, that sneaky man.

“satoru, I am telling you it’s broken!”

“sweetheart, we spent over 2000$ on that. if it broke, then we could easily sue the company,” he chuckled, arm wrapping around your shoulder and pulling you closer.

“2 year guaranteed top performance my ass!”

you smile at the memory. it was pretty satoru of him to do that. your eyes then move to continue reading.

second, there are times when I would tell megumi that you would be coming with me, then he would turn and leave me when he found out I was tricking him.

your eyes glance up at said boy who is sat across of you. he made it out alive, despite everything. he suffered so much, but he made it.

it makes you relieved, and you can imagine satoru being bloody proud of him and saying something along the lines of ‘you handed sukuna’s ass to him, very cool!’

no matter how much megumi had frowned and grimaced at satoru’s presence or antics. it rooted itself as something—safe and familiar.

you can’t count on your hands the times when you and satoru would visit the siblings, and nobody really said it, but these meetings did all of you a favor, a chance to kind of wind down. maybe act like death might actually not be looming tomorrow.

it feels like just yesterday when megumi would cling to you when he got really sad or nervous, after so much time spent getting comfortable with each other.

he grew up well, you think, eyes gliding to next.

third, I hid your uniform every two to three weeks, so you have to stay with me.

at that, your eyes widen a bit. satoru’s schedule was pretty packed, but he somehow managed to squeeze time for quality time between you two.

it tugged on your heartstrings, and you made sure he knew how much you appreciated it, not a single space on his face left without a kiss. however, finding out that he went out of his way to make you rest and stay.

satoru’s care really showed in his actions, and you feel like this is the biggest proof of it.

“satoru, have you seen my uniform?”

“nope! maybe, it is a sign to stay home today? you’ve been working so hard, wifey!”

you cupped his face, pulled him down to your height, and kisses his cheek, “you’ve been working harder, ‘toru. let me take off some of the load at least.”

“we could both stay!”

“you’re kidding, right?”

“I already told yaga; I miss you!”

you try to stop the reminiscing further and try to compose yourself before reading the rest.

fourth, I’m the one who kept adjusting the thermostat. I just wanted an excuse to cuddle.

a fond yet melancholy smile appears on your face. you kinda figured that one out. satoru’s favorite pastime was cuddling, so it’s no surprise that he would go out of his way to create the need for it even further.

add to that, once you went to get some green tea and saw him from the corner of your eye teleport to the thermostat, click something, then teleport back to bed.

you figured that the room being chilly that night was not an exception in the middle of july.

“babeeee, it’s so cold! let’s cuddle!”

“maybe the problem is with the thermostat?”

“I checked! I think cuddling is the best solution.”

you giggle as you recall the moment, one of many similar. your heart feels a bit lighter as you go through the letter. something satoru managed to always do even in person.

he would plaster sticky notes, get you trinkets, and even pull pranks on other just to see you smile. feeling more encouraged, you keep on reading the letter.

then you feel your chest constrict so tightly that you might just throw up.

fifth, I am really gonna fucking miss you.

you read the line over again, and you purse your lip in hopes of silencing any noise that may come out as you feel the lump in your throat return, even worse than before. your breathing starts getting more difficult.

your grip on the letter tightens, and you find yourself thinking back to the good times. memories of late nights spent in each other’s arms, thinking about everything and nothing at once.

hushed whispers of confessions and quiet giggles as you reminisced on your highschool days. tight hugs when recalling the sad moments and the departure of a certain someone.

“you know, y/n, I think we might just be made for each other,” he said one night. you hummed and looked him in the eyes.

“three am thoughts?”

“three am admissions,” he grins slightly, “I am made for you, and you’re made for me.”

you remember him pulling you closer and kissing your forehead, while you teased, “and what would you need little old me for, so much that I got made?”

he feigns thinking then closes his eyes, burying his face in your shoulder, “grounding me.”

I love you. I really do, but you should know that already, right?

your eyes drift down to the corner of the paper, and that is when you feel your tears start free-falling. there is drawn a chibi satoru besides a chibi you and between them is a heart.

the chibi satoru is giving yours a big smooch, while she laughs. you never thought that the day your jealousy burns would be because of drawings, and drawings of you and your own husband, nonetheless.

“but wow, gojo-sensei is shit at writing letters,” you hear nobara remark.

megumi responds with a small chuckle, “I am fine with mine.”

“what about you, y/n-sensei?—”

the trio becomes silent as you let out a sob. a watery smile makes its way up your face as you kiss the letter gently and murmur, “so shitty.”

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copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize or I will tell @callmemirro

check out my buy me a coffee!

[kyri45]

A final letter

Hello Everyone!

The queue is paused and everything is scheduled, which means we are ready for the finale!

I know that, in the end, this was just a silly side project for me, with everything else going on in my life. But for this occasion, I wanted to drop some words here and hope they make sense.

I started watching LMK only because a friend told me there was a "Sonadow-coded" ship. I ended up consuming the entire thing in one sitting on July 10th, 2024. At the time, I was still recovering from a bike accident that had left me with a broken right forearm—unable to draw for a little over a month. (I did try drawing with my left finger, but it wasn't exactly fun.)

Not only that, but it was summer, and I couldn’t enjoy the season or practice my main sport, windsurfing. To say I was feeling the blues is an understatement. I remember being in physical pain just from not being able to draw my sillies. But then, watching LMK did something to my brain chemistry that my little undiagnosed autistic self had never experienced before. It hit so hard that I’ve been physically unable to rewatch the show SINCE that very first day. (And y’all still call me the CEO of this fandom. Bro, I just work here.)

A lot of you have asked what inspired me to start this comic or to draw LMK fan art in the first place. While my usual answer is, "I saw Shadowpeach and thought MK could be their lovechild, given his appearance," the moment that actually started it all was THIS ONE—

(I HAD TO REWATCH THIS SCENE TO MAKE THE GIF AND IT HURT ME ON A MOLECOLAR LEVEL)

I have… a thing for characters who discover their entire identity was something else all along. It consumes my thoughts, my dreams, my every waking moment. I live for identity crises, for characters who thought they knew who they were, only to be forced to rediscover themselves, their existence, and their place in the world. If you give me a story where a character has to go through that, I will like it—regardless of how bad the rest of the story is.

Pair that with loads of trauma, daddy issues, the pressure of a legacy, and world-ending stakes, and congrats! Now I’m obsessed, and I will not stop thinking about it for the rest of my days!

At first, my brain just wanted to release some of that energy with a small, four-panel post about the monkeys discovering that MK was technically their kid.

That was supposed to be it.

But since I never seem to learn my lesson, it didn’t stay like that. Because once I started drawing, I just... continued.

And

I

never

stopped.

A lot of you have also asked how I found the motivation to draw so much, to never take a break. Well, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it one last time: I am my number one fan. No matter how much you laughed, cried, screamed, or went feral over this story, I did all of that and more. Because I got to think about the chapters months before they released. I got to daydream about them. I got to watch them come to life—first through sketches, then line art, then dialogue. And finally, I got to witness your reactions and see the incredible creations you made, inspired by my story.

So yeah, in a way, it was almost an addiction. A good addiction. Because, for the first time in my life, I actually understood what loving art means.

I’ve been drawing for ten years, working professionally for five, but I never loved art before. I just liked it because I happened to be good at it. But creating this comic made me understand why artists say, "Oh, I’ve loved drawing since I was a child!" This was the first time I allowed myself to create purely for my own enjoyment. Something I hadn’t had the privilege to do for a long time.

Other than making me feel even more single than I already was, this story somehow also helped me a little with my own family relationships. So yeah. Crazy how the gay monkeys changed my life.

Of course, I never could have predicted how much traction my AU would gain. Man, y’all were really starving to latch onto something this silly. /j

But yeah—thank you. Thank you for sticking around until the end, for having the patience and trust to follow the story even when I made you rage with angst and cliffhangers. (The statement in my bio still stands: I am not responsible for any physical or emotional damage my art has caused.)

I’m absolutely shit at thanking people, or at writing, or at talking in general, honestly. I’m the furthest thing from being good with words, so I hope the final chapter will be enough to show you my gratitude.

Through this story, I met so many wonderful, talented people. I watched as fans across different platforms found each other through memes and fanart of the AU. I saw artists start their own AUs inspired by mine, growing their own communities. I witnessed an explosion of creativity and collaboration through our takeovers. And I laughed along with you all.

And yeah—at its core, this story has always been about love. Whether it’s platonic, sibling, parental, romantic, or whatever the hell Mac and Wukong had going on for millennia.

At its heart, it’s a story about family.

And maybe, in the end… the real family wasn’t just the one in the comic, but the one we’ve found together along the way. 💛

See you all at the finale.

Love you all, freaks /affectionate

Jade

[blackkatdraws2]

[Toon x Mobster] Chapter 5: The Day Before

Previously // Next - (chapter list) / (AO3 ver) [contains: BLOOD / GORE / MILD DISTURBING IMAGERY]

Jack had slumped on the couch, his chest gently rising up and down as exhaustion weighed him to sleep at last.

Gavriel noticed the stretch of silence. He glanced back at the other man in the room before noticing the Toon was then fast asleep.

The scarred man frowned at this. He hadn’t even so much as glanced at Gavriel before drifting off, to check and assure that he hadn’t been making any suspicious movements with the intent to hurt him. Any blunt or sharp objects in this room could have easily become a weapon in Gavriel's hands, and the fool had left himself wide open, completely defenseless.

Gavriel shook his head disapprovingly. He’ll have to turn down the food the Toon had offered him. What if it had been laced with something? Not that he doubted his stomach wouldn't be able to handle it — he’d been poisoned with way worse, but the experiences were never pleasant.

Though, now with his main concern asleep, he allowed himself to relax a bit and took a closer look around the shabby but homey apartment. He'd never been to a Toon's place before. Some parts of this place were a bit worn down from time and lack of upkeep, but the windows provided decent natural lighting inside, so it didn’t feel stuffy at all.

The difference in the overall atmosphere here and the one he was accustomed to felt weird. The color palette was warm, but the fluff wasn’t overbearing at all.

Just comfortable.

Gavriel wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Perturbed, he walked around, inspecting every room in the small apartment before he soon spotted the sliding doors connected to the balcony. Gavriel didn't have his phone to check the map or call for help, he was unsure if it fell out of his pockets when he was fleeing or if Jack had taken it away. All the same, he wanted to take a look outside to try to guess where the hell in this unfamiliar city he had managed to end up in.

He made sure to check for any CCTV cameras before stepping into the balcony when he found none, and he was welcomed by the cool morning wind caressing his face, chilly from the heavy rain the night before. He took a deep breath, the feel of the frigid air penetrating his thoughts.

Speaking of CCTV cameras, that foolish Toon. Gavriel clicked his tongue, displeasure seeping through his features. Had he been seen dragging his body here? What about the blood? Did the Toon take care of that, too? Did the residents here know about his unwelcome arrival, or was it just him?

The more he thought, the more his brows furrowed. He couldn’t stay here, he needed to leave.

His hands grasped the railings as he scanned his surroundings, his pain-muddled mind slowly grinded into action as he tried to remember which portion of the city contained apartment complexes comparable to or identical to this one. Unfortunately for him, a great deal. 

Uneasy, he subconsciously scratched the gnarly scar that ran along the side of his neck. Nothing much to gather from that. He also wasn't familiar enough with this city to pick out any particularities about the place either, so he was basically stuck.

The scarred man sighed and tipped his head down in simmering frustration. “Shit.”

The wind blew gently, swinging around and playfully swaying his bangs, but Gavriel’s mood was too bitter for him to notice. He took that moment to think about what happened to him that day. Before he collapsed in that alleyway.

Gavriel's guarded nature earlier hadn't come from nowhere.

He was coming back from an exhausting trip. Cel City was the midpoint road from his previous location and back to Grimwoods City, his home. They were driving down a long crowded lane when something strange started to happen.

A few cars that acted normally before began to swerve and drive wildly, hitting and causing mayhem on the road before eventually making a reckless turn to chase after the car Gavriel and his men were in.

Guns went off and vehicles screeched as people attempted to avoid them while Gavriel’s gang were pursued down the road at high speeds. One of the cars following them collided with a truck and flew into the air, striking Gavriel's car and a few others as it flipped before landing upside down on the ground, nearly destroyed from the hard collision.

Everything else had been a blur of gunshots and yelling after that, yet he distinctly remembered the moment he saw the door of the fallen car being slammed open from the inside. Whoever had been driving that thing had survived the fatal car crash.

The person’s bloodied and broken body climbed out, dragging themself forward. A few joints were turned the wrong way and injuries littered their body, but they pushed themself up and stood without as much as a flinch.

Gavriel glared, appraising the person before realizing something odd that made him pause for a moment.

It was a Toon.

More of them appeared, coming out of cars that were previously driving away or have been hit. Their simplified cel-shaded hands held guns far too detailed and foreboding for their wholesome appearances.

The sight of Toons holding guns had already been peculiar, though something else caught Gavriel's attention. Their pupils were rolled to the back of their lids with capillaries crawling in their eyes, almost like they've all lost their minds. Or had they perhaps been drugged? Gavriel wasn't sure, but those people hadn't looked like they were capable of reason at that very moment, and they were very clearly there to hunt them.

Gavriel and his gang were eventually forced to retreat. He managed to escape, but not without losing a few of his men in the process and taking a few lethal wounds himself. He didn't know if there was still anybody alive amongst his Grim subordinates or if they were all dead.

So when he awoke to the care of Jack Desmond, a Toon, he was wary of him being one of them. But not only had Desmond chosen to help dress up his wounds and given him his bed to rest on, he was also dumb enough to sleep in the open with Gavriel in the same room as him. Though, there was always a chance of all of that being a show he was putting on.

Having lived years of his life through hell and back in his line of work, he could never be too sure about the nature of people he was unfamiliar with. For all he knew, Desmond could just be skilled in putting up a front. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time he's met somebody similar; the "nicest" ones were somehow always the most deranged.

…He needed a phone to tell someone about the attack and to get a ride back home.

—

Meanwhile, deep in his blissful sleep, Jack stayed unknowing of the dark picture Gavriel painted about him. If he knew, he'd surely cry out in despair. His act of kindness was being misinterpreted and twisted, he was being wronged! Wronged, he'd tell you!!

_

Previously // Next - (chapter list) / (AO3 ver) Thank you to @demonicrhythms for proofreading this chapter.

[diamonddaze01]

Full Throttle (i)

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

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

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

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

read part 2 here! <3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Suzuka chaos worked in Jeonghan’s favor. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve got a crush.

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

Jeonghan didn’t want to be here.

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

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

No, it was you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There you are!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” he said simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The admission lands heavily between you, unexpected and disarming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t.

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

Just another driver.

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

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

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

Jeonghan spends the night refreshing his Twitter feed. 

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

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

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

He clicks it immediately. 

The headline strikes first: 

Kim Mingyu’s Risky Qualifying Lap Keeps Rivals on Edge

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

Mingyu?

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

Then, buried halfway through, he finds his name:

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

That’s it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not in your writing. Not from you.

It’s infuriating.

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

Not just another driver.

But the one worth writing about.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It stings more than it should.

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

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

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

Jeonghan Dominates Monaco: Pole Position Translates to Victory

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

The thought gnaws at him.

It’s not enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, it happens.

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

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

“I’m out. Car’s done.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, you agree.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And maybe that’s the problem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don't finish the sentence. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for now, that’s enough.

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

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

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

“Back again?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The joy that had filled him moments ago flickers.

Why does it bother him?

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

Jealousy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nestled among the flowers is a small envelope.

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

I’m sorry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raised a brow. “Aggressively encouraged?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FORMULA 1 HUNGARIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Hungaroring

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He huffed a humorless laugh. “Not exactly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You clinked your bottle against his. “Anytime.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The weekend at Spa began like a dream.

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

Jeonghan thrived on its challenge.

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

By the time he returned to the garage, his name was at the top of the timesheets, and his team wore expressions of pride and relief. Engineers crowded around him during the debrief, their excitement palpable. Even Mingyu wandered over to toss a mockingly impressed, “Don’t get used to it, Yoon,” in his direction.

Jeonghan, basking in the buzz of dominance, had only winked.

But then came the penalty.

A breach in power unit regulations—an unavoidable technicality that slapped him with a grid penalty. It was frustratingly bureaucratic, a punishment that felt out of his control and yet deeply personal. His pole position was stripped away, and he was relegated to P10.

In the Ferrari garage, Jeonghan leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, the weight of his helmet heavy in his hand. The rhythmic hum of power tools and bursts of chatter around him did little to soothe his simmering frustration.

It wasn’t just the penalty—it was the sting of perfection slipping through his fingers, a weekend that had started flawlessly now teetering on the edge of disappointment.

He glanced up, ready to bury himself in the chaos of the paddock, and froze.

You were there, leaning casually against the pit wall, chatting with one of the mechanics. The glow of the overhead lights caught in your hair, and despite the whirlwind of activity, you were a picture of calm. Your hands moved as you spoke, animated yet confident, the faintest flicker of a smirk playing on your lips.

His gaze lingered.

It hit him—a memory of your words from Hungary, your unwavering belief cloaked in sharp wit: “A more than fair chance to close the gap.”

For the first time since the penalty, the gap didn’t feel insurmountable.

He didn’t realize he’d been staring until you caught his eye. Your brows rose, and you tilted your head in mock curiosity before excusing yourself from the mechanic and walking toward him.

“You okay?” you asked, your voice laced with a note of amusement and something softer underneath.

Jeonghan shrugged, plastering on his signature cocky grin. “Since when are you worried about me?”

Your lips twitched in a barely concealed smile. “Oh, I’m not worried. Just curious. I wanted to see how Ferrari’s golden boy handles a little adversity.”

His grin faltered for the briefest moment before sharpening again. “Keep watching,” he said, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “I might surprise you.”

You tilted your chin, your expression a blend of challenge and intrigue. “Don’t disappoint me then.”

The way you said it—like you meant it—sparked something fierce in him.

As you turned to leave, the faint scent of your perfume lingered in the air, anchoring him to the moment. Jeonghan watched you disappear into the paddock, your confident stride a sharp contrast to his brooding, and for the first time that day, a smirk tugged at his lips.

It wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.

P10 to P1. 

It was the kind of race drivers dreamed of—the kind that earned its place in highlight reels for years to come.

The chaos began even before the lights went out. Rain had threatened all morning, dark clouds heavy over the Ardennes, but it held off just long enough to keep everyone guessing. Jeonghan sat in his Ferrari on the grid, surrounded by cars that had no business being ahead of him. He’d spent every second since the penalty recalibrating his mindset, shifting his frustration into fuel.

As the lights went out, his singular focus kicked in.

Turn 1, La Source: Jeonghan dived inside, threading through a gap that barely existed. The radio crackled with his engineer’s voice, commending his clean move, but he barely registered it. Eau Rouge and Raidillon loomed ahead, their uphill sweep demanding precision, bravery, and trust in his car.

He took the corners flat out.

By Lap 5, Jeonghan was in P7. His mind churned as he studied the cars ahead, each one a problem to solve. Every braking point, every shift in weight through the curves—it all required perfect execution.

But then came the rain.

It began as a drizzle at Pouhon, the light sheen on the track turning treacherous by the next sector. Jeonghan’s grip on the wheel tightened as he adjusted his lines, feeling for every ounce of traction.

“Box this lap for inters,” his engineer instructed.

“No,” Jeonghan replied, his voice steady. He could feel it—the balance of risk and reward. He stayed out one lap longer, the gamble paying off as he overtook two cars struggling on the wrong tires. When he finally pitted, the stop was flawless.

By Lap 20, the red flag came out, the rain too heavy for safety. Jeonghan sat in the pit lane during the suspension, helmet off, sweat beading his brow. His thoughts wandered for the first time since the race began.

Your words came back to him.

"Jeonghan’s perfectionism is both his weapon and his curse. When he is at his best, he’s untouchable. But the question remains: can he handle the pressure when the odds aren’t in his favor?"

His jaw tightened. You were right—about the pressure, about the way he held himself to standards so high they sometimes crushed him. But you’d also written something else.

"A more than fair chance to close the gap."

He wasn’t sure why, but that sentence anchored him.

When the race restarted, Jeonghan was a man possessed.

Sector by sector, he clawed his way through the field, each overtake cleaner and bolder than the last. At Blanchimont, he overtook Soonyoung in a move that was half instinct, half calculated risk. His engineer’s voice came over the radio in a disbelieving laugh: “Mate, you’re insane!”

By the final lap, he was leading. The roar of the crowd blended with the steady beat of his heart as he crossed the finish line, victory his once more.

The pit lane was a blur of celebration. His team engulfed him in a sea of red, their cheers drowning out even the din of Spa’s loyal fans. Soonyoung appeared out of nowhere, throwing an arm around Jeonghan’s shoulders.

“Winning in Spa from P10? You better believe I’m buying the first round,” Soonyoung declared, grinning despite his P2 finish.

Jeonghan laughed, the sound ragged and raw from effort, but his mind wasn’t entirely in the moment.

Later, in the quiet of the motorhome, when the adrenaline had settled and exhaustion was creeping in, Jeonghan pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over the search bar before typing your name.

The article was already live.

His breath caught as he read your headline:

From P10 to Perfection: Yoon Jeonghan’s Masterclass at Spa

It was glowing, but in your unmistakable style—balanced, sharp, and honest. You praised his overtakes, his strategy, and his ability to rise under pressure. Your writing was like poetry, an ode to his resilience, his precision in the rain, his ability to claw victory from the jaws of defeat.  But what caught him off guard was the final line.

"With the championship fight closer than ever, it’s not a question of if Jeonghan will close the gap. It’s a question of when."

Jeonghan read it three times, his chest tight with something that felt almost like pride.

For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to believe them.

The bass thrummed low and heavy, a pulse that seemed to reverberate straight through the packed room. 

Jeonghan leaned against the bar, his drink in hand, his racing suit long since replaced by a fitted black shirt with the top buttons undone. The sleeves were rolled just enough to expose his forearms, the dark fabric clinging to his frame in a way that effortlessly commanded attention. Around him, the club buzzed with post-race energy—drivers, engineers, and team members alike reveling in the victory and chaos of the day.

Soonyoung was next to him, buzzing with his usual infectious energy. Jeonghan caught snippets of his teammate’s banter, but his mind was elsewhere.

“God, Jeonghan, if you stare any harder, she’s going to spontaneously combust,” Soonyoung teased, sipping his drink with a knowing smirk.

Jeonghan blinked, startled. “What?”

Soonyoung rolled his eyes, nodding toward the dance floor. “Her. You’ve been staring at her like she’s a particularly tricky apex all night.”

Jeonghan followed his gaze.

There you were, dancing with a group of Ferrari engineers, the colored lights spilling across your frame, making your skin glow. You laughed at something one of them said, your head tilting back, your hair swaying with every movement. Jeonghan’s grip on his glass tightened.

“You’re hopeless,” Soonyoung said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just go talk to her. Or better yet, dance with her. God knows you’ll make everyone else jealous.”

Jeonghan scoffed, setting his empty glass down on the bar with a sharp clink. “You’re imagining things.”

“Sure, and you just happened to spend the past ten minutes glaring at the poor guy she’s dancing with.”

Jeonghan shot him a warning glance, but Soonyoung only grinned wider.

“Look, you’ve already won at Spa,” he added, leaning closer. “Might as well take another victory tonight.”

Jeonghan shook his head, but the heat in his chest betrayed him. He cast one last glance at you before downing the rest of his drink and pushing off the bar.

The crowd was a blur of movement, bodies packed tightly together under the pulsing lights, but Jeonghan moved with purpose. He found you easily, your energy magnetic even in the chaos.

The beat shifted as he approached, slowing to something deeper, sultrier. He stepped in behind you, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from your skin.

“Enjoying yourself?” he murmured, his voice low and warm against your ear.

You turned slightly, glancing at him over your shoulder. Your lips curved into a teasing smile, your eyes dancing in the dim light. “Jeonghan. Didn’t think you were the clubbing type.”

He smirked, his hand brushing lightly against your waist. “I make exceptions for special occasions.”

You arched a brow, leaning back into him just enough to blur the line between teasing and inviting. “Special occasions, huh? Like winning at Spa?”

“Something like that,” he said, his voice a touch quieter now. His fingers rested lightly on your waist, the heat of his touch sending a shiver up your spine.

You turned to face him fully, your hands drifting up to rest on his shoulders, playful and almost casual. “So? What’s it like being untouchable?”

He chuckled softly, his gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips and back again. “You’d know,” he said smoothly, “if you were paying attention during my races instead of writing snarky articles.”

You laughed, a soft, melodious sound that made his chest tighten. “I did pay attention,” you countered, leaning in slightly, your lips barely a breath away from his ear. “You were alright, I guess.”

“Alright?” he repeated, feigning offense. “You called it a masterclass. Don’t think I didn’t read your article.”

Your grin widened, the fire in your eyes matching the teasing edge in your tone. “Oh, that? Don’t let it go to your head, Yoon. I still expect a proper interview.”

His hands shifted to your hips, grounding you against him as he swayed slightly to the beat, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “Careful. Keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

“And if I did?” you teased back, your voice soft but no less challenging.

For a moment, the world around you fell away. The music, the lights, the press of the crowd—it all faded as the space between you closed. Jeonghan’s eyes lingered on your lips, his heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the adrenaline of racing.

Then, just as you tilted your head, leaning closer—

“JEONGHAN!”

The moment shattered.

Sunwoo’s voice boomed over the music as he appeared out of nowhere, the mechanic’s grin wide and oblivious. “Bro, come on! You can flirt later! Dance with me!”

Jeonghan groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder as your laughter spilled over him like warm sunlight.

“This isn’t over,” he muttered, just loud enough for you to hear.

You pulled back, still laughing, and met his gaze with a wink. “I’ll hold you to that.”

FORMULA 1 HEINEKEN DUTCH GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Zandvoort

The paddock at Zandvoort was always one of Jeonghan’s favorites. The smell of fresh sea air mixed with the unmistakable tang of fuel and rubber, while the orange-clad crowd painted the stands in a fiery glow. Jeonghan didn’t even mind the noise—something about the Netherlands had a way of energizing him.

He was walking back from the driver’s parade when he spotted you outside the Ferrari hospitality tent, a coffee in hand, your eyes scanning the throng of people with practiced ease. The crisp breeze tugged at your hair, and Jeonghan slowed his pace, his lips curling into a familiar smirk.

You glanced up just in time to catch him staring. “Don’t you have a race to focus on?”

“Don’t you have an article to write?” he shot back, his voice smooth as ever.

“I’m multitasking,” you replied, raising your coffee in a mock toast.

Jeonghan stepped closer, close enough that the conversation felt private despite the bustling paddock around you. “Let me guess,” he said, crossing his arms, “today’s headline is, ‘Ferrari Driver Jeonghan Looks Extra Handsome Under Dutch Sunlight.’”

You snorted, barely suppressing a laugh. “Oh, please. I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘Can Ferrari’s Yoon Jeonghan Deliver After Spa Masterclass?’”

“Flattering,” he mused, tilting his head. “I thought you’d save the sarcasm for the post-race write-up.”

“I aim to keep you humble,” you said with a shrug, though the playful glint in your eyes gave you away.

Jeonghan leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to send a thrill down your spine. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like a fan.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could get a word in—

“Jeonghan!”

A voice cut through the tension like a knife. You both turned to see Soonyoung jogging up, waving enthusiastically. “There you are! We’re late for the strategy briefing!”

Jeonghan sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching as he glanced back at you. “Guess we’ll have to finish this later.”

You grinned, your eyes dancing with amusement. “Don’t let me keep you from your briefing, Ferrari’s golden boy.”

Jeonghan’s smirk deepened. “I’ll see you after I win.”

He walked off, Soonyoung talking his ear off as you watched him go, the heat in your chest lingering far longer than it should have.

The race came and went, and though Jeonghan didn’t win—Mingyu’s dominance at Zandvoort was almost an inevitability—he still managed to bring home a solid podium finish.

Later, back at the hospitality suite, you found yourself standing near the balcony, staring out at the ocean waves in the distance.

“Not bad for a day’s work,” came a familiar voice behind you.

You turned to find Jeonghan leaning casually against the doorway, his hair still damp from the post-race shower. He’d swapped his racing suit for a simple white shirt and jeans, but somehow, he still looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine.

“Not bad,” you admitted. “Though I was expecting a win. Should I change the headline to ‘Close, but Not Quite’?”

Jeonghan’s laugh was low and smooth as he closed the distance between you. “I think you’re just trying to rile me up.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Is it working?”

He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint freckle on his cheekbone, the way his lashes caught the light. “You tell me.”

The air between you crackled, your banter giving way to something heavier, something unspoken. For a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you.

“Jeonghan!”

The door slammed open, and Mingyu’s booming voice shattered the moment.

Both of you jumped, turning to see the taller driver grinning sheepishly. “Uh, sorry. Team dinner’s starting soon, and they’re waiting for you.”

Jeonghan’s jaw tightened, but he plastered on an easy smile. “Of course they are.”

Mingyu left as quickly as he’d come, leaving you and Jeonghan alone again.

“Do people just have radar for this?” Jeonghan muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

You laughed, the tension easing slightly. “Maybe it’s the universe telling you to focus on racing.”

He stepped closer again, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Or maybe it’s telling me I’ll just have to try harder.”

Your pulse quickened, but before you could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Jeonghan sighed dramatically, stepping back with a rueful smile. “Guess I’ll have to settle for third interruptions.”

You smirked, folding your arms. “You’re consistent, at least.”

“Don’t forget it,” he said with a wink, his voice smooth as ever as he walked away.

And just like that, you were left alone, the waves crashing in the distance as you wondered how long this game of cat and mouse could last.

another lil a/n: full throttle is probably one of my favorite things i've EVER written and i am so proud of myself for getting this out of my head and onto the page.