#helmet reading challenge

[vaguely-concerned]

oooh after I internalized the hard rule that do not, under any circumstances, attack the king of storms' legs (just say no. no chicken thighs on the menu tonight unless you want to end up as the grilled. never worth it that way lies only pain and camera-breaking AOE fire attacks), the nameless king fight is definitely one of my favourite bosses from across the series now! starting to get the dodge timings right on his second phase was brain-ticklingly satisfying and made up for the camera having a very hard time of it at times during the first. also it looks really metal the whole time. which is always an important factor in a souls fight. style points very much count

(I make a lot of jokes but honestly I think where the souls games shine above basically all others is as a flow state inducer. which is one of the most potent forms of mental pain relief I know and is very handy at times)

[yuujispinkhair]

Imagine firefighterSukuna…..sigh….😵‍💫

I am losing my mind, Émilie 😵 Thank you for sending me this!

FIREFIGHTER!SUKUNA X READER (FEMALE) 2.5k words. 18+, fluff + smut, mentions of cigarettes. Sukuna is a bit of an asshole at first lol, but we change his ways, and now he will be a good boy only for us ;) Divider by lacedolliee + benkeibear. Minors don't interact.

Sukuna isn't the typical firefighter. He isn't like those heroic guys you see on TV or read about in sappy newspaper articles. Sukuna doesn't do this out of the goodness of his heart. He doesn't need to save random strangers out of a burning house to sleep better at night. If he's honest, he doesn't give a fuck!

But Sukuna is good at his job. He is strong, fearless, and insane enough to walk into the worst situations. He is here for the thrill of it. He loves the adrenaline rushing through his veins when he gets called to a fire. And the more dangerous it is, the more fun it brings Sukuna!

He doesn't hesitate before walking into your burning apartment complex a second time, even when everyone around him says it's too dangerous. Sukuna just gets a mad glint in his eyes, and a feral smirk lifts his lips when he says, "You think I'm scared of a little fire? One day, I'll burn in hell anyway, so fuck it!"

The Itadori twins are the only ones who enter the building a second time. Sukuna knows his brother does it because he has a little savior complex, always willing to sacrifice his own life to save someone else. Sukuna, on the other hand, does it for the challenge, for the thrill. He always wants to win, no matter who the opponent is, a guy he fistfights in a bar or a fucking fire. Nothing will defeat Sukuna!

Sukuna kicks down the door of your apartment when you thought all hope was lost. He carries you out of the burning house, smirking victoriously under his helmet when he feels your hands cling to his muscular biceps desperately.

He brings you to one of the ambulance cars, setting you down on a stretcher before he pulls off his helmet and his heavy jacket, revealing the white tanktop beneath it and a good portion of his broad chest and muscular, tattooed arms, sweaty and smeared with grime and ashes, and yes he finds the way you stare at him very amusing.

Your wide-eyed gaze slowly trails over his body until you finally look up at Sukuna's tattooed face with tearstains on your cheeks, your lips trembling, and your voice raspy from all the smoke when you ask him dazedly for his name.

And Sukuna flashes you a playful smirk while running a large hand through his pink hair as he fixes you with a smoldering gaze out of his eyes, which glow red right now from the flames of your burning apartment complex reflected in them.

He tells you his name in a low, seductive drawl and watches your face twist with emotions. A shaky sob escapes your lips, and fresh tears slip out of your eyes,

"Thank you so much, Sukuna! You saved my life! You are my hero!"

Sukuna laughs gruffly, shaking his head and smirking at you,

"Trust me, sweetheart, I am not a hero."

He really isn't. He isn't doing this because he is a good guy who wants to save people. He is only here because his brother dragged him along to his work after Sukuna got fired from another job, unable to stay employed because he simply doesn't do well with authority.

And then he went into a burning building for the first time and realized that fighting against the flames and the smoke and tearing down walls and kicking in doors, somehow was where he felt at home. So Sukuna stayed.

Well, and the nice side effect of this job is all the girls he gets to fuck because of it.

Sukuna watches you with a lazy, amused expression on his face, already knowing what will happen. You gulp hard, reaching out to touch his arm tentatively, eyes wide, full of admiration and a desperate plea swimming in them,

"Please, I want to thank you. I want to pay you back for saving my life. What can I do?"

Oh, Sukuna knows exactly how you can pay him back, but he just grins and shrugs his broad shoulders,

"It's no big deal. But you can check into my cousin's motel if you need a place to stay until you find a new apartment."

It's extremely convenient to have a cousin who owns a motel, and of course, you agree, thinking that way, you can at least do Sukuna a favor by giving money to his family.

"Come on, I can drive you, princess."

Sukuna wraps a strong arm around your shoulders, steadying you, taking care of you, making you all kinds of crazy for him. The big, strong, sexy firefighter who saved your life. You lean gratefully against his strong body, letting him lead you to his car, help you inside, and even buckle your seatbelt for you.

Sukuna can already see the little hearts dancing in your eyes. It makes him grin to himself as he starts the car.

It's a rather long drive from here, and you get stuck in traffic for a long time. And Sukuna learns that, as shy as you are, you seem to be uncomfortable with silence, and so you start to fill it with babbling about all kinds of things. Your apartment, your job, your family, how you like your coffee.

It's amusing how awkward you are, but somehow Sukuna's smirk softens into a smile one hour in, and he catches himself replying with a playful tone, asking more questions about you and your rather boring life, which, to his surprise, is kind of cute to him.

When he finally pulls up in front of the motel, Sukuna already knows what will happen. He accompanies you to your door, standing before you, tall and strong and with a sexy smirk, and you get on your tiptoes to kiss his tattooed cheek, letting your soft lips linger almost longingly on his skin as you whisper,

"Thank you again, Sukuna. I will never forget what you did for me."

And before you can pull away, Sukuna places a large hand on the small of your back, keeping you right there in front of him, so close that your body brushes lightly against his, and his other hand cups your chin and turns your face so he can claim your mouth in a playful kiss, his tongue licking teasingly over your lips, pushing inside to flick slowly against yours, making you gasp softly and twist your hands in the front of Sukuna's tanktop, pulling him closer.

Yeah, that's it, princess, Sukuna thinks to himself. If you want to thank him, this is exactly how he wants it. Thank him with your tongue in his mouth and your hands on his body.

Sukuna knows he is an asshole, but he doesn't care. All his coworkers are far too decent guys. They say it's wrong to sleep with the ones they saved. They say it would feel like taking advantage of them.

Sukuna can only laugh about that. The way he sees it, there is nothing wrong with getting rewarded with sex. And after all, it's not like you don't get something out of this, too. Sukuna will show you the night of your life. He will dick you down so good you will thank him again afterward.

He scoops you up into his strong arms for the second time today and carries you into the motel.

It's you who touches him first and yanks on his tank top. So needy for him and his dick, so desperate to get your hands on his naked skin. So why should Sukuna feel guilty?

He mounts you from behind, fucking you hard and fast in doggy with a hand around your throat before he pushes your face into the pillow and continues to take you in prone bone, pressing you down onto the bed, covering you completely with his heavy body, making you sob his name anytime he pushes his fat cock into you.

He was right, you really thank him as he feels your pussy becoming tighter and tighter around him right before he fucks you over the edge.

For the second round, you turn around and look up at Sukuna, and maybe that was a mistake because your eyes are so full of those damn little hearts, and your face is alight with total bliss and adoration and, yeah, love. Your arms are wrapped so tightly around Sukuna's body, your fingers tangled in his pink hair, caressing him, pulling him down, begging him with breathless whimpers,

"Closer... please come closer... please, I need you, Sukuna."

He kisses you just to shut you up and make you stop looking at him like that as if he is your world. But he still hears the way you moan his name, not Sukuna, but Kuna, when you squeeze around him, and it makes him cum harder than he has in years.

Sukuna slumps down on top of you, not thinking for a moment in his post-orgasm high, basking in the way you feel under him, so soft and warm, and your silky heat still pulsing so deliciously around his cock. He turns his head to lightly bite your neck as if he needs to leave his mark on you, when usually he never leaves anything behind.

Sukuna frowns, rolling off you and lying on his back next to you, staring up at the ceiling with a slightly uneasy feeling. Why is he acting like this? Maybe he inhaled too much smoke tonight. Maybe the heat was too much.

No matter what it is, Sukuna finds himself staying in your bed much longer than he usually does. Every other time he finds his way into someone's bed, he acts as if his alarm went off and he has to leave for another fire, finding the perfect excuse to leave while his dick is still wet.

But tonight, he doesn't bolt right after cumming. Maybe he really just needs some rest. And it's just very comfortable how your smaller body seems to fit perfectly into his side as you roll over and snuggle against him, like some housecat looking for cuddles.

Sukuna knows he should get up, but he is too comfy. He will just rest for a moment longer, just close his eyes for a few seconds, and enjoy the way it feels to get cuddled like this.

When he opens his eyes again, the lights are off, and only the soft glow of the streetlamps drifting in through the window casts some dim light into the small motel room.

"Oh fuck..."

Sukuna curses under his breath, the instinct to run kicking in, but he gets stopped by a pair of arms wrapped around him, and everything comes flooding back. The drive here, the sex, the way you looked at him, how nice it felt to let you cuddle him.

Sukuna freezes up. He knows he should leave. Knows he should untangle himself from you and sneak out while you are still fast asleep. Run away like he always does, never to see you again.

But somehow, the way you cling to him makes him hesitate. He must have turned onto his side in his sleep, and now you are behind him, playing the big spoon, which is ridiculous considering your size difference, but here you are, hugging Sukuna tightly from behind. Clinging to him, pressing your warm, naked body against him.

Your face is buried in Sukuna's broad back, breathing softly against his tattooed skin. And somehow, Sukuna doesn't know how to breathe anymore because the realization washes over him that he likes to get held like that.

But there is still a little fight in him left, and Sukuna growls softly, gritting his teeth and carefully plucking your small hands off his abs. He doesn't get far, though. He has barely moved when your arms wrap around him again. Of course, Sukuna could easily slip out of your grasp, but what really makes him stop is your soft whisper,

"Stay. Please... don't leave me alone. Not tonight."

You sound so small and scared, and Sukuna has no idea why his heart clenches at the sound of that. But what he knows is that he stops moving and mumbles something about just stretching his legs a bit because he is about to get a leg cramp.

And his large hand cups yours to give it a reassuring squeeze, something he only ever used to do when his brother and he were still kids, and Yuuji cried because of something. It makes him feel awkward and weird and so fucking weak.

But you let out a relieved sigh and snuggle against Sukuna's broad back again, hugging him and whispering, "Thank you."

Sukuna's mind is whirling because why the hell does it feel so fucking nice to be held by you like this? It's concerning.

But he doesn't try to run, just huffs softly and interlaces his fingers with yours where your hand is resting against his naked chest.

"Get back to sleep, princess. I won't leave."

And he means it. For the first time in his life, Sukuna stays.

He wakes up in the morning to the warmth of your body wrapped around his and the feeling of your lips trailing sweet little kisses over his broad shoulders, and your soft fingers caressing his tattooed biceps tenderly. You say his name all sleepy and sweet-sounding, and Sukuna asks himself if the fire last night fried his brain because everything about you makes him feel such weird things right now.

Maybe it's your sweet and slightly shy smile. Maybe it's the way you babble so cutely when you are nervous. Maybe it's how innocent you seem to be, how genuine with the affection you give him.

Sukuna fucks you again, but slower this time, with the sunlight pouring in through the window, and somehow he can't look away from your face. Somehow, he gets lost in your eyes when you whisper his name and dig your nails into his broad back. You cum so sweetly on his cock, so wet and hot, sucking him in even deeper, crying out his name and calling him your hero, and Sukuna's vision goes black for a moment when he cums with such a loud and feral moan, that he never heard coming out of his mouth ever before.

He stays an incredibly long time in your bed. Cuddling with you, kissing you, almost purring like a cat when you run your fingers through his pink hair while he rests his head on your tits.

When a real alarm tells Sukuna it's time to leave and do his job, he groans and only reluctantly gets up. His eyes never leave you while he gets dressed, watching as you wrap the blanket around you and smile dreamily at him.

And Sukuna catches himself stepping closer to the bed again, leaning down to grab your neck and capture your lips in another kiss, which is too long, too tender.

You ask him for his phone number, and Sukuna gives it to you, which is also something he usually never does.

He walks out of the motel with a casual wave of his hand, but the strange feeling in his chest isn't casual at all. He tries to ignore it, gets in his car, lights a cigarette, and takes a deep drag as he turns up the music and drives off. But even as he's driving away from you, he can't suppress the feeling that a part of him stays with you right there in the bed of that shabby motel.

Sukuna goes through his work day routinely while the ghost of your touch still stays on his skin, reminding him of last night and this morning, and not even the adrenaline of running into a burning building can chase the memories of those lingering touches away.

He rescues another girl from a burning house, and she smiles at him and thanks him profusely, lifting a hand to touch him, but Sukuna takes a step back and out of her reach. When she asks him how she can pay him back, he just shakes his head and says

"No need to pay me back, ma'am. That's my job."

Sukuna feels strange when he drives back home to his apartment. All alone, just his music and the cigarette smoke filling his senses. But he finds that he doesn't regret turning this girl down. Because there is something else he craves. Someone else.

At the next red light, Sukuna pulls out his phone and presses dial, and then your sweet voice fills his car.

"Sukuna? Heyyy, how are you? I am so happy you called!"

A grin lifts Sukuna's lips when he answers,

"Hey princess, I'm coming over. What kind of food do you want for dinner?"

Sukuna has no clue how or why this happened, but it feels right. It feels right to call you and to drive to your motel. It feels right to spend the whole night in your arms and the next one, too, and maybe all of his nights from now on.

Maybe it's because no matter how much Sukuna still denies being a hero, he really likes being your hero.

OH BABYYY. I really want him to be my hero, too 😵😵 I hope you enjoyed this short story about sexy firefighter Sukuna! Thank you so much to Émilie for putting him in my mind. I can't wait to see your drawing of him!! 💗😋

Thank you so much for reading! Comments and reblogs would be very sweet 💗

[diamonddaze01]

Full Throttle (i)

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

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

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

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

read part 2 here! <3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Touché.” He raised his glass when it arrived, a silent toast that you reluctantly mirrored with your own.

For a while, the conversation meandered through safer topics—Tokyo’s sights, the food, the insanity of race week—but there was an undercurrent of something sharper, a game of verbal ping-pong that neither of you seemed willing to let go of.

“You know,” Jeonghan said after a particularly clever jab from you about his less-than-stellar start in Australia, “I think I’ve finally figured you out.”

“Oh?” you asked, amusement dancing in your tone. “Do tell.”

“You act all cool and collected, but deep down…” He paused for dramatic effect, leaning in slightly. “…you love the chaos. You thrive on it.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, though a grin tugged at your lips. “And what about you, Mr. Reigning Champion? Aren’t you the one who said chaos is just part of the game?”

“True,” he admitted with a lazy shrug. “But I like to think I’m more strategic about it.”

“Strategic?” you echoed, incredulous. “You literally said ‘let them talk’ after crossing the finish line in Australia. That’s not strategy, Jeonghan—that’s reckless arrogance.”

He laughed, the sound low and warm, and you hated how it made your chest tighten just a little. “Maybe. But it keeps things interesting, doesn’t it?”

You didn’t respond, sipping your drink instead, determined not to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

Jeonghan tilted his head, his gaze flicking over you with a knowing glint. “This feels familiar.”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning indifference. “What does?”

“Let’s just say you have a knack for leaving me with something to think about,” he said casually, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass.

A flicker of amusement crossed your face. “Still losing sleep over it, Jeonghan?”

He leaned in, his voice dropping low, laced with mischief. “Not quite. But I’ve been wondering if you’re all talk or if you actually mean half the things you say.”

You smirked, leaning back just a little. “And what are you planning to do about it?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Guess you’ll have to find out next time,” he said smoothly, signaling to the bartender and slipping his card onto the counter.

You frowned, catching on quickly. “Jeonghan, you don’t have to—”

“Of course I don’t,” he replied, his smirk growing as he leaned in just enough for his voice to drop, intimate and teasing. “But what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t treat you every now and then?”

“A terrible one,” you deadpanned, crossing your arms.

He chuckled, standing up and adjusting his jacket. “Always so quick with the comebacks.”

You tilted your head, not backing down. “And yet, here you are, still trying to keep up.”

He grinned, leaning down so his face was level with yours. “Oh, I’m not just keeping up, sweetheart. I’m leading.”

With that, he threw on his jacket, turning to leave, but not without one last playful remark. “Enjoy your night, Y/N. And next time…” He flashed a grin over his shoulder, his voice dipping lower. “Try putting that mouth of yours to better use.”

Your mouth dropped open, and you could hear his laugh as you watched him disappear into the neon-lit streets. 

Damn him.

The Suzuka Circuit’s air was heavy with anticipation, the disappointment in Ferrari’s garage palpable. Jeonghan leaned against the barrier in the media pen, his crimson Ferrari suit contrasting with the growing dusk. Despite his relaxed posture, the tension radiating off him was hard to miss.

"Yoon Jeonghan," you began, stepping forward with your mic. "P11 today—your first time not making it to Q3 since your rookie season. What happened out there?"

His smile was thin, masking the fire simmering beneath. "Suzuka’s a tough circuit. I put in a solid lap, but in the end, it just wasn’t enough. A couple milliseconds make all the difference."

"Kim Mingyu of McLaren knocked you out in the dying seconds of the session," you pointed out, your tone as neutral as possible.

"Yeah, Mingyu had a great lap," he said, though his smirk betrayed a hint of frustration. "Kudos to him for that. It’s the nature of the game—sometimes you’re the one knocking others out, and sometimes you’re the one being knocked out."

You tilted your head, pressing just a little. "Ferrari’s upgrades were supposed to shine here at Suzuka. Do you think the car—or the driver—fell short today?"

His eyes met yours, sharp and knowing. "Is that your way of asking if I’m losing my edge?"

You smiled faintly. "Just doing my job, Jeonghan."

"And doing it well," he replied smoothly. "I’ll make sure to give you something better to write about tomorrow."

Yoon Jeonghan’s Q2 Knockout: A Sign of Ferrari’s Struggles or a Driver Underperforming?

Your analysis was live before the sun set over Suzuka, dissecting Jeonghan’s performance lap by lap:

"While Ferrari’s SF-24 showed promise in Q1, Jeonghan’s Q2 lap exposed cracks in execution. Hesitant braking into Spoon Corner cost him vital time, and a wide exit through Degner 2 raised questions about his confidence under high pressure. Kim Mingyu’s decisive lap in the McLaren only highlighted the contrast, leaving Ferrari fans wondering if Jeonghan can rebound from this rare stumble."

It didn’t take long for the article to ripple through the paddock—and reach its subject. The article was sharp, critical, with the same bite that you had become a household name for. And Jeonghan read every word.

He must have been an idiot to assume you would be kinder after the way he’d left you gobsmacked a few nights prior at the bar. 

You had just wrapped up your interview with Mingyu, the day’s pole sitter, when Jeonghan found you.

"Got a minute?" he asked, voice deceptively light.

You glanced up, startled to find him so close, still in his Ferrari suit, his hair slightly damp from the cool-down lap.

"Something on your mind?" you replied, keeping your tone professional.

He didn’t bother with pleasantries. "That article."

You raised an eyebrow. "Specificity helps, you know."

He chuckled darkly. "The one where you ripped apart my Q2 performance like you’re a technical director." He took a step closer, and for the first time, the calm façade cracked - his smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Hesitant braking? Lack of confidence under pressure? You really think I’m losing my touch?"

"I think Suzuka demands perfection," you replied evenly. "And today, perfection wasn’t what we saw."

He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. "You love this, don’t you? Watching me stumble so you can tear me apart in print."

"Jeonghan," you said, straightening, "if you want me to write glowing reviews, give me something to work with."

"You should’ve mentioned how close I was to Mingyu’s time," he shot back.

"Close isn’t enough," you countered, coolly. "Not in this sport."

His eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Careful, sweetheart. Don’t let them think you’re this obsessed with me."

"Careful, Jeonghan," you shot back mockingly. "Sienna Hartley might not like hearing you get so worked up over me."

His hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could walk away. "Here’s an exclusive for you," he said, his voice sharp. "Me and Sienna? Not together."

You blinked, thrown off for just a moment before you schooled your expression. "Good to know. Now let go."

He released you immediately but lingered just long enough to murmur, "Don’t think this is over."

The Suzuka chaos worked in Jeonghan’s favor. 

When the lights went out, Jeonghan’s start was perfect—clean, aggressive, calculated. By the first corner, he had already gained two places, capitalizing on a sluggish Alpine and threading the needle between a Williams and an AlphaTauri. 

The midfield battle was fierce. Suzuka’s notorious esses demanded precision, and Jeonghan attacked them with surgical efficiency, his Ferrari responding like an extension of his own instincts. He overtook the Aston Martin of Lee Seokmin into Turn 11 with a move so bold the crowd audibly gasped. 

Each pass felt like a small victory, but it wasn’t enough. The podium still felt miles away. His fingers tightened on the wheel as he navigated the sweeping Spoon Curve, catching a glimpse of the orange McLaren far ahead—Mingyu.

The memory of your post-quali interview slipped into his mind. Close isn’t enough. Not in this sport.

He exhaled sharply, forcing the thought away. Now wasn’t the time. Jeonghan approached Degner 2, the car planted firmly under him. He could feel the wear on his tires but knew he still had grip to spare. He glanced briefly at the digital display on his steering wheel, calculating the gap to the car ahead—P5, the Red Bull of Choi Seungcheol.

As he accelerated toward the Hairpin, your voice echoed in his head again. Hesitant braking. Confidence issues.

His jaw clenched. It wasn’t anger—it was something more complicated. Why did you always manage to get under his skin? He should’ve been focusing on tire wear, fuel management, or his next target, but instead, his mind betrayed him.

He thought of the way you’d smirked during the interview, how your tone had been sharp, almost daring. The way you’d walked away, leaving him with more to say.

Focus. He snapped himself back, braking perfectly into the Hairpin. The slip of attention hadn’t cost him, but it had been close. Too close.

A well-timed pit stop under a virtual safety car catapulted him to P4. He rejoined the track with fresh mediums, slicing through the field with an aggression that stunned even his team.

By Lap 40, he was staring down the rear wing of Kwon Soonyoung—his own teammate. The team’s radio lit up, the pit wall hesitating.

“Jeonghan, Soonyoung ahead on a different strategy. Keep it clean.”

He didn’t wait for a direct order. Into 130R, the fastest corner on the track, he swung to the outside. His car shuddered with the force of the maneuver, but he held his line, leaving Soonyoung no choice but to yield.

“P3, Jeonghan. You’re on the podium now. Great move.”

With only two laps to go, he was in P2, chasing Mingyu, who had a comfortable lead. Jeonghan knew catching him was impossible, but that wasn’t the point anymore. This was about proving something—to his team, the fans, and maybe even to you.

The Ferrari hummed beneath him, a symphony of power and precision. Every turn, every braking zone, every shift felt like redemption. When he crossed the line in P2, the roar of the crowd was deafening, but all he could hear was his own heartbeat.

The media room was packed, buzzing with questions for the podium finishers. You started with Mingyu, still glowing from his dominant victory.

“Kim Mingyu,” you began, “another win for McLaren. How does it feel to catch up to Jeonghan in the driver’s championship?”

Mingyu smiled, leaning into the mic. “It feels incredible. The car was perfect today, and the team did an amazing job. Credit to everyone back at the factory.”

Before you could move on to the next question, Jeonghan interjected from his spot.

“Must feel nice to start up front and stay there,” he quipped, his tone light but pointed.

Mingyu grinned, unfazed. “You would know, Jeonghan. But you kept me looking over my shoulder the whole time.”

The room chuckled, and you shot Jeonghan a warning glance, which he ignored entirely.

Later, when a question was directed at Jeonghan about his race recovery, his response was pointed. "Oh, you know. I’m pretty good at managing tire degradation. And I had a lot of people doubting me on this track specifically, so I had to prove them wrong too."

His gaze locked on yours as he delivered the last line, and the meaning wasn’t lost on you—or anyone else in the room.

Jeonghan barely made it three steps out of the press conference room before Soonyoung intercepted him, leaning casually against a stack of Pirelli tires like he had all the time in the world. The amusement on his face set Jeonghan’s internal alarms blaring.

“What the hell was that about?” Soonyoung asked, arms crossed in mock authority.

Jeonghan blinked, expertly schooling his expression into one of pure confusion. “What was what about?” he replied, his tone dripping with innocence.

“Oh, don’t even try to play dumb with me, Jeonghan. I know you too well.” Soonyoung’s grin widened as he stepped closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “You were doing something during that press conference. I’ve never seen you look that smug unless you’re—”

“I was answering questions,” Jeonghan interrupted smoothly, plucking a water bottle from the cooler without breaking his stride. He unscrewed the cap with deliberate calm, taking a slow sip. “That’s what press conferences are for, in case you forgot.”

Soonyoung squinted at him, unconvinced. “Right. And here I thought press conferences were for you to pretend you’re unbothered while delivering backhanded digs at Kim Mingyu.”

Jeonghan barely managed to keep a straight face, though he felt the tiniest flicker of pride. He had been particularly good with his barbs today. Still, there was no way he was admitting that. “Don’t project, Soonyoung,” he drawled. “Not everyone uses media day as therapy.”

Before Soonyoung could retort, a new voice joined the conversation.

“I know what it was,” said Kim Sunwoo, strolling up with the unshakable confidence of someone who didn’t yet understand how much trouble he was about to cause. The young mechanic had a smirk plastered on his face, the kind that made Jeonghan instinctively want to flee.

“You know what?” Jeonghan asked warily, his eyes narrowing.

“That look you had during the Q&A,” Sunwoo continued, leaning casually against a tool chest. “You were staring at her, man. Like, full-on laser focus. It’s like you were trying to send her a message.”

Jeonghan’s grip on the water bottle tightened. He felt his ears heat up but refused to let it show. “I was answering her question,” he said evenly. “It’s called eye contact. You should try it sometime—people like that sort of thing.”

But Sunwoo wasn’t done. “And don’t think we didn’t notice you getting all flustered when Mingyu’s name came up,” he added, his smirk widening.

“Flustered?” Jeonghan repeated, letting out a short, incredulous laugh. “Right. That’s definitely the word I’d use to describe me.”

“Come on, dude.” Sunwoo shrugged, undeterred. “Admit it. You’ve got a crush.”

The words hit like a sucker punch. Jeonghan froze mid-sip, choking slightly as the water went down the wrong way. He coughed, spluttering as Sunwoo and Soonyoung erupted into laughter.

“Alright,” Jeonghan said sharply once he’d recovered, pointing a finger at Sunwoo. “You’ve been spending too much time on TikTok. Get back to work before I have you polishing rims for the rest of the season.”

But Sunwoo only grinned wider, completely unbothered. “Jeonghan’s in loooove,” he teased, drawing out the word in a sing-song voice.

“I said that’s enough,” Jeonghan snapped, the slight pink tinge creeping up his neck completely betraying his forced composure. “Shouldn’t you be tuning an engine or something useful?”

Soonyoung, meanwhile, was doubled over laughing, clearly enjoying himself far too much. When he finally straightened, he clapped Jeonghan on the back. “Hey, don’t worry about it, man. If you need advice, just let me know. I’m great with women.”

Jeonghan groaned, brushing him off. “The day I take advice from you, Soonyoung, is the day I retire. He shoved past them toward his motorhome, muttering under his breath. “Insufferable. Both of you.”

But even as he slammed the door behind him, Jeonghan couldn’t stop the echo of Sunwoo’s words from rattling around in his head. 

You’ve got a crush.

He scoffed aloud, shaking his head. “Ridiculous,” he muttered, tossing the water bottle onto the couch. But as he sank down beside it, arms crossed and jaw tight, he couldn’t quite stop himself from wondering.

Jeonghan didn’t want to be here.

The club pulsed with energy, a humid swirl of bodies pressing too close, the bass reverberating in his chest like a persistent headache. Strobe lights sliced through the haze, and the air smelled faintly of spilled drinks and cheap cologne. Somewhere in the chaos, Soonyoung had disappeared, leaving Jeonghan to fend for himself.

He’d been ready to make his exit the moment they walked in, but Soonyoung had insisted. “You need to loosen up, Jeonghan. Let the adrenaline from the race wear off. Have a drink, maybe dance.”Jeonghan had scoffed at the idea, knowing full well that his reason for not wanting to stay wasn’t exhaustion.

No, it was you.

Even when you weren’t in the room, you lingered in his mind like the ghost of a song he couldn’t stop humming. The podium had been a nice distraction. But now, surrounded by the chatter of strangers and the clinking of glasses, his thoughts drifted back to the press conference and the pointed, teasing look you’d given him when he spoke.

And then there was Mingyu—always Mingyu—whose name you’d said with just a little too much warmth. Jeonghan had pretended not to notice, but it had been impossible to ignore.

Shaking his head, Jeonghan pushed through the crowd, determined to leave. He had almost made it to the exit when someone collided into him, hard enough to send him stumbling forward.

“Whoa—watch it!” a voice slurred, sharp with irritation but unmistakably familiar.

He turned, already scowling, but the expression froze on his face when he saw you.

“Jeonghan?” you said, blinking up at him, your voice teetering between surprise and amusement. Your cheeks were flushed, lips curling into a slow smile as you adjusted your grip on the drink in your hand.

“You?” he blurted, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second.

“What are you—?” you started, only to trail off as a giggle bubbled out of you. Shaking your head like you were trying to clear it, you added, “Wow. Small world, huh?”

“I guess so,” Jeonghan said, his tone carefully even, though his gaze lingered on the way the dim light caught the sheen of your hair, the curve of your smile. His eyes dropped to your drink, then back to your face. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” you said, far too quickly, before adding with a sheepish laugh, “Okay, maybe. Just a little.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, threatening to curve into a smile. “Sure looks like it.”

You waved him off with a dramatic flourish, nearly spilling your drink in the process. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be... I don’t know, brooding on a podium somewhere?”

He tilted his head, pretending to be affronted. “I don’t brood. And besides, this is a celebration.”

“Oh, right,” you said, stepping closer. Your gaze softened, and your voice dropped just enough to make the words feel like they were meant for him alone. “The big comeback.”

“Lots of doubters, huh?” you added, the slight slur in your voice doing nothing to dull the edge of your words.

Jeonghan blinked, caught off guard, before a chuckle escaped him. “Well, your article did the talking for you.”

For a moment, you just stared at him, your eyes a little too bright, your smile a little too slow. “What a way to get my attention, pretty boy.”

His breath caught, his carefully built façade cracking for just a second. “You think I’m pretty?”

Your lips parted, but before you could answer, a hand landed firmly on your shoulder.

“There you are!”

Jeonghan looked up to see one of your friends glaring at him as they steadied you. “I leave you alone for five minutes, and you’re... what? Flirting with Yoon Jeonghan now?”

“Not flirting,” you protested weakly, though your lopsided smile said otherwise.

Your friend wasn’t convinced, nor were they interested in his response. They tugged you into the crowd with an apologetic glance over their shoulder. “Sorry about her—she’s had a night.”

Jeonghan stayed rooted in place, his gaze following your retreating figure. His lips curved into a faint smile as your words replayed in his mind.

“What a way to get my attention,” he murmured to himself, shaking his head.

And yet, as he stood there, the thought struck him that maybe you’d already gotten his.

FORMULA 1 GRAND PRIX DE MONACO 2024Track: Circuit de Monaco

The paddock at Monaco was alive with its usual glitz and glamour, the unmistakable hum of anticipation hanging thick in the air. Cameras flashed, team personnel buzzed around, and the harbor glistened under the sun. Monaco, the crown jewel of the F1 calendar, had a way of amplifying everything—victories felt sweeter, defeats more crushing, and the stakes impossibly higher.

Jeonghan, fresh off securing pole position, had his usual air of nonchalance, but the glow of triumph was undeniable. The fans chanted his name; the cameras adored him. Yet as he stepped off the podium erected for the post-qualifying festivities, his sharp eyes caught sight of something—someone—that brought him up short.

You.

You were standing just beyond the throng of journalists, your press badge gleaming under the midday sun. It had been weeks since he’d last seen you, weeks since your sharp quips and piercing questions had filled the air between you like sparks on dry wood.

Those weeks had been… odd, to say the least. You’d been reassigned to cover Formula E, a shift Jeonghan had learned about only after noticing your absence at the paddock in China. He had played it cool, pretending it didn’t matter, but he had found himself seeking out your byline anyway—reading articles that had nothing to do with him or F1, just to feel the rhythm of your words.

Even the searing critiques you usually aimed at him had been sorely missed. It was maddening, really, how much quieter the world had felt without your fire.

Now, here you were again, back in the fray of Formula 1, as though no time had passed. Jeonghan’s expression remained casual, but his stride toward you was deliberate, cutting through the chaos of the paddock.

When he stopped in front of you, his smirk was already in place, a shield against the strange, unwelcome flutter of relief in his chest. “Where’ve you been?” he asked, tilting his head with practiced ease.

You looked up from your notebook, arching a brow at him. “Missed me, Jeonghan?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

The word landed between you like a drop of rain on hot asphalt, its simplicity taking you aback. Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard, and Jeonghan couldn’t help but notice how the sharpness in your gaze softened for a fraction of a second.

But then, as quickly as the moment arrived, he leaned in, his smirk deepening. “Someone had to keep the paddock interesting.”

You rolled your eyes, recovering your composure. “I see the Monaco air hasn’t done anything for your humility.”

“And I see Formula E hasn’t dulled your wit,” he shot back, stepping closer so the noise of the paddock faded slightly.

You shook your head, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “You’ve done not too bad these past few races, huh?”

The comment was offhand, tossed in almost as a formality, but it hit Jeonghan harder than he expected. Compliments—genuine ones—were rare from you, and they stirred something unexpected in him.

Jeonghan blinked, the smirk faltering for just a second before he quickly replaced it with mock arrogance. “Not too bad?” he echoed, feigning offense. “I dominated in China, held my ground in Miami, and destroyed Emilia Romagna. Give me some credit here.”

For all his ego, Jeonghan knew he wasn’t wrong. He’d won China by a jaw-dropping 22.3-second margin, Mingyu so far behind that Jeonghan had time to deliver an entire thank-you speech over the radio before the McLaren driver even crossed the checkered flag. In Miami, even a grueling five-second stop-go penalty hadn’t stopped him; he finished P2 (behind Kim Mingyu, annoyingly) and picked up the extra point for the fastest lap, earning him Driver of the Day. And in Emilia Romagna, he was the clear favorite from the moment the race weekend began. The Tifosi were relentless, their cheers in the grandstands so deafening that Jeonghan could barely hear his engineer’s voice over the radio.

When he crossed the finish line first, the sea of red under the podium roared with such thunderous applause that his ears rang for hours afterward. In just three races, Jeonghan had cemented himself as the best contender for the 2024 World Champion.

And yet, somehow, it wasn’t as sweet without you there to write about it.

“Alright,” you said, meeting his gaze head-on. “You’ve been exceptional.”

The word struck like a sucker punch. For once, Jeonghan didn’t have a clever retort. 

"Congrats on pole, Jeonghan," you said, your voice cool but sincere, offering him a small smile. It made his heart skip a beat.

Jeonghan’s lips twitched, amusement flickering in his eyes. "You called me exceptional."

You glanced up at him, closing your notebook with a flick of your wrist. The corner of your mouth quirked into a smirk. "Yes. Now, thoughts on pole?"

He's silent for so long that you politely clear your throat, hoping to cut through the sudden stillness. "Maybe this should be my headline for the day, Jeonghan. Monaco's Maze Leaves Golden Boy Spinning Out."

It's like someone doused him with ice water. His easy, sun-soaked posture stiffens, and the small smirk he'd been wearing evaporates.

You're still a journalist. He forgets that sometimes.

"Why do you do that?" he mutters, voice edged with something unfamiliar—disappointment, maybe.

You blink, caught off guard by the abrupt change in tone. “Do what?”

“That.” He gestures vaguely between you and the notebook tucked in your hand. The lenses of his sunglasses catch the sunlight, but there’s no mistaking the intensity behind them. His gaze pierces, searching for something in your expression. “Bringing the shitty headlines into every conversation."

You arch a brow, tucking the notebook closer to your chest as if shielding it from his line of sight. “Shitty? You mean accurate, Jeonghan.”

His jaw tightens, a subtle movement, but enough to draw your attention. There’s a faint crease forming between his brows now, and you realize it’s not your usual back-and-forth banter. “You know what I mean,” he mutters, voice low and barely audible over the hum of the paddock—the distant rumble of engines, the echo of voices, the clinking of tools in nearby garages.

For a moment, you’re at a loss. Jeonghan doesn’t let things like this bother him—or, at least, he’s always been good at pretending they don’t. His whole brand is carefree charm, a perpetual smirk, and the confidence of someone who knows he’ll always be the center of attention. This feels different.

“You’re upset about a headline?” you ask, genuinely curious now.

“It’s not about the headline.” His tone sharpens, but he stops himself, jaw clenching like he’s swallowing something bitter. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, his fingers brushing over the brim of his cap. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, tinged with something almost vulnerable. “It’s about how you never let up, even when it’s me.”

The admission lands heavily between you, unexpected and disarming.

You shift uncomfortably under the weight of his words, the way they seem to strip away the professional distance you’ve been clinging to. “Why should I?” you counter, keeping your voice steady despite the flicker of doubt creeping in. “You’re just another driver, Jeonghan.”

His laugh is short and humorless, cutting through the charged air between you. “Right. Just another driver.”

There’s something about the way he says it—low, almost resigned—that catches you off guard. The bitterness in his tone isn’t theatrical; it’s real, raw, and so at odds with the image he projects to the world.

You glance at him, searching for the Jeonghan you’re used to—the one who shrugs off criticism with a knowing grin, who always has a teasing retort ready. But for once, he’s not hiding behind a smirk or a cocky quip. He looks tired, the weight of his words pulling at the edges of his carefully maintained charm.

“Jeonghan,” you begin, unsure of what you’re even trying to say.

But he shakes his head, cutting you off before you can find the right words. “Forget it.”

He takes a step back, and it feels like a gulf opening between you. The mask of indifference slips back into place with practiced ease, but you’ve already seen the cracks. “You’ve got your job to do,” he says, his tone clipped and distant. “Make sure you spell my name right in that next ‘shitty headline.’”

You hate the way your chest tightens at his words, hate the instinctive urge to reach out and stop him as he turns to walk away, his figure retreating into the chaotic swirl of the paddock.

But you don’t.

Instead, you grip your notebook tighter, the edges digging into your palm as if the physical discomfort might drown out the ache building in your chest. The buzz of your phone in your pocket snaps you out of the moment. Grateful for the distraction, you pull it out to see a text from your editor: Post-qualifying article. Deadline: 6 PM.

Just another driver.

The words echo hollowly in your mind, unconvincing and painfully untrue.

Because the truth is, Jeonghan has never been just anything to you.

And that’s exactly why this is so damn complicated.

Jeonghan spends the night refreshing his Twitter feed. 

He’s not sure what he’s waiting for, honestly. 

Maybe it’s the rush of validation that comes from a clever reply, or the sting of criticism that reminds him he’s still human under the helmet. Or maybe it’s something else entirely—something he doesn’t want to name. The applause of the crowd is long gone, and the adrenaline from securing pole position hours earlier has settled into a restless hum. His phone feels heavier in his hand as he scrolls, tapping at random links and skimming comments that veer between praise and criticism.

The article finally pops up, your name bold and unmistakable at the top. His stomach tightens, a sensation he’ll never admit to anyone, least of all you. 

He clicks it immediately. 

The headline strikes first: 

Kim Mingyu’s Risky Qualifying Lap Keeps Rivals on Edge

For a moment, he freezes, his eyes scanning the words again to make sure he didn’t misread.

Mingyu?

Confusion knots his brow as he scrolls down. The opening paragraph is a glowing analysis of Mingyu’s audacious lap—a near miss in the second sector, a masterful recovery in the final corners. The kind of detailed, evocative writing that Jeonghan knows you reserve for stories you care about.

Then, buried halfway through, he finds his name:

“Jeonghan, true to form, delivered a flawless lap to secure pole position. His consistency and precision were unmatched, placing him at the front of the grid for tomorrow’s race.”

That’s it.

No breakdown of his sector times, no mention of the deft control it took to navigate the tight Monaco corners under immense pressure. Just a single, clinical acknowledgment, overshadowed by Mingyu’s second-place drama.

Jeonghan stares at the screen, his thumb hovering over the refresh button. He doesn’t know what he was expecting—a parade in words? A headline with his name front and center?

It’s ridiculous, he tells himself. Pole position speaks for itself. It doesn’t need a poetic article to back it up.

But that doesn’t stop the irritation bubbling under his skin.

He tosses his phone onto the bed with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. His hotel room feels quieter than it should, the distant hum of the city barely seeping through the windows.

He can’t shake the feeling that you’re making a point. That this is your way of reminding him that while he might be the golden boy on the track, he doesn’t get special treatment in your world.

Not in your writing. Not from you.

It’s infuriating.

And yet, a part of him—one he’s unwilling to examine too closely—wants to know why you didn’t write more about him. Wants to know what he’d have to do to make you look at him the way you clearly look at Mingyu.

Not just another driver.

But the one worth writing about.

The morning of the Monaco Grand Prix dawned with the soft hum of engines filling the paddock and the gleaming streets of Monte Carlo radiating under a cloudless sky. Jeonghan arrived early, his customary calm masking the roiling anticipation beneath. Pole position was his—secured with a lap so clinical it had left his rivals chasing shadows. Yet, the sharp sting of your article still lingered, buried beneath layers of pride and annoyance.

By mid-morning, the paddock buzzed with tension. The Monaco circuit—narrow, unforgiving, and relentlessly demanding—left no room for error. Victory here wasn’t just about speed; it was about precision, strategy, and an unwavering mental edge. Jeonghan knew that all too well.

As he suited up, the familiar ritual steadied his thoughts. Helmet, gloves, fireproofs—each piece transformed him into the driver everyone expected him to be. His engineer’s voice crackled over the comms. “Focus on the start, Jeonghan. Turn One is everything.”

He gave a curt nod, stepping into the car. The roar of the crowd was muffled as the cockpit enveloped him. Lights on the dashboard blinked in sequence, a visual metronome syncing with his heartbeat.

The engine roars to life beneath Jeonghan as he settles into the cockpit, the familiar hum of the Monaco Grand Prix vibrating through the seat, up his spine, and into his very bones. His focus sharpens like a blade, the heat of the sun seeping through his visor, but he’s not thinking about the sweat trickling down his neck or the weight of the helmet that obscures his field of vision. He’s thinking of the laps he’s put in, of the sacrifice, the years of work that led him here, to this very moment, pole position in Monaco.

He has no illusions about the challenge ahead. This track has always favored the one at the front, especially when that one is someone as methodical and precise as Jeonghan. It’s not often that the pole sitter falters here. But that’s not what has his stomach in knots. It’s not the track or the other drivers. It’s you. The thought of your words, your perspective, your gaze.

What if this win isn’t enough? What if I’m still just another driver to you?

His grip tightens on the steering wheel, and for a moment, he considers the possibility of failing, of cruising through the race without the sharp, passionate energy that has always pushed him. What if he doesn’t even get the headline he’s chasing? What if all this effort amounts to nothing more than another expected victory, no deeper praise, no recognition?

He blinks, pushing the thought away. He can’t afford distractions. He’s here to win—nothing else matters.

The lights blink, one by one, before finally turning off, and he’s off, the car surging forward into the narrow streets of Monaco, engines screaming in unison. His concentration narrows, the noise of the crowd fading into the background. The first few laps are a blur of tactical moves, maintaining the lead, setting the pace. Behind him, Mingyu is close—too close—but Jeonghan has enough room, enough air to breathe.

The laps tick by, the gaps between drivers stretching and shrinking like the ebb and flow of a tide. In Monaco, you can’t make mistakes. The barriers are close enough to bite, and one slip-up could send everything into chaos. Jeonghan doesn’t think of that, though. He doesn’t think of the press, of his reputation, of the words hanging in the back of his mind.

What he thinks about is the win. The pure, simple joy of crossing that finish line first. He wants to feel the weight of the moment, of the accomplishment, and more than anything, he wants to look up and see you there—see that your words reflect the magnitude of this victory.

He holds the lead through the race, but it’s a quiet victory, one he can feel in his bones but doesn’t fully experience. The lap times are consistent, but nothing spectacular happens. No drama, no surprise overtake, no breathtaking maneuver.

It’s a clean, controlled victory—exactly what everyone expects from the driver in pole position.

By the time the checkered flag waves, Jeonghan crosses the line in first. The crowd erupts in cheers, but Jeonghan doesn’t feel the same rush of emotion. The thrill is absent, replaced instead by a deep, gnawing sense of doubt.

The win is his, but it feels like it’s already slipping away from his grasp.

In the post-race briefing, he sits with his team, nodding as they discuss tire strategies, pit stops, and the things that went right. But his eyes keep drifting to the back of the room, to where you stand, clipboard in hand, scribbling notes with focused intent. Every time he tries to catch your gaze, to make eye contact, you look away, as if determined to keep your distance.

It stings more than it should.

Jeonghan leans back in his seat, the weight of his helmet resting against his neck, the pressure of your indifference pressing down on him. He wants to reach out, wants to tell you that this win—this clean, controlled, expected win—deserves something more. But he stays silent, twisting the words in his mind, unable to voice the insecurity that’s suddenly consuming him.

The press conference follows the briefing, a whirlwind of questions, cameras, and flashing lights. The room is full of journalists, all clamoring for soundbites, all eager to discuss the expected result—Jeonghan, pole position, and now, victory. But Jeonghan doesn’t care about the usual congratulatory remarks. He’s waiting for something more. Something real.

When the article finally drops, hours later, he barely waits before pulling it up on his phone. He knows what it’s going to say, but still, the disappointment claws at his chest as he reads the headline.

Jeonghan Dominates Monaco: Pole Position Translates to Victory

His stomach twists, and he exhales sharply, trying to ignore the hollow feeling that spreads through him. It’s everything he expected—a result that leaves no room for admiration, no room for praise. Just the simple, obvious statement that he did what everyone expected him to do. The race was clean, flawless even, but there’s no depth to the words, no recognition of what it takes to win here, at Monaco, the most challenging track in the world.

The thought gnaws at him.

It’s not enough.

The press conference continues, the cameras flashing, but Jeonghan’s mind is far from the words he’s being asked to repeat. He’s not thinking about the team’s success, about the strategies that worked, or even about the crowd's cheers. His eyes find you across the room once again, but this time, you don't look away. Your gaze is fixed on something—anything—but not on him.

He can’t help but wonder if it’s because you don’t see him as more than just another driver. Just another one of the usual suspects who gets a win when it’s expected. He’s fighting for something more—something beyond the surface. But for now, it seems like that’s something he’ll never get from you.

He’s won Monaco. But in that moment, the victory feels like the hollowest thing in the world.

FORMULA 1 AWS GRAND PRIX DU CANADA 2024Track: Circuit Gilles Villeneuve

The Canadian Grand Prix feels like a blur. The rain starts as a light drizzle, but by the time the race begins, it’s pouring, transforming the circuit into a slippery mess. The slick track glistens under the flood of water, making the circuit treacherous, a spinning wheel of danger. The air is thick with the scent of wet asphalt, and there’s an ominous tension in the paddock, a murmur that hangs in the atmosphere as if everyone knows something bad is about to happen. 

You catch sight of Jeonghan on the grid. He’s staring straight ahead, hands clasped behind his back, his posture perfect, like the picture of composure. But you can see it in his eyes—something flickers there, a mix of tension and determination. His car, finely tuned for dry conditions, isn’t built for this. The engineers have done what they can, adjusting the setup, but there’s only so much they can do when the weather turns so violently. You know this track—the Circuit Gilles Villeneuve—is not forgiving, and for someone like Jeonghan, a precision driver who thrives when everything falls into place, this is the worst-case scenario. He’s trying to keep his focus, but you can see the strain on his face, the pressure mounting with every passing moment.

The starting lights go out, and the cars roar off the grid, their engines screaming in defiance of the rain. Jeonghan’s car is sluggish in the first few laps. You see him fighting with the wheel, struggling to keep the car in line, each turn a reminder that the odds are stacked against him. The rain is only getting heavier, and the car, built for speed in perfect conditions, is no longer responsive, no longer the finely-tuned machine he’s so accustomed to. It’s like he’s driving a different car altogether.

As the laps tick by, the race feels like a slow-motion disaster, unfolding before your eyes. Jeonghan’s always been skilled in the wet, but this is different—this is more than just rain. This is a mechanical mismatch, an impossible task to overcome. You watch him push, trying to find any way to make up time, but it’s clear he’s just not able to. The car slides wide through the corners, the back end kicking out as he struggles to maintain control. His frustration is palpable, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping the wheel with white-knuckled intensity.

And then, it happens.

The rear end of Jeonghan’s car breaks loose as he enters Turn 6, and for a moment, it’s a dance of power and precision, a flick of the wheel, an attempt to save it. But it’s futile. The car loses traction, and before you can even process it, he’s in the barriers. The sound of impact is like a gut punch, a sickening crunch that sends a wave of dread through you. The crowd's collective gasp is drowned out by the static crackle of his radio.

“Jeonghan, do you copy?” The voice of his engineer is urgent, panicked, but there’s no mistaking the defeat in it when the response comes through. Jeonghan’s voice is clipped, emotion stripped away in favor of the cold reality.

“I’m out. Car’s done.”

The message is simple, the weight of it crashing down on you. The race is over. Lap 30. The dream, the chance to prove himself in a season that’s been anything but easy, has slipped away, drowned by the rain.

You feel like you’ve been punched in the gut. It’s a loss for Jeonghan, but it feels like a loss for you too. Not because of the race itself, but because of the frustration you saw in his face. The disappointment. The feeling of helplessness. It’s all there, and it hits you harder than you expect.

He doesn’t speak to anyone after. He doesn’t go to the media pen, doesn’t stand in front of the cameras for the obligatory interview. There’s no deflection, no distractions. He’s just... gone. You barely see him in the paddock. He doesn’t even go to the Ferrari garage to debrief with his team. He disappears into the background, like he’s trying to erase himself from the scene altogether, retreating into the shadows, avoiding the world that’s waiting to cast its judgment.

And you? You stay away too. The press room feels suffocating, the questions ringing in your ears as you try to focus. You write your piece, a cold, sharp report about the race and Jeonghan’s crash, a clinical dissection of what went wrong. But something feels hollow as you type. The words don’t flow the way they used to. They’re just words, strung together to meet the deadline, to give the readers what they want. It’s not about the story anymore. It’s not about the race. It’s about the loss.

You can’t shake the image of Jeonghan crashing out, of his frustration written in every line of his face, every motion of his hands. You can’t forget the way he looked when he climbed out of the car, shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the world had suddenly fallen onto him. His eyes are distant, like he’s already checked out, retreating into himself. It’s a look you’ve seen before, but it’s sharper now, more pronounced. He’s carrying something, a burden that you don’t understand, a burden you’re not sure you can even help him carry.

But all you can do is write. And even that doesn’t feel like enough.

FORMULA 1 ARAMCO GRAN PREMIO DE ESPAÑA 2024 Track: Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya

The Spanish Grand Prix feels different from the moment you step out of the car, the heat oppressive, the air thick with anticipation and the inevitable tension of the weekend. The usual rhythm of the paddock is off-kilter, heightened by the suffocating summer heat, the burning sun beating down on every exposed surface. The heat is more than just physical; it's palpable in the way the drivers move, in the clipped tones of the engineers, in the quiet buzz of conversation that flickers out like static.

But even through the sticky, heavy air, the tension feels electric—charged, ready to snap. The circuit is a challenge in itself, and the drivers know it. There’s no room for error here—just wide, hot tarmac and the constant pressure of chasing that perfect lap.

You’ve done your best to avoid Jeonghan, kept a comfortable distance as much as possible. But there’s something about the way he carries himself now—an edge that wasn't there before. It’s sharp, biting, and yet there’s an underlying vulnerability that makes everything harder to ignore.

When qualifying results flash up, you’re caught off-guard. Soonyoung is on pole, Mingyu in second, and Jeonghan… Jeonghan is in third. 

Jeonghan strides into the paddock after qualifying, his face carefully composed, but there’s a look in his eyes—something sharp, something that makes you hesitate. You haven’t spoken in days, not since Canada, not since he shut you out. You’ve been avoiding him, and he’s been avoiding you, but you both know the silence can’t last forever.

You’re standing near the media area when he approaches, and for a moment, it feels like the world holds its breath. The slight tilt of his head, the way his gaze flicks over your shoulder, pretending not to care, but you see through it.

"Don't do this," he says, his voice tight, but it's not the playful teasing you’ve grown used to. It’s something darker. Something tired.

"Don’t do what?" you snap, your patience running thin. "Pretend everything’s fine?"

His jaw clenches, eyes narrowing. "You’ve been avoiding me. Why? Because of Canada?"

You blink. The question hits harder than you expect, and you struggle to keep your composure. “You expect me to just forget what happened? You were fine after the crash, Jeonghan. You didn’t even bother with the press. I can’t just pretend that wasn’t... anything.”

The words come out sharper than you intend, and for a split second, you regret it. You see the way his shoulders stiffen, the brief flicker of pain in his eyes before he masks it with that carefully constructed indifference.

"Maybe I didn’t want to deal with your harsh words," he snaps, taking a step closer. “Maybe I’m tired of being the perfect driver for you, the one who’s supposed to be good enough to meet your standards. But I’m not—am I?"

Your chest tightens at the accusation, at the sudden rawness in his voice. "You think I’m too harsh? You think I’m just waiting for you to be perfect all the time?" You laugh, bitter and self-deprecating. "That’s what this is about? You crashing out wasn’t because of me. I write the truth, Jeonghan. And maybe the truth is you didn’t have the car for that race. It was out of your control."

His expression darkens, and you see that familiar flash of anger—one you’ve seen more times than you care to admit. "No," he hisses, taking another step toward you. "The truth is, you're so wrapped up in your narratives, you forget that I’m human. You forget that I have feelings too, and that maybe... maybe I wanted to do this for myself, not for some headline or some article. But you... you don’t see me that way, do you? You see me as another story, another fucking headline to dissect. Just another driver."

His words cut deeper than anything else could, and the final crack in your restraint breaks wide open. You can feel the heat rising in your chest, the tightness in your throat, the way your breath hitches.

“You want me to treat you differently?” you bite back, furious, stepping into his space. “You want me to hold your hand and tell you it’s okay every time you fail? Because you’re so tired of being just another driver? Well, you know what, Jeonghan? I am tired. I’m tired of trying to keep this professional, of pretending that I’m not watching the same guy who couldn’t even handle his own crash. You don’t get to demand better treatment from me when you can’t even handle the heat.”

For a moment, neither of you move, and the silence is thick, charged with the weight of your words.

He stares at you, eyes dark, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. You’re both too close now, caught in this space where words are weapons, and you’re both bleeding out.

Finally, Jeonghan turns away, his expression unreadable, but you can see the tightness in his back, the way his jaw works, like he’s holding something back. "Maybe you should stop writing about me altogether," he mutters, his voice rough, before stalking off, leaving you standing there, heart pounding and chest aching.

For a moment, you stand frozen, caught between regret and relief, between the anger that still simmers beneath your skin and the sudden emptiness that creeps in now that he's gone.

The moment Jeonghan storms off, leaving you standing there with a surge of anger and a pounding heart, you don't realize someone’s been listening. But someone has. The faint click of a camera, barely audible over the sound of your pulse, is enough to make you pause. You turn, instinctively, to see a familiar face from the gossip side of the paddock. It's Soojin, a reporter known for getting the juiciest bits of drama and twisting them into scandalous headlines. She’s got a camera in one hand, her phone in the other, furiously typing something into it with a smirk that sends an uncomfortable ripple through your gut.

Before you can say anything, she’s already gone, blending back into the throng of people milling around the paddock, her steps quick and sure. The damage has been done. You know it, and the prickling sensation in the pit of your stomach tells you that it’s about to get a lot worse.

By the time you’ve made it back to the media center, the storm has already hit. Your Twitter feed is flooded with the words “Trouble in Paradise?”, and the accompanying photos. The images are damning—Jeonghan’s angry face, red with emotion, and your own flushed, furious expression, both of you screaming at each other in the middle of the paddock. There’s no context, no explanation, just the raw emotion, raw enough to sell.

The headline isn’t even what stings. It’s the comments that follow. Speculation, assumptions, and a flood of opinions. Some call it a lover’s quarrel, some assume the worst, but most seem content to paint the picture of two people on the verge of breaking. It’s not just your name that gets dragged through the mud; it’s Jeonghan’s too. Both of you, caught in a perfect storm of emotions and bad timing. The last thing either of you needs.

You try to shut it out, but it’s impossible. The text messages from your editor come through, asking for a statement. Your phone rings with calls from the PR team, from your colleagues, and even from your friends, who all seem to know about the situation before you’ve even had a chance to process it yourself.

And then, just when you think it couldn’t get worse, the email comes. It’s from Ferrari’s PR team, and it’s almost too professional to be true:

Dear Y/N, In light of the recent events surrounding your interactions with Mr. Yoon Jeonghan, we would like to offer you full access to the Ferrari garage for the remainder of the season. This will provide you with the opportunity to write an in-depth feature on the team, showcasing the work and dedication that goes into each race weekend. We believe this move will allow for a clearer perspective on the situation and help ensure that your reporting reflects the true nature of the team and its drivers. We look forward to your continued coverage. Best regards, Ferrari PR Team

It’s a calculated move—a distraction, a chance to smooth things over. And you know it. The message is clear: everything must look fine. Everything must be fixed, packaged neatly for the media and the fans to consume. You’re a pawn in a much bigger game, and they’re making sure you play along.

At first, you think about refusing. You think about how everything feels so wrong right now. About how the image of you and Jeonghan, caught in the heat of an argument, is being used to feed the frenzy. But the PR team doesn’t leave room for argument. You know that declining would only escalate things further, make them harder to fix.

So, you agree.

The access starts almost immediately. They give you a full tour of the Ferrari garage, show you the inner workings of the team, introduce you to the engineers, the strategists, the pit crew. You’re given permission to write about the team’s strategy, their behind-the-scenes preparation, but there’s always a sense that you're being watched—every move, every word.

You can’t help but notice Jeonghan’s absence. Every time you walk through the garage, he’s not there. The driver who once greeted you with a cocky smile and a teasing remark, the one who always found a way to make you laugh, is nowhere to be found. It’s like he’s vanished, swallowed by the thick wall of Ferrari’s PR machine.

It’s as if nothing is real anymore. The false smiles, the calculated interviews, the way the drivers exchange glances with a rehearsed ease. The more you observe, the more you realize how much of this world is a performance, a show put on for the audience, with no room for anything real. It all feels like it’s slipping through your fingers, leaving you with nothing but an empty, fragile façade.

Still, you’re expected to keep writing, to deliver the polished pieces the team expects. You’re supposed to put the headline “TROUBLE IN PARADISE?” behind you and focus on the carefully constructed narrative. So, you do. For now.

But even as you walk the pits, breathing in the scent of burnt rubber and sweat, there’s a quiet ache in the back of your mind. The truth is, you don’t know how much longer you can keep pretending that everything is fine.

Not when you still feel Jeonghan’s words hanging in the air between you, like the remnants of a storm that’s yet to pass. Not when you still want, with everything in you, to be able to fix it.

And maybe that’s the problem.

The crash happens so quickly, so violently, that it almost feels unreal. One moment, the tell-tale red of Jeonghan’s car is cutting through the circuit with his signature precision. The next, it’s a twisted mess of metal and rubber, skidding off the track, his car spinning wildly as Lee Seokmin’s Aston Martin clips him just before the tight corner at Turn 14. You watch it all unfold from the pit wall, your heart stopping for a brief second as the sound of the crash echoes through the air. 

There’s a collective gasp from the crew around you, followed by the frantic chatter of engineers and strategists, trying to process what just happened. You can see the smoke rising from the wreckage, and your breath catches when the marshals begin to swarm the car, signaling that Jeonghan is still inside. 

The radio crackles to life, but Jeonghan’s voice doesn’t come through. For a second, it feels like time slows down. The pit wall is a blur of motion, but you’re frozen, eyes locked on the track, praying for him to be okay. 

Then, finally, the confirmation comes: “Jeonghan is out of the car. He's fine. We'll move him to the medical center.” 

A wave of relief washes over you, but it’s short-lived. The weight of the crash—his crash—still hangs in the air, and it’s clear from the looks of the Ferrari crew that no one knows exactly what went wrong. The tension in the paddock is palpable, and as you’re given full access to the debriefing room afterward, the atmosphere is thick with unspoken frustration. 

Jeonghan walks in with that same seething expression he had after the crash, and the room goes silent. His eyes are red-rimmed, his jaw clenched, the kind of anger that’s so deep it can’t be shaken by anything or anyone. His usual confident swagger is replaced by a taut, barely contained rage that makes it hard for anyone to even breathe in his presence. His voice, when he speaks, is sharp, cutting through the room like a knife. 

“You think this is a joke?” he snaps, looking at his team with a glare so intense it’s almost suffocating. His fists are balled at his sides, his shoulders tense with barely controlled fury. 

The debriefing begins, but it’s clear that no one knows how to handle him. His coach tries to keep things calm, but Jeonghan's sharp words only make the tension worse. The rest of the team sits in silence, unsure of what to say, how to fix the situation. His eyes never leave the table, his posture rigid, as though every part of him is fighting the urge to storm out. 

The meeting goes in circles—strategies discussed, what went wrong, how to move forward—but nothing seems to land. Jeonghan doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to listen to anyone right now. His frustration is palpable, and it’s clear this crash, this failure, has broken something inside of him. 

When he finally stands, his chair scraping harshly against the floor, there’s an air of finality to it. Without another word, he storms out, leaving a tense silence in his wake. No one dares to speak, knowing that anything they say would be pointless. The door slams shut, and the meeting disbands soon after. 

But you don’t leave. You don’t really have anywhere to go. Not yet. 

You make your way to the Ferrari canteen, your footsteps echoing in the empty corridors. It’s one of those rare moments when you’re not chasing a headline, not following the usual routine, and the monotony of it all feels like a relief. You order two beers without thinking. You don’t need two, but for some reason, it feels right. Maybe it’s the adrenaline still coursing through your veins from the crash, or maybe it’s just the weight of everything—the pressure, the disappointment, the simmering frustration with Jeonghan that you haven’t had the chance to process yet. The beers are cold, the glass bottles slick with condensation, and when you walk outside to the grandstands, you find him. 

Jeonghan is sitting alone, his back against the metal railing, the crowd long gone. The air is warm, the kind of summer heat that clings to your skin and makes everything feel a little heavier. His eyes are closed, his head tipped back as he stares at the sky, and for a moment, you wonder if he even notices you approaching. 

Without saying a word, you sit beside him, the soft crunch of your shoes against the gravel the only sound in the stillness. You don’t offer him a drink immediately. Instead, you hold the bottles in your hands, feeling the chill seep into your palms, letting the silence stretch between you. 

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you hand him one of the beers. He doesn’t look at you, but you catch the faintest shift in his posture, a soft hum of acknowledgement as he accepts it, cracking the cap with a quick twist.

“Jeonghan,” you say, breaking the silence, your voice quieter than you expect it to be. He doesn’t respond immediately, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. You take a sip of your own beer, the bitter taste grounding you in the moment. You can feel the tension that’s been building between you both, the weight of the unspoken words, but for now, you can’t bring yourself to make him speak. 

Then he does. “Full access, huh?” His voice is rough, the teasing edge to his words gone, replaced by something heavier. The bitterness is unmistakable. “You must be thrilled, getting to see me crash out in front of the entire team.” 

You almost choke on your beer. You can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or genuinely hurt, but it stings regardless. 

“I’m not,” you say quickly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You wish he would look at you, but he’s staring straight ahead, his jaw still tight, muscles still coiled like a spring. "I don’t want that, Jeonghan. What don’t you get?" 

“No?” He tilts his head slightly, but his gaze stays fixed. “I would think Miss Scathing Articles would relish the chance to tear me down again.” 

A sharp retort sat on your tongue, but you swallowed it. There was no point. Instead, you looked away, focusing on the distant horizon where the racetrack lay, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. "I don’t," you said quietly. "I’m not interested in tearing you down. I never have been." 

Jeonghan’s laugh was hollow, almost like a scoff. "Color me surprised." 

A beat passed between you both, the air thick with unspoken words. You took a sip of your beer, now lukewarm and slightly flat, but it didn’t matter. Neither of you had the luxury of pretending everything was fine anymore. 

He finally turns to you, his eyes meeting yours; there’s something in the way he looks at you—raw, vulnerable, almost like he’s waiting for the punchline of some cruel joke. 

“I’m sorry,” you say after a long silence, your voice softer this time, barely above a whisper. You’re not sure if he hears you, but he looks at you with an expression that makes you feel like you’ve just stepped into a minefield. 

He doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, he exhales a long breath, rubbing his forehead with his fingers as though the weight of it all is finally catching up to him. The tension between you hangs heavy in the warm summer air, the quiet hum of distant cicadas filling the space where words should be. Jeonghan takes another sip of his beer, the bottle pressed lightly against his lips as though it might cool the heat simmering under his skin. He looks tired—no, more than tired. Worn down. The type of exhaustion that no amount of sleep could fix. 

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says finally, the words coming out uneven, almost like they’re foreign on his tongue. His voice is softer now, missing the sharp edges that had cut into you moments before. “You were just doing your job.” 

“Jeonghan,” you start, but he holds up a hand, silencing you. 

“No, really.” He forces a thin smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s the kind of expression you’ve seen him use in press conferences—a shield, practiced and perfect. “You’re here because Ferrari told you to be. Because someone thought it’d be a great PR move. You don’t owe me anything beyond that.” 

The words sting, even though you know they shouldn’t. He’s not wrong. This isn’t your world, not really. But you can’t help the knot tightening in your chest as you watch him retreat into himself, the walls going up before your eyes. 

“I’m not here because they told me to be,” you say quietly, your voice steady despite the lump in your throat. “I’m here because I wanted to be. Because I saw the crash, Jeonghan, and I—” You stop, swallowing hard as the memory flashes behind your eyes again. The twisted metal, the plume of smoke, the moment you thought— 

“I was scared,” you admit, your voice cracking slightly. “Not as a journalist. Not as someone with a job to do. As someone who—” Jeonghan’s gaze snaps to you, his eyes narrowing slightly, but there’s something vulnerable there, too, something unguarded. 

You don't finish the sentence. 

Jeonghan watches you closely now, his beer suspended mid-air, forgotten. The sharpness in his gaze softens, replaced by something else—curiosity, maybe, or an unease he doesn’t quite know how to address.

The air between you feels heavy, suffocating in its quiet. You can still hear the faint echoes of the crash in your mind, the awful screech of metal against asphalt, the split-second horror of thinking you’d just seen him—

He sets the bottle down with a soft clink against the railing, breaking the spell.

“Scared, huh?” His voice is quieter now, and there’s a touch of disbelief, as though he’s trying to decide whether to accept your words or dismiss them.

You nod, throat tightening as you try to push through the lump that’s settled there. “Terrified,” you admit, the word feeling foreign and vulnerable on your tongue. “Not because of what I’d have to write, but because I thought—” You bite down on the rest of the sentence, unwilling to say it aloud.

Jeonghan exhales, long and slow, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he leans back against the railing. “I’m fine,” he says eventually, the words flat and unconvincing. He glances at you, his lips pressing into a faintly wry smile. “A little bruised. A little pissed. But I’m fine.”

It’s not enough to untangle the knot in your chest, but it’s a start. You nod, not trusting yourself to say anything else.

He finishes his beer in a few swallows, the motion oddly decisive, before standing and brushing off his pants. For a moment, you think he’s about to leave without another word, the tension between you both left unresolved.

But then he turns, holding out a hand toward you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a faint curve to his lips that feels almost... playful.

“Friends?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, his hair falling into his eyes. “If you’re going to be hanging around the garage all season, might as well, y’know?”

You blink at him, taken aback. The man who’d stormed out of the debriefing room in a fit of rage, who’d spat barbs at you moments ago, now stood here offering a truce like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Friends,” you echo, narrowing your eyes as you take his hand. It’s warm, his grip firm but not overbearing, and for a fleeting second, you wonder if this is another performance—an act to keep you at arm’s length.

But when he pulls you to your feet, there’s something genuine in his expression, something almost relieved.

“You better not make me regret this,” he says, letting go of your hand as he shoves his now-empty beer bottle into your other one. “And don’t think this means you’re off the hook for the shit you wrote.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as he smirks.

For the first time all day, the knot in your chest loosens just slightly. You follow him back toward the paddock, your steps lighter than they’ve been in weeks.

And for now, that’s enough.

FORMULA 1 QATAR AIRWAYS AUSTRIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Red Bull Ring

The Red Bull Ring stretches out before you like a postcard of precision. Nestled in the Austrian hills, the track gleams under the soft morning sun, its curves and straights inviting the first roar of engines. The garage is alive with motion—engineers bent over laptops, mechanics tightening bolts, and the hum of anticipation that comes with any race weekend.

You step into the Ferrari garage, an interloper in a sea of red. Jeonghan’s car gleams in its designated spot, pristine and ready, as though it hadn’t been a crumpled wreck just a week ago. The team works around it like a well-oiled machine, barely sparing you a glance. You’re supposed to be here, technically, but that doesn’t stop the slight twinge of unease as you find a quiet corner near the monitors.

“Back again?”

The voice is unmistakable, light and teasing. You turn, and there he is: Yoon Jeonghan in his fireproofs, the sleeves tied around his waist, his white undershirt faintly clinging to his frame. He looks every bit the picture of calm, like he hasn’t spent the past few days fielding press questions about his crash.

“Didn’t think you’d miss the chance to watch me run into someone,” he adds, smirking as he adjusts his gloves.

You raise an eyebrow. “Is this your way of saying you’re aiming for Aston Martin?”

He laughs, a real laugh this time, and it’s startling how much it changes the air around you. “Not today. But I’ll keep you updated if Seokmin starts driving like a rookie again.”

“Careful, Jeonghan,” you shoot back, crossing your arms. “I might put that in my next article.”

He leans casually against the wall, his dark eyes scanning your face with an intensity that’s become familiar in the past few weeks. But there’s no edge to it today, no armor. Just him, relaxed and—for once—almost easygoing.

“You’re not as scary as you think you are,” he says after a beat, his voice low enough that the hum of the garage nearly drowns it out.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop the grin that creeps onto your face. “And you’re not as charming as you think you are.”

He tilts his head, considering this like it’s the most interesting thing he’s heard all day. “Fair. But you’re still here, aren’t you?”

“Purely professional,” you quip, ignoring the way his smirk grows.

Before he can reply, the engineer by the monitors calls him over, gesturing to the screen. Jeonghan holds up a finger, signaling for a moment, then turns back to you.

“Stay out of trouble, yeah?” His voice is lighter now, teasing but not in the way that cuts. It feels natural, like banter between...well, maybe not quite friends. Not yet. But something close.

You shrug, watching as he walks toward his team, the confidence in his stride unmistakable. The tension that had lingered after the crash feels like it’s finally begun to dissolve, replaced by something steadier. Not quite trust, but something adjacent.

As you settle into the corner, notebook in hand, you can’t help but glance at him every so often. On the surface, it’s just another practice session, another day at the track. But for the first time in weeks, it feels like something close to normal. 

FORMULA 1 QATAR AIRWAYS BRITISH GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Silverstone Circuit

Silverstone roars to life under a blazing sun, the grandstands filled to capacity with fans waving flags and wearing team colors. The overcast sky has burned off, leaving the track shimmering under the summer sun. It’s one of the biggest stages of the season, and Jeonghan delivers a masterclass in qualifying, the finely tuned Ferrari underneath him responding to every input like an extension of himself. The sharp smell of rubber and fuel lingers in the air, mingling with the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

He’s back.

The final lap times on the leaderboard tell the story: pole position. Ferrari’s garage is electric with celebration, engineers clapping each other on the back, a cheer rising when Jeonghan steps into the swarm of red. His team surrounds him, hands gripping his shoulders, voices shouting praise over the din.

He grins, wide and unguarded, the weight of the last few weeks lifting ever so slightly. Spain and Canada had shaken him, but this—this feels like a reckoning. Proof that the mistakes and setbacks weren’t the whole story.

“Perfect lap, Jeonghan,” his engineer says, beaming as he hands him a water bottle.

He nods in acknowledgment, taking a swig, his heart still racing as he glances around the paddock. The sun is high now, glinting off the sleek curves of the cars lined up in parc fermé. Jeonghan’s gaze sweeps over the crowd, soaking in the energy—until he sees you.

You’re standing just outside the McLaren garage, the vibrant orange of their branding a stark contrast to the reds and blacks of his world. You’re leaning against a barrier, the breeze tugging at your hair as you laugh at something Mingyu says. Your face is so open, so full of light, that it’s almost magnetic.

Mingyu gestures animatedly, clearly in the middle of some ridiculous story, his grin as wide as the Cheshire Cat’s. You throw your head back with a laugh, and Jeonghan feels a tightness in his chest he can’t quite place.

The joy that had filled him moments ago flickers.

Why does it bother him?

The thought lingers as he watches you, his water bottle dangling forgotten in his hand. Jeonghan isn’t used to this kind of gnawing discomfort. He’s competitive, sure, but this is something else entirely.

Jealousy.

The sun is lower in the sky when he finds you, his long strides purposeful as he weaves through the paddock. The golden hour light makes everything seem softer, but Jeonghan’s mood is anything but. His thoughts from earlier have been simmering, the warmth of victory eclipsed by a frustration he can’t shake.

You’re leaning against a railing, scrolling on your phone when he approaches.

“Shouldn’t you be in the Ferrari garage?” he says, his tone sharper than he intends.

You blink up at him, startled. “I was just catching up with Mingyu.”

Jeonghan crosses his arms, his brow furrowing. “Funny. I thought you were doing a full-access piece on Ferrari, not McLaren.”

There’s something in his voice—an edge that sets your teeth on edge. “I am,” you reply slowly, standing up straighter. “What’s this about?”

He steps closer, his eyes narrowing. “Is that why your articles about Mingyu are always glowing? What, are you sleeping with him?”

The accusation is like a slap, cutting through the air with a harshness that leaves you stunned.

Your expression shifts, disbelief giving way to anger. “Are you serious right now?”

Jeonghan doesn’t respond immediately, his jaw tight. The regret in his eyes is fleeting, buried under the weight of his own misplaced frustration.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” you snap, your voice trembling with fury. “It’s always one step forward, two steps back with you, Jeonghan.”

His lips part as if to reply, but you don’t wait for him to dig himself deeper. You storm off, your footsteps echoing against the paddock floor. The sting of his words lingers, but so does the look on his face as you walk away.

Jeonghan stands there, watching you go, the tension in his shoulders giving way to a sinking feeling in his stomach. He knows he’s crossed a line, and the weight of his own stupidity settles heavily over him.

The knock on your hotel room door comes before sunrise, soft but insistent. You groan, burying your face in your pillow before dragging yourself to the door.

When you open it, the hallway is empty. But at your feet sits a bouquet wrapped in crisp white paper, tied with a simple satin ribbon.

Roses. Soft blush pink, their petals perfectly unfurled, paired with delicate sprigs of baby’s breath.

The arrangement is beautiful, almost heartbreakingly so, the kind of bouquet that feels like a story in itself. You crouch to pick it up, your fingers brushing over the velvety petals. The faint, sweet scent of roses fills the air, mixing with the crisp morning chill that seeps into the hallway.

Nestled among the flowers is a small envelope.

You pull it out, your thumb brushing over the edge of the paper as you open it. Inside, scrawled in a slightly messy hand that’s unmistakably Jeonghan’s, are two simple words:

I’m sorry.

You glance down the hallway instinctively, half-expecting to see him lingering in the shadows. But it’s empty, as silent as it was before you opened the door.

You stand there for a moment longer, the bouquet in your arms and the note trembling slightly in your fingers. The apology feels heavier than the flowers, weighted by the memory of his words from yesterday.

He didn’t need to apologize like this, you think. He could have texted, could have mumbled something in passing when you inevitably crossed paths today. But instead, he’d gone to the trouble of figuring out your favorite flowers—roses and baby’s breath, a detail you don’t even remember telling him.

The realization stirs something in you, softening the edges of your anger.

The roses sit on the desk as you get ready for the day, the baby’s breath adding a delicate touch to the arrangement. The card leans against the vase, its two-word apology a quiet presence in the room.

Somewhere in the city, Silverstone is waking up, the air already buzzing with anticipation for the race. But here, in the stillness of your hotel room, you take a moment to breathe, to let the gesture sink in.

Jeonghan’s voice echoes faintly in your mind, the memory of yesterday’s confrontation still fresh. And yet, as you glance at the roses again, the sting of his words begins to dull, replaced by something softer, something not yet ready to be named.

The pre-race buzz was electric. The roar of engines echoed faintly in the distance, a constant backdrop to the paddock’s chaotic rhythm. Mechanics zipped between garages, reporters hustled to get last-minute quotes, and fans outside the barricades chanted their favorite drivers’ names. Amid all this, your footsteps fell heavy against the asphalt, your target in sight: Yoon Jeonghan.

There he was, leaning against the nose of his red Ferrari, his race suit a striking flash of scarlet that caught the sunlight and made him look annoyingly pristine for someone who had caused you so much grief. He was chatting with an engineer, that easy, charming smile plastered on his face like he hadn’t thrown baseless accusations your way less than 24 hours ago.

You marched toward him, purpose sharpening your steps. The bouquet from this morning was still vivid in your mind—blush pink roses, soft and elegant, their delicate petals almost glowing against the green of the baby’s breath, a stark contrast to the seething frustration you still carried. And the note—just two infuriatingly simple words—burned in your pocket, a reminder of the apology you hadn’t quite accepted yet.

“Jeonghan,” you called, your voice cutting through the low hum of conversation around you.

He glanced up, his casual demeanor faltering for a split second when he saw you. Then, like a switch had flipped, his smile returned. “Oh, hey.”

You stopped a foot away, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “How did you know my favorite flowers?”

His lips quirked into a faint smirk, and he leaned ever so slightly against the car, as if the conversation were a game he’d already won. “Oh good, they got delivered to the right room.”

“Jeonghan,” you said, your tone sharper now, “don’t deflect.”

“Deflect what?” He tilted his head, his eyes sparkling with that infuriating glint of mischief that made you want to throttle him and laugh in equal measure.

“JEONGHAN.” The snap in your voice turned a few heads nearby, but you didn’t care.

He sighed dramatically, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fine. A certain papaya-colored birdie told me.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Papaya-colored birdie... Mingyu?”

Jeonghan hesitated, his grin faltering for just a moment. You saw the gears turning in his head, calculating whether to deflect again or come clean.

“Spit it out, Yoon Jeonghan,” you said, stepping closer, “or I’ll never write a single kind thing about you for the rest of your life.”

His mouth twitched, caught between amusement and resignation. Finally, he shrugged, his voice almost too casual. “Childhood friends, eh? You and Mingyu? That explains yesterday.”

You blinked, thrown by the abrupt shift in topic. “Don’t change the subject,” you snapped, though his words tugged at something in the back of your mind. “You really went to Kim Mingyu for help? After accusing me of—”

“I might have... aggressively encouraged Mingyu to spill everything he knew about you,” Jeonghan admitted, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You raised a brow. “Aggressively encouraged?”

“Fine,” he said with a huff. “I threatened to steal his steering wheel from the McLaren garage if he didn’t talk.”

Despite your irritation, a snort escaped you. “And he just handed over my life story, huh?”

Jeonghan crossed his arms, mirroring your stance. “What can I say? He’s surprisingly chatty when he thinks you’re in trouble. Very protective, that one.”

You clenched your jaw, the pieces clicking into place. “So, that’s why you jumped to conclusions yesterday. You thought—”

He cut you off, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “I know. I was out of line. That’s what the flowers were for.”

For a moment, the noise of the paddock seemed to fade. The wind carried the faint scent of burning rubber, and the distant cheers of fans reached your ears like a muted hum. Jeonghan’s expression softened, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced by something quieter, almost vulnerable.

“For what it’s worth,” he added, his tone lower now, “I really am sorry.”

You exhaled slowly, the weight of the last day lifting slightly from your chest. “You’re lucky I like roses.”

“I know,” he replied, his grin returning, lighter this time, almost boyish. “Good taste, huh?”

“Good recovery, at least,” you muttered, your lips twitching despite yourself.

Jeonghan’s laughter followed you as you turned and walked away, the sound less grating than it had been the day before. It wasn’t forgiveness—not yet—but it felt like a start.

FORMULA 1 HUNGARIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Hungaroring

The Hungarian Grand Prix paddock was buzzing, but you could tell something was off. The sound of chatter and engines felt like distant echoes as you stood by the garage, watching Jeonghan’s Ferrari pull back into its stall after a less-than-stellar FP1. The car’s engine quieted as the mechanics immediately went to work, inspecting it. But it wasn’t the car that caught your attention—it was Jeonghan himself.

He was unusually quiet, his usual cocky confidence buried beneath the furrow of his brow as he stripped off his helmet and gloves. His gaze was focused on the car, but it was clear his mind wasn’t in the garage. He seemed... distant, almost frustrated. The others in the team were busy talking strategy, discussing the data, but Jeonghan barely spoke up during the debriefing. It was strange.

The team finished up, but you noticed Jeonghan lingered near the back, hands on his hips, staring at his car like it had personally betrayed him. It wasn’t like him to be this quiet, especially not after a session where he was so used to being in control. You could practically feel the weight of his thoughts from where you stood.

You didn’t want to be intrusive, but you couldn’t ignore it—something was wrong.

You walked over, careful not to disturb the mechanics who were still busy at work. "Jeonghan," you called softly, stepping beside him. He turned to you, but his eyes didn’t quite meet yours. They were focused on something distant, like he was seeing the track or the car but not really seeing them.

“Everything okay?” you asked, trying to keep the concern out of your voice, but it slipped through anyway. “You’ve been quiet since the debriefing.”

He gave a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m fine.”

You weren’t buying it. You had known Jeonghan long enough to recognize the way he carried his frustration. It wasn’t the kind of thing that could be hidden behind a casual smile, no matter how practiced.

“You sure? You know you don’t have to be okay all the time, right?” you pressed, stepping a little closer. The air around you felt heavy, charged with unspoken words.

Jeonghan exhaled sharply, his fingers digging into his gloves before he slowly pulled them off. He seemed to be gathering himself before speaking. “I hate it,” he muttered, and his voice had a rawness to it that caught you off guard. “Not being perfect. I... I can’t stand it.”

“Not being perfect?” you echoed, surprised. Jeonghan, the ever-cocky, confident driver, admitting that?

He looked up at you then, his eyes intense, as though he was searching for something in your gaze. “Yeah. I know it sounds stupid,” he said with a wry laugh that lacked its usual humor. “But it’s who I am. I’m a perfectionist, always have been. Every little mistake... it sticks with me. I can’t just move on. I think about it. Constantly.”

You watched him, absorbing his words, the vulnerability in his tone feeling like a crack in his otherwise polished exterior. Jeonghan, always so composed on the surface, always teasing and joking, was admitting something deeper now—something more personal.

“Is that why you were so quiet during the debriefing?” you asked, keeping your voice soft.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his gaze flicking to the car again. “I know I didn’t have the best session, but it feels like... like I failed. Like I’m not doing my job right. I could’ve done better.” His jaw clenched as if he were angry at himself.

The silence that fell between you was thick, almost suffocating, and you could feel the tension radiating off him. You hadn’t seen him like this before—not with this level of self-doubt.

“You’re not failing,” you said, your voice firm. “You’re allowed to have bad sessions. Hell, everyone has bad days. But that doesn’t mean you’re failing. It’s just a part of it.”

Jeonghan glanced over at you, his lips curving into a small, grateful smile. “You really believe that?”

“Yeah, I do,” you said, nodding. “I mean... it’s not all about being perfect. Sometimes it’s the mistakes that push you to be better.”

Jeonghan looked down at his hands, still clutching the gloves, and you could see the gears turning in his mind. “I know. But it doesn’t make it any easier.”

“I get it,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the side of the garage. “But you’ve got a whole team behind you. And we all know what you’re capable of. You’ll get there. It’s just one session.”

He finally met your gaze, his eyes softening. “Thanks.”

There was a long pause, the sound of distant chatter and the hum of the paddock filling the silence. You were so used to Jeonghan’s teasing and cocky attitude that this quieter, more introspective side of him felt like a different person altogether. And maybe it was—it was the side that wasn’t the driver who fought for every fraction of a second on the track, the side that just wanted to be good enough.

“It’s not stupid, you know,” you added quietly. “Caring about being good at what you do isn’t stupid. It’s just... exhausting sometimes.”

Jeonghan laughed lightly, the sound a bit more genuine this time. “You have no idea. But I’m getting better at... handling it. I think.”

You smiled at him, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over you. There was still that hint of unease in his posture, the tightness in his shoulders, but for the first time all day, he seemed a little more at ease with himself.

As you turned to leave, you shot him one last look. “Just don’t be so hard on yourself next time, okay?”

“I’ll try,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. And for a moment, you almost believed him.

The stands were eerily quiet now, a stark contrast to the roar of the crowd just hours earlier. You wandered through the empty paddock, your steps unhurried as the hum of the night settled around you. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the faint clatter of the Ferrari team packing up, but Jeonghan wasn’t with them.

You’d seen him after the race, his jaw tight as he climbed out of the car. Finishing P5 wasn’t bad by any measure, but it wasn’t what he wanted. And with Mingyu overtaking him in the Driver’s Championship by just twenty points, it was clear Jeonghan had taken it as a personal blow. His disappointment hung around him like a shadow.

It wasn’t hard to guess where he’d gone.

Sure enough, when you climbed up into the grandstands, there he was. Sitting alone in the middle row, still in his Ferrari race suit, unzipped to the waist to reveal his black base layer. His hair was tousled from the helmet, his posture slouched, shoulders hunched as though the weight of the day hadn’t yet left him. Beside him were two bottles of beer, one already open and resting loosely in his hand.

You approached quietly, but Jeonghan didn’t flinch. He didn’t even turn around when you reached him, your feet crunching softly against the debris of the crowd—discarded programs, empty wrappers, and forgotten flags. He must’ve known it was you, though. He always seemed to know.

“Mind if I join you?” you asked, your voice breaking the stillness.

He finally glanced up, his expression unreadable. “It’s a free grandstand,” he muttered, gesturing to the empty seats around him.

You slid into the seat next to him, the cool metal chilling through your clothes. Jeonghan’s gaze returned to the track ahead, where the floodlights illuminated the ghost of the race. He took a sip of his beer, silent.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The quiet stretched, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable—just heavy. You could feel the frustration radiating off him, the bitterness that came with being so close but not close enough.

“You should drink this before it gets warm,” he said suddenly, pushing the unopened beer toward you.

You picked it up, twisting off the cap with a small smile. “Thanks. Not exactly the post-race celebration you were hoping for, huh?”

He huffed a humorless laugh. “Not exactly.”

The silence fell again, but this time you weren’t willing to let it linger. You turned to him, watching the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the neck of the bottle. “You’re still in the fight, you know,” you said gently.

Jeonghan’s lips quirked, but it wasn’t a smile. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Well, you are,” you insisted. “Three points. That’s nothing. You’ve come back from worse.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he tilted his head back, looking up at the dark sky above the track. “You don’t get it,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “It’s not just about the points. It’s about everything. The mistakes, the pressure... the expectations. It’s like... like I have to prove that I deserve to be here. Every single time.”

“You do deserve to be here,” you said firmly, the conviction in your voice enough to make him turn to you. “You wouldn’t be in that seat if you didn’t. You’re one of the best drivers on the grid, Jeonghan. Everyone knows it. Even Mingyu. Especially Mingyu.”

Jeonghan scoffed, a flicker of a smile breaking through his stormy expression. “Bet he’s loving this right now.”

“Maybe,” you said, leaning back against the seat. “But knowing Mingyu, he’s probably already plotting ways to rub it in at the next race.”

That earned a laugh, small but real, and the sound was enough to make you smile too.

“You’re good at this,” he said after a moment, his tone softer now. “Talking me off the ledge.”

“Someone has to,” you replied with a shrug. “And honestly? I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. One race doesn’t define you, Jeonghan. You’re not just a number on the leaderboard.”

He looked at you then, his gaze lingering. There was something in his expression—gratitude, maybe, or something deeper, something you couldn’t quite name. “Thanks,” he said simply, the word weighted with more than just appreciation.

You clinked your bottle against his. “Anytime.”

The two of you sat there for a while longer, the weight of the day slowly lifting as the quiet of the night wrapped around you. It wasn’t much, but it was enough—for now. And as Jeonghan leaned back in his seat, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles, you knew he’d be okay. Eventually.

You took another sip of your beer, the chill of the bottle grounding you as Jeonghan’s earlier tension began to melt away. The ghost of a smile still lingered on his lips, and for the first time since you’d climbed up to find him, his shoulders seemed lighter.

“So,” he said, breaking the quiet, his voice tinged with a familiar mischievousness, “what’s your headline going to be this week?”

You raised an eyebrow, scoffing softly as you bumped his shoulder with your own. “You’ll see it when you see it, Yoon Jeonghan. No spoilers.”

His chuckle was low and warm, a sound that felt like the first crack of sunlight after a storm. “Should I be worried?”

“Always,” you replied, the corners of your lips quirking upward. “But maybe not too much this time.”

He gave you a curious look, his expression halfway between wary and amused, but he didn’t press. Instead, he leaned back, his gaze drifting back to the track. The night was calm now, the weight of the day’s disappointment tucked into the folds of shared silence.

The headline hit Monday morning, and Jeonghan had to admit, you’d delivered once again.

Ferrari Falters in Hungary: Yoon Jeonghan's Fight for the Title Tightens

The article was incisive, as sharp as he’d expected. You broke down his struggles in FP1, critiqued his race strategy, and even called out the overtaking move that cost him crucial points. It was the kind of detailed, no-nonsense analysis you were known for, and Jeonghan read every word with a mix of frustration and admiration.

But at the bottom, tucked beneath the last paragraph, there was a footnote—barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.

“Despite Hungary’s setback, Yoon Jeonghan remains one of the most popular and formidable contenders for the championship. With only twenty points separating him from the lead, Belgium offers a more than fair chance for the Ferrari star to close the gap and reclaim his momentum.”

Jeonghan blinked, then read it again, a slow smile tugging at his lips. He leaned back in his chair, the paper still in hand, and shook his head.

“Subtle,” he muttered, though his tone was anything but annoyed. It was gratitude, warmth, and a flicker of hope all wrapped together in a single word.

He might have faltered in Hungary, but you’d reminded him—the season wasn’t even half over. And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t fighting alone.

FORMULA 1 ROLEX BELGIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps

The weekend at Spa began like a dream.

The legendary Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps was a driver’s haven and a monster in equal measure. The longest track on the calendar, its 7 kilometers of asphalt wound through the lush forests of the Ardennes, combining high-speed straights, sweeping corners, and the unpredictable challenges of its microclimate. The iconic Eau Rouge and Raidillon dared drivers to go flat out, while the downhill plunge into Pouhon tested their courage and precision. It was a place where skill separated the good from the great.

Jeonghan thrived on its challenge.

FP1 and FP2 were his playgrounds, his Ferrari gliding through corners like it was made for this circuit alone. The car was responsive and balanced, every adjustment in setup shaving precious milliseconds off his laps. Jeonghan pushed it to its limits, feeling every bump and curve beneath him as if Spa’s asphalt were an extension of himself.

By the time he returned to the garage, his name was at the top of the timesheets, and his team wore expressions of pride and relief. Engineers crowded around him during the debrief, their excitement palpable. Even Mingyu wandered over to toss a mockingly impressed, “Don’t get used to it, Yoon,” in his direction.

Jeonghan, basking in the buzz of dominance, had only winked.

But then came the penalty.

A breach in power unit regulations—an unavoidable technicality that slapped him with a grid penalty. It was frustratingly bureaucratic, a punishment that felt out of his control and yet deeply personal. His pole position was stripped away, and he was relegated to P10.

In the Ferrari garage, Jeonghan leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, the weight of his helmet heavy in his hand. The rhythmic hum of power tools and bursts of chatter around him did little to soothe his simmering frustration.

It wasn’t just the penalty—it was the sting of perfection slipping through his fingers, a weekend that had started flawlessly now teetering on the edge of disappointment.

He glanced up, ready to bury himself in the chaos of the paddock, and froze.

You were there, leaning casually against the pit wall, chatting with one of the mechanics. The glow of the overhead lights caught in your hair, and despite the whirlwind of activity, you were a picture of calm. Your hands moved as you spoke, animated yet confident, the faintest flicker of a smirk playing on your lips.

His gaze lingered.

It hit him—a memory of your words from Hungary, your unwavering belief cloaked in sharp wit: “A more than fair chance to close the gap.”

For the first time since the penalty, the gap didn’t feel insurmountable.

He didn’t realize he’d been staring until you caught his eye. Your brows rose, and you tilted your head in mock curiosity before excusing yourself from the mechanic and walking toward him.

“You okay?” you asked, your voice laced with a note of amusement and something softer underneath.

Jeonghan shrugged, plastering on his signature cocky grin. “Since when are you worried about me?”

Your lips twitched in a barely concealed smile. “Oh, I’m not worried. Just curious. I wanted to see how Ferrari’s golden boy handles a little adversity.”

His grin faltered for the briefest moment before sharpening again. “Keep watching,” he said, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “I might surprise you.”

You tilted your chin, your expression a blend of challenge and intrigue. “Don’t disappoint me then.”

The way you said it—like you meant it—sparked something fierce in him.

As you turned to leave, the faint scent of your perfume lingered in the air, anchoring him to the moment. Jeonghan watched you disappear into the paddock, your confident stride a sharp contrast to his brooding, and for the first time that day, a smirk tugged at his lips.

It wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.

P10 to P1. 

It was the kind of race drivers dreamed of—the kind that earned its place in highlight reels for years to come.

The chaos began even before the lights went out. Rain had threatened all morning, dark clouds heavy over the Ardennes, but it held off just long enough to keep everyone guessing. Jeonghan sat in his Ferrari on the grid, surrounded by cars that had no business being ahead of him. He’d spent every second since the penalty recalibrating his mindset, shifting his frustration into fuel.

As the lights went out, his singular focus kicked in.

Turn 1, La Source: Jeonghan dived inside, threading through a gap that barely existed. The radio crackled with his engineer’s voice, commending his clean move, but he barely registered it. Eau Rouge and Raidillon loomed ahead, their uphill sweep demanding precision, bravery, and trust in his car.

He took the corners flat out.

By Lap 5, Jeonghan was in P7. His mind churned as he studied the cars ahead, each one a problem to solve. Every braking point, every shift in weight through the curves—it all required perfect execution.

But then came the rain.

It began as a drizzle at Pouhon, the light sheen on the track turning treacherous by the next sector. Jeonghan’s grip on the wheel tightened as he adjusted his lines, feeling for every ounce of traction.

“Box this lap for inters,” his engineer instructed.

“No,” Jeonghan replied, his voice steady. He could feel it—the balance of risk and reward. He stayed out one lap longer, the gamble paying off as he overtook two cars struggling on the wrong tires. When he finally pitted, the stop was flawless.

By Lap 20, the red flag came out, the rain too heavy for safety. Jeonghan sat in the pit lane during the suspension, helmet off, sweat beading his brow. His thoughts wandered for the first time since the race began.

Your words came back to him.

"Jeonghan’s perfectionism is both his weapon and his curse. When he is at his best, he’s untouchable. But the question remains: can he handle the pressure when the odds aren’t in his favor?"

His jaw tightened. You were right—about the pressure, about the way he held himself to standards so high they sometimes crushed him. But you’d also written something else.

"A more than fair chance to close the gap."

He wasn’t sure why, but that sentence anchored him.

When the race restarted, Jeonghan was a man possessed.

Sector by sector, he clawed his way through the field, each overtake cleaner and bolder than the last. At Blanchimont, he overtook Soonyoung in a move that was half instinct, half calculated risk. His engineer’s voice came over the radio in a disbelieving laugh: “Mate, you’re insane!”

By the final lap, he was leading. The roar of the crowd blended with the steady beat of his heart as he crossed the finish line, victory his once more.

The pit lane was a blur of celebration. His team engulfed him in a sea of red, their cheers drowning out even the din of Spa’s loyal fans. Soonyoung appeared out of nowhere, throwing an arm around Jeonghan’s shoulders.

“Winning in Spa from P10? You better believe I’m buying the first round,” Soonyoung declared, grinning despite his P2 finish.

Jeonghan laughed, the sound ragged and raw from effort, but his mind wasn’t entirely in the moment.

Later, in the quiet of the motorhome, when the adrenaline had settled and exhaustion was creeping in, Jeonghan pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over the search bar before typing your name.

The article was already live.

His breath caught as he read your headline:

From P10 to Perfection: Yoon Jeonghan’s Masterclass at Spa

It was glowing, but in your unmistakable style—balanced, sharp, and honest. You praised his overtakes, his strategy, and his ability to rise under pressure. Your writing was like poetry, an ode to his resilience, his precision in the rain, his ability to claw victory from the jaws of defeat.  But what caught him off guard was the final line.

"With the championship fight closer than ever, it’s not a question of if Jeonghan will close the gap. It’s a question of when."

Jeonghan read it three times, his chest tight with something that felt almost like pride.

For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to believe them.

The bass thrummed low and heavy, a pulse that seemed to reverberate straight through the packed room. 

Jeonghan leaned against the bar, his drink in hand, his racing suit long since replaced by a fitted black shirt with the top buttons undone. The sleeves were rolled just enough to expose his forearms, the dark fabric clinging to his frame in a way that effortlessly commanded attention. Around him, the club buzzed with post-race energy—drivers, engineers, and team members alike reveling in the victory and chaos of the day.

Soonyoung was next to him, buzzing with his usual infectious energy. Jeonghan caught snippets of his teammate’s banter, but his mind was elsewhere.

“God, Jeonghan, if you stare any harder, she’s going to spontaneously combust,” Soonyoung teased, sipping his drink with a knowing smirk.

Jeonghan blinked, startled. “What?”

Soonyoung rolled his eyes, nodding toward the dance floor. “Her. You’ve been staring at her like she’s a particularly tricky apex all night.”

Jeonghan followed his gaze.

There you were, dancing with a group of Ferrari engineers, the colored lights spilling across your frame, making your skin glow. You laughed at something one of them said, your head tilting back, your hair swaying with every movement. Jeonghan’s grip on his glass tightened.

“You’re hopeless,” Soonyoung said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just go talk to her. Or better yet, dance with her. God knows you’ll make everyone else jealous.”

Jeonghan scoffed, setting his empty glass down on the bar with a sharp clink. “You’re imagining things.”

“Sure, and you just happened to spend the past ten minutes glaring at the poor guy she’s dancing with.”

Jeonghan shot him a warning glance, but Soonyoung only grinned wider.

“Look, you’ve already won at Spa,” he added, leaning closer. “Might as well take another victory tonight.”

Jeonghan shook his head, but the heat in his chest betrayed him. He cast one last glance at you before downing the rest of his drink and pushing off the bar.

The crowd was a blur of movement, bodies packed tightly together under the pulsing lights, but Jeonghan moved with purpose. He found you easily, your energy magnetic even in the chaos.

The beat shifted as he approached, slowing to something deeper, sultrier. He stepped in behind you, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from your skin.

“Enjoying yourself?” he murmured, his voice low and warm against your ear.

You turned slightly, glancing at him over your shoulder. Your lips curved into a teasing smile, your eyes dancing in the dim light. “Jeonghan. Didn’t think you were the clubbing type.”

He smirked, his hand brushing lightly against your waist. “I make exceptions for special occasions.”

You arched a brow, leaning back into him just enough to blur the line between teasing and inviting. “Special occasions, huh? Like winning at Spa?”

“Something like that,” he said, his voice a touch quieter now. His fingers rested lightly on your waist, the heat of his touch sending a shiver up your spine.

You turned to face him fully, your hands drifting up to rest on his shoulders, playful and almost casual. “So? What’s it like being untouchable?”

He chuckled softly, his gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips and back again. “You’d know,” he said smoothly, “if you were paying attention during my races instead of writing snarky articles.”

You laughed, a soft, melodious sound that made his chest tighten. “I did pay attention,” you countered, leaning in slightly, your lips barely a breath away from his ear. “You were alright, I guess.”

“Alright?” he repeated, feigning offense. “You called it a masterclass. Don’t think I didn’t read your article.”

Your grin widened, the fire in your eyes matching the teasing edge in your tone. “Oh, that? Don’t let it go to your head, Yoon. I still expect a proper interview.”

His hands shifted to your hips, grounding you against him as he swayed slightly to the beat, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “Careful. Keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

“And if I did?” you teased back, your voice soft but no less challenging.

For a moment, the world around you fell away. The music, the lights, the press of the crowd—it all faded as the space between you closed. Jeonghan’s eyes lingered on your lips, his heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the adrenaline of racing.

Then, just as you tilted your head, leaning closer—

“JEONGHAN!”

The moment shattered.

Sunwoo’s voice boomed over the music as he appeared out of nowhere, the mechanic’s grin wide and oblivious. “Bro, come on! You can flirt later! Dance with me!”

Jeonghan groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder as your laughter spilled over him like warm sunlight.

“This isn’t over,” he muttered, just loud enough for you to hear.

You pulled back, still laughing, and met his gaze with a wink. “I’ll hold you to that.”

FORMULA 1 HEINEKEN DUTCH GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Zandvoort

The paddock at Zandvoort was always one of Jeonghan’s favorites. The smell of fresh sea air mixed with the unmistakable tang of fuel and rubber, while the orange-clad crowd painted the stands in a fiery glow. Jeonghan didn’t even mind the noise—something about the Netherlands had a way of energizing him.

He was walking back from the driver’s parade when he spotted you outside the Ferrari hospitality tent, a coffee in hand, your eyes scanning the throng of people with practiced ease. The crisp breeze tugged at your hair, and Jeonghan slowed his pace, his lips curling into a familiar smirk.

You glanced up just in time to catch him staring. “Don’t you have a race to focus on?”

“Don’t you have an article to write?” he shot back, his voice smooth as ever.

“I’m multitasking,” you replied, raising your coffee in a mock toast.

Jeonghan stepped closer, close enough that the conversation felt private despite the bustling paddock around you. “Let me guess,” he said, crossing his arms, “today’s headline is, ‘Ferrari Driver Jeonghan Looks Extra Handsome Under Dutch Sunlight.’”

You snorted, barely suppressing a laugh. “Oh, please. I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘Can Ferrari’s Yoon Jeonghan Deliver After Spa Masterclass?’”

“Flattering,” he mused, tilting his head. “I thought you’d save the sarcasm for the post-race write-up.”

“I aim to keep you humble,” you said with a shrug, though the playful glint in your eyes gave you away.

Jeonghan leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to send a thrill down your spine. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like a fan.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could get a word in—

“Jeonghan!”

A voice cut through the tension like a knife. You both turned to see Soonyoung jogging up, waving enthusiastically. “There you are! We’re late for the strategy briefing!”

Jeonghan sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching as he glanced back at you. “Guess we’ll have to finish this later.”

You grinned, your eyes dancing with amusement. “Don’t let me keep you from your briefing, Ferrari’s golden boy.”

Jeonghan’s smirk deepened. “I’ll see you after I win.”

He walked off, Soonyoung talking his ear off as you watched him go, the heat in your chest lingering far longer than it should have.

The race came and went, and though Jeonghan didn’t win—Mingyu’s dominance at Zandvoort was almost an inevitability—he still managed to bring home a solid podium finish.

Later, back at the hospitality suite, you found yourself standing near the balcony, staring out at the ocean waves in the distance.

“Not bad for a day’s work,” came a familiar voice behind you.

You turned to find Jeonghan leaning casually against the doorway, his hair still damp from the post-race shower. He’d swapped his racing suit for a simple white shirt and jeans, but somehow, he still looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine.

“Not bad,” you admitted. “Though I was expecting a win. Should I change the headline to ‘Close, but Not Quite’?”

Jeonghan’s laugh was low and smooth as he closed the distance between you. “I think you’re just trying to rile me up.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Is it working?”

He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint freckle on his cheekbone, the way his lashes caught the light. “You tell me.”

The air between you crackled, your banter giving way to something heavier, something unspoken. For a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you.

“Jeonghan!”

The door slammed open, and Mingyu’s booming voice shattered the moment.

Both of you jumped, turning to see the taller driver grinning sheepishly. “Uh, sorry. Team dinner’s starting soon, and they’re waiting for you.”

Jeonghan’s jaw tightened, but he plastered on an easy smile. “Of course they are.”

Mingyu left as quickly as he’d come, leaving you and Jeonghan alone again.

“Do people just have radar for this?” Jeonghan muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

You laughed, the tension easing slightly. “Maybe it’s the universe telling you to focus on racing.”

He stepped closer again, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Or maybe it’s telling me I’ll just have to try harder.”

Your pulse quickened, but before you could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Jeonghan sighed dramatically, stepping back with a rueful smile. “Guess I’ll have to settle for third interruptions.”

You smirked, folding your arms. “You’re consistent, at least.”

“Don’t forget it,” he said with a wink, his voice smooth as ever as he walked away.

And just like that, you were left alone, the waves crashing in the distance as you wondered how long this game of cat and mouse could last.

another lil a/n: full throttle is probably one of my favorite things i've EVER written and i am so proud of myself for getting this out of my head and onto the page.

[mostly-imagines]

The Alchemy vol. I

jason todd x fem!reader

aka the progression of your relationship with the red hood

vol II

warnings: slow burn, mentions of attempted sa for reader, depictions of blood and injury, mentions of standard gotham violence

Dear fuck, he’s as heavy as he looks.

You use all of your weight to pull him backwards towards the couch, almost giving up when you realized you’d have to lift him up off the ground to actually get on it.

Getting him through the window was enough of a hassle, challenging the difficulty of the decision to bring him in here at all. 

Thankfully you don’t have to think too hard on it because you feel his body stiffen up suddenly. He jolts upright, though clearly pained to do so, hand flying to the gun holster on his side.

You take a step back, hands out in front of you. “Hey, it’s alright.”

“Who are you?” His voice is interrogative. 

You put your hands down, “You’re the one who passed out on my balcony, I think if anyone gets to ask that question it’s me.”

He stares at you, white lenses bearing into your soul.

Okay, yeah. You tell him your name. He doesn’t move. “You just looked like you needed some help..”

His posture loosens a bit, and his hand finally leaves the holster.

He glances down at his abdomen, a sizable tear in his suit and a nearly alarming amount of blood. “You got any bandages?”

“Uh, I—yeah, yeah, I do.” You dart down the hall into the bathroom, shuffling through your first aid kid. You toss a few wraps into your arms, along with some antiseptic spray you suspect he’ll need. You grab your hand towel and get it wet under warm water. 

When you return, he’s moved himself onto the sofa, lifting his shirt up to assess the damage. You round the couch, seeing more blood than you’d have hoped for.

“Can I?” You ask, motioning to his injury. 

He looks up at you for a long moment. He nods.

You kneel down in front of him and replace his hand in lifting up the shirt. It’s a cut, it doesn’t look terribly deep, but still not shallow enough that he could just leave it.

You take the rag and dab it around the wound, trying to clean up the blood as much as possible without making contact with it.

He’s very still as you work, and you get the strong impression he’s watching you carefully.

You grab the antiseptic spray, shaking it. “This’ll sting.”

He grunts.

You apply the antiseptic thoroughly and he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t move his gaze from you for a second.

You unwrap one of the bandages and place it on firmly, making sure there’s no bleedthrough.

And not that you particularly want to be thinking about this right now, but the man is noticeably ripped. Stacked like a house of cards.

You rip away your gaze and stand up, hands on your hips, taking a deep breath. You look at him—at his helmet.

You don’t know how you can tell, but he’s studying you. Trying to get a read on you, maybe. Regardless, you’re eager to escape the gaze.

You shovel the remainder of your supplies back into your arms and bring them back to the bathroom, calling out, “I didn’t take off your helmet, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

There’s a short beat. 

“Do I seem like someone that worries often?” 

You peek your head out of the bathroom door. 

You look at him. “You seem like someone that doesn’t worry enough.”

He snorts. “You’re not far off.”

You make your way back once you’re done, looking at the disregarded meal you’d been interrupted from. “I have pasta if you…eat.”

“I do.”

“I can go in the other room if you—”

He clicks the lock on his helmet, taking it off. He’s left with a second mask underneath, covering his eyes and nose. His dark hair sticks up from the helmet, a white streak poking out in the front. He looks younger than you would’ve expected. Cuter, if his jaw is anything to go by.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Okay then.

You grab a second plate out of the cabinet and scoop on the rest of the pasta from the pan.

You hand him the plate, avoiding standing too close. 

“Thanks, sweetheart.” 

You turn back around as casually as possible after hearing the name, wanting to avoid letting your face give anything away.

This guy kills people, right?

You sit down in the armchair across from the couch, spooling the pasta on and off the fork. He doesn’t show the same hesitation in dining away that you do—you guess fighting crime would require some calorie exchange.

“You a nurse?” He asks after a few minutes. 

The question takes you by surprise. You hadn’t taken him as a small talk kind of person. “Huh? Oh, no, I’ve just taken a few first aid courses and stuff.”

He gives a short hum, thoughtful.

“What?”

“You’re good.” Hardly.

“I didn’t really do anything.”

“You did enough.” He says, not leaving much room for argument.

He stands up at once, walking past you to the kitchen. Your gaze follows him silently. He puts his empty plate in the sink and returns to the edge of the living room.

He looks at you once more and pops his helmet back on followed by the click of the lock.

“I’ll see ya.” He says shortly, before ducking out the window.

You’re left alone, sitting in your armchair, plate of cold pasta forgotten on your lap.

That could’ve gone very badly. Maybe not your most thought-through decision to literally drag the Red Hood into your apartment, but hey. Maybe you’re exercising your ability to be an upstanding, helpful person. Or maybe you were just hoping to prevent a vigilante being found dead on your fire escape.

Regardless, you close the window after him, leaving it unlocked. Just in case.

You wake in the middle of the night to the sounds of footsteps in your living room. You shoot upright, immediately spotting the lamp light flooding in from under your door.

Creeping to a stand, you grab the baseball bat next to your bed and slowly walk to the door.

You creep the door open as quietly as possible, inching out half a step at a time. A nearby creak on your floorboards had you swinging blindly, only to have your bat get stopped midair. You look up to see Mr. Hood himself, blocking the blow of your hit with his hand. 

“Wow. You and a bat against Gotham, huh, sweetheart?”

“Fuck!” You let go of the bat and drown your face in your hands. “What is wrong with you?”

“Apparently that I don’t carry enough baseball bats with me.” He says coolly, inspecting your bat. Though he’s got to admit, your bat is probably a hell of a lot more useful than his. 

You drop your arms at your side. “If I’d known bringing you into my apartment one time was going to be considered a free pass forever, I might’ve thought twice.”

“If I’d known I was going to nearly be concussed with a baseball bat, I might’ve too.” Barely. If you’re being honest with yourself, you’re still half asleep and it was not a very good swing.

He looks at you straight on for the first time. His helmet quickly drifts down and back up to your face just as fast.

You look down. T-Shirt, underwear, and…no that’s it. Not…ideal. You pull down on the unfortunately not at all oversized shirt, wanting to creep back into your room.

He turns his back, allowing you to do just that and scramble for some shorts to throw on. 

“Very gentlemanly of you.” You call out from your room, “And only thirty seconds after breaking into my apartment.”

“Okay, one, I’ve been here longer than that. In a non creepy way.”

“Right.”

“And two, I didn’t break anything. You live in the middle of Gotham and don’t lock your window?”

You reemerge in the doorway, “I live on the eighth floor.” 

He turns around to face you again, helmet in his hands. “Didn’t stop me.” No it did not. 

“Mm. So are you here specifically to judge my home security or was there something you needed?”

He takes a deep breath, “Actually yeah. I just need a place to rest for a minute.” 

“Rest from what?”

A series of gunshots echo from down the street.

“Next question.”

Concise.

You and Hood sit on the couch in the dark, per his insistence, because for some godforsaken reason, you have no curtains. It takes a few minutes for the silence to dissipate into forced conversation, which takes a few more minutes to fade into actual conversation.

“Can I be honest with you?” You ask him.

“Does it matter how I answer?”

“I don’t understand how you’re not dead.” You poke your head up, turning to him. “Are you human?”

He cranes his neck to look out the window, “Maybe getting shot at isn’t the worst thing that could happen tonight…”

You roll your eyes with a smile that you’re glad is hidden by the darkness. “Oh, fuck off.”

“You don’t have much in terms of self-preservation skills, do you?”

You ignore him as to not acknowledge that he’s probably right and roll through to your next curiosity, “Who the hell was shooting at you anyways?” Though, you don’t really expect an answer.

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. They got ‘til sunrise anyway.”

You tilt your head, “‘Til sunri—” oh. Yeah. Come to think of it, he does have two guns on him right now. At least that you can see. You squint blankly at the wall, “You know, I’m placing a lot of trust in the hope that you’re not just as bad as those guys.”

“Yes you are.” He nods, not doing anything to convince you that he is in fact a good guy. He hasn’t tried to harm you in any way though, so you guess that’s a good sign.

You tilt your head at him. “Do you get paid to do this?” 

“I’m pretty sure there’s a lot of people who would pay me not to do this.” 

You nod solemnly, mouth turned into an exaggerated frown. “So you have a day job?”

He looks over at you, “Do you always ask this many questions?”

“Are you always so dodgy about answering them?” You shoot back. If you’d thought for .5 seconds longer on that, you might not have said anything. But you feel comfortable here, in your apartment with a man whose face you’ve never seen, name you don’t know, and always has at least two loaded guns on him.

He huffs out a laugh, “Yeah. I am.” He looks over at you. “You live here by yourself?”

You look around at the empty apartment before turning back to him, “Seems that way.”

He shrugs, “Boyfriend could be out or something.”

“Well most people are asleep at one in the morning. Like I was. Remember that?”

“No.”

You sigh, curling up into a ball on your end of the couch, resting your chin on your knees. You’re quiet for a minute before piping up, “Do people actually break into apartments on high floors a lot?”

“Stupid people.” He pauses, looking over at the frown on your face. “Look, I’m in the neighborhood a lot. If I see somebody climbing your fire escape I’ll shoot them.”

You let a little smile out, “I’m thinking there’s other steps you could take before you get to that point.”

“If you want to waste time.” His gaze doubles back at you, “That was a joke, by the way.”

You bark out a tired laugh, “Yeah, I picked up on that, thanks.”

He removes his eyes from you, fixing on a set of pictures you have hanging on the wall.

Your eyes flutter and you move to rest your head on the arm of the couch. “Is this going to be a regular thing then?”

“You could lock your window.”

“Living on the eighth floor didn’t stop you, I can’t imagine a shitty lock will do much more.”

“If you don’t want me here, I won’t be here.” He says gruffly.

“If I don’t want you here, I’ll let you know.” You mumble, eyes closing.

You can barely make out a laugh from him, “Good to know.”

You’re not quite sure how much time goes by when he leaves, but you have a pretty strong feeling you’d fallen asleep. Your main indicator was feeling the blanket draped nicely over you that you could’ve sworn was on the chair across the room.

Maybe it’s ten o’clock at night and you’re sat on your kitchen floor, bawling your eyes out. Maybe you’re going to have to quit your job. Or maybe you’ll have to face a lawsuit. Maybe this is the worst day in the history of time. Maybe it’s about to get worse. 

The sound of your living room window sliding open has you startling into a rush, body panicking as if you’ve done something wrong and desperately need to cover the evidence. The past few weeks of sporadic visits leaves no question about who it is, and you just hope the kitchen island in front of you will be enough to convince Hood that you’re not in and he’ll leave.

But because today is today, that’s not how it goes down.

You can vaguely make out the sound of his footsteps approaching, a courtesy that you’re sure he incorporated on purpose.

“Oh fuck…” you mutter to yourself, wiping your eyes.

He rounds the counter, looking down at you. “Wha—what’s wrong?”

“Fuck. Nothing.” You say, standing up and adjusting your clothes. “Are you hurt?” He better fucking not be at only ten.

“No, I—why are you on the floor?” 

You roll your eyes, “I live alone, forgive me for assuming I would be given the privilege to cry on the floor in private.”

“Did something happen?” You’re trying really hard not to call him an idiot. 

You raise your eyebrows, giving a light nod. “Uh, yeah, I’d say so.”

He shifts in his stance, “Do I need to talk to someone?”

You scoff, knowing damn well his version of ‘talk to someone’ does not include talking to someone. “Why are you even here so early?” 

“Wanted to stop by before I went out.” he says quietly.

You’re about to snap something at him again, but the burning in your eyes takes immediate priority. You wrap your arms around your middle and try to calm yourself down, with very little success. The tears fall easily and your shoulders start shaking as you look at the floor, letting the melancholy take over. 

It feels like much longer than it probably was, but sometime after the first few tears fall he wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his chest. This only makes you cry harder, sobbing against his armor. Your arms stay wrapped around your center, while his hands remain completely still against your back, though firm. You don’t realize it immediately, but he’s holding a good portion of your weight up, you’d for sure collapse onto the floor otherwise. You kind of wish you would. Sitting on the floor felt nice, maybe falling down on it will feel even better.

You slowly start to regain your breathing, the well in your eyes drying up again. He waits for you to stop completely and slowly pulls back from you, hands momentarily still wavering next to you like he’s ready to catch you.

It takes you a minute to notice, but his helmet is locked on to the finger-shaped bruises on your forearm. You awkwardly move your opposite arm to cover them, looking around your apartment with nothing to search for.  

He’s quiet for a long while, clearly thinking hard. “What happened?”

You sniffle, “Some asshole at my job.”

“Some asshole?” He doesn’t believe you. Rightfully so, but he has no business being able to tell that you’re lying about one single word in that sentence.  

“My boss. Was very intent on successfully hitting on me.” You exhale deeply, “His approach could use some work though, if I’m honest.”

His posture remains statue-like. “Where do you work?”

You look at him straight on for the first time that night, “What does that matter?”

“I’ll take care of it.” He says simply.

You wave him off, “It’s fine.”

He waits a moment before letting you know, “I’m being polite by asking, I’m going to find out either way.”

You plop back down on the kitchen floor, knees to chest. “Well, then do it the hard way.”

About ten seconds of him staring down at you in silence go by, before he sits down next to you. It’s a bit funny how he tries to shrink himself down next to you, you’re assuming because he doesn’t want you to get panicked again because this massive stranger is sitting next to you in your kitchen in the dead of night.  

You don’t look at him as he clicks his helmet off and sets it on the other side of him. It’s quiet for another minute when he holds his gloved hand out to you, and you’re not quite sure how you know what he wants, but you do. You place your bruised arm in his hand, letting him gently pull it closer to him and scan over it. 

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” 

Again, you don’t know how, but you can tell he’s asking how far things went. “I started screaming and it freaked him out. He let me go.” you say numbly. 

You can see him nod out of the corner of your eye, bits of red making their way into your peripheral despite the discarded helmet. You turn slowly to look at him, finding him looking at you already.  

His face is more covered than it had been the first night, the same black mask covers his eyes but the lower half of his face is also hidden by a red mouthpiece. You’re in the lamp light and closer to him than you had been before and you’re counting out specks of green in his blue eyes. He lets you, to your surprise, and when you run out of emerald hues you take focus on his thick, dark eyelashes. Your gaze moves back ever so slightly to make eye contact with him and you tear your eyes away, zeroing in on the kitchen tiles. 

You sigh contemplatively, “I’m worried if you kill my boss it’ll be traced back to me and I’ll get pinned for it.”

He doesn’t laugh. But your delivery was a little dry in the wrong way so really it was on you.

“I’m not going to kill him.” he tells you, “I wouldn’t gamble with my pied-a-terre like that.”

Your head falls back, hitting the drawer behind you with a light thud. “Then why waste your time at all?” Maybe you should slow down with the snide comments.

He wants to, but he doesn’t call out the implied self-slighting in your words. “Maybe it’s a ‘me’ thing but I don’t particularly like men that hurt women.”

You let out a dry laugh. “In Gotham, it just might be.”

He sits with you on the linoleum tile of your kitchen until your eyes start to droop and he lightly corrals you to your bedroom before taking his exit through the window. You told him multiple times that he could go and you were fine, but he insisted that nothing important was happening in the city that time of night. You didn’t quite believe him though, because it was past midnight by the time he’d headed out.  

When you showed up to work the following day your boss wasn’t there. Wasn’t there the day after either. Or the day after. He didn’t make an appearance again until the following Monday. And when he did show face, he did so with a neck brace and a cast on his leg. But once more, he absolutely refused to make eye contact or speak to any of the female employees. It actually became a whole thing when he wouldn’t give instructions or feedback to any of you, and insisted on having his secretary replaced with a man, who he then used as a middle man to speak to all of the women for him. HR got involved three times in the span of the next five days, and by the Monday after, he’d been fired.

So to recap: yes, no, no, undecided, and hard no. 

Maybe you’re really starting to like this Red Hood guy.

Hard yes.

You’re slightly on guard upon hearing a clattering on the balcony, though if the past few weeks have been any indicator, you’re not in much danger.

Your posture slumps as you peer around the hallway corner, “Oh, it’s you.”

“Good to see you too.” he grumbles, dropping onto the floor.

“Well, I have to imagine I’m a step up from the last person you saw.” You say, looking him up and down, seeing what sure as hell looks like a gunshot wound on his chest armor. “What happened to you? The Mad Hatter uses guns now?”

He groans, “Ah, I said something about him being a heartless fuck, and I guess he took it personally.”

You sigh, “Jesus Christ, Hood.”

He waves you off, “It’s not that big of a deal.” 

You scoff, “He tried to shoot you in the heart.”

“Yeah, well, he missed.” He grumbles, adjusting his position on the couch. 

You exhale sharply, “How do you know?”

“How do I know?” He tilts his helmet at you, exasperated. 

You throw your arms up at your side, “I don’t know! I’m not equipped for this scenario.”

He huffs, “Look, it’s fine, it hit my armor. It’ll probably just be a bad bruise.”

“Probably?”

“I don’t think there’s blood. Could you…” he vaguely gestures to his torso, but it's enough for you to get the hint.

You shake the panic out of your head, “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

You help him shrug off his jacket as he strips off his armor, and you lift his shirt up as slowly as you can in case the injury is worse than he thinks.

You’re not shocked to see that he has scars, that’s kind of a given in his line of work. What you are shocked to see is one very long scar that lines directly up the center of his body. It’s a deep scar, too.

And, oh. The long scar extends further, splitting off into a fork at his collar. That’s—oh. Oh. Oh. That is an autopsy scar. 

You’re not sure what to do. You’ve never seen a living person with an autopsy scar—though you have to imagine neither have most people.

He clearly does not want to talk about it and you’re happy to let him keep the skeleton in the closet.

You avert your gaze back over to his diaphragm at the area of reddened skin.

“There’s no blood, but…” You inspect it a bit closer, “I think there’s going to be a bad bruise. You might end up with bruising on your ribs, you need to get that looked at.”

“I am.” He says shortly.

You stand up straight, dropping your shoulders. “By someone who went to medical school. Or has taken more than one anatomy class in their life.” 

He yanks down his shirt, standing, apparently too quickly, and wobbling. You catch his arm as he sways, attempting to steady him. “You should sit down.”

“Need to go back out.” He grunts, trying to pull away from you with little force.

“To get killed? ‘Cause you’re going the right way about it.” 

He tilts his head at you like he’s daring you to be so bold again. At least that's what it felt like. You sigh, gesturing to the couch, “Sit down.”

You didn’t expect it to work but he does as told.

You look around, unsure of what to do next. “Do you need ice?”

“What?”

“You’re hurt.” You say slower. “Do you need ice?”

He falters for a second, “No, it’s—no.” A couple beats pass before he adds, “Thanks, sweetheart.” 

It’s impossible not to notice that he’s staring at you. You feel hot under his gaze, not knowing what to do with yourself. You clear your throat, telling him to hang on for a second. 

You call out behind you as you walk to the kitchen, “Take your helmet off, it’s rude.” You grab the painkillers from their new easily-accessible place on the kitchen counter and grab a water bottle from the fridge.

It was a joke but when you come back his helmet is off and he’s just wearing his domino eye mask. His hair is extra tousled, the white streak barely visible in the mess of loose curls. You toss the bottle of meds at him, followed by the capped bottle of water. He catches them easily, downing more than he probably should have but he got shot tonight so you figure you’ll give him a break about it.    

You plop down on the couch next to him, honestly closer than you’d meant to. Your knees and shoulders lightly brush against one anothers, though neither of you make any moves to scoot over. 

You both look straight ahead at the wall, simmering in the amity. “So did somebody else deal with the Hatter or when you get shot do you just bounce back like a T-1000?”

He scoffs, “No, getting shot at is a bit of an inconvenience for me.”

“Wrong line of work.”

He cocks an eyebrow, “You’re telling me.”

You turn your head to him, “Why do you do it then?” 

He looks back at you earnestly. “Someone has to.” 

“Someone does.”

He tenses up a bit at that, breaking eye contact. “Not well enough.” 

Your head slowly lulls and drops into a rest on his shoulder, causing him to stiffen up a bit more before almost completely relaxing.

“So violence is the answer to violence?” you ask, not argumentative, just genuinely musing. 

Hood sighs, “Half-assed reform programs didn’t do anything, shitty ‘crisis interventions’ didn’t do anything, the cops sure as hell don’t do anything.” He shrugs under you. “You run out of options eventually.”

“And that’s why you took it upon yourself to intervene?”

“Mm. ‘When reason fails, the devil helps.’” He says, quite melodramatically, in your opinion.

“I-Is that—” you squint, shooting off of his shoulder to look him in the eye. “You spend your nights getting in street fights and shootouts and you spend your days reading Crime and Punishment of all things?” You gawk at him, “That explains a lot about your disposition.”

He shrugs with a shake of his head. “It’s a rough world. Can’t afford to be reading about Hogwarts.”

You pause, combing through your next words, “‘Man only likes to count his troubles; he doesn’t calculate his happiness.’”

His eyes crinkle under his mask as he smiles, clearly pleasantly surprised that you know your shit. “Touché.”

You grin back, pleased with yourself. 

There’s a brief recession where your smiles both get caught in the flicker between on and off, where your eyes take the opportunity to scan over each other’s faces. 

You realize that this may be the first time you’ve seen him properly smile and it’s so magnetizing. So much so that you don’t realize you’re staring at his lips until your eyes snap back up to his and find that his are on yours.

His eyes don’t leave yours as he nudges you a bit with his shoulder. It does just enough to break the trance, giving you the cue to rest your head on him again. This time you allow more of your weight to lean against him and he actually seems relaxed for once.

 You glance at the clock on the wall without moving and realize it’s almost four in the morning. “I’m tired, Hood.” you mumble into his shirt.

“You don’t—” he falters for a moment, “You don’t have to call me that.”

You squint at him, “What should I call you then?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “J.”

“J?” you whisper, like it’s a grave secret. You guess it kind of is.

He nods.

“Okay.” Your cheek flattens against his shoulder. “J.” 

You nearly think you’re imagining it when you feel him rest his head against yours.

“You don’t know how to protect yourself?”

You roll your eyes at him, “You saw the way I swung at you with the baseball bat, what do you think?”

It’s only just after sunset, you could still see some purple-pink hues in the sky if you looked out the window. He’s started showing up before patrol some nights, saying he felt bad about waking you up at 3 am multiple times a week. So now, he mostly only drops in late if he’s a manageable amount of injured.

You stand in the middle of your living room together, after you’d made a joke about needing him as a bodyguard in Gotham. As it turns out, that was a one way street to him finding out that you’re useless in a fight.

“I was hoping you were having an off night because you just woke up, but now I'm concerned.” He says, grimacing.

You shrug, “I carry pepper spray.” 

He grumbles, displeased. “Put your hands up.”

You drop your head to the side and glower at him, “Really?”

He raises his eyebrows at you. Just do it. 

Alright, you’ll humor him. You put your fists up and he holds his hands open in front of you in kind. You throw a light punch.

“Come on, put your weight behind it.”

You do, hitting his hand harder. “Hood—”

He tilts his head forward at that, looking at you through his brows.

You inhale impatiently, “J, Why do we have to do this? I don’t have any illusions that I could knock you out and I can’t imagine you do either.” 

He shakes his head, “It’s not about knocking someone out, it’s about defending yourself. Gonna be a hell of a lot harder to hurt you if you’re throwing punches. Harder.”

You give a raised hum, “Not if they have a gun…”

“Well, we’ll work on that too.”

You groan, throwing a half-assed hit. “Where’d you learn to fight?” You ask before throwing another.

“Turn your body into it.” He corrects. “My, uh, my dad taught me.”

You hum, hitting him again. “Are you guys close?”

“You’re being nosy again.” He grunts amidst a hit.

“You’re being evasive again.” You shoot back.  

He drops his hands, taking your wrists in his, “Here, put your hands in front of your face when you shoot so you can block counters.” He tells you, adjusting your stance accordingly.

You make a face, “I’m confused, am I fighting a mugger or a kickboxer?”  

He ignores you, moving his hands around to give you different angles to hit at. 

You go at it for a few minutes, taking his critiques with reluctant concedence. “Alright, that’s good.” He says, relaxing his body.

You perk up, “We’re done?” 

“No,” he shuts you down before asking earnestly, “Do you trust me?”

Your brain hadn’t even fully processed the question before you nod, mumbling a ‘yes’. He takes a measured step closer to you, watching carefully for your reaction. You almost back up in surprise, angling your head up further to look at him properly. You give no objection, so he continues, “I want you to try to get me on the ground.”

You let out a sound that’s half-laugh, half-scoff. “You’re twice my size.”      

He sighs, looking at you somberly. “Sweetheart, odds are you’re not going to be evenly matched against someone that wants to hurt you. You get ‘em on the ground ‘n you have the upper hand or it’ll give you time to get away.”

You throw your hands up at your sides, “I don’t—” You huff, “Fine, okay.” You try to trip him by sliding your leg behind his and kicking, but he blocks you expertly.

You, against better judgment, shove your shoulder into his side, though it does nothing to phase him, let alone knock him down. 

“You gotta get more creative than that.” He chastises with a tut. 

In response, you take a step back to reassess the situation. You try to maintain a poker face as you strategize in your head. You make a dive for his legs, wrapping your arms around the back of his legs and pulling hard to make him lose balance. You’re sure if he were actually trying for a damn you would immediately be done for afterwards, but it does make him wobble. You then throw all of your weight against him, pushing him backwards and causing him to hit the floor with a thud.

He probably allowed for gravity to come to your aid, but he lands on his back all the same. You land half on him, half on the carpet, your hand resting on his chest. He looks up at you nodding, “Good. That was good, sweetheart.”

You smile, quite proud of yourself, and start to stand up when he hooks his arm around the back of your knee and pulls you to the ground too, switching places with you. You hit the ground gently with a sigh, “Really?”

He has one hand rested next to your head to balance him in his place above you. He smirks down at you and lets a tussle of white hair hang over his forehead. “Can’t be getting cocky, sweetheart.”

You laugh sourly, “Coming from you?” 

You quickly push at the bend of his arm and use the distraction to adjust your position to wrap your legs around his center and push your arm against his chest in an attempt to rotate him off of you.

He counters you by pushing your shoulder down, holding you down to the floor. His opposite hand flies to pull your forearm away from his chest, pinning it next to your head, careful to avoid your hair. He moves so quickly that you have half a mind to think he acted on pure instinct. That, and the look on his face when the dust settles says that he hadn’t intended for you to end up in this position. 

Your legs are still wrapped around him and you’re too frozen in the moment to make any changes. He’s in no more of a rush to move, large frame towering over you. You feel his touch stutter against your shoulder, his eyes flickering across your face.

You gaze up at him, taking in the soft look in his eyes behind the mask. You think you can see more green than you did before. You unwrap your legs from around his waist and slowly start to sit up. He releases your wrist and eases the pressure on your shoulder. He leans back half as quickly as you move forward, stopping when you’re propped up on your elbows.

Your faces are only a few inches apart and it feels like your only option is to look down at his lips. You have a feeling he’s doing the same to you. The adrenaline of the hassle has long since faded but the rhythm in both of your chests remains quick.

He leans forward so barely, but it’s enough to make your breath hitch. “J…” you say breathily, not sure what implication you’re aiming for.

He stills and this time you’re sure he’s looking at your lips. He blinks a few times like he’s trying to come back to himself and inches his face away from yours slowly. 

You let the hold in your breath release, disappointed more than anything. He eases off the floor to a stand and holds his hand out to help you up too. You take it with more of a frown than you’d meant to let out and rise to your feet.

“Let’s, uh…” He looks at the ground before taking a step back and putting his hands up again. “Let’s try some combos.”

You blink up at him for a second before raising your hands too.  

Alright, one step at a time.   

vol II

[lady-luckk]

Can I get more magical girl content? I love magical girls so much :3

lights, glitter, action!!!

# pairings: yandere batfam x magical girl reader

# synopsis: you randomly fall out of the sky and into the arms of the batfamily. now you get to experience wacky adventures with them.

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession and possessiveness. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI.

# notes: reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated!

thinking of a drabble about a magical girl (aka you) who crash-lands—quite literally—into gotham, face-first into a rooftop during a red hood stakeout. your transformation sequence sparks brighter than the bat-signal, and jason todd immediately points a gun at you before you finish your glittery intro pose. “i am celestia radiant, guardian of purity and—” click “you’ve got three seconds to explain the sparkles.”

“do not shoot that sparkly person,” dick grayson says through comms, voice full of older brother exhaustion. “that’s not a sentence i thought i’d say today, but here we are.”

you insist your wand only “dispels negativity,” which doesn’t go over well when you try to boop jason with it and his helmet actually falls off. “what the—kid, that thing costs more than your tiara.”

tim drake attempts to scan you with his tech. the scanner explodes in pink glitter. he blinks. “great. now my system’s infected with lisa frank malware.”

“i can sense your inner turmoil,” you tell him, solemnly. “do you even sleep?”

“define sleep.”

“when your soul regenerates through restful peace.”

“yeah, no. i run on coffee, spite, and childhood trauma.”

damian challenges you immediately and calls you “a delusional pastel distraction.” you politely deck him with a glitter beam. alfred bandages him while muttering, “perhaps don’t insult people with projectile sparkles next time.”

you enter the batcave and gasps, “so much repressed emotion... this place reeks of unhealed trauma!” bruce walks out of the shadows and deadpans, “welcome to gotham.”

dick pokes your wand, curious. it responds by turning into a cat. neither of them say anything. they just nod like this is normal.

bruce finally sits you down and says, “are you a threat?”

“only to sadness, injustice, and tight schedules.”

“...”

you’re officially listed in the batcomputer as “magical girl (?) – harmless (???) – very pink (confirmed).”

after months of you showing up to “aid gotham’s bravest hearts,” the batfam starts developing a crushing, all-consuming soft spot for you—like an airborne glitter virus of affection.

jason is furious about it.

“they’re weird, they’re loud, and they smells like vanilla cupcakes!”

“you mean the vanilla cupcakes you keep stealing from them?”

“THAT’S NOT THE POINT.”

dick develops a habit of dramatically appearing next to you with his shirt slightly torn. “oops, must’ve gotten grazed again. guess i need magical healing?”

“you’ve got twelve band-aids on and none of them are real wounds,” tim whispers.

“don’t ruin this for me.”

tim claims he’s above it all. “we don’t even know what dimension they’re from.”

“your made them a custom batphone,” jason says.

“for tactical reasons.”

“it’s shaped like a heart.”

“tactical. heartline security.”

damian insists he feels nothing. "you’re a distraction." but when you calls him “gallant” after he saves a kitten, he literally freezes. the kitten escapes. he doesn’t notice. he’s still staring.

bruce has, very clearly, stated:

“i don’t care about you personally.” completely straight-faced. like he’s reading a grocery list. everyone heard it. everyone quotes it.

and yet… every time you so much as glance at something remotely out of budget, he’s already pulled out his black card.

“i’m just funding mission efficiency,” he says.

“that’s a limited-edition 40th anniversary magical cow figure from meow meow doki.”

“you seemed interested. we might need it.”

you mention wanting snacks once during patrol. the next day, the cave fridge is stocked with every brand you’ve ever casually mentioned.

“it’s for team morale,” bruce says, not making eye contact.

“you bought six flavors of celestial-themed ice cream.”

“they were on sale.”

you say it’s cold in your room once.

bruce upgrades the entire manor’s heating system by the end of the day.

“old wiring,” he says. “dangerous.”

over time it becomes apparent that they’ve grown an unhealthy attachment towards you.

whenever dick spots you, he clings to you like he can't bear to be apart. he’ll throw his arm around your shoulders with a grin, holding you a little too tightly. “did you miss me?” he’ll ask, leaning in just a little too close as he whispers in your ear. you can feel the weight of his gaze even when he’s not looking directly at you

jason has a habit of “accidentally” touching you. when you're walking together, his fingers will brush against yours, lingering just a second longer than necessary. he’ll give you a low, almost inaudible chuckle when you flinch. “i know you don’t mind,” he’ll say with a wicked grin, his hand remaining a little too close to yours.

tim loves to stand behind you when you’re busy, too close for comfort. you’ll feel his breath on your neck, his fingers lightly brushing against your back as he "casually" adjusts your chair. “just making sure you're comfortable,” he’ll say with a tone that feels like more than just a comment. when you turn around, he’s already walking away, as if he never meant to invade your space at all.

damian doesn’t shy away from showing his possessiveness. if you're out in public, he’ll stand a little too close to you, his presence always hovering just behind you like a shadow. sometimes, when you’re sitting, he’ll casually rest his hand on your knee, as if to remind you that you’re his responsibility. “stay close,” he’ll say, his voice unyielding.

bruce doesn't need to say much; his actions speak louder. he’ll touch your arm with a hand that's just firm enough to be a reminder. if you're sitting near him, he’ll make sure his leg brushes against yours, the slightest physical connection making it clear he's always aware of your presence. “are you comfortable?” he’ll ask, his gaze unreadable as if keeping you within his reach is the only thing that matters.

something that i've wondered was what people did during those long ass magical girl transformation.

imagine this: the city was in chaos. explosions echoed in the distance. the batboys were in the middle of a high-stakes battle against a villain whose name they still hadn’t quite figured out, but who was throwing around enough toxins and lasers to give gotham a new reason to be paranoid.

dick was leaping from wall to wall, trying to outmaneuver the villain’s henchmen. jason was head-butting a wall, making sure no one tried to flank them. tim was hacking into a control panel, eyes flicking between screens like a caffeinated squirrel. damian was already fighting the villain head-on, his sword clashing against their armor.

then, a voice crackled over the comms, interrupting the chaos:

“hey guys, be ready—i’m just finishing my transformation!”

everyone freezes. like someone hit pause on the action.

dick paused mid-flip, hanging from a ceiling beam. “wait—did they just say ‘transformation?’”

jason’s fist was raised, but he didn’t punch, staring at the comms like he’d been told the laws of physics were invalid. “they’re really doing this now?”

tim blinked. “are they seriously transforming? right in the middle of all this?”

damian, standing with his sword poised and looking perfectly ready to end the villain’s reign, sighed audibly. “this is… highly inefficient.”

but he didn’t move a muscle. not even to attack. he was waiting.

bruce, who had been silently observing the chaos and directing the others via comms, sighed too—his voice just low enough to avoid detection. “if we’re waiting, then wait. no need to rush this. hold positions. let’s see how long this takes.”

there was no mistaking it. he was as much a part of this ridiculous ritual as everyone else.

the villain, who had been watching the absurdity unfold, narrowed their eyes. “what are they doing? are they—waiting? are they—really pausing for a transformation?” the villain scoffed, clearly annoyed by the delay.

they pointed a glowing gauntlet at the group. “you’re all pathetic!”

but the batboys? completely unmoved. they were all still. all waiting. they were locked in place, every one of them silently enduring this ridiculous delay.

jason, gritting his teeth, turned to face the villain for the first time in a few minutes. “we’d love to keep fighting, but... you know. waiting on them.”

tim, flipping through some data on his wrist computer, half-checked out. “i’ll just optimize our schedule for the next one, but... they better have a good reason for this.”

dick was already making a list of things he could do during the wait. "i mean, it’s a whole process. at least we get a breather."

the villain, becoming increasingly frustrated, clenched their fists and began pacing. “no. i will not wait any longer!”

they leveled their weapon toward the batboys, preparing for an attack—but they didn’t move. everyone stood frozen—the batboys too disciplined to break formation, and you?

still getting ready.

there was another long pause. the villain shot a glare at bruce, who was calmly scanning the room, not even bothering to acknowledge the interruption. “are you all seriously letting this happen?” the villain snapped, voice rising. “i can’t believe i’m waiting on—”

and then it happened.

the unmistakable sound of sparkles filled the air. a soft chime echoed through the comms.

“magical girl transformation, initiate!”

dick’s eyes practically sparkled. “here it comes…”

jason let out a low groan, leaning back against a pillar. “this better be good.”

tim was frantically refreshing his mental list of everything he’d need to do to process this information later.

damian folded his arms and glared at the villain. “this delay better be worth it.”

there was a soft flash, a trail of glitter, and—there you were. in your full magical girl outfit, sparkling like a dream—the colors bright, the fabric catching the light, and your transformation complete in all its glory.

there was an awkward silence.

jason blinked, covered in what was still residual glitter from the earlier mishap. “okay, that... took a little longer than i thought.”

tim let out a long sigh. “i swear, the next time we’re scheduling this—everyone gets a 30-second limit.”

“done!” you announced, twirling dramatically. “let’s do this!”

bruce stared at you with a level of composure that barely hid his tiny sigh of approval.

“...now, we can continue.”

dick, ever the dramatic one, clapped. “absolutely worth it.”

jason just groaned and rolled his eyes, but the tiniest hint of a smile twitched on his lips.

“yeah, yeah, but next time, let’s maybe—i don’t know—not do this during a fight?”

the villain, now fuming, was clearly done. “this is your strategy?” they snapped. “you’ve got to be kidding me!”

they swung their weapon, clearly intending to take you down—but the batboys weren’t having it anymore.

in perfect sync, they moved, attacking from all angles.

you, of course, were already ready, using your powers to effortlessly counter their attacks.

the fight lasted all of five minutes after that.

once the villain was down, the batboys stepped back, eyes on you. jason let out a snort. “well, that was... something.”

tim raised an eyebrow. “maybe next time we make a better schedule for these things?”

damian just crossed his arms. “you’d think after all these months, we’d learn not to wait for their transformation.”

dick, flashed a smile. “what can i say? it’s worth it.”

bruce, just muttered, “next time, no delays.”

you, oblivious to their frustration and somehow enjoying the chaos, smiled brightly. “i’m glad you guys handled it without me!”

the villain, now completely defeated and embarrassed, could only mumble as they were carted off. “i cannot believe i lost to these people.”

and the batboys? they’d just endured yet another ridiculous chapter in their lives with you. but they all secretly agreed on one thing.

no matter how much it annoyed them… they’d always wait for your magical girl transformation.

[moonstruckdraws]

Wanted to do some art of @circusinarun's swap AU of warrior Penelope (here). I want to do art and so much other stuff for the EPIC musical in general (especially since the last saga is so soon RAH), because it got me back into mythology. But I don't think I'll be doing any until after it's over.

But that doesn't mean I can't do AUs! (Hope you don't mind I used my ver. of Ares for this Kobi; it let me figure out more of his design like changing his helmet)

. . . they are best friends, right? They probably aren't, but Ares isn't that well liked by the other gods, so I think him being best friends with Penelope would be cute! Idk, it's probably me just being a fan of Ares that I don't want him to be friendless lmao.

I'm so curious on how this AU would flow, you know? Like, is Calypso a human in this AU that replaces Antinous in Little Wolf; and if so, who's on Antinous Island (don’t mind this question I can’t read)? Does Calypso trap Penelope there, if she is a goddess (ignore this too I still can’t read)? Who would Ares argue with in place of Aphrodite, or would she be in the challenge of God Games anyway? I'm assuming Eurylochus is replaced by his wife Ctimene, but is Polites in the same role?

It's a lot of questions that aren't that serious, it's just a fun AU, but I'm a curious person who loves details. I especially like thinking about how God Games would go, since no one really likes Ares other than his family, lover, and those who associate with him like Eris. It'd be on hard mode for him and it makes me sad to think about, yet so intrigued on how he'd convince them all; especially Hephaestus and Athena, but I feel like she wouldn't be so hard to convince... just stubborn against her brother to agree.

[satellite-evans]

everything

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x reader

Summary: Charles and you face unexpected challenges on your journey to starting a family.

Word count: 12k+ ( She is long I'm sorry)

Warnings: angst, fluff, infertility struggles, mentions of medical procedures, emotional vulnerability, making out, mention of sex

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

It was a slow morning — a rarity in Charles' world of fast cars, roaring engines, and constant travel. Mostdays, life was a whirlwind of race weekends, media commitments, and training schedules. But today was quiet. Today was yours.

These mornings were your favorites. The ones where the sun poured in through the sheer curtains and you could pretend — even if only for a little while — that the outside world didn’t exist.

You were curled up beside him in bed, legs tangled together under the cozy sheets, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was a sound that always calmed you, grounding you when the world felt too loud.

Charles’ fingers traced slow, lazy circles along your arm, his skin warm and soft against yours. His other hand was tucked behind his head as he stared at the ceiling, as though lost in thought. You could feel his chest rising and falling under your cheek, steady and calm, but something about the way his fingers moved — a little slower, a little more absent — told you his mind was elsewhere.

You smiled softly to yourself, enjoying the rare stillness. These were the moments where you got to see this version of Charles — not the one behind a helmet, not the one the cameras followed, but your husband. The man who would quietly hum love songs when he thought you were asleep, who would stop to tie your shoelaces when he noticed you were too lazy, who loved so deeply it sometimes scared you.

And then, out of nowhere, he broke the comfortable silence — his voice soft and a little hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he should say what was on his mind.

"Do you ever think about it?"

You lifted your head slightly, resting your chin against his chest to look up at him, brows furrowing in curiosity at his sudden seriousness.

"Think about what?" you asked gently, searching his face for answers.

His green eyes — usually so full of playful mischief — looked softer now, more vulnerable. There was a flicker of nervousness in them, but also something else. Something tender.

He hesitated, his hand pausing mid-circle on your arm, before continuing, almost shyly.

"Us… having a baby."

The question hung in the air between you, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him, trying to process what he was saying.

"A baby?" you echoed, your voice quieter now, almost as if you were afraid saying it out loud would make it too real.

Charles gave a small nod, a shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Yeah... I mean, not now, now. But… I think about it, sometimes. You and me... with a little one running around."

You blinked, your heart doing a strange flip in your chest. "You do?"

He laughed softly, reaching up to push a stray piece of hair behind your ear. "Of course I do. I think you'd be the most amazing maman."

Warmth filled your chest at his words, and for a moment, you let yourself imagine it — a small hand in yours, a laugh that was half his, half yours.

"I..." You paused, suddenly feeling a bit overwhelmed by the weight of the conversation but also filled with a strange kind of excitement. "I think about it too, sometimes."

Charles' face lit up, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You do?"

You nodded, smiling now. "Yeah. I mean, maybe we’d be terrible at it—"

"—No way," he interrupted with a grin, leaning in to nuzzle his nose against yours. "We’d figure it out. Together."

You giggled, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer. "You’d spoil them rotten, and I’d have to be the strict one."

Charles laughed, the sound warm and soft against your skin. "Obviously. You’d be the scary one, and I’d be the one sneaking them candy when you’re not looking."

You laughed harder at that, imagining the scene — Charles sneaking sweets to a giggling toddler behind your back.

"But seriously," he murmured, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, "If... if you want, we could start trying. Not now, if you’re not ready. But maybe soon?"

You swallowed, a mixture of emotions swirling inside you — excitement, nervousness, love.

"Yeah," you whispered, brushing your fingers through his messy hair. "Yeah, I’d like that."

Charles’ smile grew, and he leaned down to kiss you, slow and soft and full of promise.

"Okay," he whispered against your lips. "Whenever you’re ready, amour."

"Whenever we’re ready," you corrected gently, and he nodded.

From that day on, the dream became real. You started to imagine a future that wasn’t just the two of you. You caught Charles watching kids when you were out together — at the grocery store, at restaurants, during walks by the harbor. His gaze would soften when he saw a dad carrying a toddler on his shoulders or a mom holding a baby close to her chest.

Once, as you both sat at a café by the water, watching a little girl squeal in delight as her mom chased her, Charles reached over to take your hand.

"I can’t wait to see you with our child one day," he said quietly, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

You smiled, leaning into his side. "I can’t wait to see you."

"I think about them a lot," Charles admitted. "What they’d look like. If they’d have your smile."

"Or your eyes," you added, glancing up at him.

He chuckled. "Maybe they’ll be a little troublemaker like me."

"Great," you teased. "One Charles is already enough trouble."

He laughed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer.

"Maybe two would be perfect."

Your heart swelled with so much love for this man — this man who had seen every part of you and wanted to build a life, a family, together.

For the first time, you let yourself fully believe in that dream.

It started beautifully.

The day you and Charles decided to start trying for a baby felt like a secret only you two shared — a quiet, precious hope.

It was exciting.

You remembered the way Charles would smile at you when you caught his eye across the room, that look that said, "Maybe this is it. Maybe soon."

You both laughed about how it could happen at any moment.

"Imagine if you’re pregnant by the next Grand Prix," he joked one night as you laid in bed, tangled in the sheets, breathless and glowing from the closeness you shared.

You laughed, resting your head on his chest. "Or maybe before the summer break."

He ran his fingers through your hair, soft and slow. "Yeah... I can see it now. You, me, a little one watching the races together."

But month after month passed, and with each one, a tiny seed of doubt took root.

At first, you tried to shake it off.

"Maybe my body’s just figuring itself out," you said, trying to sound casual, as you sat at the kitchen counter, flipping through a cookbook you weren’t really reading.

Charles leaned on the other side, watching you with soft eyes. "There’s no rush, amour. It’ll happen when it’s meant to."

You wanted to believe that.

But when month four came and went, and you found yourself holding yet another negative pregnancy test, that calm confidence began to fade.

You stared at the single line, willing it to change, to turn into the double lines you had imagined in your dreams. But it didn’t.

You sat on the edge of the bathtub, wrapping your arms around yourself, tears welling up in your eyes.

Charles found you there, quietly slipping into the bathroom when he realized you were gone too long.

His heart broke the second he saw you sitting there, looking so small and defeated.

"Hey... hey, baby," he said softly, kneeling in front of you, gently brushing a tear from your cheek. "It’s okay."

You tried to smile, but your lips trembled. "I thought this might be it..."

"I know," he whispered, pulling you into his arms. "I know."

You buried your face into his shoulder, breathing in his scent — always so comforting, so safe. "What if something’s wrong with me, Charles?"

He pulled back to cup your face in his hands, forcing you to meet his eyes. "Nothing is wrong with you. Do you hear me? Nothing."

You nodded, but deep down, the fear stayed.

As time passed, those quiet moments of disappointment became harder to hide.

You found yourself tracking every tiny symptom — every cramp, every day you felt tired, every moment you felt nauseous. Every month, you’d let yourself hope, only to be crushed all over again.

Charles tried so hard to keep your spirits up.

He would cook for you when he noticed you were too lost in your head to eat.

He would pull you out onto the balcony when you needed air, wrapping his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

"Look how beautiful Monaco is," he would whisper, kissing your temple. "We’re going to be okay, bébé. No matter what."

You wanted to believe him.

But six months in, when another negative test stared back at you, something shifted between you and Charles — not distance, but weight. A heavy sadness neither of you wanted to speak out loud.

The night you got that result, you sat quietly on the couch, staring out the window at the city lights. Charles sat beside you, his hand resting on your knee.

He finally broke the silence.

"Maybe... maybe we should talk to someone?" he offered carefully.

You turned to him, searching his face. "A doctor?"

He nodded. "Just to make sure everything’s okay. For both of us."

You bit your lip, considering it. The idea made your chest tighten — what if they told you what you were beginning to fear?

But then Charles reached for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours.

"We’re in this together, right?" he whispered. "Whatever happens?"

You swallowed the lump in your throat, squeezing his hand back.

"Together," you echoed softly.

And with that, you agreed to take the next step.

The waiting room was colder than you expected.

You sat there next to Charles, his hand wrapped tightly around yours, like he could protect you from whatever was coming.

It had taken you both weeks to gather the courage to sit in this office. Weeks of telling each other it was probably nothing — that some people just took longer. But deep down, the growing silence every month, the weight of each negative test had become too loud to ignore.

Charles’s thumb rubbed soft circles on the back of your hand as he stared ahead, jaw tight. You could tell he was trying to be strong for you, but his eyes gave him away.

When the doctor finally called you in, your heart felt like it was trying to beat its way out of your chest.

Charles stayed close, always a step behind, like he was trying to shoulder some of the anxiety pressing down on you.

You sat side by side in the small office, fingers still laced, waiting for answers neither of you were ready to hear.

The doctor looked kind — a woman, gentle eyes, soft voice. But as soon as she began speaking, you could sense where the conversation was headed.

"Based on the tests we’ve run, it appears that conceiving naturally may be difficult," she said carefully, watching your reaction.

The words hit you like a punch to the stomach. You blinked, feeling your throat tighten, suddenly unable to breathe properly.

"Difficult?" you echoed, your voice barely a whisper.

The doctor hesitated. "You have a condition that impacts your fertility. It doesn’t mean impossible, but it does mean that it may take longer, and you may need medical assistance to conceive."

You felt Charles shift beside you, his hand squeezing yours tighter, but you couldn’t look at him. You couldn’t look at anyone. You stared at the floor, trying to process the words.

"I… I don’t understand," you said finally, your voice breaking. "Why? Why me?"

The doctor gave you a sympathetic smile. "There are many reasons these things happen. It’s not your fault. But if you want to try fertility treatments, there are options."

You didn’t hear much of what she said after that. The room seemed to close in on you, the air too thick, the walls too white, too sharp.

When you finally left the office, you couldn’t speak. Charles led you out gently, his hand at the small of your back, guiding you like you were fragile glass.

The moment the car doors closed around you, the tears came.

Sobs tore out of your chest, shaking your whole body.

Charles pulled you into his arms without a word, holding you so tightly it felt like he was trying to hold you together, as if you might break into pieces if he let go.

"Shh, baby, I’ve got you," he whispered, kissing the top of your head, his voice thick with emotion. "I’m right here."

"I’m broken, Charles," you cried into his chest. "I’m broken."

"Hey, no, no," he said quickly, pulling back to hold your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were filled with unshed tears. "You are not broken. Don’t you ever say that. You’re perfect to me. You always have been."

"But I can’t… I can’t give you what you want."

He shook his head firmly. "What I want is you. Always you. I don’t care how we get there, I don’t care what we have to do. I just want you by my side."

Still, the ache didn’t leave you.

The days that followed were a blur. You went to more appointments. You listened to doctors talk about options — hormone treatments, IVF, injections that terrified you.

And you did it all.

Because you wanted this — wanted it so badly it hurt.

You followed every diet they suggested, cut out caffeine and sugar even though it made you miserable. You started exercising because they told you it might help. You faced needles even though they made your hands shake and your stomach twist with fear.

Charles was with you for every single one.

He held your hand as you cried after your first hormone shot. He wiped away your tears and told you how proud he was of you.

"You’re the bravest woman I know," he whispered into your hair as you sat on the couch, curled up against him, exhausted from the meds wreaking havoc on your body.

But even as he praised you, he could see what it was doing to you.

You weren’t the same woman who used to laugh easily at his teasing, who danced with him in the kitchen late at night.

You were quieter now, distant.

Some days, he would catch you staring out the window, eyes glassy, like you were somewhere far away.

When he asked you what you were thinking, you’d force a smile and say, "Nothing."

But he knew better.

It was eating you alive — the pressure, the hope, the constant cycle of waiting and disappointment.

And though Charles tried to be strong for you, it was killing him to watch the woman he loved slipping away, piece by piece.

One night, as you stood in the bathroom, staring at yet another negative pregnancy test, something inside you broke.

You dropped to your knees on the cold floor, sobs wracking your body, your hands shaking uncontrollably.

Charles burst into the room moments later, his face pale when he saw you on the floor.

"Bébé," he breathed, dropping to his knees beside you. "No, no, come here."

You shook your head, tears streaming down your cheeks. "It’s never going to happen, Charles. I’m never going to be enough."

His heart shattered right there, seeing you like this.

He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly, rocking you gently as you cried.

"Stop," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Stop saying that. You are everything to me. You hear me? Everything."

"But the baby—"

"I don’t care about the baby if it means losing you," he said firmly, pulling back to look into your eyes, his own brimming with tears. "I need you. You are my wife. I would rather have just you than any child if it means you’re safe, if it means I don’t lose the woman I love."

You stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in, breaking through the fog of pain.

"Charles..."

"No more, bébé. No more hurting yourself like this." His hands cupped your face so gently, like he was afraid you would crumble. "We’ll stop. We’ll stop trying. Please, I need you to be okay. I need you."

For the first time in months, you let yourself collapse fully into him, holding on as though he was the only thing keeping you upright.

And in that moment, you both knew: it was time to let go — to stop chasing something that was breaking you.

Even if it broke both of your hearts.

But maybe, just maybe, it was what you needed to find each other again.

It wasn’t easy to stop trying.

Even after you and Charles had that tearful conversation, even after he begged you to stop hurting yourself, it took time to really let go.

You still woke up some mornings and instinctively counted the days of your cycle, a part of you still wired to hope, still waiting for a sign.

But Charles… Charles made sure you didn’t have to carry it alone.

For months, the intimacy between you had been burdened with unspoken pressure — every touch, every kiss shadowed by what it was supposed to lead to. Love had turned into a goal, and neither of you could breathe under the weight of it.

But now, as the two of you tried to find your way back to each other, Charles was determined to remind you that love — real love — wasn’t about charts and dates.

It was about you.

And he took his time showing you that.

It started with little things — soft smiles over morning coffee, his hand on the small of your back when you walked past him in the kitchen, a kiss to your temple for no reason at all.

It was in the way he’d show up at home after his training days, arms full of your favorite flowers, just because.

"These made me think of you," he’d say casually, though the way he looked at you said it was so much more than that — like you were his whole world.

But it wasn’t long before those little things built into something more.

It was in the way he would wake you on slow mornings, when the light was barely creeping through the windows, his fingers trailing over your bare shoulder, brushing your hair back to kiss the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

"Good morning, mon amour," he would murmur against your skin, his voice low and husky, warm breath sending a shiver straight down your spine.

The way his lips lingered, brushing a little too close to where your pulse raced, was not lost on you. Neither was the way his hand would slide from your shoulder down, tracing a slow, deliberate line over your waist, fingers splaying possessively at your hip like he was grounding himself — and you.

"Charles…" you whispered, but it wasn’t a protest.

He chuckled softly, hearing the way his name fell from your lips, and pressed a kiss to your jaw, then lower, teasing along your throat. "I miss this… I miss you," he confessed quietly, his voice thick with something darker, heavier — desire, yes, but also love.

"You’re my wife," he said against your skin, lips grazing the hollow of your throat, hands sliding around to your back to pull you closer. "Not just the woman I wanted to have a baby with. You."

His words sank deep, and when his hand slid under the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing the soft skin of your stomach, you didn’t tense — for the first time in a long time, you melted into him.

He noticed, of course he did, and his lips curved against your collarbone in a smile that was all satisfaction and relief.

"There she is," he whispered, his voice a little rough now, kissing just below your ear, one hand moving to cradle your cheek as he brought your face up to meet his. "Mon cœur… I’ve missed seeing you like this."

When he kissed you — properly kissed you — it wasn’t rushed. His mouth moved against yours like he had all the time in the world, like he wanted to taste every inch of you again, to remind you of what it felt like to be wanted, adored.

And God, you felt it.

His hands, roaming and firm, pulled you into his body without effort, making you gasp as your bodies pressed together, his fingers sliding under your thigh to lift it over his.

"Charles—" you breathed, breaking the kiss only to draw in a shaky breath, but he only smirked, eyes dark and glinting with something that made heat curl low in your stomach.

"Let me take care of you," he whispered, voice thick and rough, as his hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks. "No pressure. No expectations. Just you and me, like it’s supposed to be."

His words were a balm, but the way his mouth found yours again — hungry now, like he couldn’t get enough — set every nerve in your body on fire.

"Let me make you feel good again," he murmured against your lips, before trailing kisses down your neck, his hands firm on your hips, moving you against him in a way that left no doubt about what he wanted — who he wanted.

You felt a spark of something you hadn’t let yourself feel in so long — desire, raw and overwhelming, crashing over you with every brush of his hands, every heated kiss.

And for the first time, you allowed yourself to lean into it, to let him remind you what it was like to want and be wanted, to be loved — for no other reason than because you were his, and he was yours.

Later, as you lay tangled together, his fingers trailing lazy patterns on your skin, he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder and whispered, "I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care if it never happens. I just want you, always."

And in his arms, you believed it.

Because for once, it wasn’t about what your bodies could give.

It was about what your hearts already shared — a love that was fierce, unbreakable, and yours.

You hadn’t laughed in so long, but he was determined to change that.

One night, as you sat on the couch, still wrapped in that quiet sadness, Charles appeared with a bag of groceries and a mischievous grin.

"What's all that?" you asked, watching as he unloaded ingredients.

He shot you a look over his shoulder, eyes sparkling. "We are making pizza, chef style. And no, you don’t get to say no."

You blinked at him. "Charles, I—"

He cut you off, gently, but firmly. "I don’t want to hear it. Just us. You and me."

Something about the way he said it made you tear up, but you nodded, and when he handed you a chunk of dough and demanded you try to toss it like a real chef — which ended up splattering on the floor — you found yourself laughing so hard, you cried.

It felt good to cry for something other than heartbreak.

"See?" he grinned, wiping sauce off your cheek with a thumb. "There’s my girl."

You were still fragile — and Charles knew it.

He was patient when you had bad days.

When he’d find you in bed long after the sun had risen, curled into yourself, he wouldn’t push. He’d just crawl in behind you, wrapping himself around you like a shield.

"We don’t have to do anything today," he’d whisper, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder. "Let’s just stay right here."

And sometimes you would.

Just you and Charles, holding each other like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Other days, when you felt a little stronger, he’d take you out — walks along the water, late dinners in tucked-away restaurants where no one bothered you, quiet drives with music low in the background as he held your hand across the center console.

It was during one of those drives that you finally broke the silence that had been lingering between you.

"Do you really mean it?" you asked softly, staring out the window at the sea of lights.

Charles glanced at you, confused. "Mean what, bébé?"

"That you’re okay if… if we never have a baby?"

He pulled over, putting the car in park before turning fully to face you.

"I didn’t say that to make you feel better," he said quietly. "I said it because it’s true."

You looked down at your hands, twisting your fingers together. "But… you want to be a dad."

He reached over, gently uncurling your fingers so he could hold your hand.

"I want you more." His voice was steady, but his eyes were filled with love and a hint of sadness. "If I had to choose between having a child and having you whole and happy… I would choose you. Every time."

Tears filled your eyes again — but not from sadness. From love. From the overwhelming realization that even if everything else was broken, Charles never would be.

"I don’t want to lose you," he whispered, brushing his thumb over the back of your hand. "I don’t care how much I want to be a father — I can’t watch you destroy yourself for it. I’d rather have a lifetime with just you than risk not having you at all."

You finally let out a sob you’d been holding in for months, leaning over to bury your face in his chest.

Charles held you tight, kissing your hair, rubbing soothing circles on your back.

"We’ll figure out what our life looks like, okay?" he whispered. "Even if it’s not what we thought. As long as I have you, I’m happy."

And slowly, you began to believe him.

It wasn’t perfect. There were still days you mourned the dream that seemed to slip further and further away.

But there were also days when you and Charles laughed until your stomachs hurt, danced in the kitchen to music only you could hear, and rediscovered the love that brought you together in the first place.

The love that didn’t depend on anything but the two of you.

It was healing.

Little by little, you came back to life.

The heat in Monaco that day was brutal.

You sat in the paddock, Charles’s number 16 cap shading your face, a bottle of cold water resting against the back of your neck. The atmosphere was exciting, at least for you. You didn't realize how much you missed it until you heard the fans screaming and the paddock filling with people you haven't seen in so long.

You really had missed this. The thrill, the pride of watching Charles do what he loved.

For the first time in a long time, you felt light.

No doctors. No needles. No calculations.

Just you, watching your husband race, your heart swelling every time you saw his car flash past.

It had been months since you had stopped trying.

Months since you’d let go of the suffocating pressure that had nearly broken you.

And while a small ache remained—a whisper of a dream you had buried—life had slowly started to feel normal again.

But still… something felt off.

At first, it was subtle. A slight dizziness when you stood too quickly. A strange wave of nausea when the smell of burnt rubber wafted through the air.

You chalked it up to the heat.

But as the race continued, the dizziness turned into something stronger. Your vision blurred slightly as you tried to focus on the screens, and your hands felt clammy despite the sweat already sticking to your skin.

You shook your head, forcing yourself to take deep breaths.

Just a little longer. The race was almost over.

But then, the world tilted.

The last thing you heard before everything went black was someone shouting your name.

When you woke, you were in a medical room — the soft beeping of machines somewhere nearby, the sterile smell of antiseptic in the air.

Charles was sitting right next to you, holding your hand like a lifeline, his eyes red and puffy, like he hadn’t stopped crying since you collapsed.

"Bébé?" he whispered the second he saw your eyes flutter open. "Oh mon dieu… You’re awake."

His voice broke, and you blinked, trying to focus.

"Charles?" you croaked, your throat dry.

"I’m here, baby. I’m right here." He pressed a kiss to your knuckles, then leaned his forehead against your hand, breathing you in like he couldn’t believe you were okay.

"What… what happened?" you whispered.

"You fainted." His voice was tight with emotion. "Scared the hell out of me."

You tried to sit up, but he gently urged you back down.

"Take it slow, amour. Doctor said to rest."

As if summoned, a doctor appeared, offering a kind smile.

"Feeling better?"

You nodded weakly.

"Good. We’ve run some tests to make sure you’re alright. You’re a little dehydrated, and the heat didn’t help. But…" the doctor paused, glancing between you and Charles.

"There’s something else we found."

Your heart stuttered.

The doctor smiled gently. "You’re pregnant."

The words didn’t make sense at first.

Pregnant?

Your eyes darted to Charles, wide and disbelieving. His grip on your hand tightened.

"I… I’m what?" you whispered, sure you had heard wrong.

"You’re pregnant," the doctor confirmed with a soft nod. "About eight weeks along, from what we can tell. Which explains the fainting — your body is working overtime right now."

Silence fell over the room.

Charles was frozen, his eyes locked on you, as if he was afraid to breathe, afraid it was a dream.

And then suddenly — a tear slipped down your cheek.

"You’re pregnant, bébé," Charles whispered, voice cracking. "You… we…"

His face crumpled as he leaned in, pulling you gently into his arms, careful not to squeeze too tightly.

"I can’t believe it," you sobbed into his neck, shaking. "Charles, I thought—"

"I know," he whispered, voice thick. "I know, baby. I didn’t think it would happen either."

You could feel him shaking too, arms wrapped around you, both of you crying now — but for the first time in so long, they were tears of joy.

"I was so scared," you admitted, pulling back just enough to look at him, your hand resting on your stomach like you couldn’t believe it was real. "I thought I’d never—"

Charles cupped your face, pressing his forehead to yours.

"You are everything I will ever need," he said fiercely. "But this—this is a miracle, bébé."

You nodded, breathless. "A miracle."

He let out a small laugh, one that was half a sob. "Our miracle."

The doctors gave you time to rest, but Charles didn’t leave your side for a second.

At one point, he sat in the chair beside the bed, just watching you, his hand resting protectively over yours.

When you woke again, he was still there, looking at you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

"How are you feeling?" he asked softly.

You gave a small smile. "Better. Still in shock, I think."

Charles leaned in and kissed your forehead, lingering there for a moment.

"I love you," he whispered against your skin. "More than anything. More than everything."

"I love you too, Charles."

He pulled back, brushing his fingers gently through your hair. "We’re going to be okay, bébé. You, me, and this baby. I promise."

And for the first time in a long time, you believed him.

You were going to be okay.

You were going to be a family.

You would think that after everything — after the months of heartbreak, of devastating phone calls and negative tests, of doctors' appointments that ended in tears — finding out you were finally pregnant would bring nothing but unfiltered joy.

And in many ways, it did.

Charles had held you for what felt like hours, both of you crying, laughing, kissing, unable to believe it was real.

But beneath all that happiness, beneath the tears and whispered "finally" against his chest, there was something else. Something sharp and quiet and relentless.

Fear.

Because now that you finally had the one thing you wanted more than anything in the world, you were terrified of losing it.

Every little cramp made your heart stop. Every time you didn’t feel nauseous for a few hours, a new wave of panic crept in. Every moment of silence from your body felt like a warning, like a reminder that good things didn’t come easy for you.

Charles knew. Of course he knew.

He saw it in the way you always rested a protective hand on your belly, like shielding your baby from a world that had already given you so much pain. He saw it in the way your smiles didn’t quite reach your eyes when people congratulated you, how you nodded along but kept your arms folded protectively over yourself, as if holding everything together.

And he especially saw it at night, when you thought he was asleep, and you would roll over quietly to press a hand to your belly, tears slipping silently down your cheeks as you whispered promises to the tiny life growing inside you.

"I love you already… please stay with me."

Charles never said anything then — he didn’t want to make you feel like you had to be strong for him too — but he would shift closer, wrap an arm around you, and hold you as tightly as he could.

It broke him to see you like that.

So, he made it his purpose to be your anchor, to remind you every second of every day that you were not alone in this, that it would be different, that you were not going to lose the baby.

Whenever he found you lost in thought, staring blankly at nothing, he would pull you into his arms. "Talk to me, bébé, please. don't shut me out again. I’m here. Always."

And every night, without fail, no matter how exhausted he was — whether he had just gotten home from training, meetings, or even long days at the factory — Charles would kneel in front of you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like this was his way of staying grounded, too.

He would settle on his knees in front of you, his hands gently resting on either side of your bump, thumbs caressing your belly like he was memorizing every curve, every change. His eyes would soften, all the tension melting away from his face the second he touched you.

Then he would lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to your stomach — sometimes whispering a soft, "Hi, bébé," like he was waiting to hear a reply.

"Hey, little one… It’s papa." His voice always dropped to that quiet, reverent tone that made your heart clench. "I hope you’re comfortable in there because we love you so much already."

Sometimes his words would crack just a little, betraying that deep vulnerability he didn’t always let you see. The fear that still lived in both of you, even if neither of you wanted to give it life.

"You keep growing strong for maman, okay?" he would murmur, resting his cheek against your bump, closing his eyes like he could feel them from the outside. "I know… I know she’s scared. I’m scared too, but we’re fighting, you know? For you. Because you are so, so loved. And we want you so badly, mon ange."

His hand would slide over your skin, fingers spreading wide, protective and tender all at once.

"Don’t worry — maman and I, we’ve got you. Always."

And sometimes, when he thought you had already fallen asleep, he would keep talking. You would watch him through heavy eyes, heart breaking and swelling all at once, as he poured all his love and hope into those quiet moments.

"I can’t wait to meet you. I can’t wait to show you everything — to take you to your first race, to sit on the beach with you like mama and I used to do, to show you the stars. Did you know your mama loves the stars? She used to tell me about them when I was sad… she’s amazing. You’re going to love her. And I’m going to be here, always. Watching over you both."

Then he would look up at you, catching your gaze if you were awake, and smile softly. The kind of smile that held all the love in the world, even when his eyes were glassy with emotion.

"See? We’re already a team, the three of us."

And as much as you had felt alone in your mind sometimes — battling fears you were too scared to voice — in those moments, when Charles spoke to the baby like they were already here, like he was already the father he had dreamed of being, you felt a flicker of hope again.

Because no matter what happened, you knew one thing for certain: You and the baby were so loved.

And Charles? He was ready to move mountains for both of you.

The day of your first ultrasound was one you both had dreamed of, but when the morning finally came, you woke up shaking.

You could hardly get dressed, your fingers fumbling over the buttons of your blouse as Charles gently took over, helping you without a word, pressing soft kisses to your temple.

The drive to the clinic felt like the longest one of your life. Charles reached over and laced his fingers with yours, squeezing so tight it almost hurt, but neither of you let go.

When you finally arrived and sat in the waiting room, Charles kept holding your hand, his thumb tracing slow circles over your skin.

"Whatever happens, I’m here," he said softly, leaning close so only you could hear. "You don’t have to be strong for me, okay? Be strong for yourself, I'm here. I'll be strong for the both of you."

You just nodded, throat too tight to speak.

When they finally called your name, you felt like you could hardly move. Your legs were weak, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break your ribs.

Charles was by your side instantly, wrapping an arm around you and guiding you gently to the room.

The technician was kind, explaining everything as she set up, but you could barely hear her over the pounding in your ears.

And then —

There it was.

A tiny little bean on the screen. So small. So fragile. And then — a flicker.

The heartbeat.

Steady and strong.

Your breath caught in your throat, a sob breaking free before you could stop it.

"That’s…" you whispered, voice trembling.

"Your baby," the technician said warmly, turning the screen so you could both see better. "Right there."

You turned your head to look at Charles, and what you saw undid you completely.

Tears streamed down his face, his eyes wide in awe, his lips trembling as he stared at the screen like it was the most miraculous thing he had ever seen.

"That’s… our baby," he choked out, voice rough with emotion, as though he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

You reached for his hand, gripping it tightly, tears pouring down your cheeks now too.

"Our baby," you whispered back, finally letting yourself smile through the tears.

It was real.

For the first time, it wasn’t a dream or a distant hope — it was happening.

Your baby was here, alive, heartbeat flickering steadily on the screen.

You let out a shaky laugh, covering your mouth with your hand, overwhelmed with the kind of joy that left you breathless.

Charles leaned over, pressing a kiss to your forehead, one hand still gripping yours, the other reaching to gently, reverently touch the image on the screen.

"I love you," he whispered to you and to the baby. "So much. I can’t believe… I just… I love you."

And in that room, in that moment — surrounded by the sound of your baby’s heartbeat — something inside you shifted.

For the first time, you let yourself believe it.

You were really going to be a mom.

And with Charles beside you, holding your hand and your heart, you knew — no matter what, you would face it all together.

From the moment the doctor told that you were pregnant, Charles became a man on a mission.

It wasn’t just that he wanted to be involved — no, he needed to be involved. He had never been more determined in his life. He read every pregnancy book he could find, his eyes scanning the pages late into the night, even when his eyelids were heavy and the words started blurring. He listened to every pregnancy podcast, taking notes on topics ranging from fetal development to baby names (because, despite the fact that you two hadn’t even picked a name yet, Charles was already convinced that he had the perfect one).

He even downloaded multiple pregnancy apps, religiously checking the weekly updates so he could compare the size of your baby to fruit, vegetables, and other random objects. When the app told him the baby was the size of a blueberry, a walnut, a papaya — whatever it was that week — Charles couldn’t wait to update you. It became a little game, one that was just between the two of you.

Every morning, the moment he opened his eyes, Charles would turn toward you with a grin, as if greeting you and your baby had become the most natural thing in the world.

"Bonjour, mon amour… and bonjour, little one," he’d whisper, his lips pressing against your belly.

You’d laugh softly, brushing a hand through his messy morning hair. "Charles, they’re the size of a lime right now. You’re getting ahead of yourself."

"I don’t care," he would reply with a grin so wide it made your heart skip. "I’m still saying hello."

You’d smile, shaking your head, but in your heart, you were overwhelmed by how much he cared. He wasn’t just excited about the pregnancy — he was fully in it with you. From the very first moment, he was present in a way that made you feel cherished and loved, and even now, as the weeks passed, that feeling only deepened.

And when the hormonal rollercoaster kicked in, making you nauseous, moody, or crying over something trivial (like how cute a puppy in a commercial was), Charles was always there. He was like a rock — steady, patient, and never, not once, complaining.

"I’ll go get whatever you want, baby. Strawberries at midnight? I’m on it. Ice cream and pickles? Weird, but okay."

And when you’d cry over something small, like dropping a spoon or a Grey's Anatomy episode, Charles wouldn’t laugh or try to cheer you up with silly jokes. Instead, he would pull you into his arms, offering silent comfort. He would rub your back, his warmth surrounding you like a shield, and let you cry until you were all out of tears.

"You’re doing so good, mon cœur," he would whisper, his voice low and steady. "So, so good."

It was these moments, these quiet reassurances, that made you feel like you could handle everything. With him by your side, you knew you weren’t alone in this — in any of it.

And then, it came.

The baby bump.

You had been waiting — praying — for it. For any sign that the tiny life inside you was in fact real and growing how it was supposed to. The days had stretched on endlessly, filled with anxious glances in the mirror, gentle touches to your belly hoping to see something, and constant reassurances from Charles that "it will happen, amour, give it time."

But time was all you had — and with every week that passed without a visible sign, the fear clawed deeper into your chest.

Doctors kept telling you it was normal. "Sometimes it takes longer for first pregnancies, especially with everything your body has been through. With some pregnancies, there isn't even a proper baby bump. This is completely normal." But when you’re holding your breath every day, waiting for proof that your baby is safe and growing, “normal” doesn’t always bring comfort.

But then, one quiet morning — when the sun was barely peeking through the windows and the Monaco streets were still asleep — it was there.

You had gotten out of bed quietly, not wanting to wake Charles, and shuffled to the bathroom, rubbing your tired eyes. You pulled up your loose shirt as you always did, out of habit, expecting to see the same soft, stomach you'd seen every day before. But this time… this time, there was something different.

A baby bump. Subtle, but undeniably there.

You turned to the side, holding your breath, eyes wide as your hands slowly reached down to trace the gentle swell.

Your heart started pounding — a mix of disbelief and pure, overwhelming joy.

"Charles!" you called out suddenly, your voice shaking, breathless with a mixture of shock and excitement. "Charles! Come here — now!"

You heard the way he stumbled out of bed, feet hitting the floor with urgency, a note of panic threading his voice.

"Baby, what? What’s wrong?" he said, rushing into the doorway, still in his boxers and sleep-tousled hair, eyes scanning you like he was ready to fix whatever had happened.

But when he saw you standing there in front of the mirror, hands frozen mid-air, pointing to your belly, something shifted in him.

"Look…" you whispered, tears already gathering in your eyes. "Charles, look."

For a moment, he didn’t move, like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing — like he was afraid to believe it was real.

But then his eyes locked onto that small, perfect curve, and everything else seemed to fall away.

His face crumbled — all the tension he had been holding in his shoulders for months melted into something soft, something raw. His eyes glistened, lips parting as though he couldn’t quite find the words.

"Oh… bébé…" he breathed, and there was a reverence in his voice, like he was standing in front of something holy.

He took slow steps toward you, like if he moved too fast, the moment might break.

Dropping to his knees in front of you, his hands trembled as they reached out, resting gently — so, so gently — on either side of your bump. Like he was afraid if he pressed too hard, it would vanish.

"Mon amour…" His voice cracked. "Look at you… look at you."

You let out a watery laugh, tears sliding down your cheeks as you ran your fingers through his soft curls. "It’s really there," you whispered, like you needed him to confirm it. "Charles, it’s real."

He looked up at you then, his beautiful brown eyes glassy but filled with something you hadn’t seen in a long time — hope. Pure, unfiltered hope.

"Yeah, baby… it's real," he whispered, and when he said it, you believed him.

He turned his gaze back to your belly, leaning in to press a tender kiss to the curve. Then another. And another. Like he was trying to pour all the love and fear and longing he'd been carrying for months into that single touch.

"Look how big you’re getting already, little one," he murmured, voice thick with emotion, his thumbs brushing slow, loving circles on your skin. "You keep growing strong for maman, okay? We’re waiting for you, mon ange. We love you so much already."

You felt a fresh wave of tears spill over, and before you could say anything, Charles stood up and gathered you into his arms. He held you close, one hand protectively around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head like you were something fragile and precious.

He kissed your temple, lips lingering there as though he never wanted to let you go.

"I love you," he whispered into your hair, voice steady but full of quiet emotion. "I love you so much. Both of you."

You buried your face into his chest, holding onto him like a lifeline, and for the first time in what felt like forever, your heart wasn’t heavy with fear — it was full. Full of love. Full of hope.

As the weeks turned into months, Charles’s protectiveness only grew stronger. He was still the same sweet, thoughtful man you had fallen in love with, but now, it was like he had taken on a new role — one that involved constantly making sure you were safe, comfortable, and happy.

He wouldn’t let you carry anything heavy. If you needed something from another room, Charles would jump up from wherever he was and get it for you — even if it was just a glass of water.

He hovered whenever you were walking on uneven ground, his hand always within reach to steady you just in case. When you were out in public, if anyone even so much as bumped into you, he’d be there in an instant, fixing them with a sharp glare and muttering something in French under his breath.

"She’s perfect, thank you," he’d say, a protective tone in his voice that made your heart flutter.

At home, it was a different story.

He was still over-the-top sweet, but he also had a knack for making you laugh. He would sit beside you on the couch, his hand resting gently on your growing belly, and read stories aloud to your baby.

Or he’d sing to your belly, and, while his singing voice might not have been the best, he did it with such enthusiasm and love that it made you laugh every time.

"Charles," you giggled one evening as he sang a very dramatic version of a lullaby, his tone completely off-key, "I don’t think the baby cares about the key you’re singing in."

He grinned, not at all phased by your teasing.

"Maybe not," he shrugged, continuing his performance, "but if they inherit my charm, they’ll appreciate the effort."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was bursting with love.

You loved him.

You loved the way he threw himself into every part of this journey — not just as the future father of your child, but as your partner, your rock, and the love of your life.

This wasn’t just about becoming parents. It was about building a family — a team. And Charles was all in.

And so were you.

One evening, you found yourself curled up on the couch, your head resting gently in Charles’s lap. The room was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves outside and the sound of the air conditioner keeping the warmth at bay.

Charles’s hand, warm and steady, rested on your growing belly. His fingers traced lazy, rhythmic patterns over the fabric of your shirt, a quiet hum escaping his lips. You couldn’t help but smile at how he seemed so at ease, as though this was exactly where he was meant to be — here, with you, in this moment.

For a while, neither of you said anything. The world outside the four walls of your living room seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of you — tangled up in each other’s presence.

"Do you ever think about what they’ll look like?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

You turned your head just enough so you could look up at Charles. His eyes were focused on your belly, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You saw the love in his gaze, that quiet kind of adoration that made your heart flutter.

Charles didn’t answer immediately, his fingers still tracing those gentle patterns over your stomach, the warmth of his touch radiating through the fabric. He seemed lost in thought for a moment, as if considering the question carefully, as if trying to picture the tiny person growing inside you.

Finally, he looked down at you, his smile softening, and brushed a stray lock of hair from your face. "All the time," he admitted, his voice full of a tenderness that made your chest tighten. "I hope they have your eyes."

You felt a surge of emotion at his words, the simple yet profound way he spoke about your baby, as if they were already part of both of you — as if they already belonged. "And your smile," he added, his eyes glimmering with that familiar warmth. "You have the most beautiful smile."

You swallowed, feeling the lump form in your throat. It was hard to speak, hard to even breathe with the rush of emotions that hit you. The overwhelming love you felt for Charles, for the tiny baby inside you, for the future you were building together. It all made your heart ache, but in the most wonderful way.

"And I hope they’re kind, like you," you whispered, your voice barely audible now, thick with emotion. You couldn’t stop the tears that welled up in your eyes, the overwhelming flood of love that filled your chest. "Gentle. Patient."

Charles’s eyes softened even more, and without a word, he leaned down, his lips meeting yours in a slow, tender kiss. It was the kind of kiss that wasn’t about passion or urgency, but about connection — about the deep, unspoken bond between the two of you.

"They’ll be perfect," he murmured against your lips, his voice full of a quiet certainty that made your heart swell. "Because they’ll be ours."

You closed your eyes as you pulled him in for another kiss, this time lingering longer, as if you both knew this moment was precious — as if you were sealing that promise in a way that words never could.

As you pulled away, you rested your head back on his lap, your hand instinctively finding his on your belly. You could feel the warmth of his palm against you, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest as he sat beside you.

You weren’t alone anymore.

You had Charles.

You had your baby.

And you had a heart that, finally, after all the waiting, all the pain, all the uncertainty — was finally, beautifully full again.

You squeezed Charles’s hand gently, feeling the comfort of his touch and the weight of that realization settle over you.

"We’re going to be okay," you whispered to him, your voice calm, yet full of emotion.

Charles’s hand tightened on yours, and he leaned down to kiss your forehead. His lips brushed against your skin, soft and reassuring. "I know, bébé. I know."

With each passing day, you and Charles were building something incredible together. A family. A future.

And nothing — nothing in the world — could take that away.

The days had grown warmer, and Monaco was slowly transforming before your eyes. Spring had arrived, bringing with it an explosion of color. The sky was that perfect shade of blue, the sun bright and inviting.

But, for you, the season’s beauty was secondary to the changes happening within your own little world.

You were huge now — or at least, that’s what you kept joking every time you tried to get up from the couch, your body round and heavy with the life you carried. There were days when getting out of bed felt like a monumental task, your limbs stiff and your back sore from the added weight of your growing belly. But Charles was always there, always hovering. You had gotten so used to it that it almost felt like a comforting presence.

"Charles, I’m pregnant, not broken," you’d laugh, swatting at his hands as they reached out to help you up from the couch.

His response was always the same — a grin that lit up his face, followed by him crouching down in front of you anyway, eyes full of love and concern. "I know," he would say, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "But you’re carrying our baby, so I’m allowed to take care of you." His voice was so gentle, so sincere, that it melted your heart every time.

Truth be told, you didn’t mind at all. In fact, you loved it. Loved how he looked at you as if you were the most precious thing in his life, how he made you feel like the most important person in the world. You knew how much this pregnancy meant to him — to both of you. The way he cared for you, the way he looked after every little detail, was proof of how deeply he wanted to be a father, how deeply he wanted this family.

Some days, when you were feeling particularly uncomfortable or exhausted, you’d just lean into him and let him help you. You knew that no matter how many times you swatted his hands away, he would always be there, ready to care for you. It was his love language, his way of showing that he was in this — all in — with you.

The nursery was finally finished.

You had spent weeks planning and preparing, choosing colors and patterns, imagining what it would look like. Charles had been just as involved, though in his own way. His focus had been on the practicality of everything — the crib, the changing table, the storage solutions for all the baby clothes. Every piece of furniture had been chosen with care, ensuring it would be perfect for the baby who would soon fill it.

The room itself was a sanctuary of peace, painted in soft neutral tones that radiated warmth and calm. There were gentle hints of blush pink and pale green scattered throughout, giving the space a subtle, almost ethereal feel. Since the gender of the baby wasn't known until the birth, the both of you decided on soft neutral colors. The crib was made of light wood, sturdy and timeless, with a soft mattress and sheets that were as soft as clouds. The shelves above the crib were lined with stuffed animals — a bear, a rabbit, a fox — each chosen with the same love and attention Charles had put into every detail of the room.

Charles had insisted on assembling the crib himself, a project he had taken very seriously, much to your amusement. You had offered to help, but he’d shooed you away, determined to get it right. Of course, halfway through, he had ended up calling Arthur to ask for help with the instructions. “I swear, I can read in French, but these instructions are written in a language all their own,” he had said, his voice tinged with exasperation and laughter.

You smiled just thinking about it now. Even in the chaos, even when he was frustrated with a seemingly simple task, he had always kept his eyes on the end goal — creating a safe, loving space for your baby.

In the corner of the room stood a rocking chair, the most perfect addition to the nursery, and, in time, it had become your favorite place to sit. Every evening, as the sun began to dip below the horizon and the room grew soft with twilight, you would curl into the chair, settling against Charles’s side. His arm would naturally wrap around your shoulders, pulling you close, and you’d lean your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

As the days passed, and the reality of becoming parents settled in, the two of you would talk about everything — the future, your hopes and dreams, the tiny person who would soon fill your lives. Sometimes, Charles would talk about what kind of father he wanted to be. His words were always filled with such certainty and warmth.

"I want to be the kind of father who makes our baby laugh every day," he had said one night, his eyes reflecting the gentle love that had taken root in his heart. "The kind who is always there when they need me — whether it’s for a scraped knee or a broken heart. I want them to know they can always count on me."

His words resonated deep within you. You had no doubt that Charles would be an incredible father. His love, patience, and tenderness were already evident in everything he did, and you knew that would only grow once your baby was here.

Every night, as you curled into his side in that chair, your head resting against his chest, you could feel the anticipation building. Every little kick or shift of the baby inside you reminded you that your lives were about to change forever. The days of waiting were almost over, and you couldn’t wait to meet the little one who had been growing inside you for so long.

Soon.

The thought sent a wave of emotion through you, and you blinked back tears as you turned your head up to look at Charles. He was smiling at you, his expression soft with love and affection.

"Can you believe it?" you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "Our baby is coming soon."

Charles’s hand gently rested on your belly, his fingers tracing slow, soothing circles. His eyes met yours, and in them, you saw everything — the excitement, the love, the anticipation. "I can’t wait, bébé," he murmured, his voice quiet but full of promise. "Soon, we’ll be holding them in our arms. Our baby."

And in that moment, as you sat there together, in the warmth of the nursery you had so carefully created, you realized that all the waiting, all the planning, all the months of anticipation had led to this. You were ready. Both of you were ready.

The nursery was ready. Your hearts were ready. And soon, the little one who had filled your dreams would be there, completing your family, and filling your home with a love you couldn’t yet fully comprehend.

Soon.

It was a quiet morning when everything changed.

The soft light of dawn filtered through the blinds, casting delicate shadows across the room. The world outside seemed still, as if holding its breath. But inside, your body was stirring in a way it never had before.

You woke up to a sharp cramp low in your belly, a sensation that made you pause, your breath hitching in surprise. It wasn’t overly painful, but it was different — an unmistakable sign that something was happening. You winced slightly, pressing your hand to your stomach, wondering if it was the beginning of something.

Still, it wasn’t too intense at first. So, you laid there for a moment, trying to calm your racing heart. You closed your eyes again, hoping to drift back to sleep, but then, another cramp came — sharper this time, and accompanied by an uncomfortable pressure. You couldn’t ignore it any longer.

"Charles…" you murmured, your voice still heavy with sleep but carrying an edge of worry. "I think something’s happening."

The moment the words left your mouth, Charles stirred beside you, instantly alert. It was as if your words had cracked the stillness of the room, and with a suddenness that made your heart leap, he shot upright, eyes wide and full of panic.

"What?!" His voice was filled with urgency, his hand already reaching for his phone. "Is it time? Do I call the doctor? The hospital? Your mom? Should I —"

You let out a soft laugh, though it came out breathless and strained as another cramp hit you. You winced, but it wasn’t too painful. "Breathe, love," you said, your voice soft but steady. "Let me check before you call half of Monaco."

But Charles was already in motion, his long fingers fumbling to grab your pre-packed hospital bag from the corner, even though it had been ready for weeks. He threw it onto the bed beside you, pacing the room like a caged lion, running his hand through his messy hair in distress.

You couldn’t help but laugh again, even as you clutched your stomach, trying to steady yourself. It was such a familiar sight — Charles, always moving a mile a minute when it came to taking care of you. Even now, in this moment of uncertainty, he was already trying to anticipate every possible thing that could go wrong.

Finally, after a few more contractions, you confirmed with your doctor, who reassured you that it was likely just the beginning of labor. Your contractions were becoming more regular, though not yet unbearably painful.

But Charles, ever the perfectionist, could hardly sit still. "Are you okay?" you asked softly as he drove toward the hospital, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, his eyes darting between the road and you.

His lips parted to speak, but it was only then that you saw the tears — soft, glistening tears in the corner of his eyes. They took you by surprise, a silent admission of his fears. "I’m terrified," he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. "I’m terrified something will happen to you."

The words hung in the air, and your heart cracked a little. You reached over, your hand finding his, and you squeezed it tightly. You didn’t even care that you could barely feel your fingers due to the tight grip he had on the wheel. You just needed to reassure him, needed to remind him that you were in this together.

"I’m going to be okay," you whispered, voice thick with emotion. "We’re both going to be okay."

He nodded, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. You could tell that, no matter how many times you reassured him, this was still a moment of immense fear for him. The fear of losing you, of something going wrong, was something neither of you could avoid.

Labor was... intense.

It felt as though time stretched and bent around you, every hour becoming an eternity. You weren’t sure how long you had been in the hospital now — minutes, hours, days? But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the overwhelming pain, the exhaustion, and the beautiful chaos of this moment that would soon lead to your baby being in your arms.

Charles had been your rock through it all. He never left your side, holding your hand with such fierce tenderness that it almost grounded you to this earth.

Every contraction was like a wave crashing over you, each one more intense than the last. You gripped his hand, squeezing tightly, and Charles never once wavered. He wiped the sweat from your brow, kissed your forehead, and whispered words of encouragement with a steadiness that made you believe you could do anything.

"I’m so proud of you," he whispered against your temple during one of the breaks, his voice low and filled with love. "You’re incredible."

You could feel the tears building in your eyes, but you couldn’t summon the strength to speak. His words cut through the pain and gave you a sense of peace you hadn’t thought possible in the middle of this madness. His belief in you, in your strength, made you want to keep going — no matter how hard it got.

And then, finally — the moment you had dreamed of, fought for, ached for.

The sound of a baby’s first cry filled the room — sharp, loud, and so full of life that it felt like the whole world stopped spinning for a moment. Your breath caught in your throat, and everything around you seemed to blur, like the edges of the room had melted away until there was nothing but that sound.

In that moment, you weren’t just a woman in labor anymore. You were a mother. Her mother.

The nurse, with the gentlest smile, approached and softly said, "It's a girl."

A girl.

Your heart twisted in the most beautiful way as tears welled up in your eyes. A girl. Your girl.

The tiny bundle was placed delicately on your chest, and when you looked down, it felt like the entire universe shifted into place. She was so impossibly small, her little hands curled into fists against her chest, her skin soft and pink, and her face — oh, her face — was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

You let out a shaky breath, tears sliding freely down your cheeks as you reached up to cup her tiny head. "Hi, baby," you whispered, your voice breaking, "Hi, my love."

Your eyes found Charles then — and the sight of him completely unraveled you. He was standing at your side, frozen at first, his green eyes wide with disbelief, tears already spilling down his cheeks. His hand covered his mouth like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Slowly, like he was afraid to break the moment, he leaned down and pressed a trembling kiss to your forehead. His hands cupped your face, his thumb wiping away your tears as his own kept falling.

Then, he turned his attention to the baby, to her, and a soft, awed sound left his throat — something between a laugh and a sob.

"We did it," Charles whispered, his voice thick, cracking under the weight of his emotions. "Mon amour… we did it."

You could only nod, your throat too tight to speak. The tears kept coming, but for the first time in so long, they were tears of joy, of overwhelming love.

"Meet her," you finally managed, breathless, staring down at the little miracle on your chest. "Meet our daughter."

Charles reached out with shaking fingers, carefully stroking her soft cheek as though she might break under his touch. His smile was pure wonder, his eyes never leaving her face.

"She’s… she’s perfect," he whispered in awe. "She’s so perfect, bébé."

He leaned in and kissed the top of her tiny head with so much tenderness it broke your heart all over again.

"I love you so much," he murmured, his lips still pressed to her soft skin. "I love you both more than anything in this world."

You closed your eyes for a second, trying to gather yourself, but nothing could prepare you for this kind of love — raw, overwhelming, all-consuming. You had fought so hard, gone through so much heartbreak, fear, and pain — and now here she was. The living proof that hope was real.

You ran a hand gently over her head, glancing up at Charles again, and he met your gaze with a soft smile — one that said, we made it.

"Her name?" you whispered softly, the question hanging in the air, though you both already knew.

Charles smiled, eyes brimming with tears as he whispered, "Sofia. Sofia Pascale Leclerc."

Sofia. It felt perfect — strong and soft, like her.

"Hi, Sofia," you whispered to her, running a trembling finger over her tiny hand. "Hi, baby girl."

The first night in the hospital was a blur of feedings, diaper changes, and nurses checking in, but there were moments that would be forever etched in your heart — like the way Charles never wanted to put her down, holding her close like she was the most precious thing in the world.

You woke in the middle of the night to see him by the window, gently swaying with her in his arms. He had taken off his shirt so she could feel his warmth, and he was humming softly — a song you couldn’t quite recognize, but it sounded like love.

The lights of Monaco glittered in the distance, but Charles' world was small now, narrowed down to just you and Sofia.

"Look at her, mon cœur," Charles whispered when he noticed you watching him. His voice was thick with emotion, still in awe, like he couldn’t believe she was real. "So small. So perfect."

You smiled, propped up in the bed, still feeling weak but fuller than you’d ever been.

"She is perfect," you said softly, wiping another tear from your cheek.

He looked down at Sofia, brushing a kiss to her forehead, and then, without looking away from her, he added, "Just like her maman."

Your chest tightened at his words, but you smiled through it.

"Think she’ll like racing?" you joked quietly, needing to lighten the moment before you drowned in tears again.

Charles let out a soft laugh, though his eyes never left her. "Maybe… but she’ll always be faster than me — she’s already stolen my heart."

You watched him for a long moment, your heart swelling in your chest, so full it felt like it might burst.

This — this — was what you had fought for.

You had fought through heartbreak that had left you breathless, through pain that had nearly broken you in two, through nights when all you could do was cry in Charles’ arms, unsure if this dream would ever come true. You had battled fear, uncertainty, and the endless ache of waiting. And now, as you stood there, watching him cradle Sofia like she was the most precious thing in the world, you realized — this was everything you had ever dreamed of.

Your family.

The family you had fought for with every ounce of strength you had left.

Weeks later, when life had finally started to settle into a rhythm, and the haze of the first sleepless nights had softened, you walked into the living room and stopped dead in your tracks.

Charles was asleep on the couch, head tilted back, his soft brown hair a mess from running his fingers through it one too many times. But it wasn’t just him.

Sofia was curled up on his chest, her tiny body rising and falling with each of his breaths. One of his arms cradled her protectively, while his other hand rested lightly on her back, like even in sleep, he couldn’t stop holding her close.

They looked so peaceful, so safe — wrapped in a world where nothing could touch them.

Tears pricked your eyes as you stood there, one hand covering your mouth as the weight of it all washed over you.

The man who had stood beside you through every storm, who had wiped every tear, held you through every loss, whispered hope into your ears when you had none left — this man was now holding your daughter like she was the only thing that mattered in the world.

He had loved you through it all — even when you couldn’t love yourself, even when you had pushed him away in the depths of your grief. He had never let go.

And now, here he was — the father of your child.

You walked toward them softly, careful not to wake either of them, and slowly eased yourself onto the couch beside him. Curling into his side, you rested your head on his shoulder, your hand gently brushing over Sofia’s tiny back.

Charles stirred slightly, shifting in his sleep at your touch, and after a moment, he cracked one eye open, his gaze landing on you.

A sleepy, soft smile tugged at his lips as he looked at you like you were still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"Hey, maman," he whispered, his voice hoarse from sleep, but full of so much love it made your heart ache.

You smiled through the tears gathering in your eyes, brushing a kiss against his shoulder as you whispered back, "Hey, papa."

He leaned his head against yours, letting out a quiet sigh, as though even now, weeks later, he still couldn’t believe she was real.

Your eyes drifted down to Sofia, her tiny face peaceful, her lips slightly parted as she breathed in soft little huffs. One tiny hand was fisted against Charles' chest like she never wanted to let go of her papa.

You reached out, gently tracing a fingertip over her soft cheek, and felt Charles’ arm tighten around both of you, pulling you closer.

"I don’t think I’ll ever get over this," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

Charles turned to press a kiss to your temple, lingering there. "Me neither," he murmured against your skin. "She’s everything, isn’t she?"

You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat.

For the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt right.

There were no needles, no hospital walls, no sterile doctors' offices — just you, Charles, and Sofia, safe and whole in your little home.

You had your family.

You had love — a love that had been tested and forged in fire, but had only grown stronger.

And you had a future — one brighter, fuller, and more beautiful than anything you had ever dared to imagine.

Together, you were everything.

[amirasainz]

Hey love. Could I please request some Oscar story. Maybe Oscar and reader being in love with each other and the other drivers teasing them a bit but still think it's cute?

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

-xoxo babygirl 🧡

Quiet Hearts, Loud Paddock

The paddock buzzed with its usual chaos: mechanics bustling around, reporters scribbling notes, engines humming in the background. Yet amid the noise, one corner always seemed to shine just a little brighter — wherever Yn stood with her microphone, offering kind smiles and thoughtful questions to drivers who appreciated her genuine warmth.

Yn was the youngest reporter in the paddock, just twenty years old, but already well-liked by the entire grid. Her interviews were never intrusive or sensational. She focused on the people behind the helmets — their personalities, passions, and quirks.

And while everyone enjoyed her presence, one driver seemed particularly captivated by her: Oscar.

The quiet Australian wasn’t one to seek attention, but when Yn was around, his shyness melted into soft smiles, flushed cheeks, and playful remarks. The two of them turned every interview into a game of compliments and shy glances. Everyone could see it — the stolen looks, the way their eyes lingered a beat too long, the rosy tint coloring their cheeks after even the simplest interaction.

The other drivers found it both hilarious and heartwarming. But despite their teasing instincts, they decided not to meddle. Young love, after all, had its own pace.

----------

Media Day

The afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the paddock as Yn stood by the media pen, holding her microphone and checking her notes. She smoothed her blouse and glanced at the interview schedule. Oscar — 3:30 PM.

Her heart skipped. Why did she still get nervous? She’d interviewed him dozens of times, yet her palms always got clammy just before he arrived.

“Waiting for someone special?” a voice teased.

Yn turned to see Lando grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“No,” she said, feigning nonchalance. “I’m just working.”

“Sure, sure.” Lando’s eyes twinkled. “I bet your ‘work’ blushes as much as you do.”

Yn rolled her eyes. “Go annoy someone else, Norris.”

He laughed but left her alone.

Moments later, Oscar approached, dressed in his team polo and cap. Yn's breath caught, but she forced herself to smile as she raised her microphone.

“Hi, Oscar!” she greeted, too brightly.

“Hey, Yn,” he replied, his dimples showing instantly. “You look…uh…nice today.” His eyes flickered to her yellow blouse. “Sunshine-y.”

“Oh, thank you!” she said, cheeks warming. “You always look good in team colors.”

Oscar laughed softly, ducking his head. “I mean…it’s required, but I appreciate it.”

“So, uh…let's talk about the weekend ahead,” Yn said, refocusing. “How are you feeling going into tomorrow’s practice?”

“Excited,” Oscar said. “The car’s feeling good. The team’s worked really hard. I just hope I can do them proud.”

“You always do,” Yn said automatically.

Oscar’s lips parted slightly, as though surprised by her conviction. “Thanks,” he murmured. “That means a lot.”

She cleared her throat. “And how’s the track looking this weekend?”

“Challenging, but fun. I mean, you've walked it, right?”

“Yeah. Nearly tripped over a curb though.”

Oscar chuckled. “Well, I promise not to do that in the car.”

They both laughed, the tension easing into something light and familiar. The interview went on, sprinkled with gentle teasing and lingering glances. When they wrapped up, Yn lowered her mic, but neither of them moved.

“Well…good luck, Oscar,” she said softly.

“Thanks, Yn.” His eyes softened. “See you around.”

As he walked away, Yn exhaled deeply. Across the paddock, Lando caught her eye and mimed a dramatic swoon. She ignored him.

----------

Post-Qualifying Interviews

Oscar had qualified P4 — his best of the season. Yn’s heart swelled with pride as he walked toward her with a grin.

“Congratulations, Oscar!” she beamed as he stopped beside her. “P4! How are you feeling?”

“Over the moon,” Oscar said, running a hand through his hair. “The car was great. The team nailed the setup. Honestly…I’m just happy I didn’t mess it up.”

Yn laughed. “You? Mess up? Never.”

Oscar ducked his head with a bashful smile. “You’re biased.”

“Maybe,” she admitted. “But I'm usually right.”

He met her gaze then, something unspoken crackling between them. She felt her cheeks flush and quickly asked another question.

Behind them, a group of drivers loitered near the hospitality suite. Carlos elbowed Charles.

“Look at them,” Carlos whispered. “They’re practically heart-eyes emojis.”

“Just confess already!” Charles mock-shouted toward Oscar.

Oscar heard. His neck turned bright red. Yn nearly dropped her microphone.

Max, standing nearby, shook his head. “Leave them alone. Let them figure it out.”

Carlos sighed dramatically. “Fine. But if they don’t kiss by the end of the season, I’m intervening.”

----------

Race Day

Oscar finished P4, earning solid points. Yn was the first reporter to greet him as he stepped from the car, hair damp with sweat and a tired but happy smile on his face.

“P4!” Yn said, raising her mic. “That was some brilliant driving, Oscar!”

“Thanks, Yn. It was tough out there.”

“You made it look easy,” she said, her admiration shining through.

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, his usual tell of nervousness. “Well…maybe I had some extra motivation today.”

“Oh?” Yn tilted her head. “Care to share?”

His eyes met hers. “Nah. Not yet.”

Yn's breath caught. The air between them seemed to thicken, and the world blurred into the background.

When Oscar walked away, Lando sidled up. “Did he just flirt with you?”

“I don’t know,” Yn said faintly.

“You’re both helpless.”

----------

The paddock party was lively, music thumping, drivers and team members mingling with drinks and laughter. Yn stood by the balcony, watching the celebration unfold.

“Hey.”

She turned. Oscar stood there, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Hey,” she said, smiling. “Congrats again.”

“Thanks.” He shifted on his feet. “I, um…wanted to say something.”

Yn’s pulse quickened. “Okay.”

Oscar took a deep breath. “I really like you, Yn. Like…a lot. And I know we’ve kind of danced around it for a while, but…I just had to tell you.”

Yn’s heart soared. “I really like you too, Oscar.”

His face broke into a smile of pure relief. “Really?”

“Yeah. Always have.”

The silence stretched, comfortable now. Then Oscar, emboldened by the moment, asked, “Can I…maybe take you out sometime?”

“I’d love that.”

They stood there, the party noise fading into a distant hum.

From across the terrace, Charles fist-pumped the air. “Finally!”

Carlos laughed. “Took them long enough.”

Lando raised his glass. “To the shy ones!”

Max shook his head with a fond smile. “Leave them alone, guys.”

But Yn and Oscar didn’t even hear. They only saw each other — their quiet love finally spoken aloud.

[ghelgheli]

Historians are rarely challenged just for applying words like ‘woman’ and ‘man’ to the past; it would not inevitably cause a backlash to say that a historical figure wanted power, or grieved, or felt anger. A trans historian, though, is caught in the double-bind of the DSM-5. Our experiences and our desires are quite literally mad. We do not have the social license to see ourselves fractured and reflected in historical figures; we are standing in the wrong place to write. Put simply, if you foreclose trans readings, you foreclose trans writing. When we reflect on the similarities between our lives and those of historical figures, we are accused of spreading our social contagion to the dead. To read our own anamorphoses in a text, to communicate that to a cis academic establishment who have rendered our unqualified subjectivities unimaginable, we are forced to accuse historical figures of transness. And then, of course, we are chastised for pathologising them. For a trans historian, it is not viable to simply universalise our experiences of gender. In order to relate to historical figures’ gendered experiences in our writing in a way that is legible to cis readers, we have to assert that those figures were trans. There is a gap to be bridged, and the onus to bridge it falls on us… Transmisogyny and anti-effeminacy were and are integral to the structure of patriarchy and therefore to cisness (or vice-versa). In ‘Monster Culture (Seven Theses)’, Jeffrey Jerome Cohen proposed a methodology for reading cultures: ‘from the monsters they engender’. In concluding this sketch of Byzantine cisness, I would like to attempt to apply this method. To monster a group or an individual is a violent act, and through examining the way transfemininity was monstered in Byzantium, we can begin to understand the shape of the violent regulation of gendered possibilities that constituted Byzantine cisness… Synesius [of Cyrene] did not simply compare the image of the elegantly coiffed effeminate with the shiny dome of the soldier’s helmet; he went one step further, proclaiming that pretty hair was the give-away for hidden effeminacy. He rails against ‘effeminate wretches’ who ‘make a cult of their hair’, who he suggests engage in sex work not out of economic necessity but as an act of sex and gender exhibitionism, to ‘display fully the effeminacy of their character’. Then, he goes on to say:

And whoever is secretly perverted, even if he should swear the contrary in the marketplace, and should present no other proof of being an acolyte of Cotys save only in a great care of his hair, anointing it and arranging it in ringlets, he might well be denounced to all as one who has celebrated orgies to the Chian goddess and the Ithyphalli.

The implication is clear: long, well kempt, perfumed and curled hair is not just hair, it is a signifier, one that signals total abnegation of manhood, and therefore of cisness. This demonstrates one of the mechanisms by which cisness was maintained and enforced in the Byzantine world. Relatively minor embodied gender transgressions, like too-long or too-pretty hair, could be linked to transfemininity and to sexual receptivity, the two farthest points from patriarchal manhood. That is not to say that this prevented people from committing such gender transgressions; rather that it made them risky, a weapon that could be used against you by anyone who wanted to do you harm. The other thing demonstrated by Synesius’ invective is the relationship between effeminacy, unmasculine vanity and presumed sexual receptivity. It would be tempting, based on the relationship Synesius draws between long beautiful hair and receptive anal sex, to suggest that the animating force of this antipathy is, if not homophobia, a narrower pre-modern equivalent. There is, however, a fantastically complicating detail in Synesius’ remark on the reasons such ‘effeminates’ engage in sex work: being sexually available is presented as an instrumental, rather than terminal value. In Synesius’ imagination, sex work is the means, but social recognition of the feminine gender of the sex worker is the end: to ‘display fully the effeminacy of their character’. The monster Synesius invokes to shore-up his own gender position, to guard his own cisness and his access to hegemonic masculinity, is an unambiguously transmisogynist fantasy. It is here that Byzantine cisness most sharply converges with twenty-first-century cisness.

‘Selective Historians’: The Construction of Cisness in Byzantine and Byzantinist Texts, Ilya Maude [DOI]

[deadhands69]

I know this trope is done to DEATH but I love the idea of personal knight katsuki and royal reader🥺

Katsuki who’s maybe a few years older than you, who loves to watch you sit in the courtyard, and lets you read to him because you can see he’s paying attention. Katsuki who pretends he hates how you practically give him a fashion show every morning in your new gown but it’s his favorite thing you do. Katsuki who’s there when you’re sobbing over the death of your beloved horse, you’re clinging to him as he softly talks you down. Katsuki who sits outside your door listening to the soft moans that come from within, hard as a rock in his gear, knowing that you’re calling his name, debating whether to stay out here or go inside and help his beloved girl.

I hope you can see my vision 🧐

-🌸

Hi 🌸!

Hope this is what you were thinking, I haven't written a knight/royal au before so it was a fun challenge!

Katsuki Bakugo stands at the door, feeling himself grow harder against the constraints of his armor. Through the cracks in the thick wooden door at his back, he can hear your soft moans floating through the air. It’s certainly not the first time. He’s been your personal knight for years, with you through everything. It’s his job to guard your door, regardless of what you’re doing in your chambers, but typically you at least try to muffle the pretty sounds you make. If he didn’t know better, he’d assume you want him to hear it.

No, that can’t be it.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, willing himself to regain composure for your sake. It’s no use, his mind drifts to forbidden territory. The way you looked in your new gown this morning. How you like to pull his visor up, gaze never leaving his face when you drag him by the hand through the meadow to pick flowers. Today you looked into his eyes, the same way you always do and he had to fight off every fiber of his being screaming at him to kiss you. He can only imagine the taste of your lips. The taste of - no, spending time with you is his job and it wouldn’t be fair to you if he indulged in these thoughts. It’s not his place. No matter how much he wants it to be.

He fusses with his armor to distract himself. Trying to make room for the growing erection he tries in vain to will away. 

“Katsuki,” your voice drifts into his ear.

Taking his glove off, he rubs his eyes. It’s been too long without sleep and now he’s hearing things. 

But he isn’t. 

Once more, your voice sings to him through the door like a siren song calling him to the rocks. “Katsuki, please,” your breath catches, dragging the last syllable into a whimper.

Visions of you moaning into your pillow, waiting for him flood his brain. You need him. And isn’t it part of his job to tend to your every desire?

“Fuck,” he mumbles to himself, hand hovering over the door latch. His fingers clench into a fist as he turns away, pacing the hall outside your chambers. 

“Please, I’m so close,” your voice calls out once more, absolutely breaking through any ounce of willpower he had left. Pressing through the heavy door, he finds you in your undergown. The soft linen bunches at your hips, your tired hands moving back to the bed as you press yourself up on your elbows. He slams the door shut, barring it from the inside before moving to kneel at your side. You’re still panting, eyes heavy lidded and cheeks flushed as you reach to remove his helmet. He knows you’re strong, but helps you anyways. The heavy pieces of his armor and chainmail clink to the floor until he’s down to the padded shirt and thin pants that do nothing to hide how turned on he is.

Reaching for his cheek, you pull him in until his lips meet yours. You taste sweeter than he ever could have dreamed and he can’t get enough. He hovers over your body, pressing you back to the bed before kissing his way down your neck. Through the thin white fabric, he feels your nipples harden under his touch. His hands slip lower, grabbing the backs of your legs. 

He shouldn’t be doing this, but deep down he already knows your relationship crossed the lines of proper long ago. All those days spent with you reading to him. Holding you through hard times. This is just the natural progression of things. 

“Need you,” you murmur down at him and all hesitation is lost. 

“You have me,” he taunts back. Lifting the material of your gown out of the way, he slides to the floor, pulling your hips to the edge of the bed. He kisses his way up your legs while moving them over his shoulders until his face rests on your inner thigh. His hot breath teases over your aching skin. 

“You’re so pretty,” he mumbles into you. Your fingers run through his messy hair, giving you a better view of his face.

His chapped lips move over your folds, finding you dripping wet already. You weren’t lying when you said you were close. Passionately, he slides his tongue in and out of you, nose pressing hard into your clit. There’s nothing he’s ever wanted more than to hear you moan his name again (other than you running away with him and living happily ever after but he’ll start small.)

“Katsuki,” you cry breathlessly, “you feel so amazing.”

And he does, every lick rippling through your body like fire. Clenching his hair harder, you shove your hips into his face. His movements stutter as he whimpers at the feel of his slick mouth grinding over your cunt, teeth lightly brushing your most sensitive areas. 

“I’m gonna cu-” 

“Do it,” he pants before his tongue delves back into you. 

For a moment, you swear you could see stars. Forgetting when and where you are, like nothing outside the room exists or matters. He exhales hard, face collapsing into you as you slowly run your fingers over the side of his face, around his ear, and down his neck.

Eventually, he sits up, wiping his face with the back of his hand. Climbing onto the bed, he holds you and you savor every moment of it - not knowing how long it will be before you’ll be alone like this again.

[dancewithdeath11]

His

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Warnings: 18+ Smut, fem receiving oral, intercourse, slight gymnastics but sexy, literally just smut. Short and sweet and I need an actual boyfriend that calls me baby. (Update: Read it back, saw some mistakes and a part I didn't like so I changed it (3/10/25))

Word count: 1.3k

======

He just got out of the shower, still roughed up from patrol but clean. “Baby, c’mon..” Jason murmured as he picked up his helmet to put it away. You glanced up from where you sat on the couch, smirking as you took him in. 

Muscles dripping wet, a towel lazily tied around his hips. As always, you quite shamelessly ogled him. How could you not? He’s over two hundred pounds of muscle, biceps the size of your head, covered in scars. Somehow every imperfection only made him hotter. “How was patrol?” You asked as he took your hand and guided you in front of him. We paused in the hall to put the helmet away in the gear closet where he kept all his gear.

“Fine.” He shook his head, “Missed you.” 

His words tugged at your heart, “How much?” A teasing lit to your tone as you asked. Tilting your head at him. 

A scoff left his lips as he gave a wolfish grin. But he didn’t answer, never one for words. Large calloused hands found your hips, herding you back to the bedroom. A chuckle escaped your lips as your slippered feet shuffled back on the old floorboards. Your chuckle was quickly cut off as he pressed his lips to yours. Feeling your shirt dampen as he pressed against you, getting you wet in more ways than one. Demanding, desperate, needing.. Kisses quickly turning deeper, his tongue seeking entry and not meeting much resistance as you happily gave in. 

His hands skated up to the edge of his tee shirt that you wore, he tugged it over your head leaving you in your panties. An appreciative hum rumbled deep in his chest at the fact you weren’t wearing a bra. “On the bed..” He said, leaving no room for questioning. As you stepped back he took off his towel. As soon as you were laid back against the pillows he crawled over you. A quick kiss to your lips before he trailed down. Leaving a myriad of hickeys along your skin, marking you as his. “Baby..”

“Hmm?” You breathed as he kept going further down, your hands going to his hair as he kissed over your stomach making you squirm at the feeling. 

His hands trailed from your waist to your hips, “Can I?” His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties. 

“Yeah..” That was all he needed before he tugged them down your legs. Tossing them behind him, his hands quickly finding the backs of your knees as he spread your legs. 

A sharp gasp escaped your lips as he wasted no time. Locking his arms around your plush thighs as he worked his tongue over your pussy. Licking and sucking like it was the only thing that mattered. A high whine left you as he pressed closer, his broad shoulders pushing your thighs further apart as he pressed closer than he needed to. He knew everything you loved. How to drag it out, how to get you off in less than five minutes, how to make you arch and scream like a whore. 

He licked a long stripe with the flat of his tongue, wet and sloppy. From hole to clit till he nipped rudely on your clit making you whimper pathetically. And shit, did Jason drag it out. Switching between licking and sucking until you couldn’t take it anymore. 

“J-Jay, please, your fingers..” You whined out, wanting more friction. You were already so close, teetering on that ledge. But, at this point in your relationship, Jason has trained you to be greedy. Want more.  

But when he pulled away and glared up at you, “Fuck that, you don’t need my fucking fingers to get off..” He grunted at your request like it was almost insulting you’d ask for anything more than his mouth. Like a challenge of his skills. He went back down and sucked on your clit. Not letting up as you tried to push his head away, it was so intense it was making your vision blurry with tears from how overwhelming it was. “C’mon..” He murmured into your pussy.

It felt so goddamn good. That was all it took for you to tense up, back arching and fingers clawing at the sheets. Falling silent as your face scrunched in pleasure before you fell apart with a harsh moan of, “Oh my god!” Thighs trembling against his arms as you fell back to the sheets. 

“Yeah.. that's what I thought, baby.” He smirked as he moved over you. Coming face to face with your blissed-out expression and letting out a cocky chuckle. “There’s my girl, you ready?” You let out a scoff but smiled at him nonetheless. Jason took your thighs in hand as he sat back on his haunches, draping your legs over his.

“Please..” Was all you murmured. 

And that was his final confirmation. He notched his dick at your entrance before pushing in slowly. Jason let out a huff as his head fell forward, chin dipping to his sternum as his wet hair stuck to his forehead, shrouding his eyes in darkness. You groan out at the stretch of him as he sinks all the way in one go. It stung, but hell- you felt like you were going insane as it balanced that thin line between pleasure and pain. Thighs twitching close around his waist, obviously restricted as Jason now leans over to get a more intimate angle. He’s always such a sucker for watching your expressions as he gets you off. Maybe not in a soft way, but in an overly possessive way. 

He was quick to start up a fast pace. Deep, fast thrusts that bruise your cervix every damn time. Rhythmic banging of the headboard to the wall lets the neighbors know exactly what we’re up to. Not that the wood banging against the wall is the only problem. 

“Oh! Fuck Jay!”

Jason had a wicked smirk on his lips as you let out loud, unabashed moans. He let out a groan as he shifted from being over you, “C’mon..” He huffs as he grabs the back of your thigh, pushing it up before gripping your ankle. Moving your leg up and resting it against his shoulder, wrapping his arm around it to keep you in place. 

You gasped sharply, pawing at the sheets as your mind went blank. Shutting down as your lips part with endless moans and whimpers of his name. Chanting Jason over and over again. Calling desperately for him as it was only him playing on repeat in your mind. Occasionally managing to babble out praises to him. “So, so so good- Jay- ohmygod” He grunts in response, reaching out to press his hand to the headboard.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty, baby..My pretty girl..” You clenched at his words, letting out a pathetic whimper as you gazed up at him. He only grinned down at you and your wrecked expression. Taking in how he made you lose all self-control. How he could make you react to his words and touch. Thrusting a little harder as he reached down to press his calloused thumb to your slick clit. “Yeah, my girl..say it, baby.”

“‘M your girl-” You managed to choke out. “Oh fuck- ‘m close!”

He nodded and continued to swipe over your sensitive bud, giving several deep thrusts that had your legs quivering. Then it all came crashing down, a sharp gasp leaving your lips before it was all loud moans and calls of his name. He murmurs praises, his hips stuttering as he tilts his head to bite down on your calf. Groaning into your skin as he finishes. Marking you as his in the most primal way possible as he fills you. 

Both of you are panting with a thin sheen of sweat covering your skin. He presses a soft kiss to where he bit down, then another to your ankle before letting your leg down. A little whimper left your lips as the tension left after being stretched for so long. He pulls out with a sigh and leans down close. Jason captures you in a slow tender kiss, communicating exactly what you already know. 

You’re his.

[demonic0angel]

Oracle caught Jazz and Jason doing the suspect challenge through coms and the cameras on their suits. She doesn't think twice about sending the live fed into the family chat.

Red Hood: *as Wolf is running* Suspect constantly has back problems and needs me to massage her back because otherwise, she'll complain.

Wolf: I'm 6'6"! It's bc of my height!

Red Hood: Not sure if it's only your height...

Wolf:

Red Hood:

Wolf:

Wolf: Give me the damn camera.

Red Hood: Yes, ma'am.

————

Wolf: *as Red Hood is running* Suspect complains about everyone being dressed like a traffic light, but his head is literally a ketchup bottle.

Red Hood: First of all, this is my motif, okay? Second of all, this is a great 'fuck you' to the Joker. Third of all, the Robins all look like shit.

Wolf: And you decided that wearing a bright red, shiny helmet made you look cooler than them?

Red Hood: Okay now—

————

Red Hood: Suspect has three siblings but won't let me meet them for some reason.

Wolf: Hood, they would tear you apart like cotton candy.

Red Hood: But you'd protect me, right?

Wolf: *sighs fondly* Yes, I suppose I have to, if I want to get paid.

Red Hood: I knew stealing Bruce Wayne's credit card would help me in the long run.

————

Wolf: Suspect desperately needs therapy due to daddy issues and unchecked trauma, but he refuses because he says it makes him less cool.

Red Hood: I'm too cool for a therapist.

Wolf: How about if I give you some one-on-one advice, hmm? For a start?

Red Hood: One-on-one time with you, princess? Say less.

————

Red Hood: Suspect once got caught with a smut book by one of our men and blamed it on me.

Wolf: BECAUSE IT WAS YOU!! WE WERE READING IT TOGETHER AND YOU KNOW IT!!

*camera cuts out*

The batfamily stared at the screen, which had cut off. On another screen were Wolf and Red Hood, still chatting enthusiastically on the roof of where they stopped filming, although the phone camera was turned off.

Red Robin looked slowly at Batman, whose face was so stony that he could've been mistaken for a gargoyle.

"I'll tell Agent A to invite Wolf to dinner with us since Hood won't?"

"Hn."

Oracle sighed. "And I'll delete this from the internet. It's not too incriminating, but if I see even a clip of this on my feed, I'm going to flip a table."

There were murmurs of agreement from everyone. After all, no one wanted to see Jason flirting with his crush on their page.

[diamonddaze01]

HEYYY. I read your off the record jeonghan's fic and OH MY GOD. IT WAS SOOOOOOOO AMAZING AND GOOD. CHEF'S KISS MWAH

I was wondering if you can do jeonghan 75 drabble. I would really really appreciate it. thank you and love you mwah

off the record

pairing: jeonghan x reader | wc: 1.3k prompt: "guess who's going to be a father!" au: f1 au | warnings: mentions of pregnancy a/n: hello hello nari your asks always make me smile <3 // this is a continuation of [on the record] bc ferrari!jeonghan lives in my head rent free (highly recommend you read on the record first for some context)

The atmosphere at the Australian Grand Prix was electric, the roar of the crowd still echoing as the last of the race cars pulled into the pit lane. Jeonghan had just secured yet another win, and the sea of Ferrari red flooded every corner of the paddock. The team was in chaos—cheers and hugs, champagne spraying everywhere, mechanics shaking with excitement—but Jeonghan’s gaze was fixed on something else.

You stood just outside the frenzy, leaning casually against the barrier, your camera poised as you snapped a few final shots. You’d been here before, a part of this circus. But today, you had a story of your own to deal with, one that Jeonghan was certain would find its way to his attention.

Jeonghan peeled off his helmet and flashed a grin at the crew as they crowded around him. But his eyes were still searching for you.

A few weeks ago, you'd written something that had the entire paddock talking. 

"Guess Who’s Going to be a Father!" 

Yoon Jeonghan, Ferrari’s golden boy, had been linked to a famous model, Sienna Hartley, the stunning up-and-coming fashion icon known for her work with luxury brands. A few months ago, the paparazzi had caught the two of them together at a private event. The photos were casual enough—Jeonghan with his arm around her waist, a smile that seemed too comfortable—but it was the following week’s headlines that sent the media into a frenzy.

The shots of Sienna taken at an upscale café, her baby bump unmistakable under a form-fitting dress, had people running wild with speculation. Was Jeonghan going to be a father? Had he been keeping a secret relationship? The rumors only grew when neither Jeonghan nor Sienna commented on the speculation, leaving fans and gossip columns to fill in the blanks.

The rumblings were only growing louder, and of course, you had jumped into the fray, teasing the possibility of Jeonghan becoming a father. The headline had been coy but suggested a connection between the two, leaving just enough room for interpretation. And now, here he was, stepping out of the car, knowing exactly who was responsible for the chaos.

As he walked toward you, the crowd parted around him, but his eyes stayed locked on yours. He could practically feel the mischievous energy radiating from you, even from a distance. The subtle smirk tugging at your lips was all the warning he needed.

Jeonghan approached with slow, deliberate steps, his face a mixture of amusement and challenge. "So we write fake articles now, do we, sweetheart?" he called, his voice carrying across the pit lane.

You didn’t even flinch. With a calm, collected posture, you raised an eyebrow, offering him a half-smile as you lowered your camera. "Just reporting what people are saying," you replied smoothly, voice teasing. "You know, about you possibly becoming a father this year."

"People are saying that?" Jeonghan asked, a slight chuckle escaping his lips. He stepped closer, clearly enjoying the tension building between you two. "Maybe you’ve been spending too much time with the gossip columnists, huh? Could’ve sworn the last time I checked, we were talking about race wins, not baby bumps."

You shrugged, not missing a beat. "Well, Jeonghan, it’s not my fault your personal life keeps getting more interesting than your driving. You really should be more careful with who you’re seen with."

His eyes darkened playfully. "Careful? You think I care about rumors?" he quipped, leaning in just a little bit closer, his voice dropping to a lower, more flirtatious tone. "But if you wanted to get my attention, sweetheart, there are far better ways than a headline about some fake baby."

You tilted your head, smiling in that way that always left him unsure whether you were teasing or challenging him. "Who says I want your attention?" you replied with a hint of challenge, crossing your arms as if daring him to press further.

Jeonghan’s smile only widened. "You’ve got my attention now, don't you?" he teased, his fingers brushing against the barrier you were leaning on, his proximity making it hard to ignore the way the air between you two shifted.

You glanced up at him, keeping your expression casual, but the spark in your eyes was undeniable. "Oh, I don’t know," you said nonchalantly, "maybe I’m just here to enjoy the view of a guy in red doing what he does best – reckless maneuvers that still somehow let him win, y’know?" You paused, letting that sink in. "Though if you really wanted to shut down those rumors, maybe you should take a different approach."

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

You gave him a sly smile. "I don’t know. Maybe just come out and say you’re not the father. Or, you know, get more specific about who you’re spending time with. The fans love a good love story, after all."

The way his expression shifted made it clear that he wasn’t quite ready for this conversation to take that turn. His jaw clenched, a hint of frustration appearing under the surface, but it was quickly replaced with his signature smirk. "Sweetheart, you sure talk a big game for someone who's so quiet when it counts."

You leaned in just a little, enough for your words to linger in the air between you. "I could say the same about you," you shot back, eyes glinting with mischief.

Jeonghan paused, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth, but you had him on edge in a way that he didn’t expect. "Listen," he said, his tone dipping lower, his voice now laced with more than just flirtation. "There's only one girl in the paddock I have eyes for, and it sure as hell isn’t Sienna Hartley."

The tension between you two was palpable, a spark igniting in your chest at his words. You met his gaze head-on, not backing down. "And who says I’m interested in your attention, Jeonghan?" you shot back, smirking. "Maybe I just like watching you squirm under pressure."

He leaned in a little more, his breath coming out a little sharper. "You really think you can get under my skin with a headline like that?" he murmured, his lips dangerously close to your ear. "I’m not the one with something to prove, sweetheart."

You could feel his breath on your skin, but instead of feeling intimidated, a thrill ran through you. "Then why do you look like you’re about to lose that smug grin?" you teased, lifting your chin just slightly, making sure the challenge was clear in your words.

Jeonghan grinned, his teeth flashing. "Oh, I’m not losing anything," he said, the playful tone returning. "But if you really want to get my attention, there are better ways than headlines."

You smirked, standing your ground. "Oh? Well, if you want to do something better with your mouth than argue with me, you know where to find me." You shot him a quick wink and began to turn away.

Jeonghan's eyes widened for a moment as he processed your words, and for the briefest second, he was completely thrown off. His confident swagger faltered, and it was then that you realized: you’d left him flustered.

You glanced back over your shoulder with a smug grin. "But I’ll be honest, Jeonghan," you called out, "I’d much rather see you focus on keeping your title than keeping up with rumors."

And with that, you turned and walked off, leaving Jeonghan standing there, still processing your bold departure. His pulse was racing, but not because of the race. This time, it was because of you—your words, your attitude, and the way you had him on edge in a way no one else could.

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath, but the smile on his face betrayed how much he appreciated the challenge. “I should’ve asked her to dinner.”

But knowing you, this was far from over. And next time? He might just have something to say about it.

send me an ask for my drabble game!

[sunni-stuff]

Knight Johnny and Simon tasked with taking care of their kings beloved daughter. She's a gem and deserves nothing but the best in regards to security. A job only they were deemed worthy enough for. The kings daughter, a living treasure, required their constant vigilance.

Failure was not an option.

Your timidity startled them upon introduction. Their king's daughter - so meek? You mumbled, eyes averted, fidgeting with your silk gown.

They anticipated a bolder spirit, akin to your sister. She daily paraded knights Kyle and Price through the village, flaunting them like trophies. Her sharp tongue challenged them at every turn. Yet the duo knew how those knights truly managed their princess behind closed doors.

You were clearly the calmer choice out of the rest.

The first couple days, you gave them no strife, an obedient thing who likes to keep to herself and read in the library. A harmless gem. So why did the other servants regard you with such cautiousness.

"Do not let her fool you." A servant whispers hastily, their steps as quick as their warning.

Johnny scoffs, the warning falling on deaf ears. His princess reigns supreme, unblemished. You? A fragile creature in his eyes - wobbly legs, wide-eyed naivety. Soap erases concerns, leaving only blind adoration.

Across the room, Ghost's eyes narrow. Your fearful gaze meets his, then darts away as if scorched. He silently absorbs the warning, his intense stare lingering.

Innocence's wings concealed mysterious. What laid beneath your angelic facade?

Inside the castles keep, Simon shed his armor, his blunt words filling their shared chamber. "The princess doesn't sit well with the servants. We'd best tread lightly."

Johnny lounged on his bed, eyes closed, arms cradling his head. "These walls thrive on gossip," he retorted. "You, of all people, should know better than to indulge it."

Simon, stripped of his knights garb, turned to face Johnny, a twinge of mirth in his eyes. "Yer just saying that because she's not giving you work."

"A likely assumption."

"Likely? You end up nodding off in the archive with how quiet it is."

"Really now? And what about you getting all red eared when she offers you to sit for tea. You don't say anything then."

The pair continue their banter back and forth, their "friendship" one formed through bonds on the field and off.

Their banter could've lasted the entire night if it weren't for a gentle knock against the wooden door, causing them to halt.

Simon tensed. His first instinct was to reach for his sword, Johnny, however, already made to the entrance. No one ever visited them this late or even had the courtesy to knock. Cautiously, he opened the door, only to be met with you.

Candle in hand. You stood draped in purple silk. Your nightgown's trim trailed behind you. Johnny's eyes met yours briefly, taking in your sweet expression. His gaze then wandered downward, drawn to your décolletage - your breasts pushed up enticingly, spilling over like frothy ale in a brimming tankard.

"Jewel, what are you doing here?" Soap inquired, peeking his head out of the threshold to ensure no one else wandered the halls. "Come inside, it won't do good for your reputation if you're seen."

Johnny's gentle aura drew you near while Simon's barriers held you back. The candle flickered on a nearby table as you approached the stoic knights. Nightfall had brought silence, the servants long gone. Loneliness crept into your room, driving you to seek comfort in the oddest of places. "Might I rest here tonight?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper in the dim chamber.

Johnny crumbled right there. How could he say no to his princess? With a guiding hand pressed against your back tenderly, he leads you further inside. "Of course. You just have to leave before sunrise, my lady."

Clad only in underwear and an incongruous helmet, Simon looked absurd. "Johnny, this is bloody insane," he hissed. "If rumors spread, we're dead men walking. And her reputation? Shattered beyond repair."

Johnny tugs you onto his bed, smirking at Simon. "We'll be stealthy, jewel," he whispers, making room beside him. Your drowsy nod seals the deal. He drapes the covers over you both, triumph gleaming in his eyes. Who would turn down sleeping next to a princess?

Simon's fury simmered beneath the surface. Jealousy and caution warred within him, but he couldn't change the outcome. "Your choice, your consequences," he growled. Snuffing out candles, he retreated. His heavy steps and angry shuffles punctuated the air as he returned to bed, seething silently.

Simon's ears perked up late in the night. A wet sound broke the peace, followed by hushed whispers and moans. Until then, only slumbering knights, watchmen, and crickets disturbed the tranquil darkness. Now, an unsettling change rippled through the air.

"Shh, jewel," Johnny's voice cautioned.

"J-Johnny—I'm trying—"

Simon froze.

Johnny's whisper had pierced the silence and your muffled response - your voice, trembling, sent Simon's heart into a frenzy. His eyes fluttered open behind his helmet. Heart racing, he peered into the darkness, straining to glimpse the unfolding scene. Your stifled moans confirmed his suspicions, sending a shiver down his spine.

---

A/N

Trying out a new writing style, I don't like the way I write usually bc it seems way too casual? So wordhippo and analyzing some of my favorite writers on here are like toast and butter.

[grantmentis]

PWHL 2024-2025 Primer

It's that time of year again folks. PWHL starts on November 30th.

The sections of this primer are: What is the PWHL, Where can I watch, Rules/League Structure, Official league pages, journalists to follow, and an introduction to each team (what they did last year, who's on the team, notable players, you should root for them if you..)

What is the PWHL?

The Professional Women's Hockey League was created in 2023 and launched in January 2024. It is currently the sole professional women's hockey league in North America.

Heading into the 2024-2025 season, the PWHL has six teams: The Toronto Sceptres, Boston Fleet, Minnesota Frost, New York Sires, Montréal Victoire, and Ottawa Charge. Each team plays 30 regular season games per team. You can find the full season schedule here.

Where can I watch?

Disclaimer; We don't have an official 100% confirmation on the American and non-North American ones yet, just reports from journalists who I do deem trustworthy. I will edit any changes and highlight them in bold if necessary.

On Television/Streaming

Canadian fans will have games on TSN and its affiliates (such as TSN+) primarily, with select games on CBC and Prime video.

French broadcasts of Montreal games can be found on RDS (18), Radio-Canada (6) on ICI TÉLÉ and ICI TOU.TV

Full streaming/television schedule for Canada

All fans not in Canada are available to stream on the PWHL Youtube regardless of location (so if you're "in market" there's no black outs like there is NHL games)

Last year regional games were held on: Bally Sports North in Minnesota, NESN/NESN+ in Boston, MSG/MSG+ in New York, Sportnet Pittsburgh has carried select games. Not 100% confirmed this will be the case last year. Even if your regional sports network carries it, however, you should be able to access it on Youtube in America

In Person

Toronto and New York (sort of) have new locations this year

Toronto Scepters play at Coca-Cola Coliseum

Ottawa Charge play at TD Place

Montréal Victoire play at Place Bell

Boston Fleet play at Tsongas Center (Lowell, MA)

Minnesota Frost play at Xcel Energy Center

New York Sirens will play at Prudential Center (Newark, NJ)

There are also many neutral site games this year including Detroit, Quebec City, Raleigh, Vancouver, Denver, Buffalo, St. Louis, and Seattle that you can read about here

What are the rules? The League Structures?

Who makes the playoffs and what do they look like?

Please keep in mind that with such a young league, it's possible this will be tinkered with.

Each game is worth three points: 3 for a regulation win, 2 for an overtime win, and 1 for an overtime loss

Last year, the PWHL had 4 of the 6 teams make the playoffs. The number one seed got to choose their opponent between the third and fourth seed.

All series were best of five series, the two semi finals and then the finals.

Rules

If you are an NHL fan looking to jump in, here are the differences in the PWHL. The rulebook is also here.

Bodychecking is allowed in the PWHL, so long as it is done in an attempt to play the puck or gain possession. While women's hockey has always been physical, bodychecking at this level is fairly new, the SDHL in Sweden started to allow it just in 2021 and then the PWHL last year, so refs and players are adjusting in how they're going to draw the line between legal and illegal. This is also not the case in international competition, so it is a little different than the olympics or worlds if you are used to watching those.

The PWHL has a "jailbreak rule" which means that if you are shorthanded and score, the penalty ends.

In shootouts, a player can go as many times as they'd like.

New this year is the "No Escape" rule where players of a penalized team are required to stay on the ice to start the penalty kill.

Coaches can challenge delay of game puck over glass penalties.

Hits to the head, headbutting, and grabbing an opponents helmet strap, throat protector, or hair is an automatic major penalty and game misconduct.

What are the official social media pages? Who are good people to follow?

Official league pages:

PWHL: Instagram / Twitter / Tiktok / Youtube / Website

There's also a unofficial bluesky bot that re-posts all of the PWHL X content

Sceptres: Instagram / Twitter / Tiktok / Youtube / Website

Fleet: Instagram / Twitter / Tiktok / Youtube / Website

Victoire: Instagram / Twitter / Tiktok / Youtube / Website

Frost: Instagram / Twitter / Tiktok / Youtube / Website

Sirens: Instagram / Twitter / Tiktok / Youtube / Website

Charge: Instagram / Twitter / Tiktok / Youtube / Website

News and Journalists:

This is not a comprehensive list, just a starter pack! feel free to add any recommendations in the comments.

Kyle Cushman: Works for the score, covers the whole league (as well as some nhl), keeps public statistical information. The Score author page / Twitter / Bluesky

The Ice Garden: Long time women's hockey publication. I'd also recommend going through their contributor/author page and following them individually! Website / Twitter / Bluesky

Hailey Salvian: Long time reporter for the Athletic for women's hockey Twitter

Kenzie Lalonde: TSN reporter based in Montreal covering PWHL among others, also does play by play Twitter

Rick Menning: Local reporter for the Sirens Twitter

Kelsea Durham: Local reporter for the Boston Fleet for Inside the Rink Linktree

Christine Roger: French-Canadian reporter, who posts in French, mainly about Montreal Twitter

PWHL Report: Content aggregator for if you don't want to follow a bunch individually and really the only one i've seen post stuff to Instagram Twitter / Instagram

Who are the Boston Fleet?

The Boston Fleet were last years runner up in the league.

Their roster can be viewed here, with updates to be expected in the next few days as training camp cuts and contract being signed, the waiver period starting for teams to sign players that got cut from other teams training camps, and final rosters are made.

Notable players: Hilary Knight (captain), Aerin Frankel (Star goalie), Alina Müller (Swiss hockey star), Hannah Bilka (first round pick this last draft.)

You should root for this team if: You like defense-first hockey, strong New England college hockey connections, rooting for the youngest ice hockey player to win an olympic medal (Alina Müller), a player who got a custom outfit for pride night (Jamie Lee Rattray), Jewish hockey icons (Aerin Fankel), and players who are also podcasters and make a lot of tiktoks (Lexi Adzija and Taylor Girard)

Who are the Montréal Victoire?

The Montréal Victoire finished second in the standings last year, where

Live roster viewable here with expected updates the next few days

Notable players: Marie Philip-Poulin, Laura Stacey, Erin Ambrose, Ann-Renée Desbiens (all four are long time Team Canada legends), Lina Ljungblom (young Swedish superstar), Mikyla Grant Mentis and Kennedy Marchmand (both former PHF MVPs)

You should root for this team if: You love two way defensive minded centers, rooting for the league favorite, star players who are married to each other (Poulin and Stacey), short defenders (5'1 Amanda Boulier and 5'2 Cayla Barnes), post game victory dances, I dont even know how to describe this but heres grant mentis and Lásková watching golf i have to put it here

Who are the Toronto Sceptres?

The Sceptres were the first place team in the PWHL last year.

Roster here, once again will change this week

Notable players: Natalie Spooner (league MVP and long time team Canada player), Sarah Nurse (Olympic record holder for points and top scorer), Julia Gosling (first round pick), CJ Jackson (backup goaltender, social media darling, and LGBT activist), Renata Fast (top defender for both PWHL and Team Canada)

You should root for this team if you: love all the Team Canada players who grew up outside Quebec and also the coaches (all but three players are Canadian and many have played internationally for Canada, the coaching/management also largely from team canada and shares stylistic similarities), are interested in Nursey Nights (Sarah Nurse's collaboration with Black Girl Hockey Club during Toronto Sceptres games!), want to root for the other league favorites, love noted pancake enthusiasts (Kali Flanagan), or if you're more on the savory side, love a hot dog enthusiast (CJ)

Who are the Ottawa Charge?

The Ottawa Charge finished fifth in the league last season

Roster here with updates to come

Notable players: Brianne Jenner (team Canada and captain of Ottawa), Emily Clark (top scorer), Kateřina Mrázová (top scorer and Czech national team icon), Danielle Serdachny (second overall pick), Ronja Savolainen (Finnish national team mainstay and SDHL icon)

You should root for this team if you: Have an interest in Czech players (Mrázová, Vanišová, Tejralová), you like podcasting players (but gay this time), enjoy a team that regularly updates their youtube channel and does a fan fest and has some of the best player created content, like a team that is not afraid to make bold roster moves

Who are the Minnesota Frost?

The Minnesota Frost are your inaugural PWHL champions!

Here is a live, updating roster

Notable players: Kendall Coyne (Captain, Team USA), Taylor Heise (last years #1 overall pick and one of the leagues scorer), Grace Zumwinkle (also a top scorer), Nicole Hensley (star goalie and also Team USA starting goaltender typically), Michela Cava (extensive experience as top player in PHF, SDHL, and Russia.)

You should root for this team if you: Have a lot of midwest pride and like teams in the WCHA, value speed when watching hockey, like players with unconventional paths to stardom (Hensley, who played at Lindenwood in college and made team USA only after college finished), want to root for the ultimate playoff sicko (Michela Cava, who has 4 championships across four leagues, two finals MVPs, and is over a point per game combining all playoffs), like franchise cornerstones who are besties and call each other 'the dog to their cat" and vice versa (Heise and Zumwinkle)

Who are the New York Sirens?

The New York Sirens finished last in the PWHL last year

Roster with updates to come

Notable players: Abby Roque, Alex Carpenter (both team usa and PWHL top scorers), Corinne Schroeder (had the best goaltending season in PHF history in 2023 and followed it up by having one of the best PWHL seasons despite a tough workload), Sarah Fillier (first overall pick this year, team Canada star), Maja Nylén Persson (round two pick, SDHL best defender of the year last year, team Sweden's #1 defender), Noora Tulus (finnish national team star and one of the best SDHL players of all time.)

You should root for this team if you: want to see a team really build itself up from the ground floor, as theres a lot of roster turnover this year and a new coaching staff, with a lot of exciting draftees. like a team that has a little more physicality/grit. want to maximize the number of crossovers with other professional sports teams possible, like the nickname pizza rats. Want to enjoy some of the best mic'd up content (Roque)

[jobean12-blog]

Easy Ride

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader (Biker AU)

Word Count: 2.3K

Summary: Bucky has been dying to take you for a ride on his bike but you've been hesitant, having never ridden before, but when you're finally ready it turns out to be the best ride of your life.

Author's Note: I've been wanting to write some Biker!Bucky after seeing him in the new Thunderbolts trailer- so yum- and then the lovely @steviebbboi is hosting a writing challenge celebration and it worked out perfectly for the Biker AU trope! Thanks so much for hosting and congrats love! ❤️🥰Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by @firefly-graphics thank you so much sweet Daisy! 💕

PS Bucky is still a super soldier here and has his metal arm 😏

Warnings: Bucky on a motorcycle, he's soft and sweet but filthy too, he gives you everything you need, semi-public sex, oral sex (m rec), some curses, p in v

He’s wearing a triumphant grin as he sits on his bike, holding it up and letting it purr between his thighs.

“Ready for a ride doll face?”

You stand by the door of your apartment building, Bucky’s riding jacket draped over your shoulders, cocooning you in soft leather and his distinct scent.

It’s hard to resist him in any circumstance but especially this one…long, strong legs straddling the sleek bike, his soft tee shirt showing off the corded muscles of his right arm, painted with ink, and the shiny metal of his left arm gleams in the sun.

And then your eyes meet his and any reservations you have left start to dissipate in the reverent way he gazes at you.  

“You promise you won’t go too fast, right?”

“Only as fast as you want me to go,” he answers softly.

He pulls the helmet he bought just for you from the saddlebag. “I love this bike, and I love ridin’ it. But neither nearly as much as you. You’re safe with me doll.”

You bite your bottom lip when it starts to spread into a smile and take the final steps to meet him by the curb.

He helps you with the helmet, carefully placing it over your head and securing the strap under your chin.

You let out a sigh shaky with trepidation and he grabs your hand to tug you close.

“You’re mine baby doll,” he growls over the hum of the engine. “I’ll never let anything happen to you.”

“I know Bucky,” you whisper. “I trust you. It’s other people I worry about. Crazy drivers…the cabs.”

He nods in understanding and helps you onto the back of the bike, tugging your knees into position so you’re pulled tight against him.

You shift and gasp as the vibrations of the bike move through your body.

He grins and revs the engine.

“Hold on to me. Wrap your arms around me and if I lean a certain way, lean with me.”

“Ok,” you answer, circling your arms around his waist.

“I’m going to go slow around the neighborhood and if you like it we can go out of the city to more open roads.”

Your hands dig into his shirt and your thighs tighten around his hips when the engine roars to life. As promised, he takes it slow down the car lined streets, each turn getting you more comfortable.

When you reach your favorite book shop he rolls to s stop and cuts the engine.

“Why did you stop Buck?” you ask.

He holds back a laugh as he turns to you, tugging your helmet off to see your face better.

“I wanted to check on you,” he says softly. “We can keep riding if you like, or we can go buy some books?”

Your arms tighten around him in a hug. “As much as I want to buy more books I’d like to continue our ride.”

“Anything you want doll face.”

You can tell he’s happy with your answer and he kisses you hard and fast before securing your helmet once again.

This time he meanders through the city streets and gets on the highway, going North. The Hudson River sparkles under the setting sun and the longer you ride the more you relax and enjoy the view.

Once you reach a secluded spot at the edge of the Cloisters he slows and stops his bike, letting it idle as you look around.

“This place is beautiful,” you say in awe.

He helps you off and into his arms, your body sliding down every inch of his until your feet hit the ground.

“Just wait ‘til you see the rest of it,” he grins.

Your hands frame his face, and you cover it with kisses, pressing your lips to his forehead and then his cheeks, until he moves to capture your mouth.

“I can’t wait,” you whisper against his lips. “I love riding with you.”

He stares down at you, his eyes moving over every inch of your face as he leans in again, brushing his lips softly along your jaw until they meet your ear.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Bucky tells you about the history of the old New York landmark as you explore it’s breathtaking architecture and lush gardens but with each step you take you can feel the tension building between you, the rush of the ride settling in your bones and growing with heat.

Hidden under one of the stone arches, he takes your face in his hands, roughened palms warm against your cheeks, and kisses you. His lips are a tease, teeth gently scraping across as he tilts your head back, pulling away just long enough to brush his nose along yours.

You slip your hands under his tee shirt, tracing the memorized lines of ink that shift with his flexing muscles. His fingers tremble with restraint and his soft noises come out tight and barely controlled.

With silent encouragement he leads you back to his bike and as you approach you tug him to a halt, giving the area a cautious glance. Dark has settled and while there are dim lights scattered around the grounds, his parking spot is hidden and it’s quiet, no sign of any other people close by.

You meet his gaze and thread your fingers through his hair.

“How quiet can you be?” you whisper.

“Doll,” he growls, tightening his grip on your waist.

You drop to your knees and work open his jeans, peeling them down his thick thighs to free his cock, already hard and aching.

You lick him, and then again, over, and up and down his length until he’s slick and wet and slides easily into your mouth.

His metal hand slips behind your head, guiding you carefully at first then then holding so he can push deeper with a groan.

He works to remain silent, occasionally letting out a hissing breath and pushing deeper as his fingertips dig into your scalp.

You curl your tongue and suck, loving the feel of his smooth and warm skin stretched tight in your mouth.

“Fuck doll,” he grits out, the sensations too much for him to take.

His hips jerk forward, shoving more of his cock down your throat as his release warms your tongue.

You clean up every last drop and neatly tuck him back into his jeans, standing and grazing your fingertips along his beard.

“You have until we get home to get hard again,” you tell him, pulling your helmet off the handlebars and waiting expectantly for him to help you back onto the bike.

“You better watch that mouth or I’ll bend you over my bike and fuck you until everyone hears.”

“Don’t tempt me with things I want.”

He leans over you, tucking two calloused fingers under your chin so your eyes are locked on his. “When I get you home, I’m taking what I want.”

You stifle your wanton moan and watch him throw one long leg over his bike, his jeans pulling tight against his straining thigh muscles. He starts the engine and revs it, waiting until you’re safely secured behind him to take off down the road.

He slams the door open, the knob hitting the plaster of the wall on the other side. He turns and drags you into his chest with his metal arm, the other, grabs the door frame and pushes it shut.

“Did the ride get you hot doll?” he asks. “You like feelin’ my bike vibrate between your legs?”

“Yes Bucky,” you answer.

Your fingers move up his chest and into his hair, windblown and mussed. His hips rock against you and you feel the hard length of his cock along your stomach.

His growl of satisfaction runs through you and with his eyes anchoring yours, he slides a rough hand down your stomach to the button of your jeans.

“Show me,” he murmurs.

You drop your hand and grab his wrist and when he unzips your jeans you shove his fingers into your panties.

Two long fingers search, dipping inside and finding you soaked.

“Fuck! You’re so wet.”

You close your eyes, pushing into his hand to fuck his fingers.

“Is this what you want?” he murmurs, running his nose down your neck.

Before you find a rhythm he pulls his fingers from you and reaches to push them into your mouth, pressing your taste on your tongue. His grip is gentle but firm on your jaw, fingers curled into your cheeks to hold your mouth open.

“Answer me doll.”

“Yes.”

The simple word is jumbled around his fingers, and he pulls back, delicately tracing your bottom lip with his thumb.

His eyes drop to your mouth and his hands spread softly at the curve of your waist.

“You’re all mine,” he whispers with a brush of his lips before they crash over yours.

You greedily reach for his shirt, tugging it up and over his head. Once the smooth muscles of his chest are exposed, you let out a moan and your hands slide along his skin, tracing every dip and curve before following the dark line of hair that leads down below his belly button.

Impatiently he grips you harder, pushing his hips forward and grunting his approval when you start to undo his pants. You reach for him, warm and silky in your palm.

He exhales a tight groan when you grip his cock and slide your hand down his length. He wraps his fingers around the back of your neck and pulls you in for a kiss, fucking your hand.

With a growled curse he pushes you back toward the kitchen table, taking both your wrists in his hand and resting them above your head as he spreads you out on the hard wood.

He kicks off his jeans and stands between your spread legs, yanking your pants down as he leans forward to kiss your jaw, running his lips up to your ear to whisper, “I can’t get enough of you.”

When he leans back his eyes rake over you, and you squirm underneath him. With slow hands he drags your panties down your legs and carefully rids you of your shirt.

His palms flatten on the inside of your thighs, and he spreads you open, his eyes locked on yours when he roughly thrusts into you. You’re so full of him you want to scream but he doesn’t stay deep inside you for long. He pulls back and then slams forward, gripping your waist and making the whole table slide along the floor.

Large, rough hands reach for your breasts, and he slides his thumb across your nipple.

“Please make me come Bucky,” you whisper. “I’m so close.”

He’s moving so hard the table is shaking.

“You’re going to watch me come instead,” he murmurs, jerking from you and gripping his cock.

His hand moves up and down his cock and he curses, his eyes never leaving yours. The first burst of his release coats your neck, and then your breasts, your stomach. There’s no sexier sound than the deep groan he makes when he comes, the way he growls out your name.

He bends, sweaty and out of breath and his eyes move over your face and down, inspecting how he’s decorated you.

“Fucking gorgeous doll,” he whispers.

“Bucky,” you purr, reaching for him.

“One second,” he says softly.

He comes back with a warm cloth and wipes you clean before kissing you gently.

“I’m going to take care of you now,” he promises with his mouth hovering just above yours.

You brush your fingers across the hair that lines his cheek, cradling it and bringing his lips to yours.

He lifts you into his arms and carries you to his bed, laying you gently on the comforter. You sink your hands into his hair as he kisses down your neck, sucking on your breasts, your stomach and parting your legs.

“I love to taste you,” he whispers with a kiss to your clit.

You arch off the bed when he licks and sucks you in every way you love. He slides two fingers inside you, meeting the thrust of your hips with his hand and face. He brings you right to the edge and then pulls away, climbing over you.

“Bucky…”

“I need to be inside you when you come,” he says.

With quick hands, he rolls you onto your stomach, spreads your legs, and slides in so deep you gasp, bunching the pillowcase with your fists. He starts to move, his chest pressed to your back, breath hot in your ear.

“I’m so lost in you.”

Then his hand slides underneath you and presses, circling your clit until you’re tightening around him and the rush of your release wracks your body, taking him with you.

He rolls onto his side and cradles you to his chest, his fingertips feather light as they trace your skin.

“I’m really happy you liked riding with me,” he whispers.

“I loved it. I want to do it again…”

He grins and in between soft kisses asks, “what did you love about it?”

“Other than the vibrations of the bike and being pressed so close to you?”

He exhales slowly, clearly trying to stay focused on the conversation even as you feel his heart pounding under your palm.

“I felt safe…and it made me feel free. The wind whipping around us and the world passing by in a blur. We could go anywhere.”

“I’ll take you everywhere,” he says, nuzzling your neck. “But I still wanna bend you over my bike.”

You press your body along his side, sliding your leg up over his. The muscles of his quads are defined and firm beneath his smooth, warm skin and when you reach his hip you roll against him, and he groans.

“I always want you,” he whispers into your skin.