#Workday strategies | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dreamersparacosm · 2 months ago

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Girl we need a smut blurb for them , im talking wild sex . I’ll take anything I know they’re both freaked out

well, well, well. you put two overachievers in a bed and what’s going to happen? magic, that’s what. or maybe he’ll just use your vibrator as part of your scheduled stress relief. whatever.

the price of desire — epilogue blurb 3!

prompt ; in which stress relief takes on a whole new definition.

warnings ; sex toy usage, fingering, jungkook cums in his pants

There are worse problems to have, you tell yourself.

Ever since you and Jungkook officially started dating, things have gotten a little… out of hand (and by “out of hand,” you mean fucking each other senseless across multiple continents.)

Obviously it started in New York and Seoul. Then it was Paris. You two dabbled in exhibitionism during a trip to Bali. Now it’s whatever remote, paparazzi-proof destinations your travel agent nervously books for you at 2 in the morning.

Hotels, apartments, rental cars, bathrooms you’re pretty sure were not designed to withstand the kind of behavior you’re inflicting on them. At this point, it’s becoming a global crisis. International security agencies may want to get involved.

It’s getting so frequent, so mind-numbingly good, that you’re starting to worry about yourself a little. Like, is it normal to see god every weekday?

Unclear.

But it is nice, really nice, to relieve that stress that weighs on you after a workday. (And god knows you have plenty of that to go around.)

Jungkook is, if nothing else, very committed to the cause. He takes care of you painfully well, as if it’s his full-time job and the only acceptable performance review is your legs shaking too hard to stand.

Case in point: you’re currently spread out across your bed in New York, lips swollen from a makeout, hair damp from the bath he ran for you, and he’s kneeling between your legs, big palms dragging slow strokes up and down your thighs.

It's a perfect Wednesday night, all safe and soft and steady until he drops his suggestion into the quiet.

“Let me use the vibrator on you, baby.”

Your brain, already half-melted from the hour-long slow burn he’s been subjecting you to, scrambles for purchase.

You are not equipped for this on a Wednesday night. Especially not after a 14 hour workday, 2 back-to-back global strategy calls, and a last minute crisis involving a Calvin Klein store opening in Shanghai.

You open your mouth to respond, yet nothing makes its way out.

Jungkook smiles at you with amusement and reaches over to the nightstand like it’s the most casual thing in the world. As if he didn’t casually drop a bomb into the atmosphere of your previously scheduled stress-relief session.

With bulging eyes, you observe as he pulls open the drawer, rummages around for a second, and then holds up your light purple vibrator in his hands.

The device is small and sleek, manages to look mockingly innocent resting in his palm.

You stare at it, then at him, mouth working like a fish suddenly introduced to the concept of air.

"I—" You stutter eloquently.

He responds with that signature grin, the one that makes you want to throw a pillow at his face and climb him like a tree. "Come on, baby," he coaxes, "You said you were stressed. Think of this as... advanced relaxation techniques."

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. "This wasn't exactly what I meant by 'stress relief.'"

"What's the worst that could happen?" he asks innocently, setting the vibrator down beside you before leaning close to press a kiss against your inner knee. "You enjoy yourself too much?"

"The audacity," You roll your eyes, trying and failing to suppress the shiver his touch sends up your spine.

"It’s like.. a scientific experiment," he continues, trailing featherlight kisses up your thigh. "Testing the effects of a vibrator on stress."

"Did you just turn my vibrator into a science fair project?"

His laugh rumbles against your skin. "I'm innovative like that. Always thinking about my subject’s satisfaction."

"You’re not selling it," You sigh but there's no heat behind it.

"I'm persistent," he corrects, looking up at you with darkened eyes. "And also extremely dedicated to your wellbeing. Just say yes."

You can’t look at him. With his mess of black hair falling over his forehead, with his eyes displaying a glint of mischief and the stupid Calvin Klein white t-shirt that drives you crazy. He’s so fucking hot, and it brings you to the brink of temporary insanity. That’s how you got in this mess in the first place.

What you need to be doing is saying no. Set some kind of a boundary. Be a strong, independent woman who does not immediately fold at the suggestion of midweek sex toy experimentation.

You do none of those things. Rather, you sigh and flop back against the pillows, one arm flung dramatically over your eyes.

“Fine,” you mutter like he’s inconveniencing you. “Whatever. Just don’t break my toy.”

You hear him laugh, a rich velvety rumble that vibrates through you while the mattress dips beneath his weight as he repositions himself closer to your core.

Before you even take your next breath, he’s kissing up your thighs, hands stroking the backs of your knees, your calves, your hips.

The vibrator hums to life; it’s soft at first, a low sound and your stomach flips violently.

Curiosity compels you to emerge from behind your self-imposed blindfold just in time to witness his gaze fixed upon you. He is a hungry man, you’ll give him that much.

Which leads you to your next thought: you’re not even sure why you bothered putting on underwear after the bath. A small, defeated part of you wants to blame some lingering sense of dignity, some naive attempt at not being completely easy just because your boyfriend washed your hair like a Disney prince and kissed your shoulder after.

Whatever weak attempt at decency you made is long gone the second Jungkook hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and starts dragging them down. Thumbs brushing over the dip of your hips like he’s memorizing every line, every secret part of you he already owns.

The cotton peels away from your thighs, and the cool air hits your core, makes you shiver. He works them down over your knees, then your ankles, tossing them somewhere behind him without a second thought.

You’re already squirming a little, hips shifting against the mattress, thighs clenching reflexively, but he just chuckles under his breath before reaching for the hem of your oversized T-shirt. (Technically his T-shirt. Technically yours now. He stopped fighting that battle months ago.)

Slowly, he pushes it up, bunching it around your waist, exposing the soft skin of your belly, the slick glistening between your legs that you’re trying very hard not to feel embarrassed about.

A single finger gets dragged between your folds, dipping into the mess he’s barely even touched you to create, and you can’t help the broken little gasp that escapes your mouth. “Oh—“

Jungkook lifts his hand and holds it up between you. Your slick clings to his finger. Shining in the soft light your lamp provides.

The bastard. How dare he provide proof of your demise.

He raises a brow smugly. “Already this wet, baby?” He teases.

You glare at him, or at least try, but it’s hard to summon the proper outrage when your body is practically vibrating with need.

“Shut the fuck up,” You grumble.

He laughs and settles himself back between your thighs. The toy hums softly beside you, still on the lowest setting and when he picks it up again, your stomach nearly exits your body.

He strokes the inside of your thigh with his free hand, “Ready?” He asks. Jungkook’s always been sure to consent; you do know he’s genuinely asking for permission.

You nod, frantic, willing to sell your soul if he would just please, please touch you already.

Oh god.

Oh fuck.

For the love of everything holy.

You jolt forward violently the second the vibrator touches your clit. Even on the lowest setting it’s too much, white-hot pleasure snapping up your spine and exploding behind your eyes.

“Fuck—” You gasp, whole body twitching, hands scrambling for something to hold onto.

A string of curse words falls out of your mouth before you can stop them, completely and deliriously out of your control.

Jungkook smiles, presses his palm flat against your thigh to pin you down. “You’re so sensitive tonight,” He notes, somewhat amused.

You might cry. God damn him for being so perfect to you that he’s holding a vibrator to you and not making comments about how “he could do it better.”

You settle for grabbing a fistful of the bedsheets and moaning helplessly when he adjusts the angle slightly, nudging the vibrator a little higher until your hips are jerking against the mattress.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing slow circles into your thigh. “Let me take care of you.”

Alright, you’re not afraid to admit — maybe you didn’t care much for his definition of stress relief before.

But now? Now you need it more than anything.

You’re a mess; panting, moaning, hips twitching up and it’s still on the lowest setting.

You risk a glance down your body, and the sight nearly undoes you. Jungkook is watching you intensely, brows drawn, lip ring caught between his teeth, arms flexing where he’s bracing you open.

The look on his face alone could make you finish.

“Please,” you gasp. “M-More.”

He nods once, like he’s been waiting for you to ask. “Yeah, baby?” he’s clearly out of breath, thumb brushing over your thigh in grounding circles. “I got you.”

Jungkook clicks the vibrator up to the medium setting, and the second the stronger vibration hits your clit, your back arches clean off the bed, a cry ripping from your throat. There’s a hum that comes from low in his throat while he presses a kiss to your inner thigh.

“You’re so good for me,” He says against your skin. “So desperate already. Bet you could cum just like this, couldn’t you? Just from how good it feels?”

His tattooed fingers squeeze your flesh harder, holding you open, keeping you steady, and the way he’s looking at you makes you want to sob, truthfully.

Jungkook drags the vibrator in slow circles over your clit, keeping you teetering right on the edge before mercifully setting it down beside you. You barely have time to breathe before he’s spitting into his hand and sliding two fingers between your thighs.

The second he pushes them inside your entrance, you buck violently, a whine tearing out of your mouth. “F-fuck—”

You feel impossibly full already, walls clenching around the stretch, the slick sounds embarrassingly loud in the otherwise silent room.

Jungkook groans mostly to himself, head dropping forward to watch where he’s sinking into you.

“God, baby,” he exhales, curling his fingers in that way that makes your toes curl too. “You’re so fucking wet.“

You moan helplessly. Obviously, the man must be trying to kill you. A death wish of sorts. He works his fingers inside you, dragging them along that sweet spot that has you keening into the mattress before reaching over with his free hand to flick the vibratot back on.

He sets it to the highest setting — and holy mother — you nearly catapult off the bed. The intense, overwhelming buzz against your clit paired with the slow pump of his fingers inside you is absolutely lethal.

You choke on some form of a gasp, thighs jerking. All thoughts of work, stress, the world outside this room — gone. Obliterated.

Jungkook, flushed and sweaty, arm veins flexing with every stroke of his fingers, can’t take his eyes off the mess you’re making on your sheets beneath you.

Your thighs are trembling violently now, little spasms you can’t control. You try — god, you want it noted you do try — to keep your hips still, to hold off a little longer.

But the man is evidently on a mission. Fingers fucking into you deep and steady, the vibrator merciless against your clit, voice rougher than normal: “Cum for me, baby. I wanna see it. Wanna feel you cum all over my fingers. Please.”

You’re way past the point of rational thought. Spinning out. Every nerve ending burning hot under your skin.

“Fuck—” you sob. “Kook— I’m gonna— oh fuck, fuckfuck—”

Neither of you get to find out what you’re “gonna” before the orgasm tears through you viscerally, a full-body convulsion that has you crying out and grabbing onto his wrist.

Your toes curl involuntarily against the sheets while your thighs close around his head, stomach muscles clenching before your whole body lets itself fall into the pleasure.

For one disorienting moment, your vision actually blurs at the edges — a genuine blackout that some doctor could probably explain but you're certainly in no condition to contemplate — while somewhere in the distance you hear yourself gasping his name in a way that makes you grateful these walls are soundproof.

You’re panting when it finally ebbs, chest heaving, pussy clenching desperately around his fingers. Jungkook presses a kiss to your thigh again, slowly eases his fingers out and shuts off the vibrator that's become both your nemesis and savior in the span of minutes.

There’s a quiet that feels almost startling compared to your thundering heartbeat.

You’re floating somewhere, the bed seeming to perform a gentle carousel spin around you when he grabs your face gently with both hands and kisses you. You kiss him back automatically, pulling him closer by the front of his shirt.

Through the haze, you murmur against his mouth, “Take your sweatpants off. Wanna fuck you.”

He responds with a groan, pressing his forehead against yours. Insistently, you tug at the waistband, whining a little when he resists.

“Come on,” you mumble, still half-drunk off your orgasm. “I need you.”

He makes a choked sound and pulls back to look you in the eye. His body moves to lean against your headboard, and you scooch over to kiss down his neck while he tries to come up with whatever excuse he can.

And then comes the confession, tripping awkwardly from his lips. “I… uh…”

Your eyes narrow into spiteful little slits, pulling away from him.

He winces, a full-body cringe that would be adorable under other circumstances but currently only amplifies your confusion.

“I… I came already,” He confesses, so low you almost don’t catch it.

Jeon Jungkook? The Jeon Jungkook… came in his boxers like a teenage virgin.. from using your vibrator against you?

You blink repeatedly, brain attempting to process this unexpected plot twist.

“What?” You say dumbfounded.

He covers his face with one large hand in the universal gesture of mortification, ears betraying him by flushing a deep crimson even in the room's low light.

“You— you… came? Just from—?”

Your boyfriend groans, clearly exploring the possibility of spontaneous human combustion as a merciful escape route.

“You looked so good,” he murmurs into his palm. “I couldn’t— fuck, I tried to hold it—”

You stare at him for another second. Then, completely against your will, you burst out laughing. It spills out in waves that are equal parts exhaustion, affection, and perhaps a whisper of mockery, but your attempts to suppress it prove to be futile.

Jungkook glares at you weakly through his fingers.

“You’re an idiot,” you giggle, “My idiot.”

He grumbles something unintelligible while pulling you firmly against his chest, a transparent attempt to muffle your laughter and hide his reddening face but your giggles persist. At some point, you do take the opportunity he presents to nestle your face into the warm crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne, a chuckle exiting once every few minutes.

All things considered?

Not a bad way to spend a Wednesday night. Not bad at all.

masterlist + ask

#jungkook smut #jungkook #jungkook x reader #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jeon jeongguk #jjk #jjk x reader #bts #bts x reader #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fluff

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eu-nicola · 6 months ago

Text

the fastest driver part 2

summary: you are a young and talented driver, who begins your journey in Formula 1 with Ferrari. despite your undeniable ability, you are constantly relegated to the background due to the Scuderia's strategies, which always favor your teammate, Charles Leclerc

warnings: cheating (?), car accident

word counter: 9896

author's note: english is not my first language, this is from an amazing request, thanks for the comments 🤍

tags: @ilovechickenwings @amortentiaaaa @wierdflowerpower @malvikareader @freyathehuntress

The sound of the rain softly hitting the hotel windows muffled any noise from the outside world. Inside the room, the air was thick, charged with a tension that had taken months to reach its breaking point. You were there, tangled with Max in a kiss that burned like fire, as if both of you had been waiting for this moment for far too long. His hand rested on your waist, firm yet trembling, as his lips sought yours with a mix of urgency and doubt.

You knew it was a mistake. You both knew it. But in that moment, logic and consequences seemed irrelevant.

You pulled away just a few inches, breathing heavily, and looked into his eyes. His were dark, filled with something you hadn’t seen before, a mix of desire, regret, and something else you couldn’t identify.

“We shouldn’t be doing this” you whispered, though you made no move to pull away.

Max closed his eyes, as if trying to find strength in the darkness.

“I know” he replied, his voice hoarse. “But I can’t stop.”

It had all started that same night, after the press conference in Singapore. You’d had an intense day, with endless training sessions and meetings. When the day finally ended, the team had organized a small informal dinner at the hotel. It was something routine after the toughest workdays, a way to unwind and reconnect as a group.

During dinner, Max had been sitting next to you, as always. The conversation flowed naturally between the two of you, alternating between technical topics and light jokes. But beneath the surface, you felt that tension that hadn’t faded since that conversation on the terrace. Every time your gazes met, every time your arms accidentally brushed, it was like a reminder that you were playing with fire.

After dinner, everyone started to disperse. Some engineers stayed at the hotel bar, while others decided to retire early to their rooms. You were about to do the same when Max approached you.

“One more round?,” he asked, holding a couple of water bottles in his hands. “We could go over some ideas for tomorrow.”

It wasn’t unusual for the two of you to stay talking about strategies or techniques outside official hours, so you didn’t think anything was out of place. You nodded, following him to a common room in the hotel, where you sat on a couch to go over some data on his tablet.

At first, everything was strictly professional. Max showed you a replay of your fastest lap and pointed out small adjustments you could make. You listened attentively, asking questions and taking notes. But as the conversation progressed, something changed. His comments became more personal, and his eyes seemed to study you more than the screen.

“You’re amazing, you know?,” he suddenly said, breaking the rhythm of the conversation.

You looked at him, surprised.

“Why do you say that?.”

“Because you are. Everything you do, how you handle all of this… It’s impressive.”

His voice was soft, and there was something in his tone that made your heart race. You tried to respond, but the words didn’t come out. Instead, you just looked at him, and he returned your gaze with an intensity that made time seem to stop.

That was when you felt it: that moment when the line between you two was about to break.

You tried to break the tension by standing up from the couch, but he did the same, stepping in front of you.

“Max…” you began, but you couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “If you tell me to stop, I will.”

You didn’t. Instead, you stayed there, looking at him, knowing you didn’t want him to stop. It was he who took the first step, moving slowly, as if giving you time to pull away. But you didn’t. When his lips finally found yours, it was as if all doubts and barriers crumbled instantly.

After that first kiss, everything became a blur. You didn’t remember exactly how you had ended up in his room, only that the elevator had gone up too slowly, and every second had felt eternal. When you crossed the door, neither of you wasted time with words.

Now, standing in the middle of the room, with his hands on your waist and your fingers tangled in his hair, you felt like you were walking on the edge of an abyss. You knew there was no turning back, but you weren’t sure you wanted to.

Max pulled away slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

“This is wrong,” he said, but his hands didn’t move from your waist.

“I know,” you replied, not letting go. “But I can’t help it.”

You both stood in silence, trapped in that moment that seemed to hold everything you had been repressing for months. Finally, Max sighed and took a step back, as if he were struggling with himself.

“We can’t keep doing this,” he said, though his tone didn’t sound convinced.

“Then why are we here?,” you asked, your voice heavy with frustration.

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looked at you as if searching for an answer in your face.

“Cause I can’t stay away from you,” he finally confessed.

Those words fell like a bomb, tearing down any walls that remained between you. Without thinking, you kissed him again, and this time, neither of you tried to stop.

As the night went on, you knew this would complicate everything, that you had crossed a line you could never undo. But in that moment, none of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was him, and what you felt when you were with him.

You knew that dawn would bring questions, doubts, and maybe regrets. But in that moment, you chose to stay in the room, in his embrace, letting the world wait a little longer.

Since that night in Singapore, something between you and Max had changed. Though you tried to keep things as they were, it wasn’t long before the bond you had formed became deeper and more complicated. Max, with his impulsive character and his unshakable philosophy that personal success came above all, began to influence you in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

At first, you resisted admitting how much he had started to shape your way of being. But the truth was undeniable: his intensity, his ambition, and his lack of remorse started to seem attractive, even necessary. Being by his side made you feel invincible, as if the rules didn’t apply to you. And in the chaos of Formula 1, where every little mistake could cost you everything, that mentality was dangerous but intoxicating.

It was in Mexico that you first noticed how much Max was influencing you. During qualifying, your engineer suggested a conservative strategy to secure a decent grid position. But as you listened to his explanation over the radio, you felt Max’s gaze from the other side of the garage.

“Take risks,” he had told you the night before in a casual conversation while reviewing data. His voice echoed in your mind. “If you don’t, someone else will.”

So you ignored the team’s suggestion and attacked the lap aggressively, pushing the car to its limits. When you crossed the line, you had secured a better position than expected, but at the same time, you had worn the tires more than necessary. Your engineer was frustrated, but Max was pleased.

“That’s what I want to see,” he said to you afterward, with a crooked smile as the two of you reviewed your data in the paddock. “You can’t expect them to do it all for you. Sometimes you have to take control, even if that means breaking a few rules.”

You returned his smile, knowing those words were dangerous but also addictive.

As the season progressed and the end drew closer, the two of you spent more and more time together. The professional and personal aspects blended in a way you couldn’t stop. Max was your mentor, your friend, and now, your lover. It was a secret you both guarded carefully, aware of what it would mean if anyone else found out. But in private, you couldn’t stay away from each other.

After every race, no matter whether you had won or lost, he found a way to seek you out. Sometimes it was a conversation in a secluded room in the paddock, other times it was in the privacy of a hotel. There was something in the way he looked at you, as if you were the only person who mattered, that made everything else seem irrelevant.

It was in Brazil that things intensified even more. You had finished second behind Max in a tight race, and although you were proud of your result, you couldn’t ignore the feeling that you could have won if the team had adjusted the strategy. After the press conference, while everyone was celebrating, Max found you in a corner of the motorhome.

“Not bad for someone who’s still learning,” he joked, with that arrogant smile that always made you roll your eyes.

“Shut up,” you replied, laughing, though his words had alleviated some of your frustration.

He took one step closer, and his expression changed. The intensity in his gaze trapped you, and before you could think of the consequences, he took your hand and led you out of the motorhome, away from the noise of the party. You ended up in his room, and, as always, the tension between you two overflowed.

The line no longer existed.

That night, you realized there was no going back. Max was a whirlwind that had swept away your boundaries and doubts. In his company, you felt more powerful, more confident, but also more vulnerable. You had crossed the line between professional and personal, and it was becoming harder and harder to distinguish where your career ended and where your life with him began.

The next morning, while you watched him sleep beside you, you wondered how long you could keep this secret. You knew the truth would eventually come to light, but for now, you held on to the moment, to the feeling of being invincible by his side, even if the price was high.

Max was right about one thing: to win, sometimes you had to break the rules. And you had decided you were willing to do so, even if it meant losing yourself in the process.

On the other hand, the change in your driving style quickly caught the attention of the media. What had started as an evolution in your competitive style soon became a hot topic of debate. Your more aggressive approach, your willingness to take risks, and your refusal to give up ground on the track were interpreted as a radical transformation, and not everyone was willing to accept it.

The comments started subtly, during live broadcasts.

"Looks like she's adopting a bolder style," a journalist commented after a risky maneuver you made in Las Vegas to overtake Carlos Sainz. "Although some might say she's pushing the limits of what's acceptable."

But soon, the criticism turned more personal.

In the weeks that followed, headlines grew more aggressive. Sports newspapers and social media were filled with comments about your "masculine attitude" on the track. Some praised you, saying you had stopped being a driver who played defensively, while others criticized you for abandoning what they considered a "more elegant" and "appropriate style for a woman."

"Is this what we want to see in Formula 1?" asked a commentator on an analysis program. "I'm not saying she shouldn't be competitive, but it seems like she's trying to imitate the more aggressive drivers instead of finding her own way."

The words hit hard. You knew exactly who they were referring to with "more aggressive drivers." It was an implicit reference to Max, and the fact that your relationship with him remained a secret didn’t help divert the suspicions.

The pressure reached a boiling point during the Qatar Grand Prix weekend. In the pre-race press conference, a journalist threw a question that seemed designed to unsettle you.

"You've been accused of adopting an 'overly aggressive' driving style. Some even say you're trying to copy Max Verstappen. What do you have to say about that?"

You took a deep breath, maintaining the calm you had practiced so many times.

"My driving style is mine," you replied firmly. "Every driver has their own way of approaching races, and what I do on the track is the result of years of work and learning. If being aggressive means fighting to win, then yes, I am aggressive."

But the journalist didn’t stop there.

"Don't you think this aggression might be considered inappropriate for a woman in a traditionally male-dominated sport?"

There was a murmur in the room, and you could feel the rage beginning to bubble inside you. Max, sitting beside you, shot you a quick glance, as if reminding you not to lose control.

"I think that question says more about the person asking it than about me," you said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. "We're in 2025. Are we really still questioning whether a woman can be competitive in Formula 1?"

The response earned a discreet applause from some journalists, but you knew the damage had already been done.

That night, while you were in your room going over your notes for the race, Max appeared at the door. He didn’t say anything at first, simply sank into a chair in front of you, watching you in silence.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked finally.

You shook your head, but he didn’t accept your answer.

"Look, I know what they’re saying about you," he continued, his tone more serious than usual. "And I understand how it feels. I went through the same thing when I came into Formula 1. They called me irresponsible, dangerous, immature..."

"And how did you handle it?" you asked, not hiding your frustration.

Max shrugged.

"I let them talk. In the end, the only thing that matters is what you do on the track. Winning shuts everyone up."

"And what if I don’t win?" you murmured, more to yourself than to him.

Max leaned forward, fixing his eyes on yours.

"You will win."

His words, though simple, carried a weight that managed to calm some of your anxiety.

On Sunday, with the criticism still fresh in your mind, you decided you couldn’t afford to doubt yourself. The race was one of the most intense of the season, with risky overtakes and moments where it seemed like everything was about to collapse. But in the end, you crossed the finish line in second place, just behind Max.

When you got out of the car, the roar of the crowd was deafening. Although the media still questioned your style, the fans seemed to be on your side. As you climbed onto the podium, trophy in hand, you understood what Max had meant.

The comments would continue. The criticism wouldn’t disappear. But as long as you kept performing on the track, as long as you kept fighting for your place, no one could take away what you had earned.

That night, as you celebrated with the team, Max approached you and whispered something in your ear.

"I told you you’d win."

The end of the season had arrived, and with it, the culmination of a year full of triumphs, tensions, and decisions that would change the course of your life. In the final race, in Abu Dhabi, Max had secured his fifth consecutive championship with an impeccable victory, while you finished second in the overall standings. You had fought until the end, and although you didn’t take the title, you were satisfied with what you had achieved.

When you stepped off the podium, the joy of your team was palpable. The atmosphere was filled with euphoria, hugs, and congratulations, but you felt something else: a deep exhaustion, a need to escape the noise and find some clarity. While Max raised his trophy under the fireworks, you looked at him and couldn’t help but wonder what would happen between you two now that the season was over.

Hours later, the Red Bull party was in full swing. Laughter and music filled the air, but you found yourself apart, in a quiet corner, holding a glass of champagne and watching your teammates. Max was surrounded by people, as always, his easy smile and magnetic energy lighting up the room.

Finally, your eyes met, and he walked over, leaving the group around him.

"What are you doing here alone?" he asked, leaning slightly so only you could hear.

"I'm just taking a moment for myself," you replied, forcing a smile. "It’s been a long year."

Max looked at you in silence for a moment, as if trying to read your thoughts. Then, he took your hand and led you away from the noise, to a private terrace.

The cool night air was a relief. You both leaned on the railing, gazing at the lights that still shone on the track.

"Congratulations, champ," you finally said, breaking the silence.

"Thanks," he replied, though his tone was softer than usual. "And congratulations to you, too. This was your strongest year."

"Not strong enough to beat you," you joked, but he didn’t laugh.

"You’re closer than you think."

The conversation turned to vacations, the break they both desperately needed. But as they spoke, you couldn’t ignore the unease that had settled in your chest. Vacations meant time away from the chaos of Formula 1, but they also meant time away from Max.

He, on the other hand, seemed carefree, talking about plans to travel, relax, and disconnect from everything. But in his gaze, there was something else, something you couldn’t quite decipher.

“What are you going to do during the holidays?,” he asked, finally.

“I’m not sure yet. Maybe visit my family, spend some time at home. I need a little normalcy.��

Max nodded, but didn’t respond immediately. When he finally spoke, his tone was more serious.

“You know this... what we have... is complicated.”

Your heart tightened at his words, even though you knew it was true.

“I know,” you said, trying to maintain composure.

“I don’t want you to think that this doesn’t mean anything to me,” he continued, looking out at the horizon. “But in this world, it’s difficult...”

“Difficult...” you finished for him, feeling a lump in your throat.

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he turned toward you, placing a hand on your cheek.

“You’re amazing, you know that? Not just as a driver, but as a person. But...”

You didn’t need him to finish the sentence. You knew that what was everything to you, for him, was a way to escape the pressure, an adventure without attachments. And yet, there was something in his gaze, the way his hand trembled slightly as he touched you, that made you think maybe it wasn’t as simple for him as he wanted it to seem.

When you finally returned to the party, neither of you said anything more about the matter. Max went back to being the center of attention, and you joined the group, pretending everything was fine. But as you watched him laugh and joke with the others, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed.

The holidays would be a turning point, you knew. It was a time to reflect, to decide what your relationship with him really meant and whether you were willing to stay on that tightrope.

As the night came to a close, you said goodbye to everyone and headed back to your room. You sat on the bed, staring at the trophy you had won that day, but your mind was far from the track.

Max had been your first everything. But now, as you faced weeks of uncertainty, you wondered if it was also your first great lesson on what it meant to love someone who might never love you in the same way.

You knew you’d figure it out soon. But for now, all you could do was wait.

When the holidays began, you knew that, inevitably, your paths and Max’s would cross again. Even though both of you needed space, the geographical proximity in Monaco made it almost impossible to avoid each other. And, deep down, you didn’t want to. There was something unfinished between you two, something that needed to be said.

The first time you saw him was on his yacht, where he organized a discreet meeting with a few close friends. The atmosphere was relaxed, with laughter and wine glasses, but your eyes always found his. Max acted as usual: charming, relaxed, pretending like the weight of the world never touched him. But you knew better. You knew how he hid his emotions under that facade.

The second time was more intimate. He invited you to dinner at one of his apartments, a quiet evening that ended with a palpable tension.

It all started with a seemingly harmless conversation about his plans for the rest of the holidays.

“Are you planning to travel?,” you asked as you dined, trying to keep the tone light.

Max shrugged.

“I’ll probably spend a few days in the Netherlands with my family. Maybe make a quick trip to Spain.”

“And what about us?,” you asked, almost without realizing it. The question came out before you could stop it.

Max looked up, surprised by your tone.

“Us?.”

“Yes, Max. Us. This... whatever it is we’re doing. What does it mean to you?.”

He put his fork down and sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“You know I don’t like putting labels on things.”

“I’m not asking for a label,” you replied, feeling frustration bubbling inside. “I just want to know where I stand.”

Max frowned, as if trying to find the right words, but his tone was colder than you expected.

“Why do we need to define it? What we have works, right?.”

That response was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“Works for who, Max?,” you spat, your voice rising slightly. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like this only works for you. I’m the one who has to hide, the one who has to accept that we’re nothing more than a distraction to you.”

He stood up, crossing his arms over his chest.

“That’s not fair. I never promised you anything.”

“No, you didn’t!,” you admitted, standing up as well. “But you didn’t let me go either. Every time I try to put some distance, you do something that makes me stay. And I, like an idiot, keep falling for it.”

Max seemed to stagger at your words, but his pride didn’t allow him to back down.

“It’s not my fault if you expect something I can’t give you.”

“Then what am I to you, Max? A distraction? A pastime between races?,” you asked, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and pain.

“That’s not fair,” he repeated, but this time his tone was softer.

The room fell silent for a moment. Max looked away, unable to face you directly. You knew there were feelings behind his cold demeanor, but you also knew he wasn’t ready to admit them, not even to himself.

“Look, I don’t know what you expected,” he said finally, his tone tired. “This isn’t easy for me either. You know I have someone.”

“Oh, really?,” you said sarcastically. “Because from here it seems like you’ve got everything under control.”

“I don’t have everything under control!,” he exclaimed, raising his voice for the first time. “Do you think this doesn’t affect me? Do you think I don’t think about you more than I should?.”

You froze at his confession. For a moment, you thought he was going to say something more, something that would explain everything. But instead, Max shook his head, as if he were fighting with his own thoughts.

“But I can’t give you what you want. Not now.”

That was the statement that ended the argument. You didn’t know whether you felt more sadness or anger, but you understood that you couldn’t keep going like this.

“Then don’t ask me to stay,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Don’t ask me to keep being the one who adapts, the one who hides, the one who’s always available when you decide you need me.”

He didn’t respond. You waited, giving him one last chance to say something that would make you change your mind. But the silence was deafening.

Finally, you grabbed your things and left the apartment, leaving Max alone in his own storm.

As you walked through the quiet streets of Monaco, you felt a mix of liberation and sadness. You knew you had made the right decision, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Max had been an important part of your life, but now you understood that you couldn’t keep being a shadow in his world.

The vacation had just begun, but you already felt like you were in a new chapter. And while you didn’t know what the future held, you were determined to find your own path, even if that meant leaving Max behind.

The decision to spend your vacation in Italy wasn’t impulsive. After the emotional storm that marked the end of the season, you needed a place where you could find yourself, far from the hustle and bustle of Monaco and the ever-watchful eyes that seemed to follow you. Italy had always been a refuge for you: the peaceful hills of Tuscany, the small cafes in Rome, the calm of Lake Como. There, you felt like you could breathe.

However, what began as an attempt to find peace turned into something more. During long walks down cobblestone streets and endless nights of reflection, you began to question your place at Red Bull and in Formula 1 in general. Something didn’t fit, and for the first time, you allowed yourself to recognize it.

One afternoon, while sitting on a terrace overlooking Florence, you found yourself writing a list in a notebook. One column listed the things you liked about Red Bull: competitiveness, top-level engineering, the chance to fight for the title. The other column, however, was longer: constant pressure, the tense relationship with Max, the feeling that you were always fighting to be seen as something more than a “second driver.”

It was then that you knew. You couldn’t stay at Red Bull anymore. You had reached a point where your success didn’t fulfill you, because it always seemed to come at the cost of your happiness. You needed a change, and you knew exactly where you wanted to be.

A few days later, you found yourself on a video call with Zak Brown. The conversation started off cordial, with Zak asking how your vacation was going and casually mentioning that Piastri was considering options outside McLaren. Then, you dropped it:

—Zak, I want to talk about the possibility of joining McLaren.

There was a brief but intense silence on the other side of the screen. Then, a slow smile began to form on his face.

—Are you serious? —he asked, clearly intrigued.

—Completely. I feel like Red Bull is no longer the right place for me. I’m looking for a team where I can build something, not just adapt to what already exists. And I think McLaren can be that place.

Zak nodded, leaning back in his chair as he processed your words.

—I can’t deny it would be a big move for us. If you’re willing to take the leap, we are too.

In the following days, negotiations began. Everything was done in the strictest secrecy, far from the eyes of the media and the ears of Red Bull. You knew the news of your departure would be a bombshell, especially since Piastri was being considered as your replacement.

You didn’t tell anyone, not even Max. It wasn’t a conversation you were willing to have with him, not after how things had ended. This decision was yours alone, and you needed to keep it that way.

The news broke on the first day of the new year, as the holidays were coming to an end. While you were at the Milan airport, waiting for your flight back to Monaco, your phone started vibrating incessantly. Opening Twitter, you saw the headlines:

“Oscar Piastri joins Red Bull as Max Verstappen’s teammate” “Red Bull confirms the departure of its star driver after a successful season” “McLaren signs the star driver for 2025 in a surprising move”

You took a deep breath as you read the comments. Most fans were shocked; some criticized you for leaving such a competitive team, while others praised your decision to find a place where you could shine on your own.

You didn’t have to wait long to find out how Max would react. As soon as you landed in Monaco, you received a message from him.

Max: Is this a joke? You went to McLaren without telling me anything?

You sighed, knowing this conversation would be inevitable. After getting to your apartment, you called him.

“Hi, Max.”

“I can’t believe it,” was the first thing he said, his tone filled with disbelief. “You decided this without even mentioning it to me?.”

“Max, this decision has nothing to do with you,” you replied, trying to stay calm. “It’s something I needed to do for myself.”

“For yourself?,” he repeated, almost laughing. “You were in the best team, with the best car, fighting for titles. Why would you leave that?.”

“Because I don’t want to be just an extension of your success,” you said, feeling your voice fill with determination. “I want to build something of my own, and McLaren gives me that opportunity.”

Max fell silent for a moment. When he spoke, his tone was softer, but also colder.

“I hope you don’t regret it.”

“I won’t,” you answered, with more confidence than you felt in that moment.

Even now, with all the drama, you had flashbacks of you and Max during your early days at Red Bull, which had also been quite a whirlwind. He wasn’t just a driver: he was the driver. His confidence, almost arrogance, permeated every conversation, every strategy, every decision. But rather than intimidate you, that pushed you. You wanted to prove that you belonged at that level too.

Max respected you as a driver, but kept a clear distance. It was his way of protecting himself in an environment where emotional alliances often complicated things. You weren’t interested in anything else either. At least, not at first.

You remember everything started to change after the third race of the season. You had a difficult weekend: mechanical issues in practice, a crash in qualifying, and a minor contact in the race that left you out of the points. You were exhausted, frustrated, and harder on yourself than you should have been.

That night, while reviewing the data in the motorhome, Max walked in and sat down across from you, with a beer in hand.

“Why are you still here?,” he asked, leaning forward.

You looked up, confused.

“I’m reviewing the data. I need to understand what happened.”

Max shook his head, a slight smile on his lips.

“You already know what happened. You had bad luck. That happens to anyone. Don’t obsess over what you can’t change.”

His words surprised you. Max Verstappen, the driver known for his obsession with perfection, was telling you to let go of a bad day.

“Easy for you to say,” you replied, with a sharper tone than you intended. “You’re the World Champion.”

Max leaned back, taking a sip of his beer before answering.

“Do you think I haven’t had shitty days? What matters is how you come back. And you... you’ve got what it takes to come back.”

That small, unexpected gesture of support was the first step.

With each race, the relationship between you two grew stronger. Max started seeking you out to review strategies together or just to chat during flights. You, in turn, started seeing him as more than just a driver: someone passionate, fun on his good days, and deeply competitive.

One time, during a trip to Canada, the two of you ended up sitting next to each other on the team’s private plane. While everyone else slept, you started talking about everything and nothing: your childhoods, the races that had marked you, the sacrifices you’d made to get to Formula 1.

“Sometimes, I wonder if it’s all worth it,” you said, after a long silence.

Max looked at you with curiosity.

“Seriously?.”

You nodded.

“Of course I love this, but I also wonder what I’d be doing if I weren’t here. If I’d have a simpler life, with less pressure.”

Max thought for a moment before replying.

“I never ask myself that. Not because it’s not hard, but because I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

That comment made you see him in a new light. For Max, F1 wasn’t just his job, it was his life. And while you shared that passion, you also realized that he lived it in a way no one else could understand.

The tension between you began to become more evident in the little things. The way he would look for you with his gaze when you entered a room. The private jokes you shared during breaks. The way your hands would accidentally brush when checking data on the screen.

It was after a particularly difficult race in Austria when the tension reached its peak. You finished second behind Max, but only because the team had ordered you to hold position. You were furious, though you tried to hide it.

That night, Max came looking for you at your room. When you opened the door, you saw him with an expression you hadn't seen before: a mix of concern and something else you couldn't identify.

"Are you okay?,” he asked, though both of you knew that wasn't the case.

"Why do you care?,” you replied, tired of everything.

Instead of answering, Max took a step toward you, crossing the threshold of the door. The space between you was minimal, and you could feel the intensity in his gaze.

"I care because you're my teammate," he said at first, but then added in a lower tone. "And because... I can't help it."

That was the moment when everything changed. Nothing happened that night, but the line between you two had been erased. You both knew it, though neither of you wanted to admit it.

That tension, that undeniable connection, was what led you to cross the line later. But that was the beginning: a brush of hands, a gaze that lingered too long, a silence full of things neither of you dared to say.

After that, there was another night in Singapore where the story had started, your story.

Now that was behind you, and you were far from him and from the team.

A few weeks later, the new season had started, but not with Red Bull. Now you wore McLaren's iconic papaya orange, a decision that had taken the motorsport world by surprise. Despite Red Bull's initial resistance to letting you go, you broke the contract after unbearable tension. Now you shared a garage with Lando Norris, on a team that seemed ready to give you the spotlight you had longed for. However, leaving Red Bull behind didn’t mean leaving Max behind.

Max remained a constant, though now from the other side of the paddock. The first official encounter of the season in Bahrain was everything you had expected: tense and full of silent reproaches. Although both of you tried to maintain professionalism, the media quickly picked up on the coldness between you. And with each practice, that coldness transformed into a dangerous mix of rivalry, resentment, and something that never seemed to disappear: the history you both shared.

In the first race of the season, the problems between you transferred to the asphalt. During lap 32, you were fighting for the podium with Max behind you, pressuring you on every corner. His insistence was suffocating, and in an aggressive attempt to overtake you, he made contact with your car, forcing you off track.

"This is unacceptable," you shouted over the radio, your voice full of frustration.

Although the stewards didn’t impose any penalties, the incident made it clear that Max wasn’t willing to give you any mercy. But what hurt you the most was seeing him after the race when he completely ignored you in the paddock, as if you were a stranger.

After the race, you were in your Motorhome, reviewing the replays of the incident, when someone knocked on the door. You opened it, and there he was, with a frown and arms crossed.

"What the hell was that today?,” he asked, walking in without waiting for an invitation.

"What the hell was what?,” you replied, closing the door behind him. "You're the one who knocked me off track."

Max let out a sarcastic laugh.

"Please. If you hadn't closed so much on the corner, none of this would have happened."

Your blood began to boil.

"Are you really going to blame me for this? Because I didn’t let you pass like when we were at Red Bull? I hate to break your illusion, Max, but I'm not your teammate anymore."

He turned toward you, his eyes filled with anger, but also with something you couldn’t quite identify.

"You made that clear when you left. But you know this goes beyond that."

"What are you talking about?,” you asked, crossing your arms.

Max took a step toward you, closing the distance between you two.

"About you. About us. About how you can’t handle all of this without it becoming a personal problem."

You felt your heart beat faster, but you weren’t going to let it affect you.

"This has nothing to do with 'us.' This is about racing, Max. And if you can’t handle that I’m no longer part of your little world, that’s your problem, not mine."

For a moment, Max seemed like he wanted to respond, but instead, he shook his head and walked toward the door.

"You know, I thought you were different. But it seems like everyone in this sport is the same."

His words hit you like a bucket of cold water, but you refused to show it.

"And I thought you could be professional for once. Seems like we were both wrong."

Max left, slamming the door open behind him, and you collapsed on the couch, feeling exhausted.

The first days after the tension with Max passed quickly, but not for the reason you expected. You didn’t obsess over what had happened with him or the hurtful words that still echoed in your mind. What worried you most now was your integration into McLaren, especially your relationship with Lando Norris, your new teammate.

Lando was the complete opposite of Max: relaxed, fun, and with an attitude that, although professional, never lost its laid-back vibe. Instead of pressuring you or criticizing you constantly like Max did in his "mentor" version, Lando preferred to offer support without overwhelming you. He had a way of making everything seem easier, even when things on the track got complicated.

At first, you felt like a bit of an outsider. McLaren was a team with its own culture, and even though it wasn’t your first year in F1, you always carried that sense of nervousness at the start of a new chapter. Lando, however, did everything possible to make you feel welcome. At first, it was something as simple as joking about the team’s coffee, which according to him, always tasted like "hot water with a touch of desperation." After some laughs, the atmosphere started to relax, and little by little, you began to feel more comfortable with him and the rest of the team.

The first official team event, a press conference, was when things really began to change. During the interview, a journalist asked Lando how he felt about having a new teammate, and he, without losing his composure, gave a quick answer that made you smile.

"Well, the truth is it’s been an interesting experience. She brings a positive energy, and... she makes me feel like I'm still the 'young guy' on the team, even though technically I'm not. So, it’s fun having her on board!"

Everyone laughed, and, to your surprise, that broke the ice. The journalists quickly turned the focus to you, and Lando passed the ball with a mischievous smile.

"What I can say about my teammate is that, although she seems very serious, she has a good sense of humor. I can’t wait to see what happens this season."

From there on, things felt easier. It was as if, without even trying, Lando had smoothed the transition. The chemistry between you two flowed quickly, with no tension or unreachable expectations. You didn’t have to prove anything to anyone, just be yourself.

The ease with which you communicated impressed you. It wasn’t like with Max, where you always felt like you had to "prove yourself" or show something. With Lando, everything flowed naturally. If something didn’t work, you just adjusted it, with no drama or expectations. He was a teammate who truly believed in collaboration, not internal competition.

By the end of the first month at McLaren, you knew joining them had been the right decision.

Little by little, the start of the season at McLaren seemed to be going in the right direction: your relationship with Lando was strengthening, the team was improving, and, little by little, you felt like you were finding your rhythm in a car that, although not the fastest on the grid, gave you the sense of control you had lost the previous year. However, things with Max weren’t going well; in fact, they were getting even more complicated.

Although he was still racing for Red Bull, with his undeniable dominance on the track, the rivalry that had ignited the previous year seemed to intensify with every race. No matter how many times you told yourself it wasn’t worth focusing on what Max was doing or not doing, he was always there, whether in interviews, in media comments, or even on the track, challenging you to prove you were still more than his shadow.

In the first lap of Australia, a circuit you both knew inside and out. In practice, Red Bull had been clearly superior, but McLaren was more competitive than ever. The chance to snatch a win from Max wasn’t impossible, but it wouldn’t be easy. During the race, Max constantly pressured you. Although he wasn’t being as aggressive as he had been in the past, his presence behind you was suffocating, his car always right next to you in the fast corners.

You remember how, at one point in the race, during an overtaking move in turn 8, Max tried to pass you on the inside, clearly with the intention to intimidate you. It was a risky maneuver, and although logic told you to give way, you decided not to. You had enough space to hold your line, and although you didn’t manage to block him completely, the resistance you offered forced him to brake a little more than expected. That small detail allowed you to keep the position, something that seemed to irritate him.

When the race ended, Max finished in second place, right behind you. As you passed through the cooling area, you could see him in his car, staring at you with that defiant look he was so good at putting on. The crowd noticed it, the journalists noticed it, and, of course, you noticed it too.

At the end of the race, while you were getting ready to leave the paddock, one of McLaren’s engineers told you that Max had requested to speak with you. You didn’t understand why he wanted to do that, and honestly, you weren’t in the mood to face him after what had happened on track. But, as always, appearances mattered, and you couldn’t just ignore him. So, you agreed, even though you knew it would be an uncomfortable encounter.

Max was waiting for you near the Red Bull hospitality, arms crossed, a typical defensive posture. He didn’t say anything at first, but when you looked at him, his face was more serious than usual.

“What’s wrong with you?” he finally said, his tone as direct and blunt as ever. “You know that if you’d let me pass, we could’ve fought more cleanly. Why do you keep acting like it’s all personal?”

You were surprised that the conversation was going in that direction, as if you weren’t racing, as if it was a matter of pride. But, you knew this was Max. It always had to be him first.

“Personal?” you repeated, letting sarcasm fill your voice. “You’re the first one to make it personal. If you’d given me space, we wouldn’t have this problem, but no, you always have to be the one to set the pace, don’t you?”

Max took a step toward you, but not enough to invade your personal space. His gaze hardened.

“It’s not about setting the pace. It’s about being competitive. You still don’t understand how this sport works. You have to go for it, not care about what others think.”

Your breath quickened, not out of fear, but from the anger that had been building up for months.

“I think the problem here isn’t that I don’t understand the sport, Max. The problem is that you’ve never learned how to be a true teammate, and now you’re trying to dictate how I should race. I’m tired of you doing this.”

Max, as expected, didn’t say anything more. He just stared at you for a couple of seconds, as if waiting for you to change your mind or apologize. But you wouldn’t. Not anymore. Not when you knew that, for him, everything had always been about ego, about being the best, the fastest, the one who wouldn’t let anyone overtake him.

The rivalry between you and Max continued to grow. Every time you saw him on track, you knew that, at least for him, it had become personal. What once was a professional competition had become something much more visceral, and every time the two teams met on the track, the tension between you was palpable. But far from being a negative thing, it motivated you to improve. You no longer just wanted to beat Max for the sake of it; now, it was a personal necessity.

The revenge came for him in Monaco. On such a tight, technical circuit, any mistake could be fatal, and Max, although he initially seemed to have the advantage, began to falter in the final laps, losing traction in the trickiest parts of the circuit. It was then, on lap 68, that you seized your opportunity.

Max was charging full throttle, but as you exited the tunnel, his car began to slide slightly. That was enough for you to pass him on the inside at Sainte-Dévote. As you passed him, you felt a mix of adrenaline and satisfaction. Finally, the competition that had defined you for so long, you had surpassed.

At the end of the race, while celebrating your podium, Max’s gaze from the other side of the garage was clear. It was no longer just a rivalry; now, it had become a personal duel.

The victory in Monaco was a milestone in your career. Not only because it had been one of the best races of your life, but because at the end of the day, you didn’t just celebrate with the McLaren team, but also felt a kind of personal vindication. You had beaten Max, done what many thought was impossible. Not just as a driver, but as someone who had constantly been underestimated for a lack of “aggressiveness” or for once being seen as Red Bull’s “perfect teammate” or “pretty girl.” But now, at this moment, you were neither of those things. Now, you were his rival.

The sense of achievement was gratifying, but deep down you knew the victory had its price. Something in you had changed during that last overtake, in the way you had faced Max, in how, when you looked at him for the last time on track, something inside you had broken. That part of you that still wanted him, that still thought maybe things could have been different, was gone, or at least overshadowed by the fierce determination to win. The relationship you once shared was buried, replaced by pure competition, an unfiltered rivalry. But at the same time, you knew it wasn’t just the competition that drove you; it was something much more personal. Max had let you go. And now, you had left him behind, though not without a certain sadness.

On the other side, Max was in his motorhome, lights off, arms crossed over his chest, staring at the mirror. The race had ended, and although he had made an effort not to show his emotions to the journalists, something inside him was consuming him. He was used to winning, he had always been the leader, the reference. But this time, in Monaco, the result made him realize something he had been avoiding for a long time.

He had lost. And not just the race. He had lost the person who had mattered most in his life.

It was ironic because he couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it. He had been the first to fuel the rivalry, the first to not know how to handle his own feelings, the first to ignore the boundaries between the personal and the professional. But now, when he saw your victory trophy on his phone screen, when he saw the images of you celebrating with Lando, he felt something he had never felt before: regret.

Over the years, Max had gotten used to seeing life as a series of challenges and battles he had to win. The world was black or white, no shades of gray. But with you, everything had been different. He had been your mentor, your teammate, your rival, and at some point, more than that. He had been someone who, in a way, had been the only person capable of pushing him out of his comfort zone. The relationship you shared, although never fully admitted, had been unique. Max knew that when he was with you, he felt more human, more vulnerable. But competition, the need to be the best, had led him to distance himself from what really mattered.

That night, Max couldn’t sleep. The feeling of being lost, of having destroyed something valuable, haunted him. He didn’t know how you had come to mean so much to him, or when the rivalry had stopped being just that and turned into something more complicated. But he knew it clearly: he had lost you. And the worst part was that, in his head, there were still unanswered questions. Could he have done things differently? Should he have spoken up earlier, when there was still time to explain? The answers to those questions tormented him, but what really hurt was what he didn’t know: if you felt the same way.

Weeks later, it was the Canadian Grand Prix. The combination of fast corners, technical sections, and the closeness of the walls, all contributed to the magic of that weekend. But this time, for some reason, it felt different. The tension in the air was palpable, and although Max and you hadn’t spoken for days, hadn’t exchanged more than a fleeting glance, something felt off. But you ignored it, focusing on the track, on what you did best.

The qualifying had been tough, but you had stayed in the top positions. The McLaren car had responded well, and you knew you could be fighting for a podium. Lando had qualified just behind you, both with the same motivation, knowing this race would be key for the team. However, in your mind, there was always that little thought that crept in: Max. The rivalry, that constant pressure to prove you could be better, the feeling that he was watching from a distance, waiting for you to make a mistake. And that haunted you.

The race began under the overcast sky of Montreal, with the excitement of the crowd contagious to the drivers. At first, everything seemed to be going well, although the temperatures were higher than expected, making tire control difficult. The first laps passed quickly, and you found yourself fighting wheel to wheel with Lando, in a clean and constant battle, looking for the best line to overtake some rivals. But on lap 32, everything changed.

It all happened in the blink of an eye. You reached turn 6 at a dizzying speed, trying to maintain your position, with the brakes slightly overheated. The car became unstable, and before you could react, the rear wheels lost traction. You tried to correct, but the car violently slid, and in an instant, you were crashing into the safety barriers. The sound of the crash was deafening, an explosion of metal, rubber, and carbon fiber. It was as if the world stopped for a moment, as if the air became heavy and dense.

The radio was filled with static, and the McLaren pit wall erupted into chaos. Engineers shouted orders, but everything was a distant echo. Your car had been destroyed in turn 6, one of the toughest corners of the circuit, and the impact left you unconscious for a moment. The medical staff and FIA officials arrived quickly at the scene, but in those seconds that felt like an eternity, the world felt distant and alien.

When you finally woke up, the sunlight blinded you, and the sound of fans, the buzzing of the medical teams, and the murmurs of people filtered into your head like a storm. The pain was unbearable, but the worst part was the confusion. What had happened? Why couldn’t you move your legs?

The voice of one of the doctors reached your ears, low and worried.

“Stay calm, don’t move, we’re here to help. You have a head injury, and probably a concussion. We need you to stay still until we evaluate you.”

Outside the circuit, the chaos was even greater. Journalists were already surrounding the area, television cameras focused on every detail of the accident, and the paddock was filled with people who could do nothing but watch in silence. The faces of your teammates reflected anguish. Lando, on the other side of the pit wall, had stopped focusing on his own race, and his fixed gaze on the screen showing your wrecked car said it all. He was desperate.

Max, who had seen everything from his car on the following lap, braked abruptly when the yellow flag appeared on his screen. It was as if the world had stopped for him too. Max’s face turned serious, his eyes narrowed, and for a moment, he seemed to forget that, on track, he had to continue with the race. Somehow, he was searching for you on the screen, wanting to know if you were okay, if you had survived the crash. But the truth was that, in that moment, neither he nor anyone else knew what had happened.

The medical team worked quickly to stabilize you, and the doctors’ shouts became more urgent. There was worry on their faces, in the way they spoke to each other, but you could barely understand what they were saying. The noise in your head was deafening. What had happened? Why couldn’t you move? Was your body okay?

News of the crash spread quickly on social media. The media flooded the internet with photos of the wrecked car, images of the chaos at the circuit, and the medical staff surrounding you while they tried to keep you conscious. The race continued, but the world of Formula 1 had stopped for a moment. In the hospital, the first reports were arriving through television screens.

Journalists crowded around, asking everyone involved in the accident for the smallest bit of information. Cameras focused on your teammates, who were being approached by the press.

“How is she?,” they asked your mother, whose face was pale, marked by worry.

“She’s being evaluated,” she replied, her voice trembling, unable to hide the anxiety consuming her. “They’ve told us she has a concussion, but they’re doing more tests.”

At that moment, your name became a trending topic on Twitter, and reporters couldn’t stop talking about you, but all you wanted was for everything to stop, for the pain to go away, for the voices in your head to quiet.

Max didn’t know how to react. As he prepared for his last lap, he felt the weight of what had happened, the weight of having been so distant, so focused only on the victory, that he had forgotten what truly mattered. Throughout the entire race, he couldn’t stop thinking about you, about what might be happening at that very moment. The crash had been severe, and the uncertainty gnawed at him.

In the following hours, the news became clear: the crash had left consequences. The concussion was just the beginning. The impact had been so strong that doctors couldn’t yet say whether the physical and psychological effects would be temporary or if you would be left with permanent damage. The fear was palpable, and as exams and tests progressed, it was clear that everything had changed. The accident, the pain, and the uncertainty were now an inevitable part of the story. Your career, your life, everything you had built up until now, was at stake.

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aettuddae · 6 months ago

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business matter — chapter 131.

a christmas special.

↳ synopsis: two of the most important kpop companies covet a partnership with a huge global brand, only to be surprised when the deal is extended to both labels. fearing potential sabotage and cynical strategies to secure exclusivity for just one of them, both CEOs resort to desperate measures. in a bid to maintain trust and prevent betrayal before the signing, they come up with a pact: forcing a fake relationship between the leaders of their star girlgroups. if one side attempted to fail the other, they threaten to expose it all to the conservative south korea.

masterlist | prev | next

[written chapter]

december 25, christmas had arrived.

for many ordinary families it was a special holiday spent together, where they ate delicious things and showered each other with attention and gifts, for other ordinary families it was perhaps a day like any other. but if there was one certainty it was that if your job is to be an idol and during the year you released even minimally relevant music, then december 25 was just another workday, and a very exhaustive one at that.

all the groups that played on the radios during the year today were at the sbs stations recording the christmas special. a compilation of pre-recorded performances of the same songs they had sung over and over again the past twelve months, and some special ones among the most relevant celebrities.

karina had arrived earlier than the rest of the members that day as she had a collaboration with other groups to film, and then wandered around the station waiting for her bandmates and her turn to take the stage as a group. every year she would have liked to spend that date with her family, but instead she had to be cooped up for hours in that building surrounded by people she hardly knew who were in her same situation, bored and uncomfortable with her wardrobe, waiting for the time when everyone would come out on stage at the end of the event to greet their fans.

after trying to kill time walking around the venue interacting with her industry friends, making content together, playing games on her phone and anything else interesting she could find, it was finally time to go up to say goodbye and she headed her members excited as it meant she would soon be going home. so quickly she reached to the entrance to the set that aespa ended up among the first in line, ahead of everyone, and while waiting to be signaled to enter, the girl got distracted looking around the room they were in.

she was confronted with many familiar faces, even making eye contact with some and having to greet them, while many others she didn't recognize from anywhere. as she moved her eyes through the crowd, she ended up bumping into a figure she identified.

trying to keep herself entertained and with all the work she had to do, she had forgotten that HeAVEN would also be showing up there.

she met chaeyoung's back and couldn't help but stare as if the girl, who clearly couldn't stand her, was going to feel her attention on her and turn around to greet her. but it wasn't the taller one she wanted, it was the presence of the group that captivated her because it made serim, even though she wasn't there because of her hiatus, feel closer.

ningning followed her gaze back to what had her so transfixed, meeting the people with whom she had already formed a bond of friendship and raised her hand to greet minnie who was the only one standing there facing her side. the older one noticed the movement on the girl's part and when she realized it was yizhuo, she returned the greeting cheerfully, tapping yves' shoulder, giving her a strange look and causing her to wave back too, though more shyly. yujin and chaeyoung joined in last as they saw their companions, turning to see who they had met to also say hello. out of nowhere, chaeyoung, just looking at ningning, pointed to the side, telling her to look, and both she and jimin, who was witnessing the entire interaction, turned their heads in that direction, finding serim leaning against a wall with her manager, eyes lost in the screen of her phone.

the girl was so bored that she had gone to support her teammates to at least spend christmas with them instead of at home alone with her porcupine, and now she had to wait for the others to come back from the closing.

when jimin saw her, she became anxious. they had been talking through chat these days, but as it happened lately, they didn't have time to meet because of the younger girl's busy schedule. serim was surprisingly more friendly and that made jimin not hesitate to interact with her. when she knew they were in the same place, she wanted to run out to be with her, but as she started moving people out of her way to get to her, yizhuo stopped her.

"they are about to tell us to come up." she warned her.

"but namu..." a small pout formed on her lips, she really wanted to go talk to her.

"namu will still be there when we go down." she reaffirmed.

and as if they had heard her, a group of staff appeared to order them, putting the groups in line and making them pass slowly in an organized way. aespa passed among the first ones, staying in the front row.

other than posing for the fans' cameras and waiting for the conductors in charge to say the last words, there wasn't much more to that part of the show. they would also receive christmas, although it really only consisted of a confetti explosion and, actually, the day was almost over. it was all performative, but for a part, if anything, they had something special to do during the holidays and they could spend time with their fans.

one of the mcs started to speak, reading his letters full of formal words and superficial questions to ask some of the guest acts, while the idols greeted the audience as they had been trained to do. but karina's head wasn't there, as much as she loved interacting with her fandom and wanted to show respect for the hard work of the narrators, her mind kept going back to the backstage.

she was trying to be patient, but it seemed like every word they said came out slower. she just wanted to go be with her who was sure lonely and bored on christmas eve. just wanted to spend all the christmases that followed with her.

her senses came back to work when she noticed that they were saying the final words, the last words of the speech they had prepared, welcoming christmas and allowing all the groups to start wandering around the stage for a while before letting them go.

but jimin wouldn't stay for that,

jimin wanted to spend christmas with serim.

at least she could say she thought twice about it and both times thought it was a great idea to run off the stage, passing through a bunch of colleagues who, if they didn't clear a path for her, tried to hold her back to ask if she was okay.

and she was fine, almost, just losing her head a little over a woman.

when she got to the stairs leading to the staff area, her own team rushed towards her to help her with whatever she needed, but jimin pushed them away, passing them and running to where the aisles were, reading the names on all the doors looking for the one that read HeAVEN.

hell, there were an eternity of groups present.

she walked past so many doors, bumping into a world of people, her managers chasing her with intentions of finding a reason for all the chaos as she frantically ran the sbs dressing rooms. until she found it, she found herself face to face with the sign indicating what she was looking for and knocked desperately on the door, but didn't wait for anyone to open it, she opened it herself, almost falling inside where serim, sitting on a chair, looked at her dumbfounded, as well as the whole team of the group who didn't expect a member of aespa to throw herself towards the leader of the group they managed, landing on her lap, taking her face in her hands and pulling her to look her in the eyes.

"merry christmas." spoke jimin while from the monitor showing the transmission the exact same words could be heard from the conductor. "merry christmas, my namu." she repeated, leaning over her, who was now holding her waist to help her keep her balance. "i love you."

she dared to admit it and also to kiss her. drawing her face up to hers, shortening the distance, joining in a desperate, but somewhat shy kiss charged with tenderness and need. it had been so long since they kissed that it was like rediscovering something you knew you were addicted to, falling back into the vice. they were looking for more closeness, contact, for their bodies to intertwine like roots of a tree that grow without direction and belong to the same system. karina's arms clung to the older girl's neck, while she stood up, pushing the chair a little out of the way, so she could occupy the space her legs took up with the girl's presence, without letting her lips come loose even by accident.

"are you sure?" serim broke contact for a moment, opening her eyes to show desperation and illusion in these. "do you love me?"

"i love you." she left a short kiss on her lips. "i love you, i love you." she gave a peck each time she said it. "i love you." the girl kissed again. "and i'm sorry for not saying it sooner." she leaned her forehead against hers. "but after your birthday and seeing you sick, thinking about the possibility of something happening to you and the need i had to be me and no one else to take care of you..." the sentences came like waterfalls from her mouth, intraquilly trying to express her emotions. "i was afraid of being wrong, but nothing was ever so certain in my life."

serim wrapped her arms around karina's torso. "do you love me?" she asked once again.

"i love you." she confirmed, a flirtatious smile on her face.

the older one lifted her into the air taking advantage of the hold she had established on her, causing her to bend her knees, lifting her legs, and hold tighter to her. "i love you too!" she reciprocated in an exclamation, making them spin, looking genuinely joyful for the first time in months. "and merry christmas." she set her down again, accompanied with a chaste brush of their lips. "please, don't ruin this." she pleaded, a little jokingly, but you could see the sincerity in her eyes.

"i'll be good." she caressed her cheeks. "we'll be fine." she assured.

"oh my god, how beautiful." a gangly voice filled the room making everyone turn to look at aespa's manager who was choking back tears admiring the whole scene as he futilely wiped his tears with a handkerchief.

"slut!" appeared chaeyoung from the hallway.

"my manhwa lives!" celebrated ryujin with her head poking out from the door frame.

ningning was also among the accumulation of people, at the front of it all, next to the members of the staff who had tried to stop jimin, leaning against the doorframe, she said nothing, but gave them a genuine smile.

(!)

— taglist [CLOSED]: @yoontoonwhs @cwpiqwon @aliceiwk @xen248 @gtfoiydlyj @rinapomu @aeriuchinarga @multiliker @somedaydream @impossiblesharkcashrebel @yjiminswallet @nwjnsloona @yerimbrit @73vyn @dni-unavailable @yizhuobberi @sewiouslyz @yeetaberry127 @masuowo @yallatalla @aerithykly @chaenniefirst @minfolio @starrynini05 @hotluvlet @wmnrhot @mineige @lisaswifey @brocoliisscared @fae-the-wanderer

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er-osion · 5 months ago

Text

Mastermind

pairing: Kaz Brekker x gn!Reader

summary: inspired by Taylor Swift’s song Mastermind. Reader becomes a bartender at the Crow Club and tries winning over Kaz’s affection

word count: 1.6k

warnings: none, fluff

you can see the full taylor swift song-fic masterlist here

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Looking for a job in the Barrel can be a terrifying ordeal. The bosses, pay, workplace, and work itself is often not anyone’s first choice. Thankfully for you, the decision on where to work became easy the day you stepped into the Crow Club and got a look at the infamous Dirtyhands himself. You decided then and there that you had to work in this establishment and get to know the Bastard of the Barrel better.

For some reason you craved his attention, you wanted him to notice you and your skills. Sure, maybe harboring a giant crush on the Barrel’s most brutal crime lord wasn’t the best idea, but it sure made the game of catching his attention more fun. But you knew this wasn’t going to be some quick ordeal, no, you were prepared to play the long game. Like a chess master, you maneuvered yourself slowly but surely over the years to become someone Kaz always noticed and relied on, even if he didn’t realize it. You proved your mettle rather quickly, and were promoted to bar manager in the first year you worked at the club. From then on out, your master plan of getting Kaz to fall for you was rather smooth sailing as you now had more reason to talk to him.

Over time, you got to know things about him like his favorite drinks, favorite foods, schedule, moods, etc. And you used this to your advantage.

After about a year and a half of working at the Crow Club, you started bringing Kaz weekly treats up to his office during the slow hours of the day. At first, the cane-wielding boy tried to discourage your efforts, but you were undeterred and eventually it became a sort of ritual that the both of you subconsciously relied on to get through the day. Instead of making one of the other bartenders bring up the papers on backstock, sales, and whatnot, you took them up to Kaz yourself. The first few weeks he let you set the papers down on his desk and leave without a word, but eventually, he began asking you to read the key points or important information out loud to him. Sometime later, Kaz then began asking your opinion on new drinks or food to be added to the menu, seasonal specials, and other strategies that could boost club patronage. You knew you had gotten your in once this happened, as you realized Kaz seemed to hold your thoughts relating to the business in high regard.

When Kaz came down from his office to observe the club, you always made sure to put yourself in the most visible spots. You purposefully avoided making eye contact with him, wanting him to seek you out. It worked. Kaz couldn’t help but search for your figure first and foremost whenever he came down to observe the club floor. You got to your shift extra early so you’d be there when Kaz walked in, your face being the first thing he’d see every time he came to the club.

Kaz never realized how much he’d come to depend on your presence. You had slowly but surely worn him down so his eyes were always searching for you and his mind always wandering to you. Kaz began to anticipate with great pleasure, your weekly treats and reports to his office. Kaz began having to suppress a smile every time you waved at him when he walked into the club at the start of the workday. Like a bee to honey, you’d caught him in your trap before he’d ever gotten a clue.

One day however, you got sick. A normal seasonal cold, but you were far too ill to go to work. Your biggest grievance? Not being able to sneak glances at the gorgeous boy you call your boss. You sent a message to Kaz directly, letting him know you wouldn’t be in today. Kaz hadn’t opened the message at first. It had been put upside down on his desk so he hadn’t seen the address and thus elected to ignore it for some time in favor of paperwork. His mind however, was in no place to work. His thoughts felt abnormally jumbled today. He wasn’t able to keep a coherent train of thought and his focus was just terrible. Something felt so painfully off. The clock hit 2:30 and his brown eyes habitually dragged to the corner of his desk where he’d usually find your little treat, only, nothing was there. Then it hit him like a rock. You. He hadn’t seen you at all today. No greeting wave. No presence on the floor. And no little treat for him.

Something in his chest stirred uncomfortably. Why should it matter anyway? He asked himself. It’s not like he depended on your presence or anything to get through the workday. Kaz shook his head, trying to rid himself of thoughts of you and refocus on his work. This proved impossible. Even though the thing making him so antsy had been identified, Dirtyhands couldn’t be settled. Why weren’t you here? What was keeping you from work? From him.

But he knew you weren’t the type to just not show up to work unannounced. So Kaz Brekker began frantically searching his desk for any sort of note from you, which is when he came across your message from hours ago. Kaz wanted to smack himself for being dumb enough to ignore the small slip of paper as he read the brief details of your illness from your familiar scrawl. Without even thinking, Kaz rose from his chair and shoved on his coat and hat and barged out of the door. He only got full control of his mind back once he found himself ordering a bowl of soup from a nearby shop. His instincts, for reasons unknown to him, had somehow carried him in the direction of your apartment. After paying the old lady for the soup, Kaz came to the rational decision that it was too late to turn back now and thus continued his walk to your apartment.

Meanwhile, you were cuddled up in bed in a cocoon of blankets and misery. Your body ached while you sat envying your days of health. Your train of feverish thought was abruptly interrupted by a sharp knock at your door. Confused but curious, you lethargically dragged yourself from your bed and over to the door. The last thing you expected to see when you opened your door, was Kaz Brekker standing outside with a to-go bowl of soup, trying to look put-together and not at all frazzled.

You blinked at each other for a moment before your voice scratched out, “Mr. Brekker?”

Kaz inwardly winced at your sick-sounding voice. “You said you were sick.”

You looked at him, waiting for him to continue but he just looked at you, seemingly as confused as you were. “I am.” You confirmed slowly.

“I’ve brought some soup, supposed to help with a quick recovery.” Kaz finally finished as he lifted his arm holding the bag containing your soup. You smiled unashamedly.

“Thanks, I appreciate it, Mr. Brekker.”

“Kaz is fine.”. He said without thinking. Your heart stuttered and you couldn’t contain the way your smile twisted up into a grin. You raised an eyebrow silently questioning and teasing him for the sudden title change. “Well, we’re good enough acquaintances for soup deliveries so we’re good enough to be on a first name basis.”. Kaz justified quickly, feeling both foolish and proud of his somewhat weak answer.

You felt giddy. You hadn’t expected him to allow for the dropping of titles so fast in your relationship, you were planning for another several months. Seems like this long game may not be so long after all.

“Sorry I couldn’t make it in today.” You felt the need to apologize, for, you really did feel bad about missing work.

Kaz gave a small shrug and rolled his eyes, “It’s not like you can really control it. Just don’t be an idiot and do anything to make it worse.” He paused, thinking over his next words, “Just make a speedy recovery, the club needs its manager back as soon as possible.” Kaz chose not to add the part where he needs you back as soon as possible, but something told you the sentiment was there. You carefully took the soup from Kaz’s gloved grip and the man was both thankful and disappointed that your fingers didn’t brush his with the action.

The two of you stood there, slightly awkwardly, staring at each other unsure of what to say but not wanting whatever this was to end. Then your illness reminded you of its existence and you turned around to double over in a coughing fit. Kaz flinched and took an instinctive step back while you were turned around. When you’d recovered and turned once more to face him, you broke the silence.

“Thanks again for this, Kaz, it’s nice to know that someone is looking out for me, somewhere.”. You spoke with sincerity. Kaz’s stomach annoyingly erupted into butterflies as he heard the pleasant way his name rolled off of your tongue.

“Let’s be clear, I’m not ‘looking out for you’, I’m ensuring my best employee can return to work as soon as possible to keep my business running smoothly.” Kaz said didactically with a frown.

“Right.” You said in a mix of a chuckle and a scoff, your eyes teasing. Kaz nodded stiffly at you and then turned on his heels and walked away. You watched him retreat until you could no longer see him, reentering your apartment with a satisfied smile.

Kaz came to the realization as he was walking back to the club, that his sanity was completely dependent on you. He doesn’t know how you did it, doesn’t know what games you played, only that you must be some strategic genius, a mastermind to have gotten the Bastard of the Barrel to fall head over heels for you.

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@coldmermaidhologram thanks for reminding me to add this song to the masterlist and sorry it’s a little short, hope you enjoyed :)

#kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker #kaz brekker x you #x reader #x you #six of crows x reader #six of crows #kaz brekker fic #kaz brekker imagine #kaz brekker fanfic #kaz brekker song fic #taylor swift song fic

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silentscrying · 8 months ago

Text

🏀 buzzer beater | chapter SIX.

nba!gojo x manager!reader || directory. || prev. || next.

summary: you thought you'd gotten rid of arrogant NBA star satoru gojo when he left the curses after your first year in basketball management. but when your contract is up three years later, you find yourself working with him once again as the manager for the sorcerers. as you navigate playoff season alongside long-time friend ieiri shoko and the sorcerers' insufferable star player, you start to realize his sudden departure from the curses may not have been what it seemed, and maybe gojo isn't exactly the person (or player) you thought he was, either.

warnings: language, mentions of smoking, absurdly cute dogs. || sfw. 2.6k words.

PRACTICE IS IN full swing at Jujutsu Arena two days later when a girl walks through the back doors with two massive dogs.

The sounds of thumping basketballs and squeaking shoes and shouts echo down the hall from the gym, the doors wide open, and you wonder if Yaga will be mad that there are dogs in here.

You don’t really care—you’re chiefly concerned with the fact that these dogs are so fucking cute and you are sprinting over to pet them before she’s halfway down the hall. They’re the same size, definitely the same breed, maybe some kind of husky mix—one is jet black and the other pure white.

“Hello!” you coo, sinking to your knees as the white one licks your face. The girl laughs and tries to pull them back, but they’re too excited. “Yes, hi! Who are you, cuties?”

“Sorry! They’re very friendly.”

The girl holding the leashes has long, dark hair pulled into a ponytail, two strands loose and curling at her chin. She looks up as you hear footsteps behind you, and the dogs pull free of the girl’s grip to jump on Megumi. “Hi!” he laughs. “Miss me?”

“Hello, my favorite sister, thank you for watching my dogs again, how are you?” the girl says flatly, hands on her hips. “Oh, great, thank you for asking!”

Megumi is fully on the ground now, the dogs wagging their tails at the speed of light and climbing all over him. He grins up at her through their fur. “Thank you,” he relents.

Ah. This must be Tsumiki.

“They’re yours?” You sink your fingers into soft white fur. “Why have you never brought them before? I will literally cuddle with them every practice—”

“That’s why,” he says, raising a brow. “You know you wouldn’t get anything done if they were around.”

“Excuse you.” You make a face, but he’s very right. You’re already fully prepared to sacrifice your entire workday to pet them.

“This is Shiro,” Megumi tells you as the white dog jumps up to lick your face, “and this is Kuro—hey, down! Shiro. Down. Good girl.” He laughs and pats Shiro on the head as she flops onto the ground.

Megumi isn’t cleared to play for two more days, but he’s been coming to practice to watch and talk strategy with Kusakabe. This is the most animated you’ve seen him since the concussion—actually, this might be the most animated you’ve seen him ever. You’ve never seen him this soft before, this affectionate. The love he has for these dogs is palpable.

“Oi.” Tsumiki walks over and yanks Megumi to his feet, standing on her tiptoes and holding his face in her hands. She glares at him. “Next time you get concussed on national television, answer your phone, Gumi.”

“Sorry, Miki,” he mumbles, heat rising to his cheeks when he realizes he’s getting chewed out by his sister in front of you. He’s significantly taller than her, but you know immediately that he’ll do anything she asks of him. The older sister aura is undeniable.

“You’re lucky Yuji called me or I would’ve flown up there myself to slap you.”

Megumi rolls his eyes and Tsumiki releases him from her hold. The dogs crowd around his legs, butting their heads up against him until he pets them. “C’mon,” Megumi says. “They’re practicing. Gojo will want to say hi.”

You initially think Yaga might be pissed about the dogs being in the gym, but he’s got a soft spot for them—they trot in ahead of Megumi, and he can’t even reprimand them. They even get Kusakabe to smile. They’re well-behaved, not venturing onto the court, just hovering around Megumi obediently.

Notably less well-behaved, Gojo drops a ball the second he sees Tsumiki and abandons whatever drill he’s running, bounding over to the side of the court. “Tsumiki!” he yells, and scoops her up in a hug.

“Satoru—ew, you’re sweaty! Stop, I have class!”

As soon as Gojo is off the court the dogs are all over him. They love him, and are obviously very familiar with him. Kuro tries to chew on his headband, and Gojo is fully rolling around the floor in a two-on-one wrestling match within seconds.

“Okay, okay,” Yaga interrupts eventually. “Back to work.” Gojo sighs dramatically and nudges the dogs in your direction.

“I’m being evicted,” he tells them sadly. “Go to Team Mom. She’ll take care of you.” You roll your eyes but immediately let Shiro sprawl across your lap. She’s too big to be a lapdog, but she doesn’t seem to know or care, which is fine by you.

You were planning to head out earlier today, but you wind up leaned against Kuro with Shiro nestled across your lap for the duration of the practice. You balance your laptop on top of Shiro. She doesn’t seem to mind.

Tsumiki’s settled in beside you, killing time before she has to leave.

“You’re the default dogsitter, then?”

She laughs, ruffling Shiro’s fur. “Yeah, when the team’s away. It’s the only form of payment he’ll take for helping me pay for grad school.” She rolls her eyes. “Even though I’d do it either way. I couldn’t drop them off tonight because I have class, and since Gumi’s not cleared to drive I figured I’d just swing by here before.” You smile at the nickname, remembering his name in Gojo’s contacts.

“What are you in grad school for?”

“Social work,” she says. “Gumi’s been really supportive about it, which is sweet. Satoru too.”

Right. Gojo considers both of them family. “That’s really cool,” you say truthfully. “Why social work?”

Tsumiki sighs, watching Megumi bent over a tablet with Kusakabe, deep in conversation. “We didn’t have the best home situation growing up,” she admits. “I honestly wasn’t sure we were gonna make it, at least before Satoru showed up. I want to make sure that kind of stuff doesn’t happen to other kids.”

Her voice is soft as she runs a hand along Kuro’s back, and she tears her gaze away from Megumi to look at you. “You can ask,” she says, smiling. “Really, it’s okay.”

You feel the heat on your cheeks, feeling caught. You are curious. So curious. You take a moment to choose the right words. “Gojo told me he met you guys when Megumi was still in high school,” you say finally. “And Megumi didn’t think he could play D1.”

“Ah,” Tsumiki says. “He didn’t think he could go to college at all, really, even though I told him to. I was… really sick, around the time he was being scouted. At that point, he was all I had. I was all he had. He was going to work full-time to pay the medical bills.”

She doesn’t have to say it, for you to put two and two together. I did him a favor.

“He paid them,” you realize aloud, looking for him on the court without realizing it. “Gojo paid your medical bills. So Megumi could go D1.”

You slam your mouth shut as soon as you say it, feeling like you’ve overstepped, jumped to conclusions. But Tsumiki’s just got that same warm smile on her face, nodding. “Yeah. He really… I don’t know where we’d be without him. Where I’d be, without both of them.”

She seems to register the range of emotions on your face, the way you’re fumbling for words, and mercifully takes the conversation in a new direction. “Which is why I’m very grateful to you,” she says, “for keeping them on track.”

You laugh, startled. “Well, they certainly make it easier than the last place I came from.”

Tsumiki hums, like she knows what you mean. “Megumi likes you,” she says. “The last manager they had here wasn’t nearly as good, he said.”

The heat rises to your cheeks and you look down, fighting off a surprised smile. Megumi isn’t the most vocal—you’ve never had the impression that he doesn’t like you, but you also never expected to actually be praised by him.

“Says you keep Satoru in check,” Tsumiki says, “which is quite the feat.”

You chuckle. “Nobody can keep him in check. Not really.” Tsumiki just shakes her head and smiles.

“But you recognize that,” she says, “and that makes you different.”

You’re not sure what to do with her quiet observation, and for a while the two of you watch practice in companionable silence, interrupted only by the thumping of dog tails and the sounds of the gym.

She heads out after about fifteen minutes, waving to Gojo and forcing Megumi into a hug.

“I’ll pick them up the night before you fly out,” she promises, and kisses both of the dogs goodbye.

“So are they your dogs now or can I have them back?” Megumi asks as practice winds down, arms folded as he looks down at you. You smile up at him, thinking about what Tsumiki said. Megumi likes you. It means a lot to you, you realize, that he thinks you’re good at your job. Something warm blooms in your chest at the sentiment.

“They are my best friends now and forever,” you announce. “I will die for them.” Kuro’s tail thumps happily beside you.

Yuji plops down beside you and Kuro sits up, licking the sweat off his face. “Hi, cutie!” he says. “Hi! Yeah, who’s a good boy? You’re the best boy. Yes you are. I love you, yep, sure do. Goooood boy.”

Megumi rolls his eyes. “You ready to go?” He throws a set of car keys at Yuji and he catches them in one hand, the other still scratching Kuro behind the ears.

“You ready?” Yuji asks the dog. “You ready to go? Yeah? Let’s go!” He must be giving Megumi a ride since he’s not cleared to drive yet.

“Bye, little buddies,” you coo, booping each of their noses in turn. Shiro licks your face and Kuro butts his head against the heel of your hand, and then they’re following Megumi down the hall.

“Met the sister, huh?” Gojo says as you stand, brushing the dog fur off your pants unsuccessfully. “Man, I love those dogs.”

“She’s cool,” you say. “I like her. And I love them. I’ve never seen Fushiguro that soft.”

“Oh, yeah, he’s an absolute sap for them,” Gojo laughs. You watch the expression on his face like you can uncover something there. He’s softer when he talks about Megumi, about Tsumiki, a relaxed curve to his lips and a warm look in his eyes. You feel like there’s an entire person in Satoru Gojo, one wholly separate from the NBA star, who you haven’t really gotten to know.

Things have started to click into place now, filled in by Tsumiki’s side of the story. It makes sense that Gojo would be so worried about Megumi getting hurt. If he isn’t able to play, he isn’t able to help Tsumiki pay for grad school. Gojo would offer to pay, and Megumi and Tsumiki wouldn’t let him—they still feel like they owe Gojo as it is.

Gojo knows all of this, and on top of it, considers the Fushiguros family. He knows Megumi would run himself ragged trying to support Tsumiki on whatever income he could. He wouldn’t let her drop out. And it makes sense, too, that he didn’t feel it was his place to say anything—you’re glad that you heard about Tsumiki’s medical issues from Tsumiki herself, even if you’re surprised she was so forthcoming about them despite barely knowing you.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Gojo asks, tapping you on the temple. You pull back and swat his hand away, snapping out of your reverie.

“I’m thinking of all the ways Utahime and I can make fun of you.”

“How dare you,” he gasps, clutching his chest. “You wound me.” He grins and tosses Kento a ball as he goes around collecting them, shoving them into a mesh bag. “Well, I’ve got a Fushiguro to annoy. See you tomorrow, Alley Cat.”

You roll your eyes and wave him off, and he whistles as he disappears from view.

—

The rest of the week goes by uneventfully. Megumi returns to practice, Yaga drills the team until they drop, and you're spending every waking hour prepping for Baltimore.

The thing is, you are worried. Worried about making it past round two of the playoffs, worried about playing a second seed on their home court.

But the Sorcerers win.

And then they win again.

And again.

You hardly have any time to yourself in the whirlwind of the next two weeks. It's a fast-paced cycle of flying and emailing and calling, arguing with Gojo over whether pineapple belongs on pizza (he says it does), and crashing in hotels after midnight with Ieiri either smoking or snoring on the other side of the room. Press requests are coming in even more than usual because of the upset. The headlines are flooding your inbox.

WOLVERINES FALL TO SORCERERS ON HOME COURT

SECOND-ROUND EASTERN CONFERENCE UPSET HAS WOLVERINES FANS ON EDGE

THIRD SEED SORCERERS ON THEIR WAY TO UNEXPECTED SWEEP?

It's too good to be true, and at the fourth game Baltimore manages to get a win over your team. Yuji's uncle Sukuna gets kicked out of Jujutsu Arena again in a rage, and the loss jars your team—Gojo tries to give them a pep talk, but it mostly centers around the idea that they're better than everyone else, and Ino seems to be the only one really listening.

It's a tough loss, but you're still 3-1. And when you fly back up to Baltimore, you have a feeling it'll be for the last time this season.

You practically fall into Nobara in relief when Ino slams the last shot in just before the buzzer, solidifying the Sorcerers' place in the conference finals. Kento grins, actually grins, and tries to give Ino a high-five that Ino immediately turns into a full-fledged hug.

A series of texts from the Samurai's manager comes in only moments later.

nitta: SEE YOU ON THE 17 !!!! nitta: utahime's so mad nitta: i'm thrilled. we can get sushi

Gojo plucks your phone from your hand and holds it up above you so you can't reach it, and you scowl and briefly consider kneeing him in the nuts in front of the entire stadium.

"Don't text and manage," he says, and you roll your eyes.

"I'm trying to set up conference finals, but if you don't want to go, that's fine," you lie. You were reading Nitta's texts; close enough. Gojo grins and drops the phone back into your hands.

"Conference finals!" he whoops, practically singing as he bounces on the balls of his feet. "Oh, I can't wait to see Utahime."

"She can wait to see you," you say, but Nobara's already pulling Gojo off to the side, camera in hand. You watch as she shoves a clip mic at him and starts barraging him with questions. He takes them in stride, answering animatedly and at one point pulling Megumi into the frame against his will.

You've actually missed talking to him the past week. It's been a hectic few days, and though you've had your share of meaningless arguments and snarky comments and eye rolls, you haven't had a real conversation with Satoru since New York. Now that you know about Tsumiki, there's a part of you that desperately wants to ask him about Geto, about why he was so against Megumi being drafted, about the conflict you can't seem to figure out.

Because despite everything, you do know Geto. And you know it wasn't mere jealousy or insecurity that had him pulling a move like that.

It jars you, shakes you, makes you question the last several years and every interaction you've ever had with him, but when Gojo catches your eye over Nobara's shoulder and smiles, you realize something.

You can't remember why you ever hated him.

directory. || prev. || next.

jjk taglist open: just send me a message!

@shutuppeter @mikikkoo @reactwithjan

shoutout to @reactwithjan for saying that gojo would order pineapple on pizza bc he would and he does.

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nicnak20 · 5 months ago

Text

Behind the screen; Charlie Mayhew:

*Dr. Mayhew likes to keep things strictly professional at work, especially with his colleagues. But when he sees a familiar face behind a screen on a certain site, he becomes more friendlier and more open to trying new things.*

The fluorescent lights of the hospital hummed a monotonous tune, a soundtrack to Charlie and Yn’s shared workday. Yn, perched at her counter, a small fortress of sticky notes and half-empty coffee cups, with charts of this patient or that patient scrambled all over, watched Charlie as he helped Mrs. Davison from the Neo unit navigate the intricacies of the new printer. His patience was remarkable, his tone even and kind, even as Mrs. Davison’s frustration mounted.

Yn had noticed this pattern with Charlie. The way he held the door for everyone, not just the women. The way he offered his extra pen to a flustered resident. The way he remembered everyone’s names and asked about their weekend. It was a gentle, quiet kindness that radiated from him, a subtle warmth in the often sterile environment of their sometimes grim hospital.

She admired it, genuinely. It was a stark contrast to her own carefully constructed walls. Because while Charlie was all open smiles and helpful gestures, Yn lived a double life after 5 pm. The moment her laptop lid snapped shut, a different version of Yn emerged. She wasn’t the meticulous data analyst anymore. She was ‘NyxShadow,’ a formidable nurse in the sprawling online realm of ‘XXXentertainment.’

XXXentertainment was her sanctuary, her creative outlet, the place where she wielded a digital sword and commanded armies of horny doctors or patients. It was a world of intricate lore, passionate community, and thrilling adventures. It was also intensely private. Her online persona was separate, deliberately so, from her real-world identity. The thought of her colleagues, especially Charlie, discovering her online escapades filled her with a peculiar blend of dread and embarrassment.

What would they think? The quiet, focused Yn, leading raids against mythical doctors and nurses who wanted every inch of her, and negotiating 'treatments' with other online patients? It felt absurd, vulnerable. The online world offered a freedom and a sense of power that her everyday life, confined to sterile tools and heart monitors, often lacked. She cherished that separation.

Their hospital had a tradition of Friday night after-work drinks at the pub down the street. Yn participated, mostly staying on the periphery of conversations, observing. Charlie was always in the thick of it, his laughter booming, his arm occasionally slung around a colleague’s shoulder in friendly camaraderie.

Sometimes, their eyes would meet across the crowded table. Charlie would smile, a genuine, uncomplicated smile that made Yn’s stomach do a little flip. She would offer a small, polite smile in return, then quickly look away, a strange nervousness fluttering in her chest.

These moments were fleeting, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. They talked about work, about the weather, about the new season of that popular TV show. The conversations were pleasant, surface-level. There were no deep dives into personal lives, no shared secrets, no lingering gazes. They were simply colleagues, existing in the same professional orbit.

One Friday, during one of these gatherings, the conversation drifted towards online gaming. Yn felt a cold sweat prickle her skin. Lisa from rehabilitation was excitedly describing her latest mobile game obsession. Charlie chimed in, mentioning a strategy game he occasionally played to unwind.

“What about you, Yn?” Lisa asked, turning her bright eyes towards her. “Do you play any games?”

Yn’s mind raced. Lie? Be vague? A wave of panic washed over her. She managed a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head. “Not really,” she replied, her voice a little too quiet. “Don’t have much time.”

Charlie, who had been about to take a sip of his beer, paused and looked at her. He didn’t press the issue, just nodded and turned back to the conversation. But Yn felt his gaze linger for a split second longer than necessary. Her heart pounded in her chest. Had he suspected something? No, it was her own paranoia, she told herself.

The night continued, the conversations flowing around her. Yn felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. Relief that she hadn’t been forced to reveal her secret, and disappointment that she couldn’t share this vibrant part of her life, even with someone as kind as Charlie.

As the evening drew to a close, and people started to head home, Charlie found himself standing next to Yn near the exit.

“Goodnight, Yn,” he said, his smile warm.

“Goodnight, Charlie,” she replied, managing a slightly more genuine smile this time.

He hesitated for a moment, then said, “Have a good weekend.”

“You too,” she said, and with a final nod, she stepped out into the cool night air.

The distance between them felt vast, despite the few feet that separated them. The unspoken spaces, the unseen worlds they each inhabited, created an invisible barrier. For now, that barrier remained intact. Charlie would continue to be the kind colleague, and Yn would continue to be the private warrior queen, their separate lives occasionally brushing against each other during office hours and awkward after-work drinks, but never truly colliding. And that, for Yn, was exactly how she wanted it to be. For now.

***************************************

One night after his shift ended, Charlie found himself wandering into a familiar adult website, out of sheer boredom more than anything. He scrolled through videos, when suddenly, there was Yn up on the screen - dressed in the trashiest candy striper uniform, bent over a hospital bed as a well-endowed actor entered her from behind. Charlie was shocked. Yn? His reserved, prim-and-proper nurse colleague? Doing porn?

Over the next few days, Charlie couldn't help but notice Yn differently at work. He'd catch a glimpse of her curvaceous figure as she moved down the halls in her tight scrubs. Or see how her ample cleavage peeked out from the V of her shirt as she leaned over patient charts. She was gorgeous, and now he knew she was not so innocent as she appeared.

One evening after their shift ended, Charlie found an excuse to approach Yn in the dimly lit parking garage. "Hey Yn, got a minute?" he asked casually.

She looked at him quizzically. "Sure Charlie, what's up?"

With a smirk he continued, "Well, I know it's none of my business, but I happened to see your... extracurricular activities the other night. On that website."

Yn's eyes went wide, her face flushing with embarrassment. "Oh my god... I'm so sorry you had to see that! It's just something I did once, for the money. I'm mortified you know now." She looked like she wanted to melt into the floor.

"Hey now, no shame," Charlie said gently, putting a hand on her arm. "You're smoking hot, Yn. That body of yours is wasted on the patients. I can appreciate it."

Yn let out a nervous laugh, glancing around to be sure no one else was nearby. "Well, I suppose it's a weight off my chest that you know. I was so worried someone from work would find out."

Charlie leaned in closer, his eyes roaming over her body unabashedly. "You know, if you ever wanted to continue appreciating those assets in a more...up close and personal way, I'd be happy to help with that. Strictly professional of course."

Yn bit her lip, considering it. She had known Charlie was an attractive guy, even if she never let on before. "I... I guess we could do that. Just this once, and you have to promise it stays between us."

"Scout's honor," Charlie grinned. "My car?"

They quickly got into his SUV, pulling off into the dark corner of the garage. Charlie wasted no time, reaching over to palm Yn's large breasts through her shirt. She let out a soft moan, arching into his touch.

"Damn Yn, you're so fucking hot," he groaned, tweaking her nipples. "I knew you'd be packing a perfect body under those scrubs."

With a shaky hand, Yn reached for his zipper. "I'm glad you like it, Charlie. It's been too long since I've gotten some action."

Charlie lifted his hips as she pulled his hard cock out, his eyes nearly rolling back as she took him into her warm mouth. "Ohh fuck yes, your mouth feels amazing," he panted.

Yn bobbed her head eagerly, sucking him off with gusto. It had been ages since she'd done this and it felt so good to let loose. Her body ached to be touched and Charlie's thick cock filled her perfectly.

She worked him deep in her throat, slurping and moaning like a whore as he bucked his hips, using her mouth. He groped at her big tits, pulling the cups of her bra down. Yn whimpered around him, sending vibrations through his shaft.

"Unnngh Yn, gonna cum!" Charlie grunted a warning before spilling his heavy load down her greedy throat. She gulped it down dutifully, licking his cock clean.

"Thanks Charlie," Yn said, tucking him back in his pants and sitting up with a satisfied smile. "You're a real friend."

"No problem," he chuckled. "Anytime you need another release, you know where to find me. It'll be our little secret."

Yn grinned and climbed out of the car. "You're a bad influence. But don't think this means I'll let you slack off on the job. I still outrank you."

Charlie laughed as she sauntered back to her car, giving her a little wave. He had a feeling this was just the beginning of a beautiful, dirty friendship.

*I was working on two blurbs at once! Hope the person who requested this enjoyed it!!!!*

#nicholas alexander chavez #nicholas alexander chavez one shots #nicholas chavez #nicholas chavez fanfiction #nicholas chavez imagine #nicholas chavez x reader #nicholas chavez x y/n #lavender baby #charlie mayhew #dr. mayhew #father charlie grotesquerie #grotesquerie

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totallyxtaurus · 3 months ago

Text

Big Man, Little Dignity

Summary: ? Pairing: AttorneyxSylus x fem reader (could be MC or reader) A/N: Hi everyone! I hope everyone has been taking sweet care of themselves! I was going to add a poll on my last poll about which idea people might like better, attorney Sylus x public defender MC or attorney Sylus with a discovery specialist. However, I hit 100 affinity level with Sylus tonight so instead I'm gonna post both stories then add a poll to them to see which ones you like the vibe of better! The beginning will be the same for both which is why it's isolated at the top. They're still rough since I haven't been working on them for very long but let me know what you guys think! 💗

The small town lay tucked away like a secret between the bright, autumn-painted ridges of the mountains. It woke slowly, as it always did beneath the weight of a mid-October morning. Leaves of vibrant orange, burgundy, and pine cling desperately to the branches lining the sidewalk. Some lose the fight and flutter lazily wherever the wind carries them down Broadway. Brick storefronts—some painted in shades of cream, cranberry or mustard—stand proudly, as if made for this season, each holding a historic charm.

Locals walk their dogs in puffy coats, nodding to each other in a way that only longtime neighbors do. At the end of the street, the clock tower stands sentinel over it all, the red stone of the courthouse glowing against the dismal morning sky. A soft, old-fashioned melody rings from its bells, marking the start of the workday.

The hanging café sign creaked and swayed gently as if beckoning people in. The scent of fresh coffee and cinnamon mingled with chimney smoke and damp leaves, a small-town aroma that clings to you long after you've left.

(Discovery Specialist):

The café door jingled softly as Morrigan slipped inside, clutching her messenger bag like a shield—hoping it passed for professional. She ordered the strongest coffee they had and claimed a table near the window, letting the morning light filter across the worn wood table and the stack of forms she lost sleep trying to understand.

It still felt strange, sitting here with a laptop, an ID badge that didn’t feel quite real yet, and the uneasy sense of pretending to have her shit together. She glanced out the window at the courthouse looming at the end of the street, its architecture like something out of a gothic novel.

She used to imagine writing about towns like this, not filing evidence logs and redacting witness statements for someone else’s trial strategy. Her BA in English hadn’t prepared her for this. Neither had the late nights spent flipping through MA coursework at the ripe old age of twenty-eight, wondering if she was cut out for any of it. Law school had been a desperate pivot—a “what now?” after the empty fridge made one thing painfully clear: creative ambition didn’t pay rent.

But this job-this opportunity- meant something. Even if it wasn’t glamorous, it was just until she finished school. Even if the ADA whose name was on half the files had a reputation for being a smug, Armani-suited terror. Sylus. She hadn’t met him yet, but she’d heard plenty.

She took a deep breath, letting the comforting scent of her hometown settle in her lungs. You can do this. Even if it didn’t always feel that way.

The bell over the cafe door jingled again. This time, the atmosphere shifted like someone had cracked open a window on a winter morning. Morrigan didn’t look up at first. She was too focused on her email, rereading her supervisor’s instructions for the day. She had a checklist to memorize and a whole filing system to learn before noon. No time to get distracted by—

“Double espresso, no room. And one of those cinnamon things.”

The voice was deep, clipped, and smooth— not unfriendly, just... efficient. Like someone who spoke only when absolutely necessary and never repeated themselves.

Her eyes flicked up.

And there he was, sticking out like a sore thumb in this quaint town. A designer black suit with red accents, a charcoal coat, and the kind of rigid posture that screamed important. He stood at the counter, glancing down at his phone like he was already three meetings into his day.

Sylus.

She knew it had to be him. He looked exactly like his reputation—dangerously competent, cold-eyed, and dressed like he’d taken a wrong turn on his way to a Manhattan boardroom. Everyone in town gossiped about why he was here and not somewhere bigger. She knew his type from law school—the ones who never showed up to class in sweatpants, who knew the right answer before the question was even finished.

As he turned to wait for his order, his gaze swept across the room—and landed on her.

A pause.

He blinked, then looked again, like he was trying to place her.

Morrigan’s stomach flipped. She gave him a polite, neutral smile—the kind you give someone you don’t want to talk to but can’t just outright ignore.

Please, please don’t come over here or talk to me, she thought.

He arched a brow, just slightly. Then, much to her horror, he walked over.

Fuck.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” he said—casual, curious, with a hint of playfulness. “New in town?”

Morrigan closed her laptop halfway. “Just new to the job.”

He nodded slowly, eyebrows knitting as if a thought struck him.

“Discovery unit?”

She titled her head. “How—?”

His mouth curved—barely a smile, more like the idea of one. “I caught a glimpse of you during your interview. Morrigan, right?”

“I take it you like to know everyone you’re working with?”

“I like to know who I’ll be relying on,” he said smoothly. “Or sparring with.”

Morrigan let out a dry laugh. “Is that how you see it?”

He chuckled, and Morrigan could practically hear the money in it. “Well, I am an attorney—conflict or cooperation is kind of our whole thing. Some people handle it. Others run for the hills. I’m curious which you’ll be.”

She leaned back in her seat, scoffing at his audacity. Is he serious? “Guess we’ll find out. Hope you won’t take me to court over your loss.”

“I don’t lose, sweetie,” he replied, voice smooth as ever

His name was called. He accepted the cup and pastry with a nod of thanks, then paused before stepping out.

“I’m Sylus, by the way.”

“I know.”

He raised a brow again.

“Morrigan,” she added. "Did you forget already?"

“Now why would I do that?” he replied, slipping out the door.

Smug prick, she thought.

(Public Defender):

Inside, however, the courtroom held its own distinct atmosphere-tense. The air crackled with intensity as the current hearing unfolded. Stained glass caught the weak sunlight, casting jewel-toned patterns across the portraits of stern-faced judges that loomed over the proceedings. A few townsfolk had settled in the back rows, arms folded over their coats, eyes darting between the judge and the attorneys at the front like they were watching a live taping of their favorite courtroom drama.

The judge, a stern woman with sharp glasses perched on her nose, had been silently observing the exchange between the public defender and the prosecution for the past several minutes.

“Your Honor,” Sylus began, his voice smooth and confident as he turned to face the judge, “the defendant’s BAC was clearly above the legal limit. It’s not a question of whether he was impaired; it’s a matter of the law. The state has sufficient evidence to secure a conviction.”

Morrigan, perched at the edge of her seat, straight-backed, responded with equal fervor. “The evidence may show a BAC above the limit, Mr. Qin, but that doesn’t mean the defendant was impaired at the time of the stop. The field sobriety test was hardly conducted properly, and the arresting officer’s observations were biased- he was too eager to make an arrest, not concerned with actual impairment.”

Sylus raised an eyebrow. “The officer had probable cause to arrest. The defendant was swerving, failing to maintain his lane, and his breath reeked of alcohol. I don’t see how you can dispute that, Ms. Clery.” His lips curved into a smirk as he emphasized her name.

“You can argue probable cause until you’re blue in the face,” Morrigan countered coolly, her voice cutting through the room, “but unless you can prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant’s driving was directly affected by his blood alcohol level, this case doesn’t meet the burden of proof. This is a DUI charge, not a witch hunt!”

There was a sharp silence before the judge spoke, her gavel striking once. “Enough. We’ll reconvene after the break. Take fifteen.”

As the courtroom began to empty out, Morrigan sat back in her chair, letting some of the tension leave her shoulders. The case was far from over, but for now, she’d won a small battle. Across the room, Sylus packed up his papers without a glance in her direction, his expression unreadable—like always. Tara, a colleague from the prosecutor’s office, bounced over to Morrigan’s table, a knowing smile already plastered on her face. She leaned in, her voice low enough for only Morrigan to hear.

“You know, you and Sylus will never get along in this lifetime, right?” Tara’s words were a mix of playful teasing and something a bit more serious, her gaze flicking toward the other side of the courtroom where Sylus was speaking with a few of his colleagues.

Morrigan signed, running a hand through her hair. “I’m not sure I even want to.”

Tara raised an eyebrow. “You two are like oil and water. He’s all about power and status, and you? You’re here to help people who don’t have a voice, don’t have money for a better lawyer.” Tara paused, studying Morrigan’s face. “But I have to admit, you do know how to get under his skin. He respects that, even if he’d never admit it.”

Morrigan frowned. “Respect? I don’t think he knows the meaning of the word when it comes to me.”

Tara smiled wryly. “Keep telling yourself that.”

The judge’s voice called out from the front of the room, signaling that the break was over. Tara gave Morrigan a pat on the shoulder, then turned and walked back toward her seat.

Morrigan’s eyes lingered on Sylus for a moment, his figure still standing confidently at the front of the courtroom, speaking in low tones with his team. There was something about him- something Morrigan couldn’t quite put her finger on-that gnawed at her. She was usually good at figuring people out and quickly, she didn’t like to waste time. The rivalry was sharp between them, almost instantly upon meeting, however, every time their eyes met across the courtroom, there was a spark of something else, something unspoken.

She pushed the thought away as the judge called for the room to reconvene, focusing back on the task at hand. She was here to do her job, not figure out what was going on between them. But as she glanced once more in Sylus’ direction, a question lingered in her mind.

Could Tara be right?

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