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localwhoore · 1 day ago

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easy on me ⛐ 𝐘𝐓𝟐𝟐

people catfish all the time. how were you supposed to know your bumble match was actually who he claimed to be?

ꔮ starring: yuki tsunoda x reader. ꔮ smau + word count: 2.4k. ꔮ includes: romance, humor, fluff. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. based on this prompt, online romance, a shameless love story reference in the year of our lord 2025. title from adele’s song of the same name. ꔮ commentary box: i had canva and a dream,, i will probably never do this much graphic editing for a fic ever again, but yuki deserves it!!! happy 100th race to the man, the myth, the legend. stunt on these hoes, yukino 🐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

You’ve always known things like this happen.

Random giveaways, surprise upgrades, the universe occasionally tossing you a bone just to keep things interesting. Still, when a Red Bull staffer handed you a gleaming Paddock Club pass outside the circuit entrance like it was no big deal, your brain went full static.

“Just giving a few away today,” she’d said, smiling like a benevolent game show host. “Enjoy.”

Sure. Just like that. Like this wasn’t the motorsport equivalent of getting handed a golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s factory. You’d clutched it like it might vanish if you blinked too hard.

Now, you’re here. Inside hospitality. Where everything smells like victory champagne and lemon scented diffusers. Where Max Verstappen just asked for a second espresso like it was a normal Sunday.

And then there’s Yuki.

Not on a screen. Not in selfies or helmet cam footage. Real. Silver necklaces glinting underneath the artificial lighting. Laughing about something with a physio until he spots you.

You watch his face shift. There’s something that might be recognition, then something gentler. Then something you don’t have the emotional vocabulary to name because it’s currently buried under twenty-two layers of oh-my-God-what-is-happening.

You’re not supposed to be here. You should be texting ‘Yuki’, your ‘Yuki’, joking that you beat him to hospitality. Something harmless, and hilarious, and impossible. Hell, you could probably tell the Real Yuki about how your kinda-sorta-maybe Internet boyfriend is catfishing as him. Would that be too weird? You think Real Yuki might get a kick out of it.

But then Real Yuki is walking over.

And then he’s hugging you.

And you’re not breathing.

“Why are you being weird?” he mumbles into your shoulder, like this is a routine greeting and not the collapse of your entire reality.

His arms are warm. His cologne is unfair. Your heart is doing something between a samba and a panic attack. “I’m not being weird,” you say, weirdly.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look you in the eye. He’s got an amused sort of smile on his face, but there seems to be a hint of nerves underneath the bravado. “You texted me a meme thirty minutes ago,” he points out, “about groundhogs.”

Holy shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You did do that. You thought you were texting a stranger with suspiciously specific knowledge about Suzuka and a penchant for catfishing motorsport fans. Not a literal Formula One driver standing in front of you with the expression of someone who’s been waiting all day for you to get here.

“Right,” you say, your voice an octave too high. “Funny squirrel. Classic.”

He narrows his eyes. “Are you okay?”

You nod. You lie. “Yup. Normal. Great. Totally fine.”

Your brain is not fine. Your brain is assembling a crime scene timeline:

Matched with somebody who used Yuki Tsunoda’s photos for his profile. Unverified, in your defense.

Started talking about meals. For icebreaking purposes, initially. Eventually, a way to ensure the other had eaten well. A sort of tender ‘Are you taking care of yourself?’ day to day.

Talked until midnight, then past-midnight, then the kind of past-midnight that bled into early mornings. Lost track of time, every single time.

Exchanged phone numbers. Deleted Bumble; neither of you needed it anymore. Moved the daily conversations to texts. Made room for that in your routine.

Agreed to meet in Montreal. Except you didn’t. You were going to be in Montreal and you mentioned it offhandedly. The Bumble guy had said, “Cool, me too.” You’d assumed he was just playing along. Roleplaying the bit. Like a particularly immersive LARP.

You hadn’t thought he’d actually be here.

You hadn't thought he might actually be him.

He squeezes your hand, casual but instinctive. You let him, because you still don’t know how to say any of it. Not here. Not now. Not in front of half the paddock and the world’s most diverse cheese board.

He glances over his shoulder. “You wanna sit? I saved you a seat.”

You nod again, because that’s apparently your only mode of communication now.

He leads you to the table. His hand never leaves yours. All you can think, as you try not to trip over a Monégasque intern and whatever’s left of your dignity, is: You might be in love with a Bumble match who actually turned out to be Yuki Tsunoda.

You’re not entirely sure how you’re still functioning. Your body is moving, your mouth is making sounds, but your internal monologue is curled into the fetal position somewhere behind your left lung.

Yuki’s talking. Just… talking. Like you’re normal people. Like this is just a nice weekend in Montreal and not a glitch in the matrix.

“They changed the breakfast spread,” he says, nudging your elbow as he sits beside you. “No more miso soup. Just scrambled eggs that taste like regret.”

“That’s devastating,” you manage, dizzily remembering excited texts from a week ago where Yuki had raved about the miso soup.

“Thank you,” he says seriously. “Finally, someone gets it.”

He launches into a story about Isack stealing his smoothie this morning, complete with impressions and dramatic reenactments. And you laugh. You actually laugh, which feels a bit like betraying your own nervous system.

There’s a quiet kind of ease to him. Quick with a joke, but not performative. Relaxed, but with a coil of energy under the surface. It’s as if he’s always halfway between a punchline and pole position.

The thing is—he’s warm. Not just emotionally. Physically.

His arm is looped around the back of your chair, his fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder. It’s casual, sure. But there’s a possessiveness to it. Not the caveman kind. More like the kind that says, You’re mine to look after, even if it’s just for ten minutes between media obligations.

You’re still not saying much. Nodding, smiling, blurting out half-thoughts and hoping he finds them charmingly minimalist. He doesn’t comment on it. If he notices, he lets you keep your buffer.

Someone in a headset materializes at the table like a very polite ghost. “Yuki, time to go,” the staff announces.

He sighs. Gives you a look that borders on cartoonishly pouty. “Duty calls.”

He gets up slowly, like maybe if he moves languidly enough, reality will bend to let him stay longer. Before he steps away, he leans down, grinning.

“Good luck kiss?” he asks, head tilted, tone teasing but devastatingly hopeful.

You freeze.

Yuki laughs under his breath, gently amused. “Okay, okay,” he says, holding up his hands like he’s diffusing a very delicate bomb. “Next time.”

Then, his voice gets softer. Enough so that only you can hear. “But you’ll still be here after the race, right?”

You nod, throat dry. “Yeah. I’ll be here.”

He taps your shoulder once before heading off. You’re left sitting in the halo of his warmth, trying to make sense of anything. Your phone buzzes with a new message.

From him. Mere seconds since he last saw you.

allegedly yuki tsunoda [9:23 AM]: don’t eat the lemon tarts btw. learned that the hard way. 🤮

You stare at the screen, lips twitching. Bumble match or not, he’s still looking after you.

You start in the paddock club because that’s what a normal person would do. Sit somewhere warm, surrounded by petit fours and champagne flutes and that one guy in a turtleneck trying very hard to pretend he knows the difference between a double diffuser and a double espresso.

After ten minutes of watching the race on a high-def screen while Alex Albon yells something off-camera about tire degradation, you realize you’re crawling out of your skin.

So you duck out.

You find a seat on the outer edge of a section near Turn 10. The air is sharper here, cold in that way Montreal likes to be in June, like it never got the summer memo. It’s loud. Bones-rattle-in-your-sinuses loud. It helps.

There’s a certain thrill to watching it live. The cars are less clean here, less like smooth CGI and more like animals snapping past at speeds that make your stomach tighten. Yuki’s car flies by and your heart jerks without permission.

You tell yourself you’re annoyed. Which is true. You’re annoyed that he never told you. Annoyed that he just assumed. Annoyed that you didn’t assume harder.

Yuki’s in the points.

You tell yourself you don’t care. But you’re counting his laps. You’re watching the timing screen with the manic focus of someone who’s very not-invested, obviously. You’re definitely not bouncing your leg during the final stint or whispering under your breath for him to hold off that Haas. No, not at all.

When the checkered flag waves and he crosses the line in P7, you allow a smile. Just a small one. Barely perceptible. A moral victory.

You’re still pissed. Obviously.

But pride’s a slippery bastard, and it slides in before you can lock the door. Because despite everything, he did it. Despite everything, you think you might’ve liked him before you knew who he really was. That’s the part that grates.

Yuki texts you, afterwards. Twice. The first one says, where did you go??? The second one is just a question mark. Not passive-aggressive. Not petulant. Just puzzled, with a little side of concern you can read even through the punctuation.

You leave him on read.

Not because you’re cruel, but because you’re still somewhere between third-hand embarrassment and full-body incredulity. Your fingers feel too tight around your phone, and your brain keeps cycling through I got catfished by an actual celebrity like it’s some strange mantra.

You do the thing people in denial do best: you keep walking. Past the paddock club. Past hospitality. Past the frosted-glass glam of the inner circles. You buy food, you make small talk with disappointed Tifosi, you find your way back to the grandstands. You watch the track, empty now except for marshals and the tire scuffs they haven’t swept up yet.

You sit there and stew. Arms crossed. Chin tucked into your collar. Giving the sky your best unimpressed glare.

Because what kind of famous person makes a dating profile with their own face? What kind of high-profile athlete answers that Adele is his go-to karaoke song and means it? What kind of rich man texts “are you mad at me :(((((“ with that many parentheses? (That was earlier in the week. You screenshotted it. For evidence. And also maybe affection.)

You don’t even hear him at first. There’s just the crunch of gravel, a puff of breath, and then suddenly: “You ghosted me.”

You look up. Yuki stands there, his race suit traded for a team polo. His hair’s a little damp from the balaclava, sticking out in soft tufts. There’s a Red Bull jacket slung over his shoulder and a frown carved into his face.

“You ghosted me,” he repeats, dropping into the seat beside you like he owns the entire stadium.

“You’re famous,” you say wryly.

“That’s not a real defense.”

“It’s my opening statement.”

He stares at you.

You stare back.

You can feel your expression start to crack around the edges. The disbelief, the emotional whiplash, the deep, deep shame of having sent him a meme about Pierre Gasly thinking he was some guy from Manitoba.

“You should’ve told me,” you say, voice tight.

He stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. “I thought you knew,” he bites out, and that gets you.

“I thought you were pretending to be you!” You’re not screeching hysterically, but it’s a close thing. “I thought you were, like, one of those weird fandom catfishers who’s like, ‘Hey girl, I’m Harry Styles and I love small batch kombucha. Let’s talk about your smile.’”

“That’s a dated reference,” Yuki huffs, but you barrel on.

“I was protecting myself, okay? I didn’t want to get my hopes up about someone just because they used a hot guy’s face and knew a lot about what happened at the 2024 Sao Paulo Grand Prix.”

His lip twitches. “You think I’m hot.”

You scowl. “That is not the point.”

“Kinda feels like the point.”

You throw your hands up. “This is why I didn’t text back. Because I knew you’d be like this.”

“Like what?” he says, all mock innocence, even as the corners of his mouth fight upward.

“Annoyingly smug. And unfairly cute,” you lament. “And—and now I have to retroactively go over every single text we’ve ever sent and recontextualize it through the lens of you being you.”

Yuki’s smile breaks free, full and blinding. He leans back in his seat, like this is the best post-race entertainment he could’ve asked for. “I knew you liked my texts.”

You look heavenward. For patience. For answers. For an alternate universe where you maybe played this cooler.

He shifts closer, bumping your shoulder. “So let me get this straight. You matched with me, kept talking to me for weeks, actually liked me—but thought I was an impersonator?”

“Yes.”

“And you still talked to me?”

You sigh. When he puts it that way, you sound like a fucking idiot. “Well, yeah. You were funny,” you say defensively, “and weird. And you sent me that article about the town that elected a golden retriever as mayor.”

He turns his whole body toward you. “You like me me.”

“God help me.”

“You liked me even without knowing I’m me.”

You groan. “Don’t make this a thing.”

“It is a thing,” he says, beaming now, eyes scrunching in that way that makes your stomach flip traitorously. “It’s such a thing. I just podiumed emotionally.”

You shove his arm. “You’re unbearable.”

“But cute.”

“Moderately.”

He leans in a little closer. His tone dips, playful but softer around the edges. “This could be a proper love story, baby,” he coos, “just say ‘yes’.”

Your reaction is a full-bodied flinch. “Do not quote my karaoke song at me,” you say, as flatly as you can manage, but it falls apart in the face of Yuki’s giddiness.

You glance at him. He’s right there, smelling faintly of rubber and cologne, still a little flushed from the high of the race and from something else. Somehow realer now than he ever was on your screen. Dusk curls in around the track, the buzz of the day beginning to fade.

You let him keep smiling at you like that. And when he reaches out to fill the spaces between your fingers with his, you let him do that, too. ⛐

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