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dreamwritesimagines · 2 months ago

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Declassified [4] - Outranked

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful support my loves🩷 I hope you like this chapter as well! 🥰 Please let me know what you think! 🩷

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader

Summary: Everyone has their bad days at work.

Warnings: Explicit language, yelling.

Word Count: 3937

Series Masterlist

Fine.

Things with Bucky had been a bit strange, at least on your part.

Ever since that night at the office and that rush of excitement you had when your hand was in his, you had been trying your hardest to ignore the feeling but it simply didn’t let you.

Throwing yourself into work didn’t do the trick either, but at least the poll numbers were amazing.

You watched while he walked down the stage through the applause and shook hands with the people in the crowd. Even you had to admit that he didn’t need to do much, voters loved him and his genuine approach. Yet, to be safe, he studied whatever you gave him thoroughly to answer each and every question with ease, clearly having read every note you put in your reports as you asked him to.

He made his way to you and Kelsey, and you smiled at him while Kelsey checked his calendar on her phone.

“The next meeting is with Mr. Davis,” she said before he could even ask. “You have half an hour.”

“Great,” he muttered, shooting you a questioning look, and you nodded, then followed him out of the building to the sidewalk. He went into the blind alley right beside the building so that you could be away from anyone who could interrupt you, then turned to look at you.

“The usual drill?” you asked and he nodded.

“Mm hm.”

“I start?”

“Please,” he said, loosening his tie a little. “Ladies first.”

You took a deep breath and unlocked your phone.

“Overall it was pretty good,” you said, checking the notes on your phone as he leaned back on the wall. “Just one thing, you could’ve given more details when they asked about our veteran plan.”

He made a face as if he was already regretting it.

“I thought the same,” he admitted. “And I was going to, then I remembered you told me earlier to lean into education for this one.”

“Yes because that’s our opponent’s weak spot, I saw his project about education, it’s a fucking joke.” You scoffed. “By the way, you nailed the education question.”

He let out a relieved breath. “Good.”

“But like I said, we can just give the overall rundown the next time someone asks about it,” you said. “I actually already prepared a draft—”

“When?”

“While you were answering the question,” you said. “It’s short and to the point, and people should hear more about it, so if we overran by like ten seconds, it won’t hurt.”

“Yeah.”

“Because our ideas are fucking amazing,” you said, looking up at him and Bucky nodded fervently.

“Most of them were your ideas.”

“We came up with them together,” you told him. “And you’re the one who’s gonna carry those to the Congress, so let the voters hear it.”

“Okay,” he said. “Noted.”

“And next, Mr. Davis,” you said. “He’s a hard-ass, however he does have a soft spot for veterans and he’s a history nerd, so please, please throw in some sort of anecdote from your time in the trenches.”

“Birdie...”

“I know you hate talking about it,” you added in a hurry. “I know but we can, in fact, use him. Could be like um, like a fun memory.”

“Fun memory,” he deadpanned. “From the trenches.”

“You know what I mean, Bucky.”

“I’ll try,” he muttered. “My turn?”

You cleared your throat and fixed your hair to keep your hands busy before rolling your shoulders back.

“Yes,” you said. “I am now ready for your feedback. Go.”

“How much caffeine have you had so far?”

“Two Red Bulls, one Monster, three cups of coffee.”

“What did you eat?”

“Some leftover pizza as breakfast and a protein bar. Oh, and coffee beans.”

Bucky pulled his brows together. “See, that also counts as caffeine—where on earth did you get coffee beans?”

“I brought them in a ziploc. Want some?”

“No thank you.” He hummed. “And how much did you sleep last night?”

“Um…” You checked the app on your phone. “I think it’s like two and a half—oh, there. Two hours forty-five minutes.”

“That’s ten more minutes than the other night,” Bucky pointed out and you nodded your head, pride lighting up your face.

“Yes. I’m improving.”

“So proud.”

“Why thank you,” you chirped and checked the time on your phone, then stepped closer to him to reach up to fix his tie. “I literally told you Davis is a hard-ass, you have to look put together.”

A small smile pulled at his lips as he looked down at you, and you felt your heartbeat speeding up, but you forced yourself to focus on his tie before you stepped back, nibbling on your lip.

“There. Presentable.”

“Did you change your perfume?”

You tilted your head, then slapped a hand over your forehead with a grimace.

“I forgot you’re basically a hound!” you whined. “Sorry about that. Um—Max got this perfume for me and it’s really not my type of perfume but I wanted him to feel good about it, he’s not very skilled at choosing gifts.”

He raised his brows.

“Your boyfriend doesn’t know the perfume you use?”

“…No,” you said after a beat. “No he does. It’s on the vanity, he’s seen it a thousand times.”

“So he got you a different perfume on purpose?”

You blinked a couple of times, the simple question making your stomach churn in anxiety but you shook your head, trying to shake off the thoughts.

“Let’s go,” you said, and started walking with him following you. “Is it bad? The perfume?”

“It’s not bad, it's just not you.”

“Is it the serum?” you asked. “It makes you notice these types of things more?”

“Yeah.”

“How come you didn’t say anything about the other one?”

“I like how you sme—your—your perfume,” Bucky stammered and cleared his throat. “It’s uh—it’s a nice…perfume. In general.”

“Are you sure?” You stepped out of the alley and turned to look at him better while his campaign manager Paul approached you. “About this one not being bad? Should I go home and take a very quick shower and be back?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Paul cleared his throat, his eyes darting between you two. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” Bucky said. “What is it?”

“You need to be on your way to Davis,” he said and turned to you with a frown. “And you should be at the office.”

“Okay.” You grinned at Bucky. “Hey, less exposure to perfume.”

“I feel like this is common knowledge, but I’d take your perfume over Davis’,” Bucky grumbled and you let out a laugh, then made your way to the car.

It was a busy day today, for Bucky and you. He was supposed to meet all these people and you had thousands of emails to send, and to make things worse, Paul had given you a bunch of things to do the moment you stepped foot in the office.

“He looks more pissed off than usual,” Caleb commented and you heaved a sigh.

“Yup.”

“Why?”

“No idea,” you said. “But hey, do you know how Bucky’s meeting with Davis went?”

“Kels texted me, it went fine.”

“Just fine?” you asked and he hummed.

“I’ll ask for the details.”

“Thank you,” you said and printed out the latest report, then walked to Bucky’s office to put it on his desk so that they would be ready when he got back. You cracked your back and made a face, then took a step to walk back to your desk but Paul stopped you.

“What were you doing in there?”

You pulled your brows together. “In Bucky’s office?” you asked. “I left the latest report in there. I figured he’d want to see it.”

Paul scoffed a laugh.

“Right,” he muttered. “And what about the report that I asked for, half an hour ago?”

“You asked for a full report Paul,” you reminded him. “I had to send some emails, so I—”

“I didn’t ask for excuses,” he snapped, making you pull back a little while the rest of the bullpen fell into silence. Your cheeks started burning in shame but you swallowed thickly, commanding yourself to be calm.

“I had to send the email to that journalist you were talking about today,” you said. “I figured that it was the priority—”

“I’m sorry, you figured?” Paul asked. “I asked you to do something and what, you decided it wasn’t the priority?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Sounds like you did,” Paul said. “And sounds like we have a miscommunication problem here. You don’t decide on shit. I decide what’s important or not, you hear me?”

Okay.

You knew what to do in a situation like this.

Your whole childhood could be summarized with multiple people yelling at you, so it didn’t even take you long to snap into what was familiar. You imagined the walls going up around you just like you would when you were little, schooling your face into a completely neutral expression, keeping your eyes on Paul and not the whole office watching you.

“I don’t really give a fuck that everyone tells you you’re oh-so-smart,” Paul ranted. “I don’t give a fuck if Bucky—” he stopped himself and let out a bitter laugh. “Trust me when I say this, you’re not half as smart as you think you are.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see that Bucky had just entered the bullpen but since Paul’s back was turned to the entrance and he was so lost in his anger, he didn’t even notice people turning their gaze from him to Bucky.

“And when the stakes are this high, when we’re only a couple of months away from the elections...” Paul’s voice rose again and Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not going to let you screw this up for anyone in this team!”

Bucky took a step but you moved your hand from your side to raise it just a little before you curled your fingers into a fist. It was so subtle that neither Paul nor anyone in the room noticed it, but Bucky stopped dead in his tracks like a soldier given a strict order by his commander, his gaze burning you.

“So when I want something to be done,” Paul said. “You do it. You do not think about the priority order, you just fucking do it. Like you’re supposed to. We’re not paying you to think, we’re paying you to do as you’re told. Do you understand?”

You unclenched your fist and nodded, then turned your gaze to Bucky over Paul’s shoulder. Paul blinked a couple of times, his face going white before he followed your line of sight, and turned around.

Bucky didn’t even need to say anything to intimidate people, you were beginning to see it now. His cold glare was more than enough to pin one to their spot, hell, you weren’t even the person who was on the receiving end of it, yet you didn’t think you could move. The whole bullpen held their breath while Paul exhaled shakily, opening his mouth only to have no voice come out. Bucky stole a glance at you as if asking for your next order, but you shook your head slightly, making him clench his jaw. He turned to Paul, nodded in the direction of the door and stepped outside, Paul tripping on his own feet in his rush to follow him outside.

“Holy shit,” Caleb muttered and you bit inside your cheek, then returned to your desk, Kelsey rushing to you while Caleb scooted his chair to get closer.

“What an asshole,” Kelsey whispered. “I still have goosebumps, I’ve never seen Bucky that furious.”

“At least now we know what Howard Stark saw before he—”

“Caleb!”

“Sorry, too soon?”

Your hands were still shaky, and people were still staring at you but you grabbed your phone to send a quick text to Bucky:

Don’t. I’m serious. Don’t fire him, don’t threaten him, don’t do anything.

“Birdie, are you okay?” Kelsey reached out to squeeze your hand and your head shot up, then you tried to smile.

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Caleb asked. “That was kind of harsh, even for Paul.”

You threw your shoulders back, trying to pull yourself together.

“It’s fine,” you said. “It’s…it’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

Paul couldn’t meet your eye for the rest of the day.

In fact, you were pretty sure that he had jumped out of your way when you had to go to his office to get a file.

Even though you could tell Bucky wanted to talk to you, you weren’t exactly sure how long you would be able to keep it together and you certainly didn’t want to break down in the office, so when it was time for you to leave the office, you went home while Bucky was still out on a meeting.

You had already cried in the shower when Max texted you to say he would be working until midnight, so you ordered a bunch of snacks, put some music on, turned the TV on, found the news channel and put it on mute, then turned up the heat and got to work.

You were knee deep in the clean energy bill draft for Bucky to use in his next meeting when the roar of a motorcycle outside made you grimace and look up from your notes, your phone buzzing in your hand a couple seconds later. Your eyes widened when you saw the text, sitting up straighter like someone pinched you.

From: Winter Is Coming

Hey, I’m outside your place. Can you step out for a moment?

Bucky?

Bucky was—

Holy shit, Bucky was outside.

You jumped on your feet and grabbed the empty snack packages, rushed to the kitchen and threw them into the garbage, your heart beating in your throat as you typed in your reply;

Be out in a sec!

You didn’t even question why you were so excited to see him, you just rushed to the bathroom to to brush your teeth and fix your hair as fast as you could, then made your way to the bedroom to grab your perfume from the vanity, your hand hitting the perfume bottle Max had got you out of the way in your hurry. You sprayed a couple of your own perfume on your skin, then ran to the living room to spritz it into the room as well. You threw the bottle on the bed and took a deep breath, then grabbed Max’s zip-up hoodie to put it on, grabbed the keys and walked out of the apartment.

Oh.

Oh alright, this was going to do wonders for your imagination.

Great.

Bucky was leaning against a motorcycle when you stepped out of the building, and he looked so irresistible that the fluttering in your stomach went crazy as you smiled at him. He eyed you up and down, and you shifted your weight from one foot to other, now realizing that you were in a crop top and tiny shorts under the unzipped hoodie; something very different than what he was used to seeing you in.

“I do have a doorbell, you know?” you joked, still holding the door open behind you and his eyes snapped to yours.

“I uh—” He frowned like he was trying to focus. “I didn’t want to disturb.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” You waved a hand in the air. “Come on in.”

He paused for a beat. “Are you sure?”

“Oh yeah, Max is working late as usual, it’s just me,” you said and made your way to your apartment with him following you. You opened the door to your apartment and stepped inside, your heart still pounding in your chest.

It was fine.

You had been to his place like a thousand times, and even bribed his cat Alpine into loving you with a can of tuna, so it just made sense that he would be here as well.

Completely professional.

Bucky’s eyes darted around the place before he closed the door behind him, then let out a breath.

“Whoa, it’s like a sauna here.”

“Yeah I need every room I’m in to be boiling,” you said with a laugh, taking off the hoodie. “I’m cold all the time, like, there was this one time I had to turn the heat on in June, Max was losing his mind.”

Bucky took off his leather jacket and you took it from him to hang it on the hanger, then made your way through the hallway with him following you.

“I got wine, beer…”

“Beer would be nice, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” you said as you both entered the kitchen and you took out two beer bottles from the fridge, then handed one to him.

“Thanks.” Bucky sat down on the stool and uncapped his bottle and you uncapped yours, then clinked the bottle with his. “Nice place.”

“Thank you,” you said and took a sip, perching on the other stool across from his. “So, what’s up? What brings you to my sauna?”

“I wanted to see if you’re okay,” he said. “After today.”

You scoffed. “Oh, I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

“I don’t care what Paul does. How did the meeting with Brooks go?”

“She’s nice—”

“And she’s hot as hell,” you added. “Like, seriously...”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Did you get the chance to mention that we’re interested in that fundraiser?”

“Yeah, she says we can make that happen. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“That fundraiser would make really good optics and to be honest, she’s kind of a badass—”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Bucky cut you off and you pursed your lips, then nodded.

“I don’t understand why people make such a big deal about it,” you said. “I’m used to getting yelled at, I’m okay.”

Fury flashed in Bucky’s eyes.

“This has happened before?”

“No no, not with Paul,” you said. “Which by the way, what did you tell him? He doesn’t even look me in the eye anymore.”

“Good,” Bucky said. “Means he listened.”

Butterflies returned to your stomach but you forced yourself to give him a reprimanding glare. “Bucky.”

“Hm?”

“What did you say to him?”

“Nothing much. I just explained what would happen if he pulled that shit again, very calmly.”

You had to bite back your smile. “Very calmly.”

His expression was almost too innocent. “Mm hm.”

You shook your head and took another sip of your beer while Bucky tilted his head.

“How?”

“What?”

“How are you used to it?”

“Oh.” You let out a bitter laugh. “I got yelled at a lot when I was a kid. It stops being effective after a while, to be honest with you.”

Bucky’s frown deepened and you shrugged your shoulders.

“I had this um…” You moved your hand vaguely. “I had this thing while I was growing up, I was incredibly skittish, so my dad kept yelling at me to think faster and talk faster and eat faster and—whatever you can think of, really. Kind of like a drill sergeant.”

Bucky stared at you, a soft light shining in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, I yell at him back nowadays,” you said with a small laugh. “One of the reasons why we don’t get along well. He raised me to be very outspoken, and now that my values are completely different than his, he doesn’t like it. You should’ve seen the last time they visited, we got into this huge political argument, and my mom just left to go shopping, and Max blocked it out and was like, making work phone calls in the bedroom while my father probably violated the noise ordinance laws of this building. My voice was hoarse the next day, it was crazy.”

Bucky blinked a couple of times.

“Sorry, you mean—” He paused as if he was trying to wrap his mind around the idea. “You’re telling me your father yelled at you and your boyfriend just allowed that?”

You stared at him, that familiar discomfort sinking in your stomach again before you shook your head.

“Oh it’s not like that,” you said. “He respects my father a lot, and he knew I could handle it.”

At least that was what Max had told you word by word, when you asked him where the hell he was during that argument seeing that it ended up with you bursting into tears in the bathroom.

“Did you tell him he’s not supposed to respect your father more than he respects you?” Bucky asked with a dry smile and you licked your lips, your heartbeat getting faster.

“It sounds bad when you say it like that,” you said. “But it wasn’t like that. Max is a great guy, we barely ever fight.”

Well, that was because you barely saw each other within the week.

“And um—” you stammered. “And we’re like, so in love.”

No I’m not.

The thought that flashed through your mind was so sudden and so unfamiliar that it made you stop talking and you swallowed thickly, frowning at yourself.

What the hell?

When had that quiet doubt turned into an actual thought?

“Yeah,” Bucky’s voice cut through your haze and you looked up at him to see that soft light playing in his eyes despite how tight his jaw was. “Yeah, you mentioned that.”

“…Right.”

He held your gaze in his, making your heart skip a beat before he downed the beer and put the bottle on the kitchen island.

“I should go,” he rasped out and your stomach dropped in disappointment.

“Oh, you could stay,” you said in a rush, hope clear in your voice even if you tried to hide it. “Like I said, it’s just me here probably until like midnight or something.”

“I really shouldn’t.” He gave you an apologetic smile and stood up from the stool. “Thanks for the beer though.”

“Of course,” you said and followed him to the hallway. He grabbed his leather jacket from the hanger and you fixed your hair, clearing your throat.

“By the way, you should ride your motorcycle more,” you said with a tentative smile. “It’d skyrocket the votes.”

He chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You took a step towards him when he opened the door. “Bucky?”

He turned around to look at you better. “Hm?”

“Why—” You paused for a moment. “Paul is your campaign manager. He outranks me and—was it honestly just because of me? Today, when you pulled him aside and gave him a talk?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It was because of you.”

“Why?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t like it when people think they can yell at you,” he pointed out. “So I’m not going to allow that. Simple as that.”

That warmth filled your chest again, a smile you couldn’t stop lighting up your face and you bounced on the balls of your feet, then nodded.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice a mere whisper and his eyes met yours, your heart beating in your throat again.

“Anytime,” he said softly. “Goodnight Birdie.”

With that, he closed the door behind him and soon enough you heard the engine of the motorcycle come to life, and drive away. Your cheeks were still burning and you pressed your palms to soothe the fire, letting out a shaky breath.

“Yeah,” you whispered into the empty room. “Goodnight Bucky.”

Chapter 5

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #congressman barnes #congressman bucky #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#congressman bucky barnes #congressman!bucky #congressman!bucky barnes #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x y/n #bucky fanfic

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satorulovebot · 8 months ago

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so scarlet it was, maroon | chapter one

✧₊⁺ pairing — satoru gojou x journalist!reader

✧₊⁺ chapter summary — you get the chance to meet the infamous gojou satoru while working on your journalism project at suzuka circuit. what could you possibly want from him?

✧₊⁺ word count — 6.3k

✧₊⁺ warnings — nsfw (minors dni), age gap, alcohol use, mature themes, mentions of cheating, substance abuse, themes of marriage and divorce

✧₊⁺ notes — hello everyone! i asked you awhile ago on a poll which series you would like to see after cursed seas and f1 gojo won the poll and then i posted the masterlist and everyone wants it so you get it now. so here it is. and NO its not happy NEVER expect happiness from me because im allergic to it. also the reader being nosy af is inspired by me and my parents telling me i should be a journalist with how nosy i am.

series masterlist // pinterest moodboard // general masterlist

next chap. the husband and his wife

You moved to Tokyo with your family when you were younger.

You grew up in a rural part of the country, surrounded by farmers and people either ready to retire or nearing the end of their lives. Your parents hated living there, and so did you—for one, there were hardly any kids to play with, and two, as your father would say, "too many old fuckers lying around."

When you moved to Tokyo, your family decided to celebrate by taking you to a Formula 1 race. Your dad thought it would be perfect for the two of you since fixing up old cars had always been your daddy-daughter activity.

You didn’t like the idea of racing at first—the noise was too loud, and the idea of people speeding toward a black-and-white checkered line seemed ridiculous. But the moment you heard the roar of the engines and watched the lights go from red to green, you were captivated, a fascination that would stay with you for years.

When you got your first computer, you began looking up videos of F1 drivers. One day, you stumbled across a video titled “The Biggest F1 Scandals in History,” and that was when you decided you wanted to go into journalism.

You were nosy, to say the least. So, it was no surprise to your parents when you announced to them that you wanted to pursue journalism as a career. Your father reminded you how you’d always been curious, listening in on others’ conversations and keeping up with the latest school drama.

When you applied for journalism school, you were accepted into one of the top programs in the world—Sophia University. Your parents were proud that you’d made it into such a highly ranked school for journalism in Japan.

You were now in your fourth and final year at Sophia, and enjoying your journalism class. Recently, your professor assigned a project: write a story about a major pop culture figure of your choice, and for extra credit, get an interview with them. Your professor knew it was damn near impossible, but he was always optimistic that one day, someone would get that interview and he could retire in peace.

That project led you here: Suzuka Circuit, Japan's main Formula 1 track. Your chosen figure was none other than Gojou Satoru—F1's biggest driver in recent years. He was your father's favorite among the new-generation drivers, known for his string of controversies since he started on top of the persistent rumors of his heavy drug use before races.

You had managed to snag a media passs from your professor when you mentioned doing an F1 driver for your project. He was able to pull some strings to get you into the media booth, getting you a closer look at Gojou Satoru in person.

You watched the pre-race preparations closely from the media booth, your fingers hovered above your notepad as you waited for the race to start. You were determined to get a good grade on this project, and that meant adding every single detail to your report about this race.

It was about time for the drivers to gather in their garages, each wearing headsets and ready for the pre-race briefing. The briefing typically covers the race start, various pit stop scenarios, and a detailed weather report. Before each race weekend, they usually spend time in a simulator of the track they'll be racing on, preparing them for the upcoming race.

After about thirty-minutes the racers came out of their garages in their respective cars. They each line up based on the results of a quaifying session that takes place before the race, slowest qualifier in the back, fastest in the front. Gojou Satoru was at the front of the grid, which meant he was one of the qualifiers who had the fastest time.

You waited around for a little while longer turning your attention to what was happening around you. Eventually, you made your way back to the front of the media booth as the race started, ready to report.

The engines revved as each driver began preparing for the start of the race, each car vibrating on the starting grid like a beast straining at its chains. Gojou sat at the front of the lineup, his hands loose on the wheel, fingers tapping in a steady rhythm as he waited for the lights to turn green.

The roar from the grandstands faded, becoming a blur of sound as the lights ticked down: red, red, red, red… green.

He slammed the throttle, feeling the raw force of the car’s engine kick him back into his seat as he tore down the straight. Other cars jostled for position behind him, all fighting to claim the inside line into the first turn.

Through his earpiece, he heard the voice of his race engineer, Shokou, calm as ever. “Clear on turn two, you’ve got five-tenths on Hayashi. Stay tight.”

But Gojou barley heard her. The car was an extension of him, responding to his every thought, every split-second decision. He pushed down the straights, his right foot heavy on the accelerator, taking corners at speeds most drivers wouldn’t dare attempt. The sound of his tires skidding against the asphalt, the blur of the track side barriers, the lights of Tokyo reflecting off his mirrors—it all blended into a single, perfect rush.

Gojou could see the next turn ahead, a tight chicane that could send the best drivers into the barriers if they weren't careful. He braked hard, turning the wheel with perfect precision to angle the car through. He could feel the back end wobbling, but he didn't flinch, drifting perfectly as he swung back onto the racing line, gaining another second on the pack.

He could almost hear the collective gasp of the crowd in his head as he slipped through the chicane. This was his playground. Every race was a chance to remind the world why he was the best.

“Coming up on a DRS zone,” Shoko’s voice crackled in his ear, grounding him, though he was already on it

He waited for the perfect moment, watching the rear-view mirror to see the faint outline of Hayashi's car. He pressed the DRS, and his car shot forward, the drag reduction giving him a temporary speed boost that had him pulling away, putting him in the lead.

The track opened up ahead, the second sector full of wide, sweeping turns. Here was where raw speed mattered more than anything. Gojou pressed down hard on the accelerator, the engine roaring in response. He leaned forward, watching the track fly by, the white lines blurring as he focused entirely on the road ahead.

For a second, the sound in his earpiece went dead, the faint sound of static filling his ears. Then Shokou was back. “You’ve got Yoshida closing in on your tail. He’s pushing hard.”

Gojou glanced up at the mirrors, his eyes catching the bright blue and orange of Yoshida's car looming larger. The familiar thrill sparked in him. So, Yoshida thought he had a chance, did he? Well, he’d show him otherwise.

“Copy,” he muttered into his mic, eyes narrowing as he took the next corner, barley touching the brakes. He felt the tires skid but he managed to control the drift, knowing any slip would open the door for Yoshida to slip past.

He whipped into another straight, his hands steady on the wheel as he hit a top speed.

His foot didn’t so much as twitch as the engine’s roar morphed into a high-pitched scream as the car closed the distance.

The curve ahead was brutal—a tight 90-degree bend that demanded precise timing.

In a split-second decision, he did something no one expected. He braked late, his heart pounding as he cut the turn at a speed that sent the back end skidding. The tires gripped just in time, allowing him to pull out of the corner without losing traction. He could almost feel the shock reverberating as he regained control, his lead still intact.

As the laps wore on, his body moved on instinct, every gear shift, every turn becoming a single, fluid motion. One lap. Two. Three, with two pit stops between. He counted them off one by one, his mind buzzing with the pure rush of speed and the heat inside the car, barely noticing the time passing. The crowd faded into nothing, the world shrinking down to the track and his car.

The final lap. This was it.

“Box this lap if you’re in trouble,” Shokou’s voice crackled again. “Tire degradation is high.”

But Gojou’s grip on the steering wheel only tightened. His front tires were holding out—barely. It would be tight, but he could make it. He’d run this last lap on sheer determination alone if he had to.

“Negative, Shokou. I’m taking it,” he replied, and then turned off the earpiece, tuning out everything except the track and the car in front of him.

He launched into the final lap, throwing caution to the wind. Yoshida was right on his tail now, close enough that he could see the gleam of his headlights in the mirrors. But Gojou didn’t back down. He took each turn aggressively, blocking Yoshida's attempts to pass, forcing him to fall back every time.

The last chicane loomed ahead, his final obstacle before the finish line. He tightened his grip, the wheel trembling under his hands. He took the chicane fast, too fast, almost feeling the wheels lift off the ground as he flew out of the turn. The car rocked, but he held steady, pushing the pedal to the floor.

The finish line was in sight, a faint white line at the end of the straight, and with one last push, he crossed it, the checkered flag waving in his periphery as he tore past.

It was only after he’d crossed over the line that the realization hit him—he’d won.

The cheers erupted in the stands, the roar of the crowd filling his ears as he slowed down, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. He could hear Shoko’s voice crackling back in as she shouted, “You pulled it off, you insane bastard.”

Gojou grinned, leaning back in his seat, still buzzing. He’d done it again, just as he always did.

The moment he climbed out of the cockpit, Gojou was surrounded by his team. Shokou was the first to reach him, her usually composed face split by a wide grin. She grabbed his helmet and thumped him on the shoulder hard enough so he actually felt it though the layers of his suit.

“You reckless son of a—”

“Language, Shokou,” Gojou interrupted, grinning as he yanked off his gloves, waving to the rest of the Tokyo Jujutsu Racing team that swarmed him.

“Do you know what it’s like to watch you pull stunts like that? I’m gonna need a raise after today’s heart attack,” she muttered.

“Oh, come on, Shokou. That was just a little fun.” He stretched his arms over his head. “Where’s my confetti?”

“Coming right up, your royal highness." Someone handed him a bottle of champagne, still cold and slick, and he twisted the cap, spraying a wild arc of foam that showered his team and nearby fans.

His PR manager, Nanami, clapped him on the back. “You’re insufferable."

“That’s what I’m here for,” he said, lifting the champagne bottle in a mock toast, flashing him a grin. The media’s cameras clicked and flashed, capturing every moment as his crew continued their congratulations.

The crowd pressed close against the barriers, shouting his name, waving homemade banners with scribbled slogans and his number embellished with the colors red and black. He walked closer, one arm raised, acknowledging the fans, letting their cheers fill him up, louder and louder with every step.

But as he continued walking, his gaze caught on something—or rather, someone—just beyond the crowd.

At first it was just a hint curiosity, the way your gaze was fixed on him. A bit removed from the chaos, you leaned against one of the barriers with a media pass hanging around your neck, arms folded as you watched from a distance.

Gojou slightly narrowed his eyes, holding your gaze longer than he'd held any fan's tonight, as if he was daring you to look away first.

“What the hell is that about?” he muttered under his breath, gaze moving back to Shokou for half a second.

“Hm?” Shokou followed his gaze, but her eyes slid right past you, uninterested. “Press. You’ll get used to it. Come on, they’re all waiting.”

He forced himself to break the stare, clearing his throat as Shokou ushered him toward the media pen, where a lineup of journalists waited, all armed with recorders, microphones, and notebooks.

He fielded the usual questions—how did it feel to win, what was his mindset, what was he thinking on that last turn? His answers were always the same practiced ones, words sliding out like clockwork.

“Well, Mr. Gojou, what would you say to those who believe your racing style is a little… aggressive?” one journalist asked, a little smirk on her face as if she thought she was catching him off guard.

He snorted. “They can call it what they want. I call it winning.” He shrugged. “I don’t come out here to play it safe.”

A few reporters laughed at his remark, clearly interested in what else he had to say as a fresh wave of questions started.

Somewhere behind the flashing lights, he saw you again, lingering a few feet behind the crowd of reporters with that calm gaze fixed on him. You didn’t raise a recorder or a camera, didn’t even make an effort to push closer for a question. You just… watched.

It was disconcerting.

“Gojou!” Another journalist waved a microphone his face, snapping his attention back to the current situation. “What’s the next step for you this season?”

He forced a smile, eyes briefly looking back to you before he focused on the question. “The same as always,” he said. “Push harder, get faster, and give everyone something to talk about.”

The crowd laughed again, though, he barely heard them, too focused on the strange woman staring right into his soul. The two of you locked eyes and you have him a small nod, as if acknowledging that you were in fact staring into his soul.

“Well, I think that’s enough,” Shokou said suddenly at his elbow, pulling him out of his thoughts. “They’ll have plenty of time to hound you later.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmured, though he let her guide him away. Still, he couldn’t help glancing back over his shoulder, hoping to catch one last glimpse of you.

But you were already gone.

Gojou slipped away from the crowd, weaving through the bustling garage and dodging the congratulatory slaps on his back, the endless rounds of handshakes, and the celebratory shouts. He ducked past a few journalists, ignoring the barrage of questions still hurled his way, his smile slipping as he finally found the door to the bathroom.

Inside, the cool, sterile silence was jarring compared to the noise outside, but he let out a sigh of relief, his heart hammering in his chest. He clicked the lock and leaned against the sink, running his hands over his face, staring at his own reflection in the mirror.

The victory high had worn off, leaving behind a familiar pressure he could not cope with. It settled on his shoulders like an old, unwelcome friend.

He hadn't realized how much tension he was carrying in his shoulders, how deeply it would itself into him when he was alone. The race had been perfect, his win flawless, but he could feel the exhaustion radiating off of him, a pulsing throb being his eyes. He clenched his jaw, glaring at himself in the mirror.

“Pull yourself together,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

But his words fell flat, swallowed up by the silence. In the mirror, his own eyes stared back at him, tired, almost hollow.

He reached into the pocket of his racing suit, fingers brushing over the small, familiar packet hidden in the inner lining. It was a stupid habit, a reckless one really, but it was one he hadn't been able to shake, no matter how many times he tried to quit. He could practically feel the temporary relief in the palm of his hand.

He closed his eyes, running his thumb along the edge of the packet before pulling it out, setting it on the counter next to the sink. He ripped it open tapping a small line onto the smooth counter top. It was like his fingers had a mind of their own, as if it was part of his routine of suiting up or gripping the wheel.

The powder glinted under the bathroom’s harsh fluorescent lights, almost mocking him with its simplicity. Just a quick escape, just enough to take the edge off. That’s all he needed.

He leaned down, closing one nostril and inhaling sharply, feeling the sting as the powder hit his nose. He straightened his back, blinking hard, the world around him sharpening as his mind cleared. A small, humorless smile tugged at his lips.

He leaned back against the sink, tilting his head up to stare at the ceiling, feeling his heartbeat slow, the tension in his muscles fading away.

But it didn’t take long for the guilt to creep back in, that hollow feeling settling in his chest, a reminder that this wasn't the answer. He knew it. He knew exactly what he was doing to himself, how he was destroying his body from the inside out, how it could all come crashing down. And yet… here he was.

“Fucking pathetic,” he muttered to himself, his voice echoing against the tiles.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, jolting him back to reality.

“Gojou? You in there?” It was Shokou. “They’re waiting for you out here.”

He stuffed the empty packet back into his pocket, brushed the last of the substance off of the sink, and glanced in the mirror one last time to check his reflection, making sure there was no trace left of his momentary escape.

Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders, forced a smirk, and unlocked the door.

Shokou was standing there, arms crossed, her gaze scrutinizing as he stepped out. She didn’t say anything, but her judgmental eye lingered over him for a split second too long.

“You good?”

“Never better."

“Right,” she said, clearly unconvinced, but she dropped it, gesturing for him to follow her.

As the celebrations continued, Gojou weaved his way through fans and team-members alike who were still wrapped up in their post-race celebrations. He scanned the crowd, hoping to find the strange woman from earlier who he noticed had a press pass, thinking you would be here.

And then he saw you, leaning against a stack of crates near the garages, observing the current scene with the same judgmental eyes that Shokou had. The media badge hung from your neck, swaying slightly as you shifted your weight, pulling out a notebook and flipping through it, seemingly absorbed in what you were currently doing.

He cleared his throat as he approached, the echo of his footsteps giving his presence away.

You looked up, your brow raised as he came closer, a hint of intrigue flashing in your eyes.

“Looking for something?” you asked, not moving as he stopped in front of you.

“You could say that,” he replied, slipping his hands into his pockets, his gaze darted to the notebook in your hands. “I couldn’t help but notice you earlier, off in the shadows. Didn’t feel like joining the crowd?”

“Not my style.” You shrugged. “I’m not here to cheer. I’m here to report.”

“Journalist, huh?” he drawled, tilting his head. “What’s your angle?”

“The truth,” you said, a little smile pulling at your lips as you studied him. “Not everyone’s a fan of that, I know.”

“Depends on what you call the truth. But I’ve got a feeling you’ve already got your version.”

"How perceptive. I’m doing a piece on your racing career, your achievements, but… the public wants a fuller picture, don’t you think?

“Not sure I follow. Everyone knows what they need to know.”

“Not quite,” you replied, flipping through your notebook. “There’s more than just racing stats when it comes to Gojou Satoru, isn’t there?”

“Care to elaborate?”

“People say you’re… unraveling. Your recent ‘questionable decisions’ are starting to paint a different picture, don’t you think?” you said, tapping your pen against your notebook. “The accidents, the fines, the constant change in pit crews—”

“Is this some kind of witch hunt?” he interrupted. “Because I’d hate to disappoint you, princess, but I’ve heard it all.”

“Maybe so.” You leaned in a bit, meeting his stare. “But what about the whispers that aren’t out yet? The suspicions about you cheating the drug tests, your team shielding you—” You paused. “There’s a lot of money on your success, Mr. Gojou.”

“Money and racing have always gone hand-in-hand, don’t you think? You’d have a hard time finding someone out here who hasn’t bent a rule or two.”

“True enough.” You titled your head slightly. “But even the most golden careers have a way of losing their shine.”

"Tell me—do you enjoy tearing people down for a living?”

“Only if it’s warranted,” you replied unfazed. “People aren’t interested in perfect stories. They want the flaws, the dirt. It makes it all more real. At least that's what my professor believes."

“You’ve got a wicked mind, I’ll give you that. But I hope you realize you’re not the first to come sniffing around for the ‘real story’.”

A pregnant pause settles between you before you asked, “And what about her?”

A beat passed before he answered. “Who?”

“Your wife. She’s been… noticeably absent from the press circuits. And rumor has it things aren’t exactly picture-perfect between you two.”

“Rumor has it,” he repeated. “Guess you know how it is in this business. There’s always some rumor or another.”

“So it’s just a rumor, then? All the time apart, the missed events, her name suddenly missing from every headline. You’re saying there’s nothing to it?”

“People are eager to make stories out of nothing. My private life is just that—private.”

“That’s interesting,” you murmured, not looking away. “Because the most recent stories about you and her—they’re awfully detailed. People are noticing, wondering why she’s suddenly… disappeared from the scene.”

“Let them wonder. Like I said, people will talk. And it seems like you’re more interested in gossip than journalism.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Journalism is about uncovering the truth,” you countered. “But it seems like you’re more comfortable brushing things under the rug than addressing them.”

His smile returned, his carefully crafted facade sliding back into place as he straightened up, glancing away from you, clearly bored of the conversation. "Maybe someday you'll get the truth you're so desperate for, but it's not going to be today."

Before he walked away completely, he gave you one last look, his tone playful but laced with a hint of warning. “Be careful what you dig up, princess. Sometimes the truth’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

And with that, he turned his back to you, disappearing into the crowd.

Gojou returned home after the long night of celebrations had died down, the adrenaline from the race long gone, now replaced by a gnawing emptiness that felt like it might hollow him out. His penthouse was in the hear of Tokyo—a sleek, modern apartment with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the neon-drenched skyline.

As he opened the door, the soft him of the city below was drowned out by the sound of footsteps, His wife, Hana, appeared from the hallway, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, her eyes narrowed. She was dressed in a sleek black outfit, her dark hair pulled back, a looking a frustration etched onto her face.

“You’re late."

“Didn’t realize I was on a curfew,” he replied, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it onto a nearby chair.

“Don’t act like that.” Her eyes flashed as she followed him into the living room. “You missed the dinner with my parents again. They’ve been asking about you, wondering why you’re never around.”

“Hana, I just won a race,” he replied, exasperated. “Sorry if I wasn’t in the mood to play the doting son-in-law tonight.”

She scoffed, crossing her arms tighter. “Of course, it’s always about the race with you. Everything is about that damn career, isn’t it?”

“You knew what you were signing up for when you married me.”

“Maybe I didn’t know it would mean you disappearing for days, weeks sometimes, chasing whatever thrill you think you need to feel alive.”

“What’s your point, Hana? We’ve had this argument a hundred times.”

“The point is, Satoru,” she said, voice trembling with anger, “that you seem to care more about everything else than this marriage. I’m just a fixture in your life, something you come back to whenever you need to check a box or show face. But you’re never really here.”

He let out a harsh laugh, the bitter sound filling the apartment. "Here we go again. Hana, it’s not like you’ve been some shining example of commitment either. You’ve known what this is for months.”

“What this is?” Her voice rose, cracking slightly as she repeated his words. “What exactly is ‘this,’ Satoru? A sham? A partnership for appearances? I thought you loved me…"

“I can’t keep doing this,” she continued softly, her voice breaking. “The lying, the pretending. It’s exhausting.”

“So what do you want me to say, Hana? That I’m some perfect husband?” He gestured to himself, shaking his head with a smirk that looked almost pained. “We’re both guilty here. Let’s not act like this hasn’t been a slow-motion train wreck.”

“Fine. But do me a favor—at least act like you care when people ask. Because every time I hear some story about you, another scandal or rumor, it’s like a slap in the face. My family, my friends—everyone’s talking. They see the headlines too.”

“What do you want from me, Hana?” he asked quietly, the fight suddenly draining out of him. “You want me to pretend I’m someone I’m not?”

“I want… I wanted the man I married. The one who cared, who had dreams."

“Then maybe,” he said finally, his voice almost a whisper, “it’s time to stop pretending.”

As Gojou stood there running a hand through his hair. Hana paused, her expression shifting from something resigned to something wounded.

“And there’s one more thing."

He looked at her, brow furrowing. “Fucking Christ Hana, what now?”

“Do you think I’m stupid, Satoru?” she asked, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “I know what’s out there. The rumors. The whispers about who you’re with when you’re not here. Or maybe you think I don’t hear them.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Hana, they’re just rumors. You know how the press is—they’ll twist anything for a story.”

“Twist what, exactly? Why do they have something to twist in the first place?”

“They don’t have anything. It’s just the media looking for something to make people read. Speculation sells.”

“Right. Speculation. But funny how it’s always about you, always linked to another woman.”

“That’s because I’m under a microscope. People love to create scandals, especially with someone like me. And you know that better than anyone.”

“It’s not just them, Satoru. People talk, and it’s not just baseless gossip. I’m not naive. I hear things from people close to you, people who actually know you.”

“You really believe them? You think I’m out there, risking everything for some—” He stopped himself, biting his tongue.

“Do I? I don’t even know my own husband anymore. Maybe I should ask them. Or maybe I should ask you directly, Satoru. Are you seeing someone?”

“Why are we even doing this?”

“Because I want the truth. Just once. I deserve that much, don’t I?”

“Believe what you want, Hana. I don’t have anything else to say.”

“Then maybe that’s all I need to know.”

Gojou stormed out of his apartment, his hands clenching and unclenching as he tried to shake off his frustration. He'd had enough for one night. His heart was pounding and the last thing he wanted was to be alone with his thoughts. He needed to get out, to drown the anger with something that could at least help him forget.

The bar he found was tucked away down a dim side street in Shibuya. It wasn't anything fancy–a dark cry from the glitzy nightlife he was used to–but it was dark and quiet which was exactly what he needed. He slid onto a bar stool and motioned for a drink, not bothering to pay attention to what the bartender poured.

He sipped his drink in silence, trying to tune out the night and all the noise in his head. The alcohol burned down his throat, but it was a welcome distraction that numbed his anger and frustration. He was almost on his third drink when he noticed someone sitting in the corner of the room, hunched over a notebook, tapping her pen against her cheek in thought.

She's cute, he thought to himself. He squinted trying to get a better look at the young woman, and he immediately recognized, it was you.

Of all the places he'd expect to see you, this shitty bar wasn't one of them. You looked so absorbed in your work, like you were piecing together something for a story. Satoru's curiosity got the better of him, and he stood up carrying his drink as he made his way over to where you were sitting.

"Well, well," he said, leaning against the back of the chair across from you. “Didn’t peg you for a bar rat, but maybe I was wrong.”

Your head snapped up, and your eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Gojou Satoru. What a surprise.”

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, already taking the seat.

“Didn’t think someone like you would end up in a place like this. Celebrating?”

He gave a dry laugh, swirling the glass in his hand. “Something like that.”

“So, what are you doing here, really? Figured you’d be at a fancy cafe, writing about some important news story.”

“Maybe I am. Research is research, even if it’s in a bar. Maybe it’s you I’m writing about.”

“So I’m your new project, huh?”

“Maybe. It’s part of this little journalism course I’m doing. We’re supposed to pick a public figure and write a profile. Someone who’s got a… colorful public image.”

“Colorful, huh?” He smirked. “Guess I’m your lucky target. Hope I make an interesting subject."

“Interesting is one word for it,” you replied, a faint smirk tugging at your lips. “What’s got you so quiet tonight? I thought you’d be surrounded by fans somewhere.”

He shrugged, taking a long sip of his drink. “Not in the mood for fans tonight.”

“Tough race?”

He laughed humorlessly, shaking his head. “Not the race. Just… life, I guess.”

“So,” he said, leaning in. “tell me about this little journalism course. You planning to make a career out of stalking poor drivers like me?”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that. We’re learning how to ‘uncover the truth’—or at least, that’s what they say. So far, it’s been a lot of digging through archives and learning to ask the right questions.”

“Right questions, huh?” He arched an eyebrow. “Let’s hear one. What would you ask me, if I were your ‘colorful public figure’?”

“Alright, Gojou. How does someone at the top of their game manage to keep it all together? All the races, the publicity, the pressure… don’t you ever feel like it’s too much?”

“Honestly?” He ran a hand through his hair, glancing away. “Sometimes, yeah. It’s not as easy as it looks, being the guy everyone thinks has it all together. But people don’t care about that part. They just want the show.”

“So you put on the show.”

“Guess that’s what it comes down to.” He laughed, but it sounded hollow even to his own ears. “People don’t want to see a guy crack under pressure. They want the image.”

“But what do you want?”

No one ever asked him that, as if what he wanted didn’t matter.

“What do I want?” he repeated, a slight smirk tugging at his lips as he tried to dodge the question. “Maybe another drink.”

I’m serious. Behind all of that… what’s left?”

“Honestly? Sometimes I don’t even know anymore. It’s like I’ve been going so fast for so long, I can’t remember what it was I was chasing in the first place.”

“Maybe that’s what you need to figure out, then.”

He looked at you, and the faintest trace of a genuine smile broke through. “Maybe.”

The two of you sat in silence, and he found himself grateful for it. You didn't press or pry at him and he thought that he could just be himself, even if it was just for a little while.

“Alright,” he said finally, nudging your notebook with his finger. “So, future journalist, you really gonna write all this down? Make me sound like some tortured artist?”

You smirked. “I’ll try to be kind. Maybe I’ll even leave out the part where you go to bars alone and pretend to be mysterious.”

“Ouch,” he chuckled, holding up his drink in mock surrender. “Noted. But I expect a copy when it’s published. Autographed, obviously.”

“Obviously,” you replied, laughing as you clinked your glass against his. “But don’t expect it to be flattering.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As the conversation continued, Gojou found himself leaning in closer. You both let the drinks keep coming, though it was less about how much alcohol you were consuming and more about the way the words spilled more easily between you two.

“So,” you asked, taking another sip of your drink, “what’s it actually like out there? Everyone sees the fame, the money, the cars, but… what’s it really like?”

He exhaled, tapping his fingers on the edge of his glass. “Honestly? It’s… intense. There’s this high to it, this adrenaline. Nothing like it. You’re pushing yourself and everyone around you to the edge," he tilted his head. “But sometimes, it feels like the line between winning and crashing out isn’t as thick as people think. You cross it once, and that’s it—you’re done.”

“Doesn’t that scare you?”

“A little. But I’m more afraid of what happens if I stop. It’s like… I don’t know what I’d be without it. Guess that sounds stupid.”

“No, it doesn’t. I get it. When something’s all you know… giving it up is like giving up a part of yourself. Scary as hell.”

“Exactly. Guess we all have our addictions, huh?”

Shit. Did he say too much?

You didn’t push, just gave him a quiet nod. “So, what’s Tokyo Jujutsu like? It's one of the toughest team on the grid, right?”

“You know it. They’re tough as hell, no room for error. And they sure as hell won’t give you a second chance if you mess up.”

“Sounds brutal."

“Yeah, maybe. I guess I like the challenge. Or maybe I just like proving people wrong.”

“Enough about me," he continued. What about you? What’s the deal with this journalism project? Are you trying to make a name for yourself by exposing all my secrets?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Believe it or not, my goal in life isn’t to ruin yours. I actually think it’s fascinating, learning what drives people, what keeps them going, even when things get messy.”

“Messy? What makes you think my life is messy?”

“Oh, please. Gojou Satoru’s life is one headline after another. You’re practically the poster boy for drama.”

He feigned a hurt expression, placing a hand over his heart. “You wound me. I’m just a guy trying to make a living, you know?”

“Right,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Just a guy who happens to have a dozen scandals and an equal number of speeding tickets.”

“Hey,” he laughed, leaning back in his chair. “I’m a professional, okay? That’s all part of the job.”

The two of you continued to chat into the night. Gojou found himself relaxing, caught up in the rare comfort of talking with someone who didn’t expect him to play a part. He could just… be.

At some point, the bartender announced last call, and Gojou glanced at you, smirking. “Guess that’s our cue.”

You stretched, gathering your notebook and tucking it under your arm. “Thanks for the, uh, ‘research material.’ It was… enlightening.”

He laughed, standing and grabbing his coat. “Anytime. But don’t go making me look like a complete asshole in your little project, alright?”

“No promises."

Outside, the air was crisp as he faint hum of city traffic the only sound as you stood together on the quiet street. Gojou slid his hands into his pockets, looking at you.

Outside, the air was crisp as the faint him of the city being the only sound as you stood together on the quiet street. Gojou slide his hands into his pockets, looking at you.

“Maybe we’ll run into each other again."

“Only if you’re brave enough to handle more questions.”

“Oh, I’m plenty brave. But we’ll see if you’re as good at digging as you think.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing as you turned to leave, throwing him a casual wave. “Goodnight, Mr. Gojou.”

“Goodnight,” he echoed, watching as you disappeared down the empty street.

In that moment he realized, he never did catch your name.

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angelsfat3 · 2 months ago

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꽃.ㅤㅤ( 𝓕𝑢𝔠𝒌 ) ／ㅤ𝔩𝓲𝒌𝑒ᆞᆞ 𝑨𝓷𝔦𝑚𝐚𝑙．

𝖢𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗇, 𝗅𝖾𝗍'𝗌 𝖻𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗍, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗌𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝗑 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗅 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗏𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗈 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖽? .. 𝗇𝗈? .. 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎? 𝖮𝗄𝖺𝗒. 𝖧𝗒𝗉𝗈𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗌.ㅤ／ㅤ 𝑜𝑓𝑓𝑖𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘𝑒𝑟!𝐽𝑎𝑦, 𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑙𝑠/𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑚𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑚𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝒉 𝑏𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑓𝑖𝑡𝑠, 𝑠𝑚𝑢𝑡.ㅤ٭ㅤ危险──R𝑜𝑢𝑔𝒉 𝑠𝑒𝑥 (𝐼 𝑔𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑠), 𝑏𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑙 𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑒𝑛𝑑, 𝑏𝑜𝑡𝒉 𝑓𝑖𝑔𝒉𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑎 𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑠𝑒, 𝐻𝑒𝑒𝑠𝑒𝑢𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝒉𝑢𝑠𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑑, 𝑡𝑜𝑝 𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟.

Competing wasn't your favorite pastime. Or well, that's what you liked to believe... until Jay showed up in your life. With his shirt always perfectly fitted, his expensive watch gleaming under the white office lights, and that arrogant little smile that made your blood boil (and other things it was better not to mention).

And working next to him felt like walking on fire. Always two steps ahead of you, always with a comment ready to make you roll your eyes—or bite your tongue so you wouldn’t sound like an idiot, or worse, make you look like one.

Especially because you knew he didn’t play fair. No, Jay had a natural talent for getting too close, for whispering something in your ear when no one was looking, making you lose focus on what was actually important. Sometimes he’d leave papers on your desk… along with notes that said, "Good 'luck' today!" followed by a damn wink drawn by hand.

Yeah... Son of a bitch.

You weren't planning on losing. Not the position. Not the ridiculous war that, frankly, was starting to feel more like a game of "who humiliates the other more, wins" than a serious work competition.

So when you saw him approach that day, leaning on your desk like it was his, you could only raise an eyebrow, cross your arms, and say:

"Did you lose your cubicle, Jay? Or are you here to cry about being below me on the project consideration list?"

His deep laugh—damn attractive, of course—vibrated through the air as he shrugged.

"Below you?" he repeated, tilting his head slowly in a way that made you swallow. "Doesn’t sound too bad when you say it."

And you, instead of pushing him away, could only smile slyly, cursing internally at how much you were enjoying that absurd low voice, enjoying all the possible scenarios where your hands would be caressing his naked body.

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Sure, before all this chaos, you and Jay... well, you weren’t exactly mortal enemies.

In fact, when you first started working, there were moments when you could even call him "jayjay." You’d sit in the same meeting room, share stolen coffees from the kitchen machine, sometimes help each other out with the reports for the meetings, talk about the secretary and the boss, and laugh together at the accounting boss—Heeseung—who always forgot to mute his mic during video conferences and you could hear him eating ramen, etc.

Everything was tolerable. Fun, even.

But then, the announcement came.

A new position. Promotion. Raise. A private office with a window and all those things that felt like heaven after months (years, to be honest) of surviving in gray cubicles and chairs that squeaked just by breathing.

And the moment the boss uttered those magic words, something shifted in the air.

Jay glanced at you sideways, and you returned his gaze, both of you stopping your laughter, and in that moment, you both understood the same thing: neither of you was going to let the other win.

From that instant, the cold war began.

Jay started staying late, preparing presentations that looked like they were from a luxury ad agency. His watermark even looked that expensive.

You started adding visual details to your reports, using graphs, animations, even designing project covers like you were a frustrated graphic designer—some ideas stolen from Pinterest, but who the hell cares about that.

Mostly because Jay always had something more, something better.

Always.

If you arrived early, he was already there, with two coffees on the table, one for him and one (of course) for you, just to then say, "I don't want you to lose from lack of energy, we don’t know what could happen."

If you made a creative proposal, even if you’d asked “a little” help from chatgpt, he’d show up with something that looked like it was designed by Google.

It wasn’t personal. Of course not.

Until it started to be.

Because you couldn’t help but notice it. Every time your project was praised, Jay would smile... but then his eyes would darken, calculating and sharper.

Every time you laughed in a meeting at some useless comment, he’d look at you like you were the only loud one who wouldn’t hesitate to shut up by shouting.

Every time your boss said, "Well done, [...]! I’d like to see more of that proposal, come see me after the break," you could see Jay squeezing his pen, as if he were going to break it between his fingers.

Competing had never felt so... addictive.

It had never been so personally exciting.

Things finally exploded one Friday night when the entire building seemed to have fallen silent, except for the damn clacking of keys and the sound of frustrated, tired sighs with no real escape.

Your cubicle and his were barely separated by a thin wall, too thin not to hear him breathe, clear his throat, laugh quietly... or make some sharp remark.

"Need any help, [...]?"

Jay asked, with that voice full of false innocence.

"I mean, if you want me to check your project before you make a fool of yourself... you don’t have to beg me by torturing the poor keyboard with your fingers."

You rolled your eyes, not even turning to look at him. You already knew his expression.

"Help? From you?" you replied, letting the pen fall onto the desk with a small thud. "Ha. Don’t take offense, but I’d rather lose the opportunity than copy your... whatever the hell you call your style."

You heard him get up from the chair. The slight creak. The sound of his steps approaching and how he rolled up his sleeves.

“Don’t take offense?”

He shot, now right behind your cubicle, looking at you barely over the thin cardboard wall.

“Coming from someone who makes PowerPoint graphics like they're a starving designer... Well, I’m really flattered. At least mine isn’t complete fucking shit.”

“Complete shit?” You turned, glaring at him. “Don’t you have another place to vomit your nonsense, Park?” you asked, crossing your arms.

Jay let out a short laugh, but it was loaded with venom.

“Nonsense and me in one sentence?” He leaned slightly over the cubicle wall, too close, too arrogant.

“Come on [...], admit it... you're scared shitless. You couldn’t stand losing to me... though I think you already did. You’re just throwing desperate kicks with your boring presentations, you used to be good, but well, that was because I was the one helping you.”

That was the last straw.

Without thinking, you stood up, your hand gripping tightly at the collar of his t-shirt—that one which probably cost more than your rent—dragging him without warning into the empty meeting room.

He just let out a laugh, stumbling slightly, following you without resistance, like he was enjoying every second of seeing you angry.

You slammed the door behind you with a dull thud, not hesitating to lock it and lower the blinds.

Both of you were breathing heavily. The air in the small room became thick, charged with warm air in seconds.

Jay shook himself a little, adjusting his shirt, looking you up and down with those dark eyes that you couldn’t tell if they were challenging you or undressing you. The same ones you’d place on him when he was in a meeting or talking to another worker.

“What’s the matter, [...]?” he asked with a dangerous tone.

“Did you finally give up and are you going to ask me to be gentle when I fuck you and win that position?”

You smiled, stepping a step closer.

Or maybe it was him who closed the distance. It didn’t matter anymore.

“You have so much confidence for someone who only knows how to brag.” you whispered, so close that you could smell his cologne, a mix of wood, coffee, and something too overpowering to be fair.

Jay tilted his head slightly, his lips brushing the edge of a lopsided smile.

“Brag?” he whispered. “No, [...]. If I wanted to brag, I’d already have you pinned against this table.”

And honestly, at that moment, fighting was the last thing you wanted to do.

It was the last thing either of you did because the distance between you and Jay kept growing more tense, the words colliding in the air with each breath.

The small space of the meeting room became suffocating, and the brush of his body against yours felt like a constant reminder that, at this moment, neither of you was willing to yield, to show submission.

Until you made the first move.

With a swift motion, you pushed him back, forcing him against the table with a dull thud that echoed through the walls of the room. Jay, surprised by the sudden force, tried to regain control of himself, but his hands only grazed the edge of the table. The light in his eyes dimmed for a moment, but you didn’t mention it. Words weren’t necessary.

You took another step, pressing Jay’s face down against the table with a firm hand on his chest. He didn’t move, but his breathing became heavier, almost like a gasp, deeper, as if he had felt the shift of whatever this was.

“I’d rather see you against the table.” you said softly, not breaking eye contact. Your tone was different, deeper, more playful. The sarcasm you always carried as a shield faded away.

Jay couldn’t help but smile, but there was something nervous in his expression. He knew you had noticed. The control, the same control he always thought he had, was no longer in his hands.

“What are you... doing...?” he asked, his voice softer than usual, as if he was finally feeling the situation slip out of his hands.

You didn’t give him a chance to speak another word. With a quick motion, you placed your other hand on his neck, not applying too much pressure, but enough for him to feel that, at that moment, his freedom depended on you.

“What am I doing? What I’ve always wanted...” you said, your words sounding more like a warning than a sentence. “Shutting your dirty mouth for once.”

Jay swallowed, feeling the pressure on his neck increase, but not violently. It was subtle, gradual. You controlled each second, making it harder for him to breathe.

And that was when he saw you had made the first move. You had dropped that ‘mask’ you’d been wearing, showing a side of yourself he hadn’t expected, but deep down, he loved.

He wasn’t on the defensive anymore. He wasn’t the "arrogant" one you used to answer back to, the one you always kept at arm’s length.

Now, he was the one starting to panic.

“And you think it works?” he asked, his voice lower, almost whispered.

It wasn’t the same raised voice from before, nor that confident smile he always carried. Only a fragile line of a leader quickly fading.

“Mmh, maybe I’ll need other... resources.”

You responded with a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You leaned in a little closer, noticing how his jaw tightened, how his hands gripped the table, searching for something to hold on to, but finding only cold.

The room was thick with tension.

You had already won. But what hurt Jay the most wasn’t losing the position at this stage of the game, but that he had been cornered by you. You, the one who had always kept a relaxed attitude, emotional distance, and those stupid, absurd ideas. Now, in that small space, he was the one losing control of everything he had planned.

It didn't take long for things to take a more... dangerous turn.

The sound of the fluorescent lights created a background melody, while the thickened air remained tense. Both of them knew something had shifted, and they knew it all too well.

Jay stayed there, leaning against the table, breathing heavily, his shirt slightly unbuttoned. The force with which you had pushed him, the way you had dominated him, left him speechless. And the most ironic thing was that, instead of feeling humiliated, something inside him twisted, yearning for more.

Each breath became faster, more erratic, and their heartbeats seemed to match the same rhythm, as if the universe had paused for a single moment, allowing the rivalry to transform into something more tangible, something more flexible.

Your hands were no longer a threat. They were a confession. Each touch on his skin became a mark, a reminder that he no longer controlled anything. Jay, who was once used to being the leader, now seemed to be desperately searching for a balance that had never existed.

One of your hands was squeezing his hips against yours, but you weren’t doing it with the violence you had before. No. Now there was a calm in your movements, a new patience. And, as you settled back into him slowly, the temptation was no longer just physical, but mental.

“I knew you’d sound so cute moaning my name, precious.” you told him as soon as you started moving, your voice so low and soft it was almost like a caress, though the words were empty. As you spoke, your face neared his, your lips just centimeters from his ear.

Jay’s breathing was ragged, his hands now trapped beneath the weight of your body. He tried to move, but his muscles seemed to fail him, and all he could do was feel. Feel how every part of you imposed itself on him, in him, how you stripped him of all the control he thought he had.

“Come on... Am I the loudmouth now? Is it too much for you?” you continued, never losing the rhythm. “Now is when I really need that mouth.”

Honestly, you didn’t expect a reply. Your body leaned into him, and the temperature in the room seemed to rise with each move you made. You felt him against you, noticing how his muscles tensed, as if, finally, he was acknowledging that the rules of this game had changed. You had taken control, finally.

It was funny, because as far as you can remember, you were standing in front of him, pulling down his pants, and all you could hear was his nails digging into the dark wooden table.

"I'm going to suck it until you're begging me to fuck your ass.. until you're sobbing and screaming for my goddamn cock.” You told him as soon as you pulled down his boxers, looking at the erect cock, dripping precum all over his shaft.

You had that perverted smile on your face, licking your lips before you wrapped your lips around the swollen head of Jay's cock, your tongue flicking out to lap at the leaking slit. You groaned at the way Jay's cock throbbed and jerked against your lips, it was pulsing with need, desperate for more of your touch.

What you clearly did by bobbing your head slowly, your tongue swirling around the sensitive underside of Jay's shaft. You could feel the thick vein running along it, could feel the way it throbbed and jumped with each beat of Jay's racing heart. It made you moan around his mouthful of cock, the vibrations traveling up Jay's shaft and making him gasp.

Your hands didn't torture themselves by sliding around to grip Jay's ass, squeezing the firm globes as you sucked him harder, faster.

You could feel the way Jay body trembled and shuddered, could hear the desperate, broken moans spilling from his lips. It spurred you on, made you suck even harder over his tip, take more of Jay into you greedy mouth.

A whimper escaped Jay's lips, that same sigh that made you smile, a subtle touch of triumph that made it clear and that made you turn back to reality. Where you were grabbing Jay's hips hard enough to bruise, yanking him back against the thick, throbbing length of your cock. You could feel it leaking, pulsing with a desperate need to be buried inside jay's tight, virgin ass once again.

“You think you can just taunt me like that, like the cocky little bitch you are, and not face the consequences?” you punctuated the words with a sharp smack to Jay's ass, watching the round cheek jiggle and redden under your palm.

You couldn't resist any longer, not when you had a round, perfect ass waiting to be filled. You pushed forward, the thick head of your cock popping past that tight ring of muscle, sinking into the scorching heat of Jay's ass.

You groaned at the feeling, your eyes rolling back in his head as Jay walls clenched and fluttered around you, trying to push you out.

"Fuck.. you're so goddamn tight even after putting three fingers in you." you panted, fighting the urge to just slam forward, to bury yourself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. You forced yourself to go slow, to push in inch by careful inch, letting Jay feel every throbbing, pulsing inch of the cock as it stretched him open.

"Ugh, shit... I want.. more.. fucking deep..." Jay groaned, his voice pitching higher with each word as your cock sank deeper into his tight heat. Jay's eyes squeezed shut, dark lashes fluttering against his angular cheeks as he fought to process the intense, overwhelming sensations.

Both of your clothes were slightly disheveled—belts loosened, zippers partially undone, pants around your ankles, the buttons of Jay’s shirt half unfastened, and his fingers clawing at the table as if that might give him something to hold onto, even though the real struggle was happening inside his mind. Every part of him wanted more, but his instincts betrayed him, keeping him exactly where you wanted him.

You didn't know how to stop anymore, as soon as you felt his insides get used to your size, your hips became pistons and your nails dug into his skin. Your balls were sticking against his, it was somewhat addictive as it filled the room with the sound, just like you used to imagine it would all those times when he would interrupt your chances to talk with your boss.

"S-stop! [...]! U-ugh... I can't.." Jay whimpered as he felt his cock rubbing itself against the edge of the dark wood. He turned his head sideways, letting you see him frown, biting his lower lip and looking at you with forgiveness. Damn, just like you dreamed.

Was it all too much for him? Of course. It wasn't normal for someone like him to be getting his dick like a prostitute on a Friday night. Although it seemed that way, judging by the way his tears were running down his face for every time you gave him a deep thrust, letting him feel a nice bulge against his tummy.

Your eyes darkened with a feral, possessive light as you watched Jay come undone beneath him, his beautiful and delicious hot liquid was between the wood, his stomach and his shirt. You watched him trembling, moaning and clenching down on your cock like the desperate slut he was.

You could feel the way Jay's body yielded to you, the way his tight, abused hole fluttered and squeezed around your shaft, trying to pull you in deeper, to keep you buried inside. This was better than using a egg toy.

"That's it... A-ahh.. fucking take it."

You growled with a voice a low, menacing rasp. You only gripped Jay's hips hard enough to bruise, slamming forward the last few inches that were outside his beautiful channel, burying yourself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. He could feel your heavy balls slap against his ass in a better way, you felt proud as you watched Jay's body jerked forward from the force of it, the desk creaking beneath.

"U-ugh... [...], p-please.."

“Shut up. You fucking needed this, didn't you, whore?" —you taunted, rolling your hips, grinding your cock against Jay's prostate.

You could feel it, that special spot deep inside Jay that made him see stars, that made him cry out and clench down on your shaft like his life depended on it.

"You needed to feel my cock splitting you open, claiming this tight little cunt.. fucking making it mine just to keep you quiet."

Jay did nothing but throw his head forward, moaning and silencing the screams that spelled your name. But was the sight of his ass bouncing, the way his ring swallowed your cock like a pro that make you feel your own release approaching, your balls tightening, your phallus pulsing and throbbing deep inside Jay's cheeks. You were close, so fucking close to filling this slutty hole with his seed, to claiming Jay in the most primal way possible.

Jay body was trembling beneath you, you could clearly hear the desperate, wanton moans spilling from his lips. That only turned you on more, made you fuck his tight heat with even more ferocity, determined to make this slut beg for your cum—although you only needed a little more to be as shaky as he was, to scream your name until it was the only thing he knew.

"Just... fucking... cum!"

Jay punctuated each word with a sharp, desperate buck of his hips, trying to impale himself even further on your throbbing cock. A needy gasp escaped him, the sound catching in his throat and morphing into an unhinged moan.

You groaned, gripping Jay's hips tighter, fingers sinking into the firm flesh of his ass, as you rutted into him with wild abandon. The desk beneath was shaking with each powerful thrust, the lewd sound of skin slapping against skin echoing obscenely in the room.

Your breathing grew even more erratic, your hands trembling slightly as you tried—vainly—to keep up the façade. But you couldn’t. You needed this. You’d been holding back only to watch that boy, the one who always bragged about being the best, being the leader, now begging you, begging you for your milk.

You leaned down, putting your chest against his back just to take his limp, sensitive cock, stroking it in time with your relentless thrusts. You could feel it pulsing in your grip, leaking cum all over your fingers.

"Yknow? I want to feel this greedy hole squeezing my cock... milking me for every last fucking drop."

Yeah.. It had been minutes fucked him through it, pounding Jay's prostate, forcing him to take every inch of your veiny meat as your spilled hot and hard into the tight clutch of his ass. You knew it was time, but damn, you had to use that ass no matter what.

"[...] I swear to God—if.. if you don't cum in me... I'll crush you at the conferen!..."

You roared, slamming into Jay—finally—one last time before burying yourself to the hilt. Your cock jerked and throbbed, painting Jay's inner walls with thick ropes of your seed, marking him, claiming him, owning him utterly.

You collapsed against Jay's back, your hips still twitching as the last spurts of your release pumped into the boy.

You could feel Jay's body shuddering, hear the choked sobs and gasps of ecstasy spilling from his lips, and you knew you had ruined him. Known that Jay would never be the same, that he would always be yours, no matter what.

"Mgh.. shit was good, but.. I'll still be better than you." You whispered into his ear, gently licking and biting it.

"Also... I was recording our... Lovely session. You dare to surpass me and you're dead, Park Jongseong."

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⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ݁⠀⠀،،⠀⠀메모 ! ㅤ⸻ㅤ Do you guys hate me? Yeah, I would too. Sorry for disappearing for so long, I was just focused on college stuff! Oh, and perfecting some stories. 🫠

Honestly, I was nervous writing this. It's been a while since I've written smut, not as 'explicit' as Sunghoon's! I still hope you like this one too.︐⠀📍

⠀𝒊. ⠀─⠀ All credits to @angelsfat3 / @foschiamara⠀𝄒

. . . ₍⠀아이디어 !ㅤ⸻ㅤfeel free to leave requests! <⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠>⠀₎⠀ ִֶָ

˖⠀⠀ ݁⠀©⠀،،⠀If you liked it you can like, follow me or reblog!!

#𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙡𝙨𝘧𝘢𝘵3ㅤ﹟ㅤ𝗎𝗉𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖽.#＃𝗘𝗡𝗛𝗬𝗣𝗘𝗡︐ 𝑠 𝗃𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗌𝖾𝗈𝗇𝗀.ㅤ／ㅤO2.#kpop x male reader #x male reader #enhypen x male reader #enhypen scenarios #enhypen #kpop scenarios #x male oc #x male smut #x top male reader #park jongseong #sub male character #jay x male reader #gay #x male reader smut #top male reader

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ptej1980 · 4 months ago

Text

Well isn’t this interesting….

A creator on x decided to use AI to ask some Questions about PR relationships…

💀 GPT chat

Explain to me in 10 steps what a successful PR would be for a hidden relationship between two famous actors.

Successful PR for a hidden relationship between two actors follows a careful strategy to maintain mystery, generate interest, and control the narrative without completely exposing them. Here are 10 well-structured steps:

1. Define the purpose of the PR

Why keep the relationship a secret? It could be to protect their careers, avoid disrupting a film they're working on together, or simply to fuel the mystery and media attention.

2. Design an official story

Establish how you'll explain your relationship if questions arise. Are you just friends? Do you have mutual friends? Did you meet at an event? Your answers should be consistent.

3. Create strategic meetings

Situations are arranged where they can be seen together without raising suspicion: parties with other celebrities, group gatherings, or events where they both "coincidentally" meet.

4. Manage social media with subtlety

They may not interact too much, but they can leave subtle clues: liking specific posts, wearing similar clothes at different times, or sharing photos from similar locations without making it obvious they're together.

5. Control leaks

They carefully choose which details to leak to the media: someone saw them speaking at an event, a blurry photo at a dinner, a gesture that seems intimate but ambiguous.

6. Use allies in the media

Publicists work with trusted journalists and media outlets to influence how rumors are reported, ensuring the narrative remains under control.

7. Deny without denying

If you ask them directly, they can use answers like:

"We get along incredibly well, he's a great coworker."

"Don't believe everything you read, we're just friends."

"It's funny how people invent things."

These answers maintain the doubt without completely confirming or denying it.

8. Distract with other headlines

To prevent rumors from spreading too far, alternative news is generated: new projects, interactions with other actors, or even false rumors of relationships with other people.

9. Prepare a contingency plan

If a compromising photo is leaked or the relationship is accidentally confirmed, you should have a strategy ready:

"Yes, we are dating, but we want to keep it private."

"We're very close, but there's nothing romantic about it."

"We have nothing to say about it."

10. Decide the end of the PR

Over time, they may choose to reveal the relationship with an interview or a social media post, or they may quietly "break up," letting the media attention fade without explanation.

This type of strategy is frequently used in Hollywood to control the public narrative.

Do you have a couple in mind who you think follows these steps?

Why yes we do thank you chat GPT….

Me: Yes, Luke Newton and Nicola Coughlan.

Luke Newton and Nicola Coughlan have generated quite a bit of speculation about their relationship, especially due to their chemistry on Bridgerton and their off-set interactions. If they were following a PR for a secret relationship, it might look something like this:

1. Official narrative: They would say that they are "very good friends" and that their chemistry is only a result of their work as actors.

2. Strategic appearances: They would be seen together at group events, award ceremonies, and interviews, but never in overtly romantic situations.

3. Social media with subtle clues: Likes on posts, photos from similar locations without showing them together, ambiguous comments in interviews.

4. Controlled leaks: Some tabloids would publish that "a close source" has seen them very close, but without conclusive evidence.

5. Denial without denial: In interviews they would say things like: "We had a lot of fun working together, we have a great connection."

6. Media allies: Some more reliable media outlets would handle the issue with caution, while tabloids would exaggerate rumors.

7. Distraction with other rumors: They would be linked to other actors or attention would be focused on their upcoming projects to divert attention.

8. Crisis control: If a compromising photo were to come to light, they could say it was a moment between friends or an off-camera scene.

9. Possible revelation: If the PR works well and generates enough interest, they could make the relationship official at an event or on social media.

10. If they decide not to go public, they would simply stop interacting as much until the rumors die down.

Hmmmm Chat GPT interesting 🤔 what do you think?

#interesting #lukola

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hederasgarden · 1 year ago

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Sweet Surrender

Summary: Jake’s given and taken orders a hundred times throughout his career but nothing compares to the moment he realizes you liked it. Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x F!Reader Word Count: 2.1K Rating: 18+ only. Sexual content. Authority and sir kink, praise kink and Hangman being a cocky asshole. A/N: Thank you @wildbornsiren and @whatblogisthis216 for beta'ing and @blue-aconite for the beautiful graphic. In the future I may write part 2 if my muses cooperate. Reblogs and comments feed the muse.

Masterlist ♡ Top Gun Masterlist

Jake doesn’t pay much attention when you’re first introduced with the rest of the eggheads from the Office of Naval Research. Another one of many civilian engineers working on the new plane he’s been assigned to test. You keep things professional and polite although he can tell you find him attractive. It’s written all over your face and demeanor. You’re not the only one, several of the other engineers can’t seem to string together a full sentence around him.

You’re pretty, he can admit that much to himself, but a sweet face has never been enough on its own to hold his interest. Especially when he’s here to do a job, one he takes very seriously. The chance to be the first to fly the latest prototype jet isn’t an opportunity that comes up often. He volunteered immediately for the assignment when it came up, beating out most of his Top Gun class for the honor.

What he doesn’t bank on is having to sit through mind numbingly boring briefings and listen to the engineers argue anytime the tiniest adjustment is made. Most of his exposure to you is during these meetings but the first time you talk to him one on one is four weeks into the project.

That’s when he notices your particular….quirk. You’re following him out after the morning briefing, yammering away about the new wing design specs. He’s read your report in detail and already familiarized himself with the changes.

All Jake wants is a moment of silence to mentally prepare himself for today's test but you keep talking. It doesn’t help that he’s got the beginning of a headache forming behind his eyes and you’re oblivious to his attempts to cut the conversation short.

“I got it. I know how to fly a plane,” he tells you.

“Lieutenant Seresin,” you start but he cuts you off with a look.

“I’ve read your briefing packet, top to bottom. It was extremely thorough. If I have questions you’ll be the first person I ask. Scout’s honor,” he adds, giving you a sloppy half salute that seems to confuse you for a moment before you start talking again.

“I just want to make sure-“ you begin and Jake sighs, annoyed.

“I got it. Now go sit down,” he tells you curtly.

You step back back, brows raised. Jake almost misses the way your pupils dilate and your lips part just so.

"I'm sorry, Sir," you reply. "I..."You stammer and tug at the hem of your shirt before hurrying to take a seat.

You watch him from behind the computer bank as he climbs into the cockpit and fiddles with the controls. He can feel you watching him as he puts his helmet on. It’s clear to him that you want his approval, even if you don’t realize it.

Fuck, that paired with the ‘sir’ and the delicious little waver in your voice spikes his interest. He waits until you’re practically squirming in your chair before he gives you a nod. Your response is immediate, shoulders dropping and the tense lines on your face easing.

It’s not just that he makes you nervous, he’s seen that plenty of times before. No, this is different. Special. You liked it when he barked an order at you.

–

Over the next few weeks, he watches you closely, taking note of your responses to everyone you interact with. It’s clear you crave praise from others, perking up under any compliment you receive and deflating under criticism. However, it’s your response to authority that interests him most. You’ve got a natural inclination to listen to orders but as far as Jake can tell he’s the only one who elicits that type of reaction from you.

Each encounter he has with you is a chance to test the theory he has. He catalogs the difference in your responses; when he’s softer in his requests versus an outright order. Jake sees how quickly you obey a demand to sit next to him at the next briefing, just so he can be close to you. The speed you produce a new report just for him is a powerful thing. He especially loves the way you blossom under his praise when he compliments changes you've made to improve performance.

You’re smart, undeterred when the men in the room try to speak over you. Even though you’re quiet-natured, you’re no pushover either. He respects your determination and hard work.

The most telling moment is one afternoon when you’re loitering on the edge of the hanger as he finishes up his conversation with the flight chief. It’s clear you need to speak to him. The fact that you won’t interrupt him is just a bonus– something he knows from experience will translate well in the bedroom.

“Come here,” he commands, crooking a finger at you. He doesn’t even have to raise his voice to have you scurrying to him. You touch your chest and fiddle with the locket you wear, twisting the thin gold chair around your index finger. Jake’s not sure if he’s just gotten better at clocking your reactions or you’re extra affected today but whatever the reason, he’s enjoying the show.

“What do you need?” He asks.

“For you to sign the report,” you tell him, opening the folder and pointing to the highlighted portion.

When he takes the pen from you he makes sure to drag his fingertips over the back of your hand, watching for your reaction behind his aviators. The soft sound that passes your lips doesn't disappoint him. He thinks about what other sounds he could drag out of you. How he could get you desperate enough to beg him to fuck you. The way you’d sigh his name and -

“Sir?” Your soft voice snaps him out of his little daydream. You’re staring up at him expectantly. “I need my pen back, please.”

When he hands it back, you smile. It makes him long to pull you against him and kiss you breathless. To test out the limits of how well you’d listen to him but he knows he has to wait until the project is over. He’s not about to jeopardize either of your careers though as the weeks drag on he certainly finds himself fantasizing about that.

You’ve caught him staring at during the morning briefings once or twice, his chin resting on steepled fingers. It’s always the same response from you, the double blink and glance away. Sometimes you’ll bite your lips and fiddle with the pencil, tapping it in rapid succession against the table. He can feel your eyes on him too and he has to repress a smirk. These morning briefings are starting to become his favorite part of the day.

—

Two torturous months pass before the admiral visits and the project gets wrapped up. He has some innocent fun with you during that time, nothing overly mean, just enough to get you flustered and stoke the flame. His favorite form of foreplay.

The team celebrates at the Hard Deck. Alcohol flows freely and spirits are high. It turns out engineers partied harder than pilots. You only have a drink which bodes well for Jake. He needs you sober for this and wants a clear head of his own, nursing a single beer most of the night.

While he waits for an opportunity to get you alone he formulates how he wants to approach this. He doesn’t doubt his assessment. He’s rarely wrong about these things but it’s always possible you’re not completely aware of your quirk. If he embarrassed or frightened you all his waiting would be for nothing.

After another hour or so he senses his chance. You head outside to take a quick call and Jake follows. He waits at a safe distance to give you some privacy but once you slide the phone back into your jacket he makes his presence known.

“Lieutenant Seresin,” you greet. You look surprised to see him but pleased too.

“It’s Jake,” he corrects, stepping toward you.

When he presses into your space you take a half step back and then another, letting him herd you into a little alcove out of sight. You watch him curiously, maybe even a little confused. You’re not scared to be alone with him —you trust him.

“What’s up?” You’re trying for casual but failing adorably.

Jake’s close enough to touch you, but refrains from it. He won’t until he has your permission and understanding. He smirks and tits his head. A direct approach might be quicker but he’s curious if you’ll figure it out on your own.

“I know your secret, sweetheart,” he whispers.

That gets you going. You don’t seem to know where to put your hands. Nervous laughter comes next but Jake stays quiet, letting you squirm a little longer.

“My secret?” You question.

“It’s compatible with mine,” he hints.

You frown, forehead wrinkling. He recognizes the expression from countless morning briefings when you were contemplating a problem. It’s cute watching your brain work in real-time to put the pieces together. A full minute passes before your eyes dart back to his face, surprised.

He nods encouragingly and then very hesitantly you say, “Is that so, sir?”

There’s a heavy emphasis on the last word.

“Smart girl,” he praises.

You grin and rock back on your heels. “Well, I did design the aircraft you’ve been flying the last four months,” you shoot back.

He can see the struggle it is for you not to smile. You’re proud of your work and should be but he can’t have you mouthing off already.

“Don’t get smart with me,” he warns playfully, loving the way you immediately duck your head.

“Sorry, sir.”

You sound appropriately contrite and he smirks.

“Look at me.” Two fingers under your chin encourage you to meet his gaze. “I want you to be honest,” he begins, watching carefully for any sign you’re not on the same page as him. “Do you want to do this?”

“Do you mean…you mean sex, right?” You ask, looking a little unsure.

You’re so sweet that Jake slips character briefly to give you the soft smile you deserve. “Sex and more,” he confirms. “I can help you explore this side of yourself.”

“Yeah. I want that,” you tell him shyly.

“That’s good to hear, but that’s not how you talk to me, and I think you know it.”

“I want you to teach me, sir,” you respond.

“Better,” he praises.

He slides a hand up your jaw to grasp the back of your neck and angle your face upward so he can crush his lips against yours. He closes the distance between your bodies, pressing you back into the wall with a groan. You make a desperate little sound that goes right to his dick and grasp his biceps tightly.

You part your lips and fuck, he’s finally tasting you fully like he’s been imagining. He loves how soft and warm you are in his arms and the way his lips slide against yours. All of his pent-up desire is out now. The hand at your hip slides down the curve of your ass to grasp your thigh so he can grind shamelessly against you. You whimper, nails pressing into his skin. He rocks his half-hard cock into the warmest part of you, needing more friction. He wants to hear you make that little sound again too.

“Oh, please,” you gasp when you finally part.

You sound wrecked and he thinks you look it too.The skin of your face is warm to the touch and your eyes are a little glassy. Jake's half convinced you might let him have you here and for a moment he actually considers it. He knows how good that kind of messy, quick fuck can be but tonight he wants to see all of you. To spend his time taking you apart until you’re incoherent and at his mercy. He can’t do that here.

“Easy,” Jake whispers, running a hand down your back. “Look at me,” he instructs, smiling when you do. You’re trembling all over and he rubs his thumb over your swollen lips as he gazes down at you. “Catch your breath.”

Once you’re calm he lets go of you and runs a hand through his hair. You’re watching him, waiting to be told what to do. “Go inside, say goodbye to your friends. Then I want you to meet me out front. Got it?”

You nod and he surges forward to kiss you one more time before stepping back to let you past him.

Fuck, tonight is going to be good he thought.

♡

I no longer have a tag list, please follow @hg-library and turn on notifications.

#jake seresin x you #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin fic #jake seresin #jake seresin fanfiction #jake hangman seresin x you #jake hangman seresin x reader

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infotechs · 1 year ago

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#Detailed Project Report Preparation in India #DPR preparation #Detailed Project Report Preparation

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carservice · 1 year ago

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#Detailed Project Report Preparation in India #DPR preparation #Detailed Project Report Preparation

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epitome225 · 1 month ago

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#epitome #epitomegs #Detailed Project Report Preparation in India #DPR preparation

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joeliz99 · 10 months ago

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MET GALA- Joe Keery

Description: (Y/N) navigates her first MET Gala with Joe by her side. After the glamorous event, they both share a tender moment alone.

Warnings: None, Fluff, Established relationship

Word count: 1314

_____________________________________________

For the first time ever, (Y/N) was invited to the Met Gala, donning an exquisite creation by Gaurav Gupta. It was the most elaborate and breathtaking outfit she had ever worn.

Relatively new to the public eye and experiencing this level of recognition, (Y/N) was both thrilled and petrified about what the night would bring. After all, being one of the few Latinxs at this exclusive event only added to the significance of the evening.

Joe, who had been on the verge of canceling due to a Heineken promo deal for the F1 races, managed to make it work. She had also been there as his plus one, so they both traveled from Miami to New York on separate days to beat the tight schedule.

While (Y/N) and Joe prepared in different rooms—given the numerous people involved in perfecting (Y/N)’s look—the moment of transformation was nothing short of magical. When she finally saw her reflection, she was left speechless, her heart racing at the sight of her stunning appearance. This transformative moment was captured for later promotional content on social media.

After expressing heartfelt thanks to the designer, Joe knocked on the door. His reaction was probably the highlight of her evening. Overwhelmed with awe, he struggled to find the right words, simply gazing in wonder at all the details of (Y/N)’s look. He hesitated to touch (Y/N), as if afraid to disturb the perfection before him.

“I’m absolutely floored,” Joe finally said, his smile lighting up the room. He took (Y/N)’s hand, his eyes never leaving theirs. “You’re going to be the star of the night, baby. You guys nailed it!”

They shared a few more quiet moments together, savoring the intimacy before heading out. As they approached the Met Gala, the swarm of paparazzi was already buzzing with anticipation.

In the quiet of the car before arriving, (Y/N) leaned in close to Joe. “I feel like I’m going to burst from nerves. Can you feel my heartbeat?” (Y/N) whispered, guiding Joe’s hand to her chest.

“You don’t need to worry about a thing,” Joe replied softly, pressing a reassuring kiss to (Y/N)’s cheek. “Just be yourself and enjoy every moment. Remember, this is your night. I’m right here behind you if you need me. You’ve got this.” (Y/N) nodded, sighing in relief, and gave him a tender peck on the lips. He returned the kiss as the car came to a stop. “Let’s do this,” he said with a grin.

The initial moments at the gala were as overwhelming as expected. With a team directing (Y/N) on where to go, who to talk to, and when to pose, she began to feel more at ease. The girl's charisma started to shine through as she smiled, waved, posed, and engaged in conversations about her projects, taking every opportunity to express gratitude for the chance to be part of such a special night.

Joe, as promised, stayed a few steps behind, allowing (Y/N) to bask in the spotlight while enjoying the evening himself. They did, however, carve out a few moments for themselves amidst the festivities.

In one particularly charming moment, Joe pulled (Y/N) close for a photo. With his arm wrapped securely around (Y/N)’s waist, he leaned in and whispered, “I could spend the entire night just admiring you.” The chemistry between them was palpable in every photo, their connection evident to everyone present. As they approached the final interviews, reporters turned their attention to the couple.

“Let me start by saying, Joeliz, you look absolutely stunning tonight.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” (Y/N) replied, her face lighting up with a genuine smile. “I really appreciate that.”

“So, this is your first time attending the gala together, right? How are you feeling?”

“It’s honestly surreal,” Joe said, his hand resting gently on (Y/N)’s waist. “We’re beyond excited to be here and surrounded by such incredible people.”

“Let’s talk about you two,” a reporter said with a grin. “We’re all thrilled to see you together tonight. Is this your first event as a couple?”

“It is, sort of,” (Y/N) chuckled softly. “There’s no one else I’d rather share this moment with than my husband.”

The reporters' eyes widened in surprise at this revelation. The fact that (Y/N) and Joe had been married for two years and had kept their relationship a secret until now was unexpected to many.

After a few more questions, they bid their farewells and headed to the official dinner. The dinner was pleasant but lacked excitement, so after it they decided to make a quick detour to their hotel for a change into more comfortable after-party outfits.

The after-party was in full swing, with upbeat music and lively chatter filling the room. The venue was beautifully decorated, and the crowd was a mix of high-profile artists and industry insiders.

Joe and (Y/N) were on the dance floor, surrounded by a sea of people. Joe, ever the social butterfly, was effortlessly moving through the crowd, introducing (Y/N) to various guests. The atmosphere was electric, but Joe kept glancing over to ensure (Y/N) was comfortable and enjoying herself.

With a mischievous grin, he gently tugged her away from a particularly enthusiastic conversation. “Come dance with me. I think it’s time for a little break from the mingling.”

(Y/N) smiled, allowing Joe to lead her to a quieter corner of the dance floor where the music was softer and more intimate. As they began to sway to the rhythm, (Y/N) rested her head on Joe’s shoulder, savoring the warmth of his embrace.

After a few songs, Joe excused himself to fetch some drinks. He soon returned and, having heard from others that the rooftop area was also available, decided it was the perfect place for a more private escape.

He guided (Y/N) through the bustling party and toward a discreet stairway. They climbed up to the rooftop, where the city lights stretched out below them, and the night sky was clear and serene. The rooftop was a tranquil haven, adorned with cozy seating areas lit by soft, twinkling string lights.

“Welcome to our little escape,” Joe said as he led (Y/N) to a comfortable couch set against the backdrop of the shimmering cityscape. He gestured to the inviting seating area. “I thought we could use a moment away from all the chaos.”

As they settled onto the couch, (Y/N) lay back against Joe’s chest, feeling the strength of his embrace. The quietude of the rooftop was a stark contrast to the party’s energetic buzz, allowing them to fully enjoy the serenity of their private retreat.

“I know it’s been a whirlwind tonight,” Joe murmured, his lips brushing against (Y/N)’s ear. “But I just wanted to say how proud I am of you. You’ve been incredible.”

(Y/N) sighed contentedly, resting her head on Joe’s shoulder. “Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you. Tonight has been magical.”

Turning slightly, (Y/N) faced Joe, their hearts beating faster as their lips met. The kiss was both sweet and passionate, a perfect blend of tenderness and desire. After a moment, Joe pulled back, looking into (Y/N)’s eyes with a warm smile. He reached for the champagne glasses they had brought up, handing one to her. They clinked glasses, enjoying the bubbles and the calm atmosphere.

“Here’s to many more nights like this,” Joe said softly, his gaze warm and loving.

Smiling, (Y/N) snuggled closer. “Here’s to us.”

As the night wore on, they reluctantly left their rooftop retreat, their hearts full and their spirits high. They returned to their hotel, eager to unwind and reflect on the unforgettable evening before heading home the next day.

#joe keery fanfiction #joe keery fic #joe keery #joe keery fluff #joe keery x reader #stranger things #steve harrington #joe keery x you #joe keery x (y/n)#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you

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aquamarixx · 8 months ago

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breaking the internet

chapter three part 1 Miss Journalist follows the day-in-the-life of Bastard München for the midseason promos, unexpectedly bringing her closer to Hiori in ways she didn’t anticipate. blue lock longfic series pairing hiori yo x reader contains slow slow slow burn, post blue lock timeskip, afab!reader, angst, fluff, bastard munchen boys being goofy af, hiori oggling at reader's thighs (i said what i said) masterlist next chapter

In a mid-season matchup, Bastard München shocked league leaders PXG with a performance that defied all expectations. PXG’s powerhouse lineup included Julian Loki, Itoshi Rin, and Charles Chevalier who dominated the early game, pressing forward with relentless aggression. The fierce pace they set had everyone expecting that Bastard München would struggle.

Bastard München appeared oddly passive, seeming to react more than attack. Both teams were known for their aggressive style, yet here was the German club, letting PXG press forward.

However, as the match wore on, a shift began. Just when it seemed PXG was in full control, they launched a well-timed counterattack in the second half. They managed to score two quick goals, pulling the game into a nail-biting tie.

At the heart of it, Hiori and Ness continue to orchestrate high-level plays too fast even for the French Prodigy himself. When PXG tried to pressure Isagi and Yukimiya up front, Hiori, along with Kiyora and Ness, wove a quick, dazzling exchange of passes that bypassed their opponents completely.

And in the final seconds, Hiori spotted a fleeting gap and threaded a perfect pass to Ness, who slipped past Tokimitsu and Chapa. Facing Renoir, PXG’s goalie, Ness feinted, then fired the ball into the net. The stadium erupted as Bastard München claimed an unexpected, hard-earned victory.

Loud, thunderous cheers filled the stadium, the energy rippling through the stands like electric current. Even you couldn’t resist joining in, swept up in the crowd’s infectious excitement. Bouncing on the balls of your feet, shouting at the top of your lungs, not minding how loud you were.

This was a monumental win for Bastard München, a showcase of their hard work that proved they could stand toe-to-toe with the league’s front-runners despite having a rocky start. Ideas for a feature story whirled in your mind, framing this victory as a turning point for Bastard München who had seemed lost earlier this season.

Assigned to cover the post-match interviews, you knew this was your chance to draw out good insights and get juicy details for your next cover story. Despite hours of preparation, your nerves betrayed you, your fingers picking at your nails in a futile attempt to calm the jittery energy inside you.

It had been weeks since you and Hiori followed each other on Winstagram. No messages exchanged — not that you had expected any — but the prospect of seeing him in person stirred a flicker of nervous excitement you couldn’t quite shake off.

One thing’s for sure, whatever admiration you harbored, it had to stay buried. That’s one thing for sure. No hint of favoritism should slip through.

The team members filed into the interview room, still visibly exhilarated and glistening with sweat from their hard-fought victory. The quiet murmurs buzzing died down as everyone watched the players settle down. You adjusted your posture, hoping to blend seamlessly among the other reporters. Your hair and makeup were styled just enough to appear polished yet casual—a calculated effort to project professionalism.

As your eyes roamed the room, they unintentionally locked with Hiori’s. His expression shifted briefly, a flicker of surprise softening into a small smile. “Hey,” he mouthed silently, unmistakably directed to you.

Your heart skipped a beat, the sudden rush of adrenaline making your heart hammer in your chest. “Hi,” you mouthed back, barely above a whisper.

Ah, shit. Never mind. Only a small moment of weakness. Reset, reset!

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head as if trying to dislodge the tangle of nerves and excitement clouding your thoughts. Refocusing, you watched the other reporters take their turns, their questions almost the same recycled ones — focused on the team’s redemption arc after a string of disappointing performances.

With a pen in hand, you quickly scratched out questions already asked, jotting down alternatives that might elicit more candid responses. If you could pull it off, this could be another story that could go viral if you’re lucky enough. Enough to satisfy your editor.

Still, you avoided looking in Hiori’s direction. The fear of locking eyes again was too much; instead, you busied yourself with your notes, flipping pages unnecessarily to appear absorbed.

When your turn finally came, you felt the weight of Hiori’s gaze, sharp and steady, as if daring you to look at him..

“Congratulations on the win, Coach Noa and team,” you began, your voice steadier than you expected. “Bastard München’s strategy tonight was a bold departure from what we've seen earlier this season. Was this a calculated risk, or do you believe this adaptability is what defines the team’s identity?”

Coach Noa nodded, his composed demeanor radiating authority. “Thank you. Logic has always been a cornerstone of our philosophy at Bastard München. And it was only logical for us to adapt. Tonight’s strategy was indeed calculated, but it wasn’t without its risks.”

“We’ve been refining our approach over the past few matches, focusing on how we can leverage each player’s unique strengths. The team executed the plan brilliantly, especially in high-pressure moments.”

He paused briefly, then added, “Speaking of adaptability, Ness exemplified that tonight. His ability to shift between supporting roles and taking decisive actions — like that last goal — speaks volumes about the trust and synergy within the team.”

You nodded, scribbling down his answer before firing another question.

“Tonight’s performance highlighted a blend of individual brilliance and collective effort. How does the team balance showcasing individual skills while maintaining a cohesive game plan?”

Coach Noa leaned forward slightly, his tone thoughtful. “I think it all comes down to trust and understanding. We know each other’s strengths and weaknesses, and that allows us to play in a way where everyone can shine without losing sight of the team’s overall goals.

“For example, Hiori’s ability to read the game helps him create opportunities for the rest of us. And players like Isagi or Kunigami can take those chances and turn them into game-changing moments. We’re all working toward the same goal, so it’s not just about standing out individually — it’s about contributing in a way that benefits the whole team. When we play with that mindset, it creates moments where individual brilliance and teamwork naturally come together.”

She scanned her list of questions again, frustration mounting as most had already been asked. Only one remained, a question directed at Hiori. The thought of asking him made her throat dry.

Quick, something, anything!

Thinking fast, she pivoted smoothly, directing the question to the star player instead. “The winning goal was amazing, Ness. Everyone’s so used to seeing you excel in a supportive role that it felt surprising — but no less impressive — to see you take the spotlight this time. Would you say the recent changes within the team have influenced this proactive shift in your playstyle?”

Ness’s expression stayed composed, but the tension in his jaw and a slight twitch in his eye showed a flicker of irritation. His voice, measured but edged with sharpness, made it clear he caught the subtext.

“I wouldn’t say it’s any one thing. It’s about adapting to what the team needs at the moment,” he said, the words clipped and deliberate.

“Honestly, I’d commend having a reliable team — Mensah and Gagamaru have been incredible in keeping our defense solid. And, well, Hiori deserves a lot of credit too. He has this way of creating opportunities that make my job easier.”

It was deflection, plain and simple. His tone hinted at a pointed effort to steer the conversation away, and she knew he’d just handed her a firm yellow card for even brushing up against anything Kaiser-related.

Without waiting for a follow-up, Ness passed the mic to Hiori, his grip still tight on the handle.

Hiori tilted his head slightly, his eyes locking onto hers as he took the mic. His gaze didn’t waver as he spoke.

“I think Ness’s goal reflects how we’re evolvin' as a team. We’re startin’ to read the game better and step up when it really counts. Ness isn’t just a playmaker — he’s capable of scoring when it counts, and tonight proved that.

“We’re learnin' to trust each other more, adapt on the fly, and capitalize on everyone’s strengths. That’s been the focus lately: findin' ways to be unpredictable and versatile.”

“Than—” she began, only to be cut off.

“But whatcha think, Miss Y/N?” Hiori asked, his tone casual, though his eyes glimmered with teasing intent. “I’d love to hear yer thoughts on our new playstyle. Yer no stranger to covering the big moments, right?

“Watchin' it up close, d'ya think it’s just a fluke from an overrated team? Or does this performance prove we’re a team to watch this season?”

The room fell silent. All eyes turned to her as Hiori leaned forward, propping his chin on his hands. His unwavering focus carried a warmth that made her feel small in her chair, her voice caught in her throat.

Her heart pounded as she tried to collect herself.

“I, uhm...” The murmurs of nearby reporters didn’t help. From the corner of her eye, she caught Coach Noa watching with amused curiosity. Even the team exchanged wide-eyed glances, as if surprised by Hiori’s uncharacteristic boldness.

Clearing her throat, she pushed through the tension. Letting the dead air linger would only make things worse.

“Speaking as a journalist — and as a fan of the sport — I believe this iteration of Bastard München is definitely a work in progress, but it’s one worth keeping an eye on.”

She hesitated, her voice softening but steady as she held Hiori’s gaze. “Some may not be fond of the new team dynamic, but rest assured, there’s always someone here, cheering for you. No matter what.”

The room stilled, her words hanging like an unspoken promise. For a moment, no one moved.

Hiori hummed, the corner of his mouth lifting into a satisfied smirk. Before anyone could react, Coach Noa stepped in to wrap up the interview.

Still dazed from the exchange, she gathered her things, her cheeks burning. Her mind buzzed with confusion and a flurry of emotions, but one thing was certain—Hiori’s teasing smirk was burned into her memory.

A few weeks later, you find yourself standing outside Bastard München’s training facility, your nerves jangling like loose wires. The midday sun casts a warm glow over the meticulously maintained grounds, and the scent of fresh cut grass fills the air.

You adjust the strap of your camera bag, feeling the weight of responsibility as two videographers from the features team set up behind you.

Your editor has assigned you to the JFA Midseason promotions. Normally, a rookie sidecourt reporter like you wouldn’t have such opportunities, but after your viral moment with Bastard München, your editor is fast-tracking your career with high-profile assignments.

Virality sure does wonders.

The team manager approaches, offering a firm handshake. Before you can respond, Coach Noa himself strides up, leading you toward the field. His authoritative presence is softened by a faint smirk, as if amused by your visible nervousness.

On the field, players are scattered across the pitch. Some jogging, others deeply engaged in drills. The rhythmic thuds of soccer balls being kicked reverberate through the air. You spot a few familiar faces among the group but immediately notice someone is missing.

Hiori isn’t here. Strange.

Coach Noa blows his whistle sharply, commanding attention. The players jog over, forming a loose semicircle around you. Noa gestures with a nod, and suddenly, all eyes are on you.

“Like I mentioned earlier, the JFA team will be shadowing us today,” he says, his tone brisk yet professional. He steps back, expecting you to take the floor.

Clearing your throat, you muster your most confident smile.

“Hello, everyone. I’m Y/N L/N from ABZ Media, here to represent JFA for their midseason promotions. I’ll be asking you a few casual questions as you go about your routines. So please don’t feel pressured to act a certain way—just, uh, be yourselves. The fans love to see your natural charisma.”

A faint tremor betrays your nerves as you bow slightly, clutching your notebook like a lifeline. The players exchange glances before a chorus of “We’ll be in your care” echoes around the field, lightening the mood. Coach Noa steps forward again, efficiently dismissing the team to resume their drills.

The morning flies by as you make rounds, introducing players to the camera and coaxing them into lighthearted conversations. It’s surprisingly easy to chat with them, perhaps because your admiration for their talent is genuine. Or maybe it’s the way their easygoing banter puts you at ease.

In the gym, you find Raichi and Igarashi being as boisterous as ever. Raichi flexes dramatically for the camera, ripping off his sleeveless shirt in a comical display of bravado.

“Ladies, please!” he cries, striking a pose like a bodybuilder. “Cheer for us too!”

Sachs groans from the back of the gym, his exasperation cutting through the laughter. “Raichi, put your damn shirt back on. You’re embarrassing all of us!”

You quickly step in front of the camera, shielding Raichi’s topless antics as you stifle a laugh. “Okay, let’s move along before this turns into a modeling gig,” you say, guiding the cameraman toward the exit.

As you wander through the facility, a mouthwatering aroma draws you to the kitchen. Around the kitchen island, Kiyora, Yukimiya, and Ali are huddled together, watching match clips on a tablet while snacking on protein shakes and chips.

Behind them stands Gagamaru, tending to a sizzling pan. The rich smell of vegetables and pork simmering under the heat fills the room.

“Whatcha cooking, Gagamaru-san?” you ask, unable to hide the eagerness in your voice as you breathe in the delicious scent.

“Pork and vegetable pot stickers,” he replies without missing a beat, flipping one expertly with his chopsticks. “Ali-san’s been craving them, so I’m making a huge batch. Want to try? I made extras.”

Before you can respond, he gestures toward a plate of freshly made dumplings on the counter. Your eyes light up, and you move to grab one, but Gagamaru beats you to it. Picking one up with his chopsticks, he feeds it to you without hesitation.

Caught off guard but too hungry to resist, you take a bite. The dumpling is crispy on the outside, with a juicy, flavorful filling that melts in your mouth.

“Oh wow, this is amazing!” you say, covering your mouth as you chew.

“He likes feeding people, so don’t feel weird about it,” Kiyora says, munching on his own dumpling.

“I only wish it was a woman feeding me,” Ali chimes in with a dramatic sigh, leaning against the counter. “But beggars can’t be choosers, L/N-san. Especially not me.”

You can’t help but laugh as he continues to rant, his over-the-top lamentations earning a good-natured eyeroll from Yukimiya. Meanwhile, Gagamaru simply shrugs, his focus already back on the next batch.

Back on the field, the drills continue under the midday sun. You spot Hiori jogging with a group that includes Isagi, Kurona, Ndiaye, and Schneider. You’re about to approach when you notice Hiori glancing in your direction.

Or was it through you?

Curious, you glance over your shoulder, wondering what’s caught his attention. But when you look back, he’s still focused—intently—somewhere in your direction.

“Dude, you’re staring,” Isagi teases, matching Hiori’s pace with a sly smirk.

“Am not,” Hiori mutters, his ears turning a shade pinker.

“You totally are,” Ndiaye chimes in from behind, grinning.

“Am not. Just, uh... admirin’ the view,”

“And by ‘view,’ you mean her...uh, thunder thighs?” Schneider laughs, clapping Hiori on the shoulder.

You were dressed in a loose, boxy white shirt that skimmed just below your hips, the fabric shifting with your movements. Paired with black leggings that hugged your figure and highlighted your toned yet thick thighs, it wasn’t really helping Hiori's case.

“Shut up,” Hiori grumbles, speeding up to escape their teasing, his ears now practically glowing red.

As the players finish their laps, you pick up a stray soccer ball and try your hand at dribbling. It quickly becomes apparent that your coordination is... not good. The ball skids off-course, rolling toward the group.

Before you can retrieve it, Hiori intercepts, trapping it with ease. “Mind being my drill partner for a bit?” he asks, his tone casual but his gaze intent.

“Me? Are you sure? I don’t want to, uh, mess up your practice.”

“You’ll be fine. Besides,” he adds with a small smile, “it’d be a shame to leave my biggest fan hangin'.”

Your face heats up at his words, and Isagi’s passing comment— “Don’t leave him hanging, Y/N-san!” —doesn’t help.

I am so not surviving this day.

Hiori walks you through basic dribbling drills, his movements precise and fluid. He places the ball at your feet and gestures for you to follow his lead.

“Stay close to the ball, but don’t smother it,” he says, watching as you fumble with your first attempt. “It’s all about control, so ya can keep it in yer range without overcommittin'.”

You try again, but the ball bounces awkwardly off your foot. “Kind of like... balancing offense and defense?” you suggest, struggling to find the right frame of reference.

“Exactly,” Hiori says, nodding. “Ya need to be ready to adjust at any moment. Small, controlled touches will keep ya agile and in control.”

You tilt your head, thinking it over. “It’s almost like... keeping your distance while tracking a monster’s movements in Monster Hunter, waiting for the right moment to act.”

Hiori’s eyes brighten. “Oh, ya play Monster Hunter?”

“Obsessively,” you reply with a grin.

“Then this’ll click,” he says, stepping back to demonstrate with the ball. “Dribblin' s'like positionin' yerself during a hunt. Keep the ball close, like keepin' yer stamina up while dodgin' and maneuverin'. Don’t let it get too far away, or you’ll lose control—kind of like trippin' or gettin' staggered.”

You watch, captivated by the way he moves with the ball, his footwork smooth and deliberate, like a hunter circling their target. When it’s your turn, you give it a try, mimicking his movements. It’s clumsy at first, but you feel yourself improving.

“Now trappin',” he says, passing the ball lightly toward you. “Think of it as bracin' for an attack or timin' a dodge. Ya stop the ball’s momentum and keep it close to yer strike zone. Use the inside of yer foot to absorb the impact.”

You miss the first attempt but manage to trap it on the second try. “Got it!” you exclaim, the small victory filling you with pride.

“Nice! Then chain it into yrr next move. So, like, followin' up with combos after staggerin' a monster,” he adds, his tone encouraging.

You laugh, finding comfort in the familiar gaming metaphor. “I guess this really is like a co-op training mission.”

As you practice, the conversation naturally drifts to your shared love of Monster Hunter. Hiori recounts his favorite hunts, while you share stories of late-night battles against Elder Dragons and the frantic scramble for resources mid-fight. The drills become less intimidating, more like swapping strategies with a fellow gamer during a long session.

At one point, Hiori surprises you with a compliment. “The article ya wrote? It was good. Particularly the part where ya basically say 'it ain’t over till it’s over'” he says, stopping mid-drill to look at you.

“Really?” you ask, startled by his sincerity.

“Yeah. Got me hyped for the next game” he admits, nudging the ball back toward you.

“And the video? I hope it wasn’t too...cringe.”

He smirks, shaking his head. “Nah. It was cute,” he says, his tone genuine. “Kinda cool knowin' someone’s a fan.”

“I’m not the only one, right? Surely you have a ton of fans?”

“Some, I guess,” he shrugs, a teasing glint in his eye. “But none of them are cute journalists.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you sputter, “Stop teasing me, Hiori-san!”

“Am not,” he replies smoothly, clearly enjoying your flustered reaction.

By the time the drills wrap up, you find yourself more at ease, caught up in the camaraderie of the team and Hiori’s unexpected warmth. His ability to make soccer feel like second nature and connect it to something you love made it fun. Maybe this assignment might be more enjoyable than you thought.

The dribbling and passing drills end after an hour. You decide to take a break with the other cameraman shadowing you. It’s midday, and despite observing most of the team, Ness is still nowhere to be found.

As lunch rolls around, you finally catch a glimpse of him in a hallway, his unmistakable gait giving him away. Before you can call out, his eyes meet yours, and he immediately turns on his heel.

He’s avoiding me?!

You don’t think; you just act. Gesturing for the cameraman to stay put, you dash after the elusive midfielder. Ness quickens his pace, heading toward what looks like a conference room, but you manage to catch him by the hem of his training jersey.

“Ness-san,” you pant, out of breath, gripping the fabric tightly. “Wait… Just… give me a minute…”

He sighs sharply, clearly displeased, but doesn’t shake you off. “Fine. Just… let go already,” he mutters, ushering you inside the empty room.

You follow, shutting the door behind you before collapsing into a nearby chair, wiping sweat from your forehead. Ness, seated on the couch, watches you with an unreadable expression.

“I know why you’re here,” he says flatly.

“You do?” You’re still catching your breath.

“They gave me a heads-up.” He leans back, arms crossed. “Not that it matters. I wasn’t planning to talk.”

You blink, startled. “Why not?”

“I don’t want to give you or anyone else a chance to villainize Kaiser. Even after what happened.”

His words hit you like a ton of bricks. The idea that these players, often portrayed as larger-than-life, are just people navigating their own struggles makes your stomach churn with guilt.

“You, uh, don’t have to say anything,” you manage, voice softer now. “I’m sorry if I came off like a pushy paparazzi. I didn’t mean to.”

Slowly, you remove your lapel mic, setting it deliberately on your lap. “But I can lend an ear if you need someone to talk to. Or…”

You hesitate. “Or I can leave. Just say the word. I’ll sit here for a few minutes, so they at least think I tried my best to convince you.”

You give him a sheepish smile, hoping it doesn’t look as awkward as it feels. Ness stares at you for a beat, then shrugs, his attention shifting to his phone. The silence is heavy, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning. You fidget in your seat, picking nervously at the skin around your nails, not daring to look at him directly.

Finally, he speaks.

“It wasn’t the first time he told me to fuck off,” Ness says quietly, his voice carrying a bitter edge.

“Back in the Neo Egoist League, he told me to stop following him. It.. it hurt, you know. To suddenly feel unwanted. Useless.”

You straighten in your chair, angling your body toward him, giving him your full attention.

“But he stayed on the team,” Ness continues, his fingers tracing absent patterns on his phone screen.

“So, I told myself it was fine. I could deal with it. That is until a few months ago, when Re Al gave him that ultimatum offer. He told me we needed to talk, and… for the first time, he let me down gently. He said it was time for me to find my own path. I knew he meant it kindly, but it felt like my world collapsed.”

Ness’s voice wavers, and he exhales sharply, as if trying to compose himself.

“I supported him because it gave me purpose. Even if people thought our relationship was weird, it didn’t matter. Being in his orbit was everything to me. I knew how he treated me, but it didn’t matter. He was my magic.”

His voice cracks on the word "magic," and your chest tightens painfully.

“I thought if he stayed, things could change. That I could fix it somehow. But then he left, and…” Ness trails off, his words swallowed by a wave of despair. When he speaks again, his voice is raw, each word dripping with agony.

“I just don’t want the magic to end. Not like this.”

The room falls into a suffocating silence, and you realize hot tears are streaming down your face. You quickly cover your mouth, trying to hold back a sob, but Ness notices.

“You’re, uh… crying,” he says awkwardly, his brows knitting together.

“Sorry,” you choke out, your voice trembling. “It’s just… I know how that feels.” You pause, wiping at your eyes. “Is it okay if I… hug you?”

He looks surprised but gives a small smile. “Yeah, I think we both need it.”

You lean forward, throwing your arms around him in an embrace that feels as clumsy as it is heartfelt. Ness hesitates before hugging you back, and for a brief moment, you feel his trembling hands.

The pain he carries feels too familiar, too close to home. You want, more than anything, to take it from him, to convince him he’s enough. Because the "you" who feels the same would want someone to take the pain away too.

“Sometimes, you won’t be enough for others,” you whisper. “And it has nothing to do with you.”

Ness doesn’t reply right away, but you feel him exhale against your shoulder, the tension in his frame easing ever so slightly.

“Thanks, L/N-san,” he says softly, pulling back after a moment. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

He squeezes your shoulder briefly before leaving the room, his movements steady despite the weight you know he’s carrying. You don’t follow him, knowing better than to intrude further.

Instead, you sit there, alone with the ache in your chest, wishing you could have done more.

You try to compose yourself as memories flood your mind.

What good are you if you can’t be useful to us?

And this is how you repay me?

The words echo relentlessly, leaving a knot in your chest. Your spiraling thoughts are abruptly cut off when you softly bump into someone while stepping out of the room.

“Y/N-san?”

Startled, you quickly wipe at your face and look up to find Hiori standing in front of you, his expression shifting from surprise to quiet concern.

“H-Hiori-san,” you stammer, trying to sound normal, but your voice cracks, betraying the turmoil inside.

“You okay?” he asks gently, his tone careful, his eyes searching yours.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you reply too quickly, your voice tight. You try to avoid his gaze, your fingers twisting the hem of your sleeve as if the fabric could anchor you. “I’m just… Lot of thoughts in my mind. That’s all.”

Hiori doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push either. “Ya sure?” he asks again, softer this time.

You nod, blinking rapidly to shake the lingering haze of emotion. “Yes. Really. Thank you for your hard work today,” you mumble, your words coming out in a rush as if to change the subject.

“Ah... you too,” he says, though his tone is distracted. His gaze lingers on you, like he’s trying to figure out what’s left unsaid.

For a moment, the air between you feels heavy. You shift awkwardly, breaking the silence.

“So, um… I should probably go,” you say, your voice wavering slightly as you gesture vaguely down the hallway.

“Right, yeah. Of course,” he says, his words tumbling over yours as he steps back. “I, uh… should get back too.”

The exchange feels clumsy, both of you retreating into the safety of polite distance. You turn to leave, feeling like an awkward mess.

Hiori watches you walk away, his brow furrowed, his thoughts racing. That expression you wore just moments ago — a fragile mix of pain and vulnerability — it reminds him of himself.

He knows that look. He’s seen it in the mirror before, felt that same weight pressing down on his chest. The kind of loneliness that makes you feel invisible, even when someone’s right there in front of you.

He wants to say something, to reach out, to let you know you’re not alone. But the words get stuck in his throat, and instead, he stays rooted in place.

It’s moments like these that unsettle him the most. He feels like he’s seen a glimpse of something in you that mirrors himself — raw, unguarded, and all too familiar.

And for a fleeting moment, he wonders if the two of you might share more than he ever realized.

amari's notes: uwaaaah! i know it's so long and i blame myself for being an indecisive lil shit. kinda changed the story trajectory but here we are folks! i hope you guys enjoy and lemme know what you think so far?

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #hiori yo #hiori yo x reader #bllk hiori yo #bllk x reader #I WANNA HUG NESS AND TAKE ALL HIS PAIN AWAY GOD

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