#your characterization and thought into her

[0-memento-mori-0]

I want to bring up that joke about Susie’s name since it’s barely touched here because I’m on my second play-through of chapter 3 and now that I can appreciate the finer details it means a LOT to me, both for how he treats Susie and also Tenna’s characterization as a whole

As a “Family Friendly Television” and a character based off old school Entertainment, I started the chapter expecting him to be a staunch, rule abiding, strict sort of guy, no cursing no lewd jokes no smoking or drinking, etc etc, but he ISN’T.

Ralsei asks to change her name after the first round and Tenna says NO. He could have given her the time to be naughty then gone “okay, now we need to behave, you had your fun”, and I EXPECTED him to do that, but he didn’t ! He thought her name was funny, and perfectly fine, and he kept it in!!

He makes all SORTS of lowkey adult jokes that old school media DID use to do when it was stricter back in the day and they got around the censorship in order to have fun! And I absolutely LOVE THAT!!! He calls Susie ‘sweetheart’ and she goes back for him no matter what and it means the entire world to me.

i am Thinking about how quickly and how well susie and tenna started getting along. i am Thinking about it

[eyekoninurarea]

Your Idol: Debut Vlog Series

→ daniela avanzini x fem!idol!masc!reader

masterlist

word count: 986

series summary: in which a struggling girl group was suddenly brought into light when their debut came out of nowhere. everyone thought SIREN5 was just hype; a chaotic rookie group with a pretty concept and no substance. even KATSEYE wasn’t expecting much when they were assigned to mentor them before debut. but the moment the music hit, everything changed.

episode summary: wherein the first filming disaster is edited to the best the editors can, witness as sailors get to know more about their idols on the first episode.

authors note: this is quite literally like a filler, this is chapter 3 in vlog form for me to get a feel for writing in this format. this segment, messed up my frequently used emojis and my brain fried from all the usernames i had to think of jesus christ. give me your thoughts and opinions abt this kind of set up? next up, another experimental part Cami's first live.

The characterization in this fic does not, in any way, reflect that of the real people portrayed in this fic.

tag(s): fluff, suggestive content, nsfw, mdni (pls i beg), idol!reader being a loser trapped in a hot body, masc reader, reader having she/her pronouns, rough transitions, shitty characterization, messy, sex jokes, the author doesn't know how the music industry works.

[SIREN5 x KATSEYE: Debut Diary Ep. 1 — "First Contact (ft. Chaos, Confusion & Cringe)"]

Uploaded by: SIREN5 OFFICIAL

�� Premiered 4 hours ago | #SIREN5 #KATSEYE #SYRENCHAOS

🎬 [INTRO CLIP — SOFT MUSIC, FADE-IN TEXT]

> “SIREN5: DEBUT DIARY – A behind-the-scenes series documenting the rise of our newest global sirens. Welcome to chaos personified.”

📍SEGMENT 1: "5:50 AM: The Calm Before the Screech"

🎥 [CAMERA: Shaky handheld style, opening shot of Hana in the kitchen]

Caption: “Leader Hana, 5:50AM. Zero makeup. Infinite caffeine.”

🎙️ HANA (deadpan):

“We’ve been training at 6AM every single day for four years. And SYRE’s body still isn’t used to it.”

📷 Cuts to: Rina doing jumping jacks, singing fae-folk-rock gibberish

📷 Cuts to: Cami swearing at a rice cooker

📷 Cuts to: Amara looking like she has a 9–5 and is already over it

💬 FAN COMMENTS:

🧃@syrenshrine: “Rina has main character energy and no supervision.”

🔥@cami-solo-when: “I need a cami vs kitchen spin-off RIGHT NOW.”

☕@Amaraismycomfort: “Amara with a protein shake and lip balm is my 2025 moodboard.”

💀@rip-syre: “SYRE really fighting for her life every morning huh.”

😭@hanahelps: “Hana blinking in Morse code. Send help.”

🎥 Cue thump, slipper throw, and this offscreen gem:

> “Tell Geffen I’m dead. They’ll have to debut with four.”

📷 Cuts to: Cami laughing her ass off

> “Girl, you wrote the debut song. What are you talking about?”

📍SEGMENT 2: "KATSEYE VISITS: AND EVERYTHING FALLS APART"

🎥 Crisp 4K footage. Door opens. Screaming erupts immediately.

��� Cut to KATSEYE looking STUNNED at the doorway like they just walked into a zoo exhibit.

[Screen Text Overlay: “?????????”]

📷 Cut to Hana body-blocking like a trained security agent

> Caption: “Composure: barely hanging on.”

🎙️ HANA:

“Good morning. Sorry for the mess. We usually train early. Today was… a late start.”

📷 Cami offscreen yelling about hot oil and nipples. Staff shrieking in subtitles.

📷 Megan whispers to Yoonchae: “Did she just—”

📷 Manon ducks as Daniela merely glances at the flying feather headband

📷 Lara sidesteps a flying tank top

💬 FAN COMMENTS:

🤸‍♀️@katseyekollective: “Lara dodging flying tank tops like a warrior 😭”

🌈@laraismytype: “Flirty Lara meets feral Rina. I smell a crossover.”

😩@softmeganclub: “Megan looked so stressed the entire time and I love her for it.”

😂@danielashasfallen: “Daniela watching the chaos like she’s watching art happen in real time.”

🎥 Cue: Amara brushing her teeth mid-walk like a background NPC

> “Oh hey, the cool kids are here.”

📷 Cami emerges like glitter-fueled thunder:

> “Oh my god. Are we filming? Are we hot? Is that Megan in my house? IS THAT RISING GLOBAL POP STAR SENSATION LARA RAJ?!?! Is this a lucid dream or should I remove the bra from the lamp?”

📷 Camera pans over to the lamp in question; the bra is covered in a pixelated mess of squares and intense censorship.

💬 FAN COMMENTS:

🤸‍♀️@iwishcamiisreal: “Not Cami quoting Manon in front of Manon”

🌈@laraismytype: “IS THAT RISING GLOBAL POP STAR SENSATION LARA RAJ?!?! 😫😫😫 cami is so relatable i fear”

🐧@amarathelivingtruth: “AMARA ONE CHANCE PLS OMG SHE LOOKS SO DOMESTIC PLS LOOK MY WAY”

🦨@geniussyresimp: "HELP- THE CENSORED BRA I'M WEEPING"

📍SEGMENT 3: "SYRE.exe has stopped responding"

🎥 Door creaks open. You emerge like a disaster princess in a penguin onesie.

📷 Zoom in on your half-conscious face

📷 Daniela. On the couch. Watching. Smirking. Glowing.

📷 Cut to you looking at your slipper. Counting your fingers. Then back to Daniela.

[Screen Overlay: Existential crisis loading…]

🎙️ SYRE:

“Nope. Not dreaming. No [BEEP] way. [BEEP] me gently with a chainsaw.”

📷 Zoom in on Cami absolutely losing it.

📷 Cue the fall. SYRE faceplants. Everyone freezes. Daniela stands, concerned.

🎙️ SYRE:

“I hate this timeline. I’ll just die here, Please don’t perceive me, I'm in the process of decomposing. But please pretend none of this happened. Especially not the scratching. Or the counting. Or the internal breakdown. I’d like to start this day over and this time not emotionally detonate in front of my crush, uh… I mean a colleague. Industry peer. Company sister. Fellow idol. Woman I respect very respectfully.”

💬 FAN COMMENTS:

🫠@syrebraincell: “‘Please don’t perceive me’ IS SO REAL.”

🐧@syrelivinghertruth: “DID Y’ALL SEE SYRE IN THE PENGUIN ONESIE. I’M IN SHAMBLES.”

💘@syrexdanielacore: “Syre seeing Daniela was like a Sims character spotting death.”

🧼@rinabrafanacc: “SYRE TRIPPED OVER RINA’S BRA AND TRIPPED OVER HER WORDS TOO. I’M NOT OKAY.”

🪦@girlbossgrave: “She called her a ‘colleague.’ In a onesie. SYRE is so GONE I fear”

🌞@danislays: “Daniela being concerned then laughing at her like they're in love GOODBYE.”

🎥 Cut to Cami, smug:

> “She’s been in love with you since your debut. It’s kind of her origin story.”

🎥 Hana, stepping over your body, still sipping coffee like it’s a sedative:

> “Welcome to our home.”

📷 Cut to KATSEYE watching like it's National Geographic.

📷 Yoonchae whispering: “This is a sitcom. We’ve entered a sitcom.”

📷 Rina takes over the camera:

> “This is SYRE, by the way. Gay gremlin. Idol powerhouse. Known sufferer of Daniela Avanzini exposure.”

🎥 Final moment: you hiding under your penguin hood, mumbling a wrecked “Good morning.” Daniela grins, all slow-burn confidence.

> “Morning, SYRE.”

📷 Cue tragic violin and funeral filter added by the editors

💬 FAN COMMENTS:

🐧@syrekin: “SYRE’S SPIRIT LEFT HER BODY AT ‘Morning, SYRE’ I saw it.”

💗@sirendaniedit: “Bro the penguin suit to lover arc is real.”

🔥@siren5chaos: “Not the bra tripping arc + publicist panic soundtrack 💀💀💀”

🎤@katseyefan: “This vlog deserves an Emmy for documentary excellence.”

😭@hanasuffers: “Petition to get Hana a paid vacation and noise-cancelling headphones.”

🐧@syrelivinghertruth: “Give my poor baby syre a break.”

☎ @camilelelele: “This is so chaotic it's like they gave SIREN5 a camera and a dream and said ‘make content’ and they did.”

🎬 [OUTRO: SOFT MUSIC, WHITE TEXT OVER BLACK]

> Next episode: “Cooking Night Disaster: Featuring Fire Alarms, Daniela Serving Face with a...Fire Extinguisher?, and SYRE Screaming Over a Pile of Dirty Dishes”

🔔 Don’t forget to like, comment, and subscribe to see more from SIREN5 and KATSEYE!

taglist: @awkwardtoafault, @cheerlanader

[goooofy-goooober1121]

Holaaa podrías escribir sobre los saja boys? te ellos con miedo a los truenos y relámpagos en un día lluvioso, y tienes que ayudarlos, con cada uno por separado?

YESSS I CAN HEHEHEHEHE (•̀ᴗ•́ )ゞ

Ask translation: "Could you write about the Saja Boys? They're afraid of thunder and lightning on a rainy day, and you have to help them, with each one separately?"

NOTE: Apart from Jinu (though I did give his little sister a name), I'm going to use my headcanon characterizations for the rest of the boys because we unfortunately did not get a lot of them in the movie. These can be found here!

**CW**: Vomit!!!! It's only for a second and because Baby eats too much candy lol

Requests Are Open Here!

Reblogs and Comments are always appreciated!

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Scared of Storms

Ft. Jinu, Abs, Romance, Mystery, and Baby <3

Jinu

Loser trapped in a hot body

Acts all mature like "dude it's just a storm. I've been through worse" and subsequently shits his pants when lightning strikes outside

I'm sure a part of him is reminded of his family back when he was a human and their living conditions

Being that they were super poor I don't imagine that they had a lot of reinforcement to keep the rain out of their home

So I think he probably regresses into "what can I do to make things feel safe" mode.

You find him in his room, wrapped up in his blanket like he's the fish in a sushi roll

he'll insist he's there because he's cold and for no other reason

Please stick around him he'll feel so much better

Might drag you into the blanket with him tbh

If you get him comfortable enough he'll probably open up a little like "yeah lol we used to do this when we were too impoverished to afford repairs to our roof"

He'll probably make some stupid joke to deflect afterwards lmao

He's such a dork

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

"When my sister Eunji and I were young, my family didn't have the money to fix the leaks in our roof."

Jinu's hands squeezed your sides beneath the soft blanket he had wrapped around the two of you. The lights were dim and you were warm, pressed to his chest like he was the world's most comfortable pillow.

"I didn't want her getting sick," he continued softly, "so we played a game. Until the storm ended, we would find as many blankets as we could and wrapped ourselves tight in them. I'd tell her we were caterpillars, and we had to stay in our cocoons until we turned into butterflies-- until the storm was over. Whoever found the most blankets turned into the prettiest butterfly of them all."

He laughed, a little sad, a little fond.

"I always let her win. I never liked thunder but neither did she-- so I left the thicker ones for her so she'd feel safer."

You tucked your head beneath his chin. "You're a good brother."

Jinu paused, opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again.

A moment of silence passed between the two of you. His arms curled tighter around you at the distant growl of thunder.

"Hey." he nudged you with his knee. "How did the skeleton know it was going to rain?"

Despite yourself, you smiled. "How?"

"He felt it in his bones," Jinu answered, seriously and sincerely.

You stared at him, eyebrows raised.

He stared back, eyes wide and searching for a reaction.

The silence was loud until he broke it with an awkward cough.

"What? I thought it was funny."

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Abs Saja (Kang-Dae)

oh he's EMBARRASSED.

He's got that attitude of "i'm big and strong and NOT! AFRAID! OF! THUNDER!"

and then screams at the first rumble of thunder

He really hates being afraid of it. He never liked being scared-- it makes him feel powerless and weak (which he does NOT want to go back to being).

He builds a lot of his identity about being strong and confident and when he can't be that, he doesn't know what to do with himself

So honestly? He sits on the couch and toughs it out

You find him very solemnly sitting there, fingers digging into the couch cushions, trembling from head to toe and jumping with every flash of lightning and crash of thunder (poor baby)

Gives you the wobbliest "yeah I'm fine" when you ask if he's okay

Will NOT move from his spot. Says he's "meditating to the rain because mind and body should be equally balanced" (he is lying through his teeth and quoting one of those wellness influencer instagram posts)

So your best bet is to sit next to him and help him tough it out

Brags about how "this storm ain't shit" and immediately grabs your hand when two seconds later, thunder shakes the whole building

Just let him tough it out he needs it to keep his pride

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

"Kang-Dae? You okay?"

"O-Of course I am."

Kang-Dae was not okay. He sat with his back straight as a rod, body stiff as a board, in the middle of the couch; his legs were tense, his feet dug holes into the carpet, and his fingers gripped the cushions so tightly that their seams were bursting. He gave you a shaky, dubiously confident smile. "What, you think I'm scared of a little--"

Lighting flashes outside. He flinches.

"--rain?" he wheezes out. "Nah. Nah, I'm good. I'm great. I'm meditating. You know, 'a healthy mind lives in a healthy body'. Rain sounds are a part of my new exercise regimen."

You stand there for a moment, looking him up and down before frowning. "Want me to sit with you?"

"Sit with me?" he laughed, though sweat beaded at his brow. "C'mon. You think I need you to sit with me? What gave you that idea? This storm is weak."

Then comes the thunder. It crashes into the air loud and angry, as if the storm is yelling at Kang-Dae for insulting it; the building itself shakes from the force of it and he yelps, tears an accidental hole in the couch, and gives himself a cramp in his back from how suddenly his muscles tightened.

"Okay yes please but only because you should meditate, too."

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Romance Saja (Seo-Jun)

In contrast to Kang-Dae? He does NOT mind showing that he's scared.

Uses it as a way to get your attention

"Noooo don't leave I'm scared of the thunder, see? If only someone would come comfort me... someone a lot like you... haha jk... unless?"

Clingy to the max.

Will hold onto you and never let go. It's a problem.

Is more afraid of being left behind than he is of the actual storm tbh

Don't get me wrong, he for sure is shaking all over and jumps at every glimpse of lightning

But he for sure knows that being left alone to feel like nobody cares to comfort him will make things worse

He felt the panic and sadness that rejection and emotional abandonment brought him before and would rather die than feel it again

Subtly prods at you trying to figure out why you agreed to be the one to comfort him because he needs reassurance that you're being kind for the right reasons

That being said... he will not let you go even after the storm ends.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

"Seo-Jun."

"Yes, my love?"

"My legs are falling asleep."

Seo-Jun held you like you might just disappear. He had wrapped himself around you like he wanted to fuse into your body, long legs tangled with yours and arms clamped tightly around your middle. You felt his body shake and heard the quiet whimpers that left him at each crash of thunder and lightning, but not for a moment did he ever let go of you. Actually, the torrential downpour outside seemed to just give him more reason to gradually tighten his grip on you.

"I need to get up," you tell him, squirming in his hold.

"But I'm scared," he whines, pulling you closer. "You wouldn't leave me all alone in my time of need, would you? You're my knight in shining armor. My umbrella in these cold, cruel times. Don't you love me enough to keep me dry? Or do you want me to catch a cold? Oh, that would be so romantically tragic-- no, tragically romantic. Tending to your ill lover because you just care for him so much..."

"Seo-Jun, we're inside."

He huffs. "Not the point," he mumbles, burying his face in your chest. "Five more minutes like this, my love. Please."

You sighed inwardly. In Seo-Jun speak, five minutes meant forever.

Thunder rumbled outside. Seo-Jun held you closer.

You're not leaving anytime soon.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Mystery Saja (Dae-Shim)

Hides under the table like dogs do when they're scared of fireworks

Says the most unnerving shit too

In the quiet moments between lightning strikes, he'll whisper something like "the teeth. The teeth in the clouds. They are chewing. They are hungry."

Will NOT elaborate if you ask him what the fuck that means btw

Listen, he's got a lot going on in his head

Knowledge of everything in the universe and beyond made him a little unhinged (see my Saja Boys headcanons linked above for context lol)

he does NOT need thunder to add to that

I also headcanon that he's blind/severely visually impaired so his other senses sharpened to compensate; he probably has pretty sensitive hearing because of that.

So hand him a pair of noise-cancelling headphones and a bowl of cheerios (don't give him milk with his cereal. He will insist that "I can hear them screaming. Why have you drowned them?") and he'll be set and chill for the rest of the storm.

Curls up against you and goes so quiet that you think he either fell asleep or died

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Dae-Shim is curled up beside you on the sofa, his ears snugly fitted with noise-cancelling headphones and his head resting comfortably in your lap. You had managed to bribe him out from beneath the dining room table with the offer of dry cheerios, which he came around to after a few minutes of doggish barking and whispers of "the hat man in the sky".

It's been about thirty minutes since then. The rain still rages outside. You scroll mindlessly on your phone with one hand, the other absently petting his hair. Had it not been for the occasional twitch of his fingers against your thigh, you might have taken his stillness as a sign to start CPR.

"The rain is making the ground soft," he says, voice soft and flat. "It will start clawing its way to the surface soon."

You hum in vague agreement. "That's nice, honey."

“Every seventh raindrop is warm. That’s how you know it’s feeding.”

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Hope it has a good meal. Should we invite it to dinner sometime soon?"

Dae-Shim did not answer, only shifting his position to get more comfortable before going silent and still as a corpse again.

You nod thoughtfully. "I'll take that as a yes."

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Baby Saja (Min-Soo)

He's scared but he's not gonna admit it

Not in the embarrassed way like Kang-Dae is, but more in the way that he really doesn't want to be seen in any sort of childish light for hating the way the thunder is so loud and never-ending for no good reason

He already has to act like a baby in front of fans and it's exhausting-- he is NOT putting up with that at home, either.

He's trying to keep cool and actually is kinda good at it, but he does slip up sometimes when he's caught off guard by a sudden flash of lightning or a particularly loud thunderclap.

So really, he approaches you first, probably offering to play video games or something since you can't go outside because of the weather.

Very subtly tries things to make himself comfortable.

Closes the blinds and curtains because "the lightning is reflecting off the screen and it's making me fail this level" (he just hates lightning lol)

Probably ends up blasting music to drown out the thunder

Drags you along because he admittedly does find comfort in your presence and you always manage to find a way to distract him

Stress eats his candy stash and throws up later (• ᴖ •｡ )

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Min-Soo's room is chaos.

Music blasts from his television, the bright and colorful visuals of Just Dance flashing across the screen. He's got his blue joy-con in one hand and a fistful of gummy worms in the other. Thunder strikes outside and he falters for just a moment, but manages to recover just in time to strike a perfect move to BTS's 'Dynamite'. His blanket is tossed diagonally about his bed from when he attempted to cover up his window "for the aesthetic"-- conveniently after he spilled water on his carpet due to a startling flash of lightning-- before getting frustrated at how it kept falling and just yanking the curtains shut.

You are sitting on his bed, watching in awe at how he manages to stuff his face with sugar, achieve flawless scores on Just Dance, and not throw up from the intensity of it all simultaneously.

He'd dragged you to his room insisting he needed another player for his Just Dance game. You tapped out after the fifth round of Britney Spears's 'Toxic', opting instead to watch his freakish hyperactivity like it's a once-in-a-lifetime event.

You're pretty sure you hear one of the other Saja Boys banging on the wall and cursing at Min-Soo to "turn it down!" from their neighboring bedroom. Probably Kang-Dae. Or Jinu. You don't know. Min-Soo just upped the volume in response.

"Hey," you called over the music, "don't you think you should stop dancing for a second? The candy's gonna make you sick."

"What?" he yelled back, eyes glued to the screen.

"I said you're gonna throw up!"

"No, I'm not!" he pants, inhaling another gummy worm. "This is great! It's energy so I can keep going and beat my high score! I'll be fine!"

He was not, in fact, fine.

Five minutes later, you're rubbing his back while he's flushing unnaturally neon-colored vomit down the toilet to the distant sound of an ongoing Just Dance level.

"Ugh," he groans, sniffling and leaning back against you. "Those Sour Patch Kids were cursed."

You just press your lips together, handing him the water bottle you'd snatched from his nightstand as you ran to the bathroom with him. "I told you that you'd get sick."

He takes the bottle gratefully and uses a piece of toilet paper to wipe his mouth. "Whatever..."

Thunder suddenly shakes the building. He flinches, squeezing his water bottle so tight that the cap nearly bursts off of it. It's then that you realize that he hadn't been randomly energetic at all-- he was distracting himself from the storm outside his window.

You knew better than to point it out to him, though. "Hey, let's just watch a movie," you say instead. "You must be tired from all the dancing. We should just chill for a while."

Min-Soo clears his throat. "Fine," he says, taking a shaky sip of water. "Only if I get to choose."

You help him get to his feet, leading him to the sink for him to wash his mouth out.

"Deal."

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

A/N: Can you guess who's my favorite (⸝⸝๑﹏๑⸝⸝)

[novakesq]

OFFICE HOURS - CASEY NOVAK

summary ୨ৎ You’ve been hopelessly obsessed with your professor for months — until one risky gift in her desk turns your filthy little crush into something real. messy, desperate, way-too-good office sex followed by soft, breathless confessions and the promise of something neither of you should want this badly.

content warnings ୨ৎ Explicit sexual content (18+), professor x student power dynamics, age gap relationship, fingering, clitoral vibrator use, exhibitionism (semi-public sex in an office setting), descriptions of pussy, messy aftermath (slick, sweat, scent of sex), intense dirty talk, mutual masturbation, light dom/sub dynamic, use of the word cum, mild degradation kink (“good girl,” “pathetic little slut” context), internal characterized self-doubt after sex, emotionally vulnerable aftermath, discussion of the risks of an inappropriate relationship (academic setting), consent established.

word count ୨ৎ 4673

You’d been obsessed with her since the first day of the semester.

It started innocent enough — or at least you told yourself it did. Just admiration, fascination, the kind of attention any student might give to a professor who walked into a room and owned it.

But then came the dreams. The nights where you’d press your thighs together, your breath catching, whispering her name into the dark as your fingers slid between your legs.

You’d grind into your hand, eyes squeezed shut, imagining her voice in your ear — low and amused and a little cruel — telling you how wet you were for her. How pathetic. How cute. You thought about her mouth most of all. How red her lipstick was. How her tongue might taste. And every time you came, hard and gasping, soaked and trembling, it was always to the image of her — eyes dark, voice wrecked, hips rocking against your face.

So when you saw the toy, it was like your thoughts had conjured it. A wine-colored bullet vibe tucked inside a black velvet-lined box, small and sleek, expensive as hell. You saw it in a boutique in SoHo, the kind of place with mood lighting and wall-to-wall glass shelving, where the packaging looked more like perfume than porn. You couldn’t stop staring.

The color was perfect — deep, rich red, like the lipstick she wore when she wanted to look extra dangerous. You imagined her fingers curling around it, pressing it against her clit, legs spread wide, head thrown back. The mental image alone made your panties damp.

You bought it without hesitation. The girl behind the counter gave you a look that said I know exactly what this is for, but you didn’t care.

Back home, you sat on your bed with the box in your lap for almost an hour. Just staring. Touching the velvet. Imagining what she’d do when she found it. What she’d say. The fantasies spiraled fast — her opening the drawer, smirking, licking her lips before sinking into that leather chair in her office and using it right there. The idea of her cumming in the space you saw her every week made your stomach flip.

The note was the hardest part. You wanted it to be suggestive, filthy, but not pathetic. After three failed versions and a few frustrated tears, you landed on it: Use this and think of me. Written in messy, girlish script on pale pink paper that still smelled faintly like your perfume.

You folded it, placed it in the box, and waited for your chance.

The next afternoon, after her Friday lecture, you hung back with some fake excuse about forgetting a folder. You knew her office would be unlocked. The door creaked as you slipped in, the air inside smelling like paper, expensive perfume, and faint citrus. Your heart thudded in your throat as you pulled the top drawer open and placed the box gently inside. When it clicked shut, you jumped.

You barely slept all weekend.

Now it was Monday. Office hours. The building was quiet, late-afternoon light spilling gold across the floor. You’d picked your outfit carefully: short black skirt, ribbed cream tank top, braless, nipples just barely visible through the fabric. You’d wanted her to look. Needed it. You didn’t know what you were expecting when you knocked on her door — amusement, maybe. Curiosity. But when she looked up at you, her expression gave nothing away. Just that unreadable calm she wore so well, the kind of calm that felt like the eye of a storm.

“Close the door.”

You did, heartbeat quickening.

Without a word, she reached into her desk, pulled out the box, and set it on the polished wood between you. She opened it slowly, deliberately, fingers brushing the edge of the velvet, lifting the note you’d written. Her eyes flicked up to meet yours as she read it aloud.

“Use this and think of me,” she murmured, her voice like smoke, eyes sharp and unreadable. “That what you want, sweetheart? You want me thinking about your sweet little cunt while I get myself off in this office?”

Your thighs clenched. “Yes,” you breathed.

Casey stood slowly, walked around the desk, and leaned against it beside you. Her silk blouse shimmered in the dim light — deep forest green, top buttons undone to reveal the soft slope of her collarbone. That same lipstick, wine red. Her skirt was tight, high-waisted, black. Impossibly sexy.

She tilted her head. “Then I think it’s only fair you watch.”

And then, like it was the most normal thing in the world, she walked over to the leather chair in the corner and sank into it, her thighs spreading just enough to let the hem of her skirt ride up. You followed her with wide eyes, frozen in place, your breath shallow.

“On the desk,” she said. “Now. Legs apart.”

You moved like your body wasn’t your own. Climbed up onto her desk, your ass settling onto the cool wood, skirt rucked up around your waist. The surface was hard beneath your bare thighs, smooth and unforgiving. You spread your legs slowly, nervously — your pussy already slick, folds flushed and glistening.

You were pink and wet and swollen, clit throbbing, folds sticking as you spread them open with two fingers. Your slick made little sticky sounds as your fingers dipped inside, your cunt aching as you rolled your hips, grinding into your hand. You looked down at yourself — flushed, desperate, your pussy drenched and open for her. You wanted her to see it all.

Casey hiked her skirt higher, baring her own thighs, no panties underneath. Your mouth dropped open.

Her pussy was beautiful. Pale skin giving way to flushed pink folds, soft and glistening, lips full and wet, slick already shining along her inner thighs. A neat patch of copper curls above it, her clit peeking out, swollen and firm. She picked up the toy — your gift — and clicked it on. The hum filled the room like electricity.

“You touch yourself thinking about me, don’t you?” she asked, voice low and raspy. “Lying in bed, moaning my name, cumming like a pathetic little slut.”

Your fingers faltered. You whimpered. “Every night.”

Casey smirked. She pressed the bullet to her clit and gasped softly, hips lifting, back arching. Her thighs trembled as she worked the toy in small, tight circles. You watched, lips parted, heart racing, your own hand moving again between your legs. You dragged two fingers through your folds, coated them in slick, then pressed up against your clit — watching her, letting her see how wet you were for her. How needy.

“Fuck,” you whispered. “You’re so—Casey, you’re so fucking beautiful.”

She moaned — soft and breathy, head tipped back, chest rising and falling. Her blouse had fallen open, revealing more skin, the faintest outline of her nipples beneath the silk. Her pussy glistened in the light, toy flicking over her clit as she gasped and bit her lip. Every time she moaned, your own cunt throbbed. Your fingers moved faster.

“I think about your mouth,” you whispered. “When I cum. About you sitting on my face. Holding me there.”

Her eyes snapped to yours. Dark. Wild.

“You want to taste me?”

You nodded, gasping. “Please.”

She groaned, hips grinding up into the toy, wet sounds filling the room now. Her arousal slicked the toy, dripping down between her thighs. She was close — you could see it in her body, the tension in her abs, the way her breaths came in short, shallow bursts.

“Then cum for me,” she whispered. “Let me see how filthy you can be.”

Your fingers flew. You were soaked, slick dripping onto the desk beneath you, your clit pulsing beneath your touch. The heat built fast, sharp and aching, pressure curling tight in your belly.

You moaned her name, loud, desperate. “Casey—fuck, Casey—”

She came with a gasp, thighs shaking, pussy clenching around nothing, slick coating her folds. Her eyes locked on yours, her lips parted, chest heaving. And the sight of her falling apart like that — for you — shattered you completely.

You came hard, thighs clenching, pussy spasming around your fingers, slick pouring out onto your hand and the desk. You whimpered, hips jerking, overwhelmed, dripping.

The air was thick with the scent of sex — sweat and slick and perfume.

You pulled your fingers from your cunt, staring at the mess between your legs. The desk beneath you was wet with arousal, sticky and shining. Your thighs trembled as you caught your breath, your chest still heaving.

Casey was slouched back in the chair, one arm draped over the side, the toy still slick and humming in her other hand. Her legs were still spread, pussy flushed and wet, twitching slightly with the aftershocks. She looked at you through heavy-lidded eyes.

“Next time,” she said, voice hoarse and low, “you’re going to use this while I fuck you with my fingers. Understand?” You nodded, dazed, still catching your breath.

“Next time,” she repeated, her voice low and rough-edged, like the words scraped her throat on their way out. The way her eyes dragged over you made your stomach flutter — heavy-lidded, pupils blown, the sharp, dangerous glint of a woman who knew she had you, and fully intended to make you pay for it. “You’re going to use this,” Casey murmured, lifting the still-slick toy in her hand, the gleaming wine-colored bullet catching the light as it hummed faintly, “while I fuck you with my fingers.”

You felt it then — a fresh throb between your legs, even though you’d just cum so hard you were still catching your breath. Your pussy ached, still wet, your slick pooling where your thighs met the polished wood of her desk. You could feel how soaked you were, the cool air of the office kissing damp skin, your inner thighs sticky, the scent of sex hanging thick and heavy in the space between you.

Casey didn’t take her eyes off you. Her lips, slick and faintly parted, curved into a slow, satisfied smile as she watched the aftershocks ripple through your body — your trembling legs, the twitch of your stomach, the unsteady way your chest rose and fell beneath your thin cream tank top, nipples still tight and aching against the fabric. She looked like she could read you in that moment, like every filthy, aching thought in your head was visible right there on your face. And truthfully, they probably were.

Your crush on her — if you could even call it that anymore — had long since twisted into something hotter, darker, more desperate. It wasn’t just about how brilliant she was in the classroom, how sharp and devastating her cross-examinations used to be in court.

It was about how she looked over the rim of her coffee cup in the mornings, how the veins in her hands stood out when she flipped through legal briefs, how her mouth tilted in a half-smile when she was pleased and how your stomach flipped whenever you could make it happen. Most nights, you touched yourself to thoughts of her voice — the warm, controlled rasp of it, saying your name like a secret, a promise, a threat.

And now you were here. On her desk. Cunt still throbbing from the orgasm she’d just coaxed out of you with nothing but her words and the sight of her own fingers working that toy over her clit. And she wanted more.

“You still wet for me?” Casey murmured, her voice dropping even lower, thick with satisfaction and something softer beneath it — not tenderness exactly, but possession. A claim.

She pushed up from the chair with that languid, predatory grace that made your stomach tighten, crossing the room slowly, hips swaying, silk blouse clinging to her in all the right places. The toy was still in her hand, the hum of it vibrating faintly through the quiet room.

You nodded, unable to speak, your breath catching as she reached you. Casey’s fingers, warm and steady, caught your jaw and tilted your face up. She kissed you then — slow, claiming, tongue tasting you like she had all the time in the world. And you melted for her, your lips parting, a soft sound escaping your throat when her teeth grazed your bottom lip. It was filthy, it was greedy, but it was still controlled, her hand firm at your chin, guiding, demanding.

When she pulled back, her thumb traced the slick curve of your bottom lip.

“Take this off,” she murmured, eyes flicking to your top.

Your hands shook as you tugged the tank over your head, baring yourself to her gaze. Your nipples were flushed, tight and pebbled, skin shimmering with a fine sheen of sweat. You felt exposed and desperate and wild under her stare.

“Good,” she murmured. Then her hands were on your thighs, spreading them wider, her palms warm against your skin, thumbs stroking absent little patterns over the damp flesh. She made a soft, appreciative sound at the mess between your legs, at the slick smeared over the wood beneath you, and you felt your face burn with the sheer filth of it.

Casey lifted the toy again, brushed the still-humming tip lightly over your inner thigh. The sensation made you shiver.

“Hold this,” she said softly, placing it in your hand.

You took it, the hum of it a small, steady vibration against your palm. She met your eyes, steady and dark. “Keep it on your clit. Don’t move it. Don’t take it off. I’ll tell you when you can cum.”

Your stomach dropped — in the best way.

You obeyed, sliding the toy between your legs, the bullet gliding slickly over your swollen clit. The contact made you gasp, hips jerking, the pleasure sharp and immediate. You were still so sensitive from earlier, but it felt too good to stop. You bit your lip, pressing the toy gently against yourself, your legs trembling, breath coming quick.

And then Casey’s fingers were on you.

She slid two fingers through your folds, gathering your wetness, groaning softly under her breath.

“God, you’re a mess for me,” she whispered.

You whimpered. The combined sensation — the relentless vibration of the toy against your clit and Casey’s long, slender fingers circling your entrance — made your vision blur at the edges.

When she pushed two fingers inside you, it felt like your whole body snapped tight.

She was rough about it, in that perfect way — no hesitation, no teasing. She slid in deep, curling her fingers immediately, finding that tender, aching spot inside you that made you moan loud, shameless.

Your hips rolled against her hand, the toy, every nerve ending singing.

“Look at you,” she murmured. “Spread out on my desk, fucking yourself on my fingers. So desperate to cum for me again.”

You couldn’t speak, only moan, your head tipped back, hair sticking to your damp skin, sweat beading between your breasts. The room was hot with it now — the scent of arousal, the sound of slick, wet fingers thrusting into you, the hum of the toy.

She fucked you slow at first — curling, twisting, the pads of her fingers brushing that tender spot inside you over and over. The vibration on your clit made your stomach clench, your legs shaking, the edge building fast, too fast. You whimpered, hips bucking.

“Not yet,” Casey warned, voice sharp enough to cut through the haze in your head. Her free hand caught your thigh, holding you steady. “You stay right there for me, sweetheart. Let me feel how tight you get when you beg.”

You whimpered, trying to hold it back, the pleasure too much, the heat thick in your belly.

“Please, Casey—”

She slid in deeper, twisting her fingers. “That’s better.”

You were soaked, your slick dripping onto her hand, the desk, your body strung tight as a wire. Every thrust of her fingers made your pussy clench, every vibration of the toy sending sharp pulses of pleasure up your spine.

“I bet you’re gonna soak my desk,” she murmured, her mouth against your ear now, her voice rough and dark and unbearably hot. “Bet you’re gonna make such a fucking mess for me.”

You moaned, your whole body shivering, toes curling, the edge so sharp it hurt.

“Cum,” Casey said, her breath hot on your neck. “Now. Let me feel you.”

You shattered

The orgasm ripped through you in thick, staggering waves, your entire body arching up off the desk, a sound you didn’t recognize spilling from your throat — desperate, high, helpless. Your hips rocked against her hand, the relentless vibration of the toy against your clit tipping you over again and again, pleasure blooming so sharply it bordered on pain. Your thighs trembled violently, slick pouring out of you, your cunt clenching tight around Casey’s fingers as you sobbed out her name, the sound tangled and raw.

Somewhere in the haze of it, the toy slipped from your grip, falling to the desk with a soft, sticky thud, and you felt your clit twitch at the loss of contact, the sudden absence of sensation almost as unbearable as the overwhelming pleasure that came before it. Your whole body was slick — sweat pearling along your hairline, your chest heaving, skin flushed and shimmering in the heavy air of the office.

Casey’s fingers stilled inside you as your orgasm slowed, her touch going gentle, soothing, the pads of her fingers brushing through your soaked, fluttering walls. She withdrew them slowly, dragging them through the wet heat of your pussy, gathering your slick, her eyes dark and greedy as she watched you tremble.

You were wrecked.

Your legs lay splayed open on the desk, your skirt rucked up high on your hips, the cool wood beneath you streaked with your arousal. Slick had smeared across the polished surface, glistening in the low light, a shameless testament to what you’d just done — what she’d made you do. Your inner thighs were sticky, the skin flushed and damp, and your cunt ached in the best, deepest way, still clenching faintly with every aftershock.

When you could finally lift your head, the sight of her undid you all over again.

Casey was standing over you, one hand braced on the edge of the desk, the other bringing her fingers — wet and shining with your slick — to her lips. She sucked them clean, slow and unhurried, closing her eyes for a moment like she was savoring it. A soft, satisfied sound slipped from her throat, low and obscene, and the way her lips shone when she licked them clean made your stomach twist.

Her hair had slipped from its knot, thick copper strands clinging to the damp skin at her throat. The silk of her blouse was rumpled and clung to her body, a faint sheen of sweat catching on the delicate curve of her freckled chest. Her face was flushed, lips slightly parted, breath coming rough and uneven. She looked ruinous. Wrecked and sharp and impossibly beautiful, and you couldn’t stop staring.

Neither of you spoke.

The air between you was thick — charged, heavy with the scent of sex and sweat and warm skin. You could hear the tick of the clock on the wall, the low, faint hum of the building’s ancient heating system, but mostly you heard the unsteady rasp of your own breathing and hers. The room felt small now, the world outside irrelevant, your bodies still trembling from what you’d done.

Your thighs ached, muscles loose and spent, and you felt your slick still sticky on the insides of them, cooling against your skin. The mess on the desk glistened in the dim light, a smear of evidence neither of you seemed in any rush to clean up. You could still feel the pulse of your own heartbeat between your legs, your clit oversensitive, your cunt sore and slick and empty in the most delicious, aching way.

When your eyes finally met hers, something low and electric passed between you. A flicker of heat, of wicked satisfaction, of something softer and darker underneath. Casey’s gaze was heavy-lidded, unreadable, and you felt it settle over you like a weight, pinning you in place.

You didn’t look away.

For a long, breathless moment, neither of you spoke, neither of you moved. It was enough to just exist there, in the quiet aftermath of it, in the warm, messy wreckage of what you’d done. In the thick, unspoken thing hanging between you now — no need for words, no rush to name it.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The room still felt thick with heat, the air scented with sweat and sex and the faint citrus of Casey’s perfume. Your pulse hadn’t completely steadied, your limbs still loose, your skin tingling in the places she’d touched you, kissed you, filled you. The weight of what had just happened hovered between you — not in a bad way, not in a regretful way, but in a way that felt loaded. Like neither of you quite knew what to say now that you’d come down from it.

Eventually, Casey stepped back first.

Her eyes lingered on you for a beat longer, something softer flickering there — not quite tenderness, not quite guilt, just a raw, stripped-down quietness that you hadn’t seen in her before. Then she cleared her throat, breaking the moment, reaching for the discarded toy and turning it off with a flick of her thumb. The sudden absence of the hum made the room feel quieter, heavier.

Wordlessly, you both began gathering yourselves.

You slid off the desk, legs trembling a little, feeling the cool, tacky smear of your slick against your inner thighs. The air kissed the flushed, oversensitive skin there, making you shiver. Your skirt was a lost cause — wrinkled, hiked up awkwardly, damp where you’d made a mess of yourself on the desk. You tugged it down anyway, smoothing the fabric with shaking hands.

Your tank top was still discarded in a soft pile on the floor. You bent to pick it up, pulling it back over your head, the thin fabric clinging to your damp skin. Your nipples were still tight, sensitive, brushing against the cotton, and you caught yourself biting your lip as you fumbled with your denim jacket.

Across the room, Casey adjusted her blouse — the deep green silk clinging to her skin, sticking slightly to the sheen of sweat that still lingered on her chest. She tucked it back into the waistband of her black skirt with careful, practiced fingers, like this was just another thing to be managed, smoothed over. But her breathing was still uneven, and her hair hung loose around her shoulders now, a mess of copper waves no longer pinned up.

Neither of you said a word.

The silence stretched, not quite awkward, not quite comfortable. It felt like holding your breath underwater, waiting to see which of you would surface first.

And then — because you couldn’t stand it, because the heat in your chest was turning to panic — you broke it.

“Professor Novak—” you started, voice too soft, rough around the edges.

Casey’s head lifted, her gaze snapping to yours.

You swallowed hard, feeling the tight knot form in your stomach. “I… I’m sorry,” you whispered. “For giving you that toy. For putting you in that position. I wasn’t thinking — I mean, I was, but not about what it might risk for you, your job, your… reputation. I know you probably just wanted to blow off some steam, and I crossed a line. I shouldn’t have—”

“Hey,” Casey cut in, and it wasn’t sharp, wasn’t her courtroom voice. It was soft. Firm. Tired in a way that felt human. She crossed the room before you could finish unraveling, one hand reaching up to cup your jaw, her palm warm against your flushed cheek. Her thumb brushed over your skin, her touch steady and grounding.

“Don’t,” she murmured. “Don’t do that. Don’t make this into something ugly.”

Your breath stuttered, your heart pounding. She leaned in and kissed you — not like earlier. Not greedy. Not rough. Not to take. It was soft. Careful. A steady press of her lips to yours, like sealing a promise you hadn’t spoken out loud yet. Your eyes fluttered shut, and your hands lifted instinctively to rest against her hips, the warmth of her body steady against yours.

When she pulled back, her mouth ghosted over yours.

“In here,” she said quietly, her lips still brushing yours, “it’s Casey.”

Something hot and aching twisted in your chest.

You wanted to cry from the tenderness of it. From the simple fact that she wasn’t pretending it hadn’t meant something. That she wasn’t pulling back, locking the door tight between you again. She could have. God knows it would’ve been easier.

But she wasn’t.

You nodded, your throat tight.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Casey.”

Her eyes softened, a small smile curling at the corner of her mouth. “Good girl.”

It made your stomach flutter.

She let her hand fall from your jaw, but stayed close, her fingers brushing the edge of your jacket. The silence lingered, heavier now for everything neither of you had said yet.

After a moment, you cleared your throat, chewing at your lower lip. “I don’t… I don’t know what this is,” you admitted quietly. “I wasn’t thinking that far ahead. I just — I wanted you so badly it hurt, and I thought if I just had you once it’d… get it out of my system or something. But it’s not gone. It’s worse now.”

Casey gave a soft, breathless laugh, like you’d told her a secret she already knew. Her gaze dropped for a second, something unguarded flickering across her face before she lifted her eyes back to yours.

“It’s not gone for me either,” she murmured. “Hasn’t been since the first week you sat in my class, wearing those little skirts, looking at me like I hung the moon.”

Your cheeks flushed hot.

“I kept telling myself it was nothing. That it’d pass. That I was too old, that you were my student, that it wasn’t worth the risk.” She shrugged, a dry smile tugging at her mouth. “But then you left a goddamn vibrator in my desk with a note like that, and I realized it wasn’t going anywhere.”

You laughed, choked and a little breathless, the knot in your chest loosening. “I’m a menace,” you said softly.

“Yeah,” Casey agreed, lips twitching. “But you’re my menace now.”

It made something sharp and warm twist inside you.

The weight of what it meant still hung there, though. The risk of it. The very real danger of what this could cost both of you.

“I know this isn’t… simple,” you said quietly, sobering a little. “I know it could cost you everything if anyone finds out. And I don’t want to be the reason for that. I care about you too much.”

Casey’s gaze held yours steady. “I’m not reckless, sweetheart. I know what this is. I know what it could be. And if you’re brave enough to want it, then I’m brave enough not to pretend I don’t.”

Your heart stuttered.

“So what do we do?” you asked, voice soft.

She reached for your hand, fingers threading through yours, the contact simple and grounding. “We see where this goes,” she murmured. “Carefully. Quietly. Until we figure it out.”

You nodded, breath catching. “Okay.”

Casey squeezed your hand. “Okay.”

And for the first time since your world tipped sideways, you felt something settle in your chest — messy and risky and complicated, but yours.

You both let out a breath at the same time, a small, unsteady laugh passing between you. No titles now. No lectures. No case law citations. Just two people, standing too close in a quiet office, wrecked and wanting and still holding onto each other like neither was quite ready to let go.

And neither of you did.

[saturnslandfill]

The art of hiding ‧₊˚♪ 𝄞࿐₊˚⊹

What would happen if Rumi's patterns weren't as "subtle" or as small as they appear at the beginning of the film? What would happen if they had spread over time or because the stress produced due to the weight placed on her shoulders?

It's been a WHILE since I've written anything, so I think starting with something small like this will be a good way to get back on track. I've seen the movie a few —way too many— times, and this has settled in my head. I just can't find a way to get rid of it other than writing about it, so I hope you enjoy my silly little thoughts ! Word counting: 1.7k (weeeh !!)

As the years passed by, as Rumi became more and more aware of her surroundings, her shame, her... patterns, and what she meant to the world, it became increasingly difficult to hide what her skin inevitably became and the weight its meaning carried. A demon, without feelings, without value, irredeemable, nothing.

It slowly expanded, starting with a few purple lines on her right upper arm when she was only a kid, and it stayed that way for a long time. Oh, how she wished for it to stay almost invisible for the rest of her life, but good things doesn't really happen, right?

‧₊˚♪ 𝄞࿐₊˚⊹

When girls weren't even that recognized, the stress of sealing the Golden Honmoon wasn't so overwhelming. The patterns didn't go beyond the middle of her chest and didn't even reach her wrist, making it easy to cover throughout the year.

Summer was tolerable. Rumi had managed to get hold of a swimsuit that covered her torso and most of her arms, either store-bought or, like much of her concert clothing, designed specifically for her —ordered by Celine—. Winter, of course, was the easiest season of them all. But still, the last year, the last few months, the stress increased by the moment, and because of this, the patterns did too.

The choreography rehearsals were already difficult for everyone, both for the girls and for the background dancers, knowing that Mira's choreographies were characterized by being lively and energetic. But for Rumi? It was Hell on Earth.

By the time Golden was created, the patterns had spread to her thighs, covering her back, her chest. They consumed almost her entire arms.

Long shorts, wearing sweats all the time. With a more complicated choreography due to being the lead vocalist —plus, the song being a really important one for the girls—, practice hours went from mostly fun, sharing time with friends, to something stifling, almost unbearable.

‧₊˚♪ 𝄞࿐₊˚⊹

"That's who we're born to be..!" followed by the last seconds of the instrumental, sounded through the rehearsal room's speaker, putting an end to the already-lost-count-of-the-number-of-times-they-had-practiced-the-choreography practice.

The three girls were sitting on the floor, their backs against the wall, panting after quickly downing a bottle of water each.

"Phew! That was an intense practice!" Zoey stretched her arms up, tired. Despite her fatigue, the soft smile that always graced her face didn't falter.

Mira sighed with a laugh, looking at her teammate and friend with a touch of disbelief. How was it possible that she always seemed so lively after the hard hours of rehearsal? "Thinking about the fans' happiness always revives your energy, huh Zoey?" she said, almost in a whisper due to her rapid breathing. The named one could only chuckle and nod happily.

The two of them were dressing appropriate cloths for the weather and the intensity of the practice: crop tops and athletic shorts. Skin on full display. Meanwhile, the lavender-haired girl sitting on the floor was wearing nothing more and nothing less than a zippered sweatshirt that, luckily for her, was relatively thin, and capri leggings, leaving only her face, hands and part of her neck and legs visible.

As the two younger members talked to each other, all that was hearable from Rumi was her rapid breathing and the way she flicked her wrist to fan herself —the air conditioning wasn't enough.

Her braid was slightly undone, small strands of hair sticking to her forehead and cheeks from the sweat emanating from her skin. Her eyes were squinting, unfocused on the floor, the grip on her bottle weakening, her head slightly bowed. At this sight, Zoey's expression changed to a worried look, and with a tender tone on her voice, she decided to speak.

"Rumi? Is there something wrong..?" The absence of the vocalist's voice in response made the other two members look at each other in worry. Maybe it was because Zoey was the one sitting furthest from Rumi, with Mira in the middle, that she hadn't heard her? Seeing how there was still no response from Rumi, and how she hadn't even raised her eyes from the ground, Mira gently touched her shoulder. Tap tap.

Feeling the small touch over her sweatshirt, Rumi flinched slightly, looking up fast. "Oh, sorry! Sorry." She gave them both a weak smile, raising her hands. "I'm just exhausted, that's all. Today has really beaten me down, more than usual, haha…"

To avoid the now even more concerned pair of eyes on her figure, she tried to get up from the floor, excusing herself with wanting to go to the apartment and take a shower. But the attempt to escape didn't go as planned.

The heat pressed down on her body, causing her to almost fall forward as she tried to stand up. Mira and Zoey were quick to jump up and catch their friend before her body collapsed to the floor before them.

"Woah there—!" Zoey spoke, grabbing her by the arm. Mira positioned herself in front of Rumi, taking her by the shoulders to steady her balance. "Yeah, you’re definitely not okay." Mira said with her voice lowered, frowning.

Once Rumi were more stable, Mira moved one hand and placed the back of it on Rumi's neck, removing it almost instantly, as if her skin burned hers. "God, Rumi, you're boiling—."

Zoey's eyes flicked between her two friend constantly, her concern growing by the second. "Shouldn't you take off your sweatshirt? You've been wearing nothing but long clothes lately, and it's the middle of summer... That is definitely not right! You might get heatstroke, Rumi!" Zoey slightly tightened her grip on the girl's arm.

The aforementioned looked at the two girls in front of her and simply shook her head. "No, no... I'm fine, I just need to rest..." She tried to smile again, which made Mira frown harder, putting more pressure on the grip on Rumi's shoulders.

"You should listen to Zoey. You're always too modest about showing yourself, like when we tell you to go to the bathhouse together. But that's one thing, and refusing to wear short sleeves in 86º heat after hours of rehearsal is another." She spoke, looking at her dead in the eyes.

Rumi presses her lips into a thin line, closing her eyes and frowning a little, momentarily. Then, she opened her eyes and spoke again, her voice quivering slightly in an attempt to sound convincing. "C-come on! It's not that bad, it's just a little slip-." She tried to defend herself, to no avail. Another smile, now a nervous one.

"It's not just a 'little slip' though, Rumi, and you know it…" Zoey interrupted, looking now fully at her. "This isn't the first time we've seen you suffering because of the heat and you refusing to do the simplest thing like taking off your hoodies..."

Gently but hurriedly, Rumi released from both of their grips. "I said I'm fine. I don't understand why you two are making this such a big deal, really…" She looked at both of them, trying to keep her voice from shaking again. Seeing that their expressions weren't relaxing any time soon, she sighed and started walking toward the door.

"I'd better just go take a shower, no need to worry about me—." That's when Mira acted on impulse and grabbed her wrist trying to stop her, tugging at her sleeve.

"What do you mean, 'no need to worry'?" Rumi froze at the sudden pressure on her wrist. Her head turned back, staring at Mira with wide eyes in surprise. Mira, on the other hand, wasn't looking at her, eyes closed. "Since when we don't worry about each other, Rumi?" The grip on her wrist tightened. "We're a team, a group, we are family—!" Mira snapped, now looking fully at her friend.

Family, that's how Mira saw the girls. To her, they were the most precious thing in her life, not something she could simply decide "not to care" about.

Zoey watched the scene slightly behind Mira. Tears were slowly forming in the corners of her eyes. Her gaze on the floor, her brows slightly furrowed.

"Mira, listen—" Rumi lowered her voice, trying to calm the pink-haired girl. "Just let me go, and the three of us can talk about this more calmly later, okay?" She tried to sound as calm as possible, trying to avoid the fact that the slightest movement from Mira could cause the sweatshirt to open and thus show her patterns unintentionally.

"No, Rumi. I know you. As soon as I let go, you'll run." Mira spoke, her tone lowered as well.

Zoey hurried over to the girls, positioning herself next to Mira. "Maybe you should listen to her." She touched her shoulder in an attempt to reassure her. "Forcing her isn't the right thing to do either—." "No!" Mira turned her head to look at Zoey, the second freaking out, flinching slightly, taking a step back. "I'm tired of her running away from us!" Mira closed her eyes tightly.

At the scene, Rumi knew she had to get out of there as soon as possible, Celine's voice echoing in her head: 'you can't let them see you, let them see it.'

"Mira, let go." Her tone turned harsh as she tried to tug at the sleeve of her sweatshirt to get her to let go. Mira didn't respond, her gaze fixed on Rumi. Zoey looked at the situation in fear, her hands covering her mouth.

"I said, let go of me—!" One tug was enough to force the zipper of the hoodie all the way down, causing it to pop open. Because Mira was gripping the other end tightly, Rumi's arm was revealed from the sleeve.

The three of them quickly looked at the eldest's arm. Rumi's breathing sharpened. Panic, terror, fear.

Mira finally let go of the end of the sleeve, taking steps back, standing next to Zoey. They both looked at her, confused, shocked, and worst of all, scared.

"N-no, no no, you guys didn't—, you shouldn't have—." Rumi spoke in a thread of voice, it quivering. She took a few steps back, her legs shaking. Zoey tried to move closer, reaching for her friend's shoulder, but she acted faster, grabbing her hoodie and dashing out of the room.

"... What just happened..?" Mira spoke first after a few seconds, staring at the opened door. Zoey turned back slowly, her skin pale.

"Patterns, that's what happened..."

This is very rushed and not much proofread, so I apologize if there are too many spelling/punctuation/inconsistency errors! (I can do much better than this, just wait and see HSAHJ). Also, 86ºF is 30ºC if someone's wondering. ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE (please keep that in mind-) Edit: I ALREADY RE-EDITED IT, YAYYY Now it's so much clean and better hehehehe

[zombryz]

🏁 Understeer ⋆˚࿔ - an F1 series

Chapter 4 | Driver #4 °🚦⋆.

📸⭑.ᐟ The internet is shipping you with everyone after media day. Lando’s soft smiles? Max’s death stares? Nothing compares to the real-life chaos of seeing your ex at the paddock... or, quite literally, crashing into Max Verstappen seconds after.

What starts as a panicked escape turns into a moment neither of you are ready to acknowledge, full of sweaty post-race tension, protective instincts, and a silence louder than the engines.

Meanwhile, Lando’s about to see you in a way he never has before. And suddenly, 4 seconds feels like enough time to lose control, on and off the track.

Word count: 4.7k ...or read me on ao3 | chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3

Pairings: Max Verstappen x Reader Lando Norris x Reader Reader x Rockstar OC (ex) *loosely based on Andy Biersack -> future Oscar Piastri x Reader Tags/Warnings: Fem!Influencer!reader Slight!Oc but not really, just story building for Y/N {2024-present season based} *Not always lore accurate #Smau - Social Media Alternate Universe Toxic/semi-abusive relationship with established rockstar boyfriend, alcohol use, drunken behavior, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, public argument, heated kissing, paparazzi & social media mentions, angst, depression, themes of escape, reinvention & heartbreak, very light smut references (fade to black) -> the future chapters will include smut, enemies-to-??? extreme slow burn in the making, love triangle, love square, let's just say the reader has a reverse harem

Disclaimer: This is a fictional fan work. I do not own or claim to represent any real individuals (including Max Verstappen, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, or any public figures mentioned). All characterizations and events are fictional. Please don’t confuse this with real life. This is for entertainment only.

🔞 NSFW Disclaimer: This is a fictional and mature fan story featuring adult themes, emotional intensity, and potentially explicit content.

Want to listen to what I listened to while writing this?

Author’s Note: You guys… I am so torn over who the reader should end up with... This was supposed to be enemies-to-lovers with Max, but then Lando showed up with his sweet smiles, chaotic charm, and “I’ll wait for you” energy and I just…?? Wasn’t prepared?? 😭 I didn’t plan to fall in love with him but here we are lmaooo Honestly, writing this chapter was emotional whiplash for me, I had to take a break and take my dog for a walk (aka touch grass). I feel like I’m watching the reader spiral in real time, and I’m spiraling with her. I’m still Team Let’s-See-Where-This-Goes™, but Max and Lando are not making it easy. 😅 Thoughts? Anyway, thanks for being patient with the slow burn and all the messy feelings. I have no idea where this is heading anymore and I love that for us. It's like I'm on the journey with you guys. Specific Chapter Warnings/Tags: Post-Media Day Fallout, Reader gets a taste of fandom chaos™, Viral fan edits, Enemies to “I’ll protect you in the garage”, Protective!Max Verstappen, Tension so thick you could cut it with a wing mirror, After-race!Max = sweaty + angry = unsafe levels of attraction, Awkward ex encounter, Reader runs into Max (literally), Lando Norris soft moments, Emotional whiplash but make it romantic, Max boxes her in, F1 Paddock drama, Pining™ in slow motion, Reader is Not Okay™

It was the first day of race weekend. Media day. Tomorrow was FP1. You were excited—but also nervous as hell—about filming content. Especially with Lando, after everything that had happened at the yacht party.

You’d gone back to the hotel with Vanessa, and Lando had given you a sweet, gentle kiss on the forehead before saying goodbye. He told you he didn’t want to pressure you into anything too fast, and you appreciated that more than he probably knew.

Still, you couldn’t shake your last conversation with Max. The way it ended was burned into your brain, and you internally cursed yourself for how much he was living in your head—completely rent-free.

You decided to keep your outfit casual and comfortable today, knowing you'd be on your feet a lot. A pair of light blue jeans, crisp white sneakers, and a tight white polo crop top did the trick. You wore your hair down, pulling the sides back to frame your face. Vanessa had given you a handful of cute enamel pins—tiny logos of the teams you’d be filming with—and you’d clustered them together on your top like they were little badges of honor.

Once you arrived at the paddock, you and Vanessa met a press officer from Mercedes, who happened to be standing with Lewis Hamilton. You greeted Lewis with a quick hello and followed them toward the Mercedes media lounge. The paddock was buzzing with energy, everyone preparing for the race weekend. It all felt surreal—being here, actually being part of it. Even stranger? Seeing yourself in random places.

There were photos from your recent shoot plastered on media boards and posters—like easter eggs scattered throughout the paddock. One of them was an edit with three versions of you side-by-side: you in Mercedes gear, leaning on a stack of tires; in McLaren colors, waving a checkered flag; and in Red Bull fireproofs, striking a Charlie’s Angels pose with a tire gun. It was a killer edit, and it genuinely impressed you. You still had no clue who the Red Bull driver was—but you were excited to meet him.

At the Mercedes setup, they briefed you and Lewis on what you’d be doing. The two of you sat side-by-side on some sleek patio seating under a branded Mercedes umbrella, both keeping your sunglasses on because of how bright it was. The segment was a quick “What’s in My Bag?” TikTok-style video. Luckily, Vanessa had warned you in advance, so you’d avoided packing anything too chaotic.

The camera started rolling with Lewis grinning at you.

“Alright guys, we’re here with Y/N—fashion icon and content creator,” he said, smiling at the camera before turning to you. “Today, we’re doing ‘What’s in My Bag?’”

You let out a nervous laugh, hiding your face slightly. “Oh god, I’m already embarrassed.”

The video was under three minutes, lighthearted and playful—exactly what Mercedes wanted. You and Lewis had good chemistry, laughing the whole time. At one point, he pulled out not one, not two, but five different lipsticks from your purse. “Hey, I never know what the vibe’s gonna be,” you said, smirking. “Gotta stay ready.”

You doubled over laughing, cheeks hurting from smiling. You could only hope the fans would enjoy it as much as you did.

“That was perfect. Thanks, guys!” the camera op called out.

You thanked Lewis and regrouped with Vanessa. “Next up?” you asked.

“McLaren,” she replied, already walking briskly toward the hospitality suite.

♡

Meanwhile, Max, Lando, and Oscar were making their rounds through the paddock, chatting casually about the weekend ahead. That was until Lando suddenly paused, his jaw tightening.

A few garages ahead, Cyrus Kade stood with a media team—his arm lazily slung over a woman’s shoulder, sunglasses perched on his nose, cocky and smug like he owned the place. Lando’s voice dropped. “I still can’t believe that asshole showed up here.”

“Didn’t he, like... cheat on her publicly?” Oscar added, furrowing his brows.

Max’s head snapped toward them at the mention of what he suspected to by about Y/N. He followed their gaze. Cyrus Kade. He didn’t know much about him and didn’t really care to—but it took one look at the guy to know what kind of man he was. Slouched posture, cigarette tucked behind his ear, jet-black hair falling over his eyes fully embodying the ‘fuck you, I’m a rock star’ mentality. Max felt his grip on his helmet tighten. White-knuckled.

He remembered the night he met you on the balcony—the moment you went back inside Cyrus had grabbed you too roughly, kissed you when you were clearly pushing him away. The image was seared into his memory. It made Max’s blood boil. He didn’t even like you, not really. But that? That was something he couldn’t stand seeing happen to anyone.

He clenched his jaw, inhaled sharply, and tried to focus back on Lando and Oscar’s conversation.

“She’s so hot,” Lando said, gesturing to the big promo banner across from them—the one with you in the three different team liveries. “She looks so good in McLaren orange.”

Oscar bumped his shoulder, teasing. “You’re obsessed.”

“I agree, though,” Oscar added, pretending it was purely for the bit—but he clearly wasn’t lying.

Max finally looked up at the image. His brows drew together when he saw you wearing Red Bull race gear, absolutely hating how it made him feel.

“She’s filming content today, yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Lando replied. “She’s with Lewis now. Then filming with me and Oscar.”

Max stared for a second, doing the math. If you were in Red Bull gear for the shoot… that probably meant you’d be filming with him too.

He rolled his eyes. Of course.

Oscar nudged Lando. “So, you two disappeared on that jet ski for like an hour. What happened?”

Lando flushed, awkwardly brushing it off. “Nothing, man.”

Max pressed his lips together, gave them both a quick nod goodbye, and made his way toward the Red Bull tent. He didn’t want to hear any more.

♡

Back to you.

You had just wrapped the Mercedes content shoot and were still buzzing. Vanessa led you into the McLaren lounge, where Lando and Oscar were waiting. The moment you spotted them, your face lit up.

Lando pulled you into a hug, lifting you off the ground slightly, his face buried in your hair.

“Hi, Lando,” you giggled in a soft, sing-songy voice.

Oscar greeted you next, a bit more formal but still warm.

You stood next to Lando as the marketing team walked you through the next segment: “Say It or Eat It.” Instead of shots, you'd be eating disgustingly flavored jelly beans if you didn’t answer. Great. You hated jelly beans.

You were seated between Lando and Oscar—a full-circle McLaren sandwich moment. Each of you held a branded mic. You were jittery from being so close to Lando. When you turned slightly to look at him, you noticed he’d gotten a fresh haircut. His side profile was dangerously handsome. You blushed, looking away.

The game began.

“Have you ever stalked someone’s ex on Instagram?”

Oscar said no. Lando said yes—and you didn’t catch him glancing at you. Then you admitted yes too, biting your lip.

Second question: “Who was your childhood celebrity crush?”

Oscar ate a jelly bean. He immediately winced. “Is it that bad?” you laughed.

You answered, embarrassed: “Gary Oldman. As Captain Hook. In that live-action Peter Pan movie.” You hid your face behind the mic.

Lando grinned. “Natalie Portman.”

You nodded, fully agreeing with him.

Final question: “Which driver would you NOT want to be stuck on a desert island with?”

Oscar shrugged. “I’ll take the easy out—Lando.”

“C’mon, mate,” Lando groaned, slinging an arm around you dramatically to playfully hit Oscar.

Then it was your turn. You didn’t mean to say it. The name just... slipped out, faster than your brain could stop it.

“Max Verstappen.”

Silence.

Lando’s eyes widened in a “no way” expression. Oscar's jaw dropped.

You laughed awkwardly, trying to play it off as a joke. Lando quickly jumped in to save you.

“Same. He’d just talk about racing the whole time and never help us get rescued.”

You gave him a grateful glance.

The rep clapped. “Alright, next segment. Lando, Y/N, you two can stay seated.”

Oscar left, saying goodbye. You and Lando stayed for the next game—Finish the Sentence. You were seated facing each other now, knees brushing. The tension? Palpable.

You drew the first card. “When I first met you, I thought…” “You were trouble,” Lando said immediately with an ear-to-ear grin.

You gasped, hitting him with your card. “Ouch.”

His turn. “I’ll never forget the time we…” “…broke down on a jet ski,” you said, laughing way too hard.

Last card: “The one person I can’t stop thinking about is…”

He looked at you. Just for a second. Too long.

Then—“Roscoe!” he blurted, falling off the couch in fake embarrassment.

You laughed so hard you had to turn away.

“Great! Thanks, guys!”

You handed off your mic. Lando looked at you with that same smile he gave you on the jet ski.

“What?” you asked, smiling back.

“Nothing. I gotta go—but I’ll talk to you later, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, cheeks warm.

Vanessa returned to your side. Lando leaving the room. “Your chemistry is wild. Fans are going to eat this up.”

You laughed, exhaling. “Yeah, hah… okay. What’s next?” You change the subject.

“Red Bull tent,” she said, leading the way.

Blissfully unaware, you followed her.

The Red Bull media room was cold with AC and smelled faintly of energy drinks and wires. You and Vanessa stepped inside.

You weren’t briefed. You still didn’t know who the driver was.

But as you rounded the corner, you saw him.

Max Verstappen.

Your stomach dropped. Fight-or-flight kicked in. You instinctively stepped back, ready to bolt.

Vanessa nudged you forward.

Cool. Cool cool cool. Totally fine.

You were a professional. You could do this. Pretend. Smile. Breathe.

Max’s eyes met yours. The air shifted. Thick with tension. You looked away immediately, focusing on the media manager explaining the shoot. Max had already been briefed.

You sat at the edge of the bench, as far from him as possible.

The camera girl laughed lightly. “Can you guys scoot in? Need to get you both in frame.”

You reluctantly shifted closer. Not close—just less far.

Max sat with his arms folded, legs spread confidently, hoodie unzipped halfway, completely unreadable.

You didn’t say a word. Neither did he.

But you could feel it.

Every inch of distance. Every breath of silence. Every unspoken thing between you.

And the camera was about to capture all of it.

Max’s jaw clenched. Subtly. Like a tick behind the eyes.

You scanned the room as if you were hoping to find a trap door. No other drivers. No sign of Oscar or Lando. Just a camera guy setting up on a slider, a boom mic tech yawning, and a Red Bull PR rep motioning you in like this was a totally normal thing.

“Thinking about running away again?” Max said suddenly, breaking the silence.

“No.” You said flatly. You weren’t filming yet, you didn’t have to appease him.

“I can’t believe you asked to film with me.”

Oh. So we’re doing that today.

You finally turned to look at him, ready to argue.

“What? I didn’t even know you drove for Red Bull!” you started, very visibly aggravated. When someone clipped a mic to your collar and the camera light switched on.

And suddenly… it was you and Max.

No script. No prep. Just tension. And the camera watching all of it.

You were so confused and it was like all of your media training prepared you for this day and this day only.

The person behind the camera starts talking. You turn away from Max.

“We’re going to be playing Red Bull Rapid Fire. Just some fast, fun questions to get your instincts. Keep it playful!”

You wanted to throw up.

Playful. Sure.

You nodded tightly, posture too straight, smile too polite. You could feel Max’s gaze on you, burning into your peripheral.

The camera girl clapped once. “And… rolling.”

Max tilted his head slightly and gave a small smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Ladies first?” You blinked. “Sure.”

Question One: "Cats or dogs?"

“Cats,” you both said at the same time. You turned your head and caught his eye. He looked away immediately, jaw clenching.

Question Two: "Text or call?" “Text,” you answered quickly. “Call,” he replied just as fast, almost like a challenge.

The camera person giggled behind the lens. “Ooo, opposites.”

You forced a smile, but your leg was bouncing now. This was like your own personal hell.

Question Three: "Sweet or salty?" “Salty,” Max said with zero hesitation. You paused for a second too long. “…Sweet.”

He turned his head toward you, this time smirking just enough for it to be smug. “Yeah. Figures.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The camera person made a small noise, unsure if they should cut, but Max just shook his head and said, “Nothing.” The camera kept rolling.

Question Four: "Biggest ick?" You didn’t even hesitate. “Men who talk down to women.” Max’s mouth opened slightly, then shut. He looked at you. Hard. Not with anger, but something simmering below it. He looked like he wanted to say something but thought better of it. Instead, he answered, “Fake people.” You nodded, slow. “Same.”

Now you were looking at him. Straight-on. You couldn’t help it—he looked tired behind the eyes, but sharp. Like everything between you was still there, just hidden under ten layers of things unsaid.

Question Five: "What’s one thing people would be surprised to know about you?" “I hate being told what to do,” Max said coolly, still looking ahead. You breathed a small laugh, not from amusement, but disbelief. “Oh wow. So shocking.” He turned his head toward you again. This time, the smirk was real. “Was that sarcasm?” You blinked slowly. “No.” You said with clear sarcasm. You both turned away to laugh a little. Almost in sync.

The camera person let out a short laugh, nervous but entertained. “Okay, last one!”

Final Question: "What’s your biggest red flag?" A pause. Max glanced at you, like he was actually curious what you’d say.

You shrugged lightly. “I guess I over think everything. Assume the worst. I’m working on it.” You didn’t expect to be that honest, but maybe it was easier to say real things when you were pissed off.

Max looked at you a little too long, then replied, quieter than before. “I push people away when I don’t mean to.”

You looked at him for what felt like the first time. Your eyebrow twitched a little. Was that the first time you saw the real him? The Max that everyone else gets to see? Your eyes scanned his face while he was looking at the ground, it was the first time that you noticed the freckle on his top lip. Quietly observing the details of his face, and looking away quickly before getting caught.

There was silence.

Then the media coordinator clapped again. “And cut! That was great, thank you!”

You instantly stood, putting just enough space between you and Max to breathe. Vanessa handed you a bottle of water, whispering “That was kind of spicy” behind a faux cough.

“I can’t believe you set me up like that.” You tried to laugh it off, but your chest was tight.

Max stood too, taking his hat off to brush a hand through his hair. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words never came.

So instead, you nodded once. Dismissive. Professional. Cool.

“Thanks,” you said, not sure if it was to Max or the team or just the air.

Then you walked out, Vanessa trailing behind you, she was already gushing about how much social media was going to eat it up.

Max watched you go. His jaw flexed once. Then he looked down at his hands and whispered something under his breath in Dutch. “Godverdomme.”

♡

Yesterday had been way too intense for your liking.

When you woke up, you were honestly just exhausted — emotionally fried and overstimulated. But the one thing that got you out of bed was the excitement of finally seeing some actual racing. You had woken up early enough to scroll through your phone in peace.

All the videos from yesterday had been posted.

The comments under your interview with Lewis were wholesome. Everyone kept saying he had “big brother energy,” which you appreciated, especially since he was seeing someone. The last thing you wanted was for him to get dragged back into shipping wars.

You scrolled to the next post from McLaren.

“not me watching this on loop like it’s The Notebook 😭” “Wait, do you guys see their knees touching???” “if they don’t kiss during race weekend I’m writing a letter to the FIA” “Is Lando… in love? 👀” “this feels less like PR and more like soft-launching the grid’s next power couple”

You smiled silently to yourself. At least the people shipping you so far seemed supportive. You double-tapped the official McLaren post and kept scrolling.

There was an edit captioned: “Lando when he’s around the boys vs. Lando when she shows up 💀”

You liked it too — playing into it a little more now.

Eventually, you came across the official Red Bull post.

You and Max.

Your stomach dropped. You were almost scared to press play.

But when you did, you noticed the way he looked at you while you talked.

He seemed tense, even uncomfortable, at the start, which made you cringe — but then… he softened. Just slightly. There was even a moment where he looked at you while you were talking to the camera and then — god — that part at the end where you had stared at him too long.

The comments on this one were... different than what you expected.

“why was that the most tense thing I’ve ever seen???” “girl called him out with a smile and he just took it 😭😭” “they answered like they were trying not to murder each other on camera. I love it here.” “Red Bull, more Y/NStappen PLSSS” “The way this is just 10 minutes of enemies-to-lovers! MY TROPE!!” “sooo Max has never looked at anyone like that. literally never.” “Y/N doesn’t even look at Lando like that 👀 I think she’s going to choose Max.”

You blinked.

You genuinely didn’t see what they were talking about.

You and Max didn’t like each other — you were just doing your job.

You reminded yourself: they ship you with anything that breathes too close to you.

Then the next post appeared — a cute edit of Cyrus and his new girlfriend in the paddock.

You wanted to cry. But you didn’t.

You scrolled right past it.

Until — boom — a black and white edit of you and Max.

Clips from the interview, slowed and chopped, highlighting every shared look, every breath between words.

Every breath you take by the police playing in the background.

The caption read: “oh, my Y/NStappen heart.”

That was it.

You bailed on Instagram and opened Twitter.

Almost immediately: “Analyzing Max’s face when Y/N says ‘sweet’ — a breakdown 🧵”

You groaned and locked your phone, finally pushing yourself out of bed.

♡

Today was Practice Day — FP1.

You put on a cuter outfit than yesterday — a long, breezy dress with short boots.

Hair down. Soft makeup. Sunglasses perched on your head. Cute but simple.

You had the option of choosing which hospitality suite to watch from.

You picked McLaren. Of course.

You were starry-eyed the entire time — thrilled, overwhelmed, impressed.

Watching the boys drive was an entirely different feeling.

There were only a couple of guys in this first group. Among them were Lando, Max, and Oscar.

You hadn’t expected the sound of the engines to hit so hard. The rumble of them — you could feel it in your chest, the way concert speakers make your lungs vibrate.

You leaned over the balcony rail, awestruck.

You tried to focus on Lando. You now knew his number was 4, and Oscar’s was 81.

But then you noticed — at the top of the time sheets — Max. Of course.

You rolled your eyes. Of course he was that good.

Every time you tried to keep your eyes on Lando’s car, your gaze drifted back to Max’s.

It was infuriating. Your brain — your curiosity — kept betraying you.

Max had the fastest sector time, but Lando wasn’t far behind.

You could sense the tension on track between the two of them — it was almost palpable.

You nearly cringed when the cars got too close. You couldn’t imagine what it was like when all 20 cars were on the track at the same time.

When practice ended, you practically ran down to the paddock.

Lando was still in his race suit — helmet on, fireproofs clinging to his body.

He looked… insanely hot. You were blushing hard.

“Hi,” you called once you got to him.

“Hi,” he replied sweetly, voice muffled behind the helmet. “What did you think?”

“That. Was. Awesome!” Your smile was wide, beaming.

Lando slowly peeled off his helmet, then his balaclava and IEMs.

You were suddenly distracted by how good he looked — flushed, sweaty, windswept.

“I’m gonna go change out of this,” he said with a grin, eyes twinkling. “Can I catch up with you in a bit?”

“Sure!” you replied, cheeks still pink.

You turned, walking back toward the hospitality area to meet Vanessa.

You were checking your phone, heart full, smile lingering, when you looked up.

Oh. My. God. Oh my god??

Cyrus.

He was about 20 feet in front of you, hand-in-hand with his new girlfriend.

He was mid-conversation with someone when he locked eyes with you.

You froze.

He let go of her hand and started walking toward you. What an odd thing to do. This wasn’t good.

Panic.

Full-body panic.

You looked away like you hadn’t seen him, spun on your heel, and bolted.

You didn’t know where you were going, only that you needed to get away.

Then — thud.

You smacked right into someone. Of course you did.

The figure was dressed head-to-toe in dark blue.

Helmet still on. The logo at the top read: Red Bull.

Oh god.

The other Red Bull driver was shorter — this had to be Max Verstappen.

Because of course it was. Your life was actually a movie.

Max turned slowly, peering at you through his visor.

He reached out instinctively, steadying you with his hands.

You didn’t even say anything — too panicked.

Cyrus was still coming.

You tried to slip past Max, but he saw your face — your panic—and immediately scanned behind you.

His brows drew together when he saw Cyrus.

Through his helmet, Max spoke — voice clipped and cold: “Is he bothering you?”

His tone made you flinch. It was the angriest you’d ever heard him.

He started to move, stalking toward Cyrus, ready to knock him flat — But you reached for his forearm, gripping it tight, silently begging him not to.

Max looked down at your hand, then back up at Cyrus, seething. Instead, he placed a hand gently on the small of your back and led you into the Red Bull garage.

He guided you toward the back — behind the stacks of tires — to a secluded corner.

Then, he boxed you in.

Hands on the wall, one on either side of your head. Standing in front of you like a shield.

You were both breathing heavily now.

You couldn’t even see his face through the visor, which somehow made everything worse.

You looked up at him, lashes fluttering, eyes wide with gratitude.

Then, Max moved.

He pulled off the helmet. Removed the balaclava. Flicked out his IEMs.

And you were not prepared.

He was flushed, damp with sweat, his hair a chaotic mess clinging in every direction.

His lips were tight, jaw clenched, cheeks red with heat and adrenaline.

There were indentations from his helmet across his face.

He was vibrating with anger.

You couldn’t breathe.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice rougher now, more real. His ocean-colored eyes locked on yours.

“Y-yeah,” you managed. “Thanks.”

Max shook his head slightly, still glaring in the direction you’d come from.

“I don’t know how you dated that guy,” he muttered. “I want to put his face through a wall.”

His fist hit the wall beside you — not hard, but enough to make you flinch. Still, you held his gaze.

He ran a hand down his face, frustrated.

It was like he didn’t know what to do with all the anger — or whatever else was behind it.

Your eyes dropped to his lips — his freckle right where you remember it being. You wanted to touch it.

Instead, you gently reached for his hand and pulled it away from his face.

“Seriously,” you said, soft but firm. “Thank you.”

Your faces were still so close. You dropped his hand.

Then, before anything else could happen — before your heart—and the feeling pooling between your thighs—could make a decision your head wasn’t ready for, you slipped under his arm and made your exit.

You didn’t look back. You just ran.

Out of the garage. Away from Cyrus. Away from Max.

And whatever the hell that moment had just been.

♡

You’re still breathless as you walk—no, run—out of the Red Bull garage, heart thudding in your chest for a million different reasons. Your skin still tingles where Max’s hand was. Where his eyes had been. You feel like you’re overheating, emotionally scrambled.

And then, just as you round a corner near the media area— “Hey.”

Lando.

He’s changed out of his race suit and is leaning casually against a barricade, water bottle in hand, still a little flushed from practice. But the casualness disappears when he sees your face.

“What happened?” he says immediately, stepping toward you, eyes scanning you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re hurt.

You hesitate for a split second. He notices.

“Was it that guy? Cyrus?” His voice tightens. “Did he talk to you?”

You shake your head. “No—I mean, almost. I kind of…ran into someone.”

Lando’s brows draw together. “Who?”

And then he puts it together. His eyes scan behind you, the path you came from. His jaw ticks.

“Don’t tell me it was Max.” His voice lowers, suspicious but controlled.

Your silence is loud.

“You were with him?” Lando’s voice softens a little, like he’s trying not to sound accusatory, but he’s clearly caught off guard. “How did that go?”

You look away. “He helped me. He saw Cyrus coming and kind of stepped in.”

Lando blinks. “He helped you?” Like it doesn’t compute. “Verstappen?”

You nod. “I don’t even think he thought about it. It just…happened.”

There’s a long pause. Then Lando laughs once, dry, disbelieving. “I see.”

His jaw clenches again, but not in anger toward you—more like he’s trying to control the way something inside him is twisting. “Did he say anything to you?” he finally asks.

You hesitate again. He notices again.

“Was he a dick?” he pushes a little.

You shake your head. “No. He was…actually really…sweet.” You said the word you used in your interview with Max. Lando noticed.

He bit back his tinge jealousy. And that’s the part Lando can’t seem to handle.

“Huh,” he mutters, looking down, then back at you with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s good.”

You feel tension settle in the air between you both.

“You’re okay though?” he asks, softly now. “Seriously.”

You nod. “Yeah. Just…shaken.”

Lando doesn’t say anything right away, just watches you for a long moment.

“Come on,” he finally says, reaching for your hand—maybe out of instinct, or maybe because he needs to remind you what it feels like. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

You let him take it.

But you can’t stop thinking about Max’s hands either.

[third-time-charmed]

Okay, I have a question that’s been driving me crazy for a few days now: how would Aventurine fare in a rigged game of chance? Like, rigged for him to lose? Would some super unlikely series of events happen that would cause him to win the game, Rube Goldberg style? Actually, honestly, if we back up a tick…I’ve been kind of confused about his luck forever. 😅 what does it actually mean? I truly feel like I’m missing a lot of layers of important details wrt his luck + faith + religion + fatalism (? maybe?) just! I feel like I’m missing pieces and I want to understand himmmmm and you were the first person I thought of to pose this question to! ❤️ a real Aventurine connoisseur 👏

Ohhhhhhh you've activated the Ultimate yap card, okay. (Also can I just say that Aventurine connoisseur is 100% what I'm going for, thank you for that!)

KEEPING IN MIND that anything I may have to say on this (or any other topic re: characterization, for anybody) is purely my own subjective view, so your mileage may vary. I never claim myself an expert on anything because I'm just not, but Aventurine as a character is extremely dear to me and a definite hyperfixation.

Now that that's out of the way, to answer your first question, a game that was rigged for him to lose -- in other words, not luck-based in the least and completely unreliant on odds -- would still play out as expected. He would lose. However, particularly depending on what the stakes are, I think he would absolutely do something incredibly smart and sophisticated to slip himself out of danger, and that might rely on a bit of luck to pull off. Keep in mind, this is a man who Dr. Veritas Ratio, Mr. I-can't-stand-to-look-at-idiots, never wears his bust around. A man who I have no doubt could have made it into the Genius Society had his circumstances been drastically different. Aventurine is scary smart, even if he didn't figure out that the game was rigged, he's enough of a pessimist I think he'd expect it and have a backup plan in place.

Which I think is a good point to transition to your other question: What is his luck? And I'll start by pointing out, he doesn't rely on his luck if he can help it. He doesn't trust it. He hates it when it seems to come through for him and prove once again that it's still there. And the reason for that is, it's not just blind luck, it's not some cosmic "I always win" factor. It's a survival mechanic.

(I'm putting a cut in here because holy shit this is getting long LMAO)

It's simplifying it quite a bit, I think, to just call it "luck" tbh. In reality, Kakavasha was "blessed by Gaiathra Triclops". Which naturally begs the question: What does that mean? Well, Gaiathra Triclops was the Avgin goddess of prosperity, travel, fertility, and fortune. Kakavasha was so named because he was born not only during a rare rainfall (a sign of prosperity and fortune for a desert-dwelling tribe) but also on the day that their tribe celebrated their goddess' renewal and rebirth, as well as the renewal of the land itself. On top of that, he was born with multi-color eyes, which the tribe considered an auspicious sign of good fortune (I know most people headcanon that Avgin all have the same eye color, but from this which we hear mentioned a couple times in game, I take it to mean that it actually doesn't happen terribly often and that his eye color is rather rare but still pretty much only ever seen in Avgin people).

So he's got the triple dip of his birth being what the Avgin would consider an incredibly good omen. Per their religious views, he is of course seen as being blessed by their goddess, that She will watch over him and grant him protection and blessing for his entire life. This is why he was given this name, why his people saw him as a savior and a source of prosperity and fortune. He might as well have been an embodiment of the goddess' will and blessing, given as a gift to her beloved people.

The problem is, of course, that he's... not actually that lucky? Think about it: He's lost everyone and everything he's ever cared about. His father died before he was even born. His mother died when he was very young. His sister -- his last remaining blood family, as far as we know -- and his entire tribe were all murdered when he was still very young. THEN he was sold into slavery, abused, treated as property, like an object that had no worth. He wasn't even a person for a long time, as far as anyone else was concerned, and this was so prevalent in his formative years that he internalized it. None of this sounds like good luck to me.

But he did survive where no one else from his tribe did, as far as what we know. And he survived in an environment where few if anyone else did as well, if the implications of the murder maze are what they seem. The circumstances of that in almost every instance were probably highly unlikely, and in some cases should have been outright impossible if not for an extremely rare stroke of excellent luck. In this way, I think the blessing of the goddess is probably more closely tied to "prosperity" and "protection" than just outright luck, which is why he's so inclined to gamble with his life than anything else: on top of not viewing his life as all that valuable, it's the one thing he knows he can gamble on and somehow trigger this strange phenomenon that will inevitably keep him out of danger in the end if his intelligence and his plans fail.

And again, he is incredibly, incredibly intelligent. The Egyhazo case, I fully believe, was nothing more than his own smarts, bravado, charisma, and some very skillful bluffing. The luck, the actual gamble, was in whether or not he would be executed for it. The Penacony job he performed an intensely captivating sleight-of-hand act, accurately gauging Sunday's proclivities and personality, expertly maneuvering Ratio's disposition and reputation, and managing to read the other factions and properly antagonizing the most likely group to give him the outcome he was looking for. The luck was in stumbling across an Emanator that was capable of doing the job, in the protection of the Harmony being genuine (although that wasn't as much luck as him just not bothering to follow the logic through to conclusion as Ratio already had), and in being rescued from the Nihility by a circumstantially lost Knight of Beauty.

In other words, Protection and Prosperity, not Luck.

We see a little glimpse of this in his professional life, too, if you do the hotel check-out quest from 2.3(?) because Topaz makes a comment about him giving out stock market tips that absolutely bombed and lost a lot of people a lot of money because they assumed that if he was giving out information that it was divinely fortunate and they would get to profit from it. Now, could this have been intentional? Maybe. Possibly even very likely. But I still feel like this is more evidence that it's not just pure, blind luck because if it was, wouldn't that mean it would have interfered in this case? Giving him incredibly excellent and irrefutable luck entirely out of his control no matter the circumstances?

No, the blessing of Gaiathra is to "Keep you blood eternally pulsing, the journey forever peaceful, and schemes forever concealed." Protection, prosperity, and good fortune. In every one of his bad circumstances, he absolutely could have had it worse. He could have not survived. But he did, and his way was smoothed by luck and by his own determination and intelligence.

(Honestly, this kinda feels like it could be the basis for another bit of Avgin proverb mistranslation, so I will need to chew on this some more I think...)

This touches a bit on why I feel like Ratio is such a good match for him tbh, because he sees all the smarts and intelligence and resilience that it took for Aven to actually get where he is now. When all Aven can see is the so-called luck that his people touted as their deliverance. Where Ratio sees effort and accomplishment, Aven sees a trail of blood and misfortune.

Now, what do I think this would have translated to, had the genocide not occurred? The ability to locate various valuable resources like water, food, and shelter with relative ease and astounding reliability. An uncanny knack for avoiding disasters and predators. Probably a large family to swell the numbers of the tribe. I fully believe that the intention was to groom him for some kind of significant leadership role within the clan once he was old enough, considering all the talk about "leading the clan to happiness" (which obviously never happened since right until the very end he's still asking what any of this means and why everyone is doing this to him).

Instead, what his blessing looks like in reality is a man with a death wish, more wealth than he has any use or desire for, and a flimsy facade that everyone believes him to be the luckiest man alive when in reality he has possibly the worst luck in the universe, objectively speaking.

And he just wants it all to end. The curse specifically. Because he absolutely views his luck as a curse and not a blessing at all. In his eyes, it has continually and reliably cost him every time he has benefited from it, actively consuming the lives of those dear to him in order to power his ridiculous good fortune. This is, of course, inaccurate, but it's how he sees it. It's why he continues to throw his life into all of these ridiculous gambles while all the while being extremely careful never to involve anyone else and never to get close to anyone, hoping that the luck will eventually run out and the curse will break.

That's the nature of the death wish as well. It's not that he's actively suicidal, I truly don't believe that. Because if he was, he easily could have before now. He could have just given up. But he hasn't, he's a survivor, and his own sister made him swear to preserve his own life. So it's not that he wants to die, it's not that simple. He just wants proof that the curse is gone, and because it has preserved him so far, the only proof he could possibly accept is that it failed to protect him.

It's a truly complicated motivation.

Anyway, that's my thoughts on Aventurine's blessing of luck. It's been made clear throughout the game, in the side events and all, that it's not all-encompassing. He can and does still lose in games of chance, but only when the stakes are low or when losing would net him a better gain in the end. That was also what made the Penacony bet so appealing to him personally. If he won, he did his job for the IPC. If he lost, he got his wish and that meant the curse of luck was broken. And he specifically rigged it that way. It would have been so easy to go a different route to get the same results, especially because, as we find out later, his life was never in any actual danger until he specifically put it there (challenging an Emanator of Nihility) to make the biggest spectacle possible.

"If you could do it all again, would you still want to be the child who was blessed by Gaiathra?"

We never get an answer to this question, and I think that's pretty telling tbh. He doesn't know. I think after the events of Penacony, he has a lot more appreciation for his position and circumstances. His self-worth certainly seems to have improved a bit. But he still has a ways to go in reconciling this gift that he has been struggling with his entire life. I think his life experience and worldview are still incredibly narrow in this respect, but he's been given the opportunity to try to broaden it now. To put his luck in a new perspective and move past the fear and the guilt that has plagued him, honestly, since birth.

All because somebody told him to stay alive. Not because they were benefiting from his blessing, but because they wanted him as a person to survive and continue living. Because he has value to someone beyond the material, and beyond the sixty goddamn coins he was sold for.

Romantic subtext or not, Ratio's impact on this man cannot be denied...

[the-joju-experience]

2025 is my favorite of the three. Everyone's characterizations are brilliant (with one exception I'll keep to spoilers), the action is worthy, and most importantly, the parts of this that are a Superman story are the way that they need to be to be a Superman story in 2025.

This concludes the non-spoiler version of this thread. Go watch Superman.

I needed this movie to be good. As you've probably guessed from this thread so far, Superman is important to me as a fantasy of what a hero can be. Someone with that kind of power choosing to use it to good over and over again is inspiring and something to live up to.

And this movie is about that, in a way. Superman does everything right, but as he says at the end of the movie, he can and will screw up. He'll make mistakes. But he'll always try to be the best he can. There are times where he is demonstrably wrong - stabbing a guy with a cactus, for one - but it comes from a good place. And as the movie points out, even our role models aren't perfect, so we should never try to be them. But we should take the lessons we need from them and apply them the best we can.

Speaking of Superman's parents, that's the one problem I had with the movie. Jumping off my earlier point about Krypton, I like when Superman has something to be proud of. Some heritage he can reflect as a kind of immigrant pride. This movie goes the opposite direction and has the twist reveal that this Krypton was trying to colonize Earth. I don't love that as an angle, but at least the movie did something interesting with it thematically.

Anyway, back to stuff I liked. Lois Lane! She is good at her job and is trying to manage a new relationship and is also a good person with things going on! Lex Luthor! He is a whiny impotent bitch and I love it so much when he cries! Mister Terrific! Had the best fight scene and the best one-liners!

One thing I said to my theater companions on a way out of the theater was that I wondered if Lex Luthor is made better by the fact that we have real people to compare him to. We all agreed that, unfortunately, he probably is. So if there's one thing the Muskrat has done right, it's make good Superman villain material.

I'll probably have more observations, thoughts, and cool things I liked spill out over the next few days, but I'm going to wrap this thread here and tell people to go see Superman 2025. It's good for your soul.

Ahead of seeing Superman tonight, I'm rewatching Superman (1978) and Man of Steel. I have a lot of thoughts on both of them, and if they get coherent, they'll be on this thread.

[vynnyal]

Of all games why this one

[ozcarma]

Does anyone else feel like the incinerator gun chair room from Zero Time Dilemma would have better fit C Team instead of D Team

[welcometogrouchland]

Babygirl I can concieve of stephcass dynamics you couldn't even imagine (arospec Cass not understanding why "probably bi but has a job so she doesn't have time to think about that" Steph apparently needs a man (she doesn't, it would just be nice) and doesn't want to platonically settle down with cass in their old age)

[zombryz]

🏁 Understeer ⋆˚࿔ - an F1 series

Chapter 3 | Before the Fuel Runs Out ⏳.ᐟ

🚤⭑.ᐟ The morning after a whirlwind night out in Monaco, the reader wakes up to find herself the center of it all. Edits and gossip surrounding the McLaren sandwich with Lando and Oscar have gone viral. Among the chaos, a clip of Max seemingly watching with jealousy catches her off guard...

After a playful F1-themed photoshoot, the day shifts to an exclusive yacht party. Despite Max’s aloof behavior, the reader grows closer to both Lando and Oscar, flirting, jet-skiing, and exchanging intimate conversations. Lando opens up about Max’s emotional distance, while Oscar assures her of her place in their circle. The day ends with a passionate kiss, hinting at a new romantic spark.

Word count: 3k ...or read me on ao3 |chapter 1|chapter 2|chapter 4

Pairings: Max Verstappen x Reader Lando Norris x Reader Reader x Rockstar OC (ex) *loosely based on Andy Biersack -> future Oscar Piastri x Reader Tags/Warnings: Fem!Influencer!reader Slight!Oc but not really, just story building for Y/N {2024-present season based} *Not always lore accurate #Smau - Social Media Alternate Universe Toxic/semi-abusive relationship with established rockstar boyfriend, alcohol use, drunken behavior, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, public argument, heated kissing, paparazzi & social media mentions, angst, depression, themes of escape, reinvention & heartbreak, very light smut references (fade to black) -> the future chapters will include smut, enemies-to-??? extreme slow burn in the making, love triangle, love square, let's just say the reader has a reverse harem

Disclaimer: This is a fictional fan work. I do not own or claim to represent any real individuals (including Max Verstappen, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, or any public figures mentioned). All characterizations and events are fictional. Please don’t confuse this with real life. This is for entertainment only.

🔞 NSFW Disclaimer: This is a fictional and mature fan story featuring adult themes, emotional intensity, and potentially explicit content.

Want to listen to what I listened to while writing this?

📝 Author’s Note: This chapter made me blush and cover my face while writing. I wanted to lean into the messy blur of being thrust into the F1 spotlight while emotionally detangling from a toxic past. The yacht party was my favorite to write! Equal parts escapism and tension. Lando is so soft here, and Oscar has his sweet, almost understated charm. And Max? The slow-burn setup is brewing. Hehehe 👀 Thank you for reading!! 💕 Chapter warnings: Mild language/slut-shaming via social media comments, References to emotional manipulation/controlling behavior in a past relationship (with Cyrus), Paparazzi/internet scrutiny, Flirtation and suggestive content, Alcohol consumption, A romantic/sexual moment (heated kissing)

The sun warmed your cheeks through the massive glass window of your hotel room. You’d forgotten to close the curtains after stumbling in late last night. With a groggy sigh, you rolled over and reached for your phone.

No texts from Vanessa yet. That was rare—but welcome. You let yourself sink into the mattress for a few extra minutes, floating in that quiet stillness you rarely got to enjoy. Life had been so hectic lately, this felt like a soft pause. Like floating.

Your mind wandered back to last night—to the club, to that surreal moment when you found yourself sandwiched between Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri. The infamous McLaren boys, as you'd recently learned. Their fanbase was intense. Massive. Obsessive. Your face heated just thinking about it.

But then your thoughts twisted—Cyrus. The mere possibility of running into him while you were here made your stomach tighten.

You grabbed your phone again, needing a distraction, and opened Instagram.

It hit instantly.

Tags. DMs. Story mentions. A swarm of notifications.

And right there, front and center, was a fan edit—actually, a pretty decent one—of the exact moment you’d just been thinking about. You. Lando. Oscar. Dancing at the club, arms around each other. The F1 sandwich.

You bolted upright in bed. Someone filmed that?

You tapped into the comments.

“HELLOOO???” “I don’t even know who to ship her with more, this is insane.” “I feel like she’s a little… whorish, no? Three F1 drivers right after Cyrus?” Then a reply underneath that: “Let her have fun. Cyrus had her locked in a dungeon.”

You grinned—and liked it.

Within seconds: “OMG?? She LIKED!!”

It spiraled from there.

Your feed was flooded. Edit after edit—same video, different angles, remixed to trendy songs. Some clips even included paparazzi shots of you and Lewis.

And then you saw it.

A different edit. Captioned: “jealous verstappen? 👀”

You tapped it.

It started off the same—dancing with Lando and Oscar—but then cut to Max.

Max Verstappen, in the background, jaw tight, drink in hand. Watching.

You could see the moment he turned away, eyes dark, retreating to the bar like he couldn’t stand to look any longer.

The comments were a mess.

“You’re delusional, Max HATES girls like her.” “Okay wait, I see it 👀” “Waitttt not me shipping them—YNstappen???”

Then came the comparison edits—Cyrus vs. Lando. A carousel of mannerisms, outfits, headlines. You weren’t immune to the intrigue. Honestly, your fans weren’t wrong. Lando seemed like a good guy. Probably better for you in every way.

But still… you felt bad. For him.

He didn’t ask for any of this. Not the rumors. Not the ship names. Not the constant scrutiny.

Your thoughts were cut short by your hotel room door swinging open.

Vanessa stood in the doorway, already fully dressed and looking like she ran a Fortune 500 company before breakfast.

“Good morning,” she chimed, too bright. “Here's the breakdown for today.”

She mentioned the edits immediately—couldn’t resist the drama. You groaned.

“Photoshoot this morning, then the yacht party with the F1 guys,” she added, scrolling through her tablet. “Try not to cause another internet meltdown.”

You rolled your eyes, but in the back of your mind, you wondered… were they already tired of you? Max definitely was. But you reminded yourself—you were invited here. By them. Their sponsors. Their teams. You were doing your job. If Max had a problem with that, too bad.

♡

Later that morning: The photoshoot went surprisingly well—especially considering you had no idea what it was for until you got there.

Of course it was F1-related.

They styled you in two different themes: one grid girl look—tight red leather pants and a cropped white racing tee—and another set with actual racing gear.

Three outfits. One for Mercedes. One for McLaren. One for Red Bull. It was actually quite fun wearing a driver’s helmet.

The shoot was for an upcoming campaign centered around responsible driving: “No matter who you drive for, make sure you arrive alive.”

You liked the message. How dangerous drinking and driving is and how you shouldn’t do it, no matter what.

Helmet props, tire stacks, dramatic lighting. It was easily the most fun you’d had on a shoot in months. Playful, high-energy. No pressure to be perfect—just cool, fast, bold. Like you belonged.

And maybe… you kind of did. Were you becoming an F1 girl? It was kind of crazy to you. This was all before even seeing a single race.

♡

It was yacht time.

You had never been on a yacht before. Rockstars didn’t really do that sort of thing—well, at least not Velvet Collapse. You thought back to that joke someone made about Cyrus keeping you locked in a dungeon. Honestly? They weren’t far off. That’s exactly what it felt like.

You left your hair natural—just a bit of CC cream, sunscreen, and a swipe of lipstick in case you ended up swimming. You slipped into a black bikini—something cheeky, but not too revealing—simple overall. Sunglasses pushed up on your head, a white linen mini dress thrown over the top, and a pair of Gucci sandals to finish the look.

Thank god Vanessa had scheduled you a mani-pedi before Monaco. Your nails and toes were perfectly matched—black, of course. Some things never changed. Some things were you, not Cyrus, no matter what people thought.

When you arrived at the private dock, the first thing you saw was Lando—wearing black and white swim trunks and a crisp white tee. Of course he looked good. And strangely enough, you matched. Completely unplanned. He had on sunglasses and that signature grin of his that made your heart beat a little quicker.

All the guys from last night were here—including Max. He was facing away from you, phone to his ear. You tried not to let it bother you, but his aloofness was wearing you down. There were two new faces, though—guys you hadn’t met yet.

Carlos Sainz and Alex Albon. They introduced themselves warmly.

Everyone began boarding the yacht, one by one. When it was your turn, Lando offered his hand to help, but ended up pulling you in by the waist instead, lifting you up easily. Your cheeks flushed instantly. Every time he touched you, it felt like you were ten again, a schoolgirl crush.

“Th-thanks,” you said, smiling up at him. “Of course, love.”

You almost melted.

Lewis had brought a girl this time. Charles was here with his girlfriend, Alexandra—your favorite of the F1 girlfriends, honestly. George had Carmen with him. Still, it was eight guys to four girls. And you couldn’t help but wonder—did Max always come to these things? He never seemed to enjoy himself. But then a more painful thought crept in—what if he used to have fun… before you showed up?

You and Lando tucked yourselves into a shaded corner as the yacht pulled away from the dock. From across the deck, you saw Max in the kitchen, chatting with Charles and Alexandra.

“Can I ask you a question?” you leaned in, lowering your voice just for Lando to hear.

“Of course.”

“Is Max… always like that?”

Lando chuckled softly. You weren’t sure what part was funny, but you smiled anyway.

“He got burned a few years back. A girl kind of used him—wanted the F1 lifestyle, not him. His dad came down hard on him for it, and ever since, he’s kind of shut down emotionally—except when he’s behind the wheel.” He paused, then added, “Also, he’s Dutch.”

That last part made him laugh more. You went quiet, lost in thought. You couldn’t help but wonder who the girl was—the one who left scars on a three-time world champion. Part of you understood what it meant to love someone who turned out to be… different.

Lando noticed your silence and rubbed your leg gently. “He’s not being mean to you, is he?”

He started to rise, like he might go say something to Max, but you stopped him with a light touch.

“No, no, it’s okay. He’s made his feelings known, but I can handle it.”

“Well,” Lando said, meeting your gaze, “if he ever says something you can’t handle… you come to me. Deal?”

God, he was too perfect sometimes.

Before you could answer, Oscar appeared and sat down beside you. You were officially in a McLaren sandwich again.

Oscar handed each of you a drink, and you smiled. “Thanks, Oscar.”

His eyes flicked to your lips for a split second. “Uh, yeah. No problem.”

He didn’t say much, but he was sweet—and cute. You caught yourself staring a little longer than you meant to while sipping your cocktail.

Carlos turned up the music and the party officially kicked off. The yacht cruised into a secluded cove, no other boats in sight. The water sparkled. Everyone was laughing, drinking, enjoying themselves. Lando and Oscar argued over who got to take you on the jet ski. You told them you’d go with both. They flipped a coin.

Oscar won the first round.

He got on the jet ski and reached out to lift you on. His hands gripped your waist, sending a little jolt through your body.

“Sorry—” he said sweetly.

“No, it’s okay. I’m just nervous. I’ve never done this before,” you admitted with a soft laugh.

You wrapped your arms around his toned torso as you climbed on, and he adjusted your leg, steadying you. Butterflies hitting your stomach.

“I’m as good on the ocean as I am on the track,” he said with a grin. “You’re safe with me.”

You leaned into his back, resting your cheek against his shoulder, and waved at the group. Lando waved back. Just beyond him, Max was chatting with Lewis’s girl—smiling.

Smiling?

Your stomach dropped. She had just met everyone today. Why was she already getting smiles from him?

Your own faded.

“Ready?” Oscar asked.

“Yeah.”

He revved the engine, and you took off, your laughter carried by the wind. The sun blazed overhead, the ocean glimmering. You held onto him tighter the faster he went, burying your face against his back, and he laughed.

He slowed eventually, letting the jet ski drift.

Your eyes were still closed when he spoke.

“You’re really cool, Y/N.” His voice was soft, and he rubbed a small circle on your knee. “I hope you stick around. I know you’re here for work, but… I think all the guys really like you.”

You blushed. That was the most Oscar had ever said to you in one go.

“Yeah. Everyone but Max.”

“Ah, don’t let that get to you. He’ll come around.”

“I don’t know… he thinks I’m just here for clout.”

Oscar’s brow furrowed as he looked back at you.

“In Miami, he said stuff about how girls like me have ulterior motives.”

His jaw tightened.

“It’s okay, though. I stood up for myself.”

Oscar’s eyes softened. “Well, I know the rest of us like you. So… stick around. For us.”

You smiled against his back as he turned the jet ski around.

Back at the yacht, Lando was waiting. “You guys get lost or something?” he asked, a flicker of irritation in his voice.

“Nah, mate. Just talking,” Oscar replied casually, patting his shoulder. Lando gave a small smile in return, and you didn’t think he was truly upset.

Oscar hopped off, and Lando climbed on. This time, you knew how to sit. You waited until he was settled, then wrapped your arms around his bare torso. His skin was warm and golden, and when your nails brushed his back, goosebumps rose instantly.

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

“No, it’s okay. Your nails feel good,” he chuckled.

“That’s why I keep them long—perfect for head scratches,” you teased, running your hands through his hair before you could stop yourself.

Lando groaned softly.

Oh.

That was the hottest sound you’d ever heard.

“Yeah, okay, I get it now,” he said, breathless. “I need you around after race weekends. That’s better than an ice bath.”

You giggled, clinging to him as he took off into the ocean. You kept your eyes open this time. You felt safe with Lando. Your pulse steadying.

But then he slowed, steering toward another cove.

“Uh… I think we’re out of fuel.”

“What?!”

You panicked.

“Yeah, I don’t know how that slipped past the alert system. We might need to wave someone down.”

“Well… what do we do until then?”

Lando turned his body around to face you, your faces suddenly inches apart.

“I guess we talk?”

You giggled, biting the inside of your cheek.

“Sure.”

“Did you see the fans are starting to ship us?” he asked.

Your face went crimson.

“Yeah. I saw. How do you feel about that?”

“There are worse things than being shipped with a beautiful girl,” he said with a smug look and a shrug.

Your stomach fluttered violently.

You talked for what felt like forever. Lando told you about karting, junior series, Formula 2. You told him about your influencer life, about Cyrus, and why it all fell apart.

“I’ve never wanted to kick someone’s ass so badly,” Lando muttered when you got to the night in Miami—finding Cyrus with his tongue down someones throat.

“Yeah, he’s a jerk. I’m just glad I got out. Rockstar life wasn’t for me.”

“Is the F1 life for you, then?” Lando asked, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“Maybe,” you said softly.

He grew quiet. “Y/N… I know you just got out of something, and I’d never want to take away your chance to figure out what you want.”

He paused, eyes flicking to your lips.

“But I really, really want to kiss you right now.” He was practically begging.

You nodded furiously, not thinking about the consequences, leaping into his lap. Your lips collided in a whirlwind of heat and need. His hands gripped your waist, your fingers tangled in his hair. He bit your lip gently. You were breathless.

Then… waves. Voices.

A boat.

You both pulled away quickly, fixing yourselves.

“It’s the guys,” Lando muttered. “They probably noticed we were gone too long.”

The yacht slowly made its way over to you.

Oscar and Lewis were at the lower dock. Max, now shirtless, stood nearby.

When Lando tried to help you up, he didn’t quite reach. Max stepped in without a word, effortlessly wrapping an arm around your waist and lifting you like you weighed nothing. Your breath caught. He smelled like leather and bergamot. Strong and warm.

“Thanks,” you whispered.

“Yep,” he replied.

That was all. No glance. No smile.

But it lingered anyway.

The group said you’d been gone for an hour. You hadn’t even noticed. Your fingers grazed your lips, remembering that kiss.

The sun was beginning to set as the yacht turned back toward shore. The party winding down.

Lando gave you space, and you slipped away to the top balcony for a quiet moment. Sometimes you just needed the silence.

But someone was already up there.

Shit.

Max.

You almost got away without being noticed—until he spoke.

"You two were gone a long time." No accusation. Just a cold, clipped observation that lands like a stone in your chest.

You don’t turn to face him.

"Max, I just came up here for some air. Can we not?"

Your voice is low, tight. You don’t owe him an explanation, but you offer one anyway.

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t push. He just stays—quiet and still, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll unravel on your own. The silence stretches between you, thick with everything you’re both too proud to say.

And then— "I saw you laughing with Lewis’ girlfriend."

The words tumble out before you can stop them. You grit your teeth.

"She met everyone today and you were… smiling. Friendly. You don’t get like this with her."

Now it’s done. You’ve cracked it open.

Max straightens from where he’d been leaning against the railing and stalks toward you with a slow, deliberate calm. Something in the air shifts—tightens. He stops just close enough to make your breath hitch, his jaw rigid, his gaze sharp and unrelenting.

"What?" One word. Flat. Dangerous. Like no one’s ever dared speak to him like this before.

You regret it instantly—but it’s too late.

"Nothing," you mutter.

You exhale hard, suddenly exhausted. "Just… forget it."

But he doesn’t. He steps closer, tension radiating off him like heat.

"You don’t like me. I don’t like you. What’s there to question?"

He spits the words with such practiced distance it almost sounds rehearsed.

"But why?" you ask, voice quieter now. Raw. "Why don’t we like each other, Max?"

You watch the falter in his eyes—subtle, but it’s there. The mask slips, just for a breath.

There’s no crowd around. No cameras. Nothing to justify his hostility. And that’s the problem.

He doesn’t answer. He just leaves.

Turns sharply and disappears down to the lower deck, his retreat echoing louder than any argument.

You’re left staring after him, your heart racing, your skin still tingling from how close he stood—how angry he looked. But underneath that anger, you could feel it. A tension that didn’t make sense. Not unless it meant something. And god, you just wanted to know why it was you.

[possamble]

yes!!! getting good grade in farcille!!!

[horsechestnut]

Reading Batgirl 2000 is making me want to write a Dark Batman fic.

[soclearly]

i think there's a lot to say about the popular opinion of evan hansen and ableism... how people turn away from a story about mental health because it shows a realistic, not sugarcoated mentally ill teenager because it makes them uncomfortable and his characterization doesn't make them want to romanticize him or excuse his actions or give him the "he did all of it but i don't care" treatment. people don't like stories about mental health when they're about the not-cool, obviously mentally ill.

[dsc4]

YOUR TAGS!!! 😭😭💖 thank you sm I'm so gladddd you like my silly story! Hope and Sterling are my favs too and ILYSM for notice that about new hope and her relationship with her kids 🥺🫶🏽 hope you like this week's drama with Dora! 🫂

i read them a couple hours ago but im still processing what happened with dora 😭😭 like on one hand im SOOO HAPPY that her bigger issues are coming to light and she's getting her consequences, but at the same time it's sad to see it play out in such quick succession. like boom her dad surprises her and she gets defensive and shows her true colors, then she goes outside and sees her brother and her situationship talking about their own relationship. maybe i would pass away if i was pandora, but also if i was pandora, i would not be slacking as bad as she was 😭

but i LOVEEE how you wrote sterling in the whole scene. i was gonna pick out one line and then i was rereading, like damn all of these are bangers.. it's the way he's so communicative with his daughter that gets me.. everything he says makes sense from his end, but it wont reach her bc the current pandora will never realize what she did wrong orz