#mix of both some are journalistic

[smallmediumproblems]

Modes of Thought in Anterran Literature

American Hysteria

The Magnus Archives

Saffron and Peri

Finding Pattersby

If Books Could Kill

Sold a Story

St Mary's School for Children With the Stigmata

The Mistholme Museum of Mystery, Morbidity, and Mortality

Dark Academia Podcasts

Spirits

Vulgar History

Lore

Let's Talk About Myths, Baby

Myths and Legends

Cabinet of Curiosities

Mythology

Crime Junkie

In Our Time

Our Fake History

The Dark Academicals

The Literary Teen

Philosophize This!

Welcome to Night Vale

The Penumbra Podcast

Art Of History

Revolutions

You're Dead To Me

The Bright Sessions

Unobscured

Historical Figures

The Mystery Of The Tweed Club

Prose Talk

Dead Academics Society

[diamonddaze01]

Full Throttle (i)

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

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

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

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

read part 2 here! <3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Suzuka chaos worked in Jeonghan’s favor. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve got a crush.

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

Jeonghan didn’t want to be here.

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

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

No, it was you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There you are!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” he said simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The admission lands heavily between you, unexpected and disarming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t.

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

Just another driver.

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

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

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

Jeonghan spends the night refreshing his Twitter feed. 

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

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

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

He clicks it immediately. 

The headline strikes first: 

Kim Mingyu’s Risky Qualifying Lap Keeps Rivals on Edge

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

Mingyu?

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

Then, buried halfway through, he finds his name:

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

That’s it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not in your writing. Not from you.

It’s infuriating.

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

Not just another driver.

But the one worth writing about.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It stings more than it should.

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

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

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

Jeonghan Dominates Monaco: Pole Position Translates to Victory

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

The thought gnaws at him.

It’s not enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, it happens.

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

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

“I’m out. Car’s done.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, you agree.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And maybe that’s the problem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don't finish the sentence. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for now, that’s enough.

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

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

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

“Back again?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The joy that had filled him moments ago flickers.

Why does it bother him?

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

Jealousy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nestled among the flowers is a small envelope.

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

I’m sorry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raised a brow. “Aggressively encouraged?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FORMULA 1 HUNGARIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Hungaroring

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He huffed a humorless laugh. “Not exactly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You clinked your bottle against his. “Anytime.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The weekend at Spa began like a dream.

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

Jeonghan thrived on its challenge.

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

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

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

But then came the penalty.

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

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

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

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

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

His gaze lingered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

P10 to P1. 

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

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

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

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

He took the corners flat out.

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

But then came the rain.

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

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

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

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

Your words came back to him.

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

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

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

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

When the race restarted, Jeonghan was a man possessed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The article was already live.

His breath caught as he read your headline:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeonghan blinked, startled. “What?”

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

Jeonghan followed his gaze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“JEONGHAN!”

The moment shattered.

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

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

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

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

FORMULA 1 HEINEKEN DUTCH GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Zandvoort

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jeonghan!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jeonghan!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[joaeriz]

8 LETTERS (Paige Bueckers x Fem!Reader)

📎 inspired by “8 Letters” by Why Don’t We 📖 fluff | slow burn | soft romance | college AU 💌 word count: ~2.8k

summary: When Y/N is assigned to write a feature on UConn’s star player Paige Bueckers, the last thing she expects is late-night FaceTimes, secret hangouts, and catching real feelings. As the line between friendship and something more starts to blur, both girls are left wondering if they’re brave enough to say the eight letters that could change everything.

authors note: (Okay, so before you jump in—I just wanna say I had so much fun writing this. It’s honestly a mix of two of my favorite things ever: Paige Bueckers (who I adore) and “8 Letters” by Why Don’t We (which lives rent-free in my head, always). The idea hit me out of nowhere—like, what if that kind of soft, slow, “I love you but I’m scared to say it” kind of story played out between Y/N and Paige? And it just spiraled from there in the best way. I got way too emotionally invested in these two (not sorry), and writing all the cute moments, the late-night FaceTimes, and the feelings they’re both too scared to admit? Ugh. I loved every second.So if you’re into a little angst, a lot of softness, and some seriously sweet vibes, I hope this gives you butterflies the way it gave me butterflies writing it. Thanks for reading—it means so much. — Jo)

P.s: this is my first fic i have posted on here!! Im not new at writing, but let me know if you guys want more :)

You weren’t supposed to fall in love with your story subject.

That was rule number one of journalism school. No dating your interviewees, no crushes on profile pieces, no getting involved. But rules felt irrelevant the first time Paige Bueckers smiled at you like you were more than another face with a notepad.

Your assignment was simple—write a semester-long feature on the UConn women’s basketball team for the student paper. Paige, naturally, was the center of the piece. A star on and off the court. Already a national name. Every sports journalist dreamed of covering her.

You were supposed to remain objective.

Instead, you were falling for her.

Hard.

—

It started with a dead recorder.

Your first real conversation wasn’t planned—unless you count fate as a planner. You’d been huddled near the sideline at practice, trying to record a quote from one of the assistant coaches when your recorder sputtered out and died mid-sentence. You swore under your breath and slapped it, like that ever helped.

Paige had been walking by, sipping on a water bottle, and stopped. “Need backup?”

You looked up, startled. “Only if you’ve got a time machine.”

She smiled. “Nope. But I’ve got the Voice Memos app.”

She handed over her phone like it was no big deal—like she hadn’t just offered you her lifeline. You blinked. “You trust a random reporter with your phone?”

“You don’t seem like the type to scroll through texts.” She leaned in with a smirk. “Besides, you’ve got an honest face. And a tragic relationship with electronics.”

You laughed, cheeks heating. She stayed next to you for a few minutes, watching as you wrapped up your interview with her phone in hand. When it was over, she texted you the audio file with the message:

“Try not to let your technology trauma ruin your career.”

You responded with a lame thank-you and a joke about threatening your recorder with a hammer. You didn’t expect her to reply.

But she did.

“Violence is rarely the answer, but I’ll allow it.”

From there, it snowballed. Texts turned into full-blown threads. Threads into daily check-ins. She started sending random memes between practices—some sports-related, some completely unhinged—and you’d match her energy with cursed TikToks and sarcastic commentary.

Then came the first FaceTime.

You were editing audio at 11:47 p.m. when her name lit up your screen. Paige Bueckers is FaceTiming you.

You stared at it for a second. Then answered.

She was wrapped in a hoodie with damp hair and tired eyes, lying in bed. “Hey,” she said softly. “Didn’t wanna be alone tonight.”

That first call lasted three hours.

You talked about everything: your major, her injuries, your complicated relationship with your hometown, her fear of letting people down. She confessed that sometimes, the pressure made her want to run away to a place where no one knew her name.

You said you understood.

After that, it became routine. Late-night FaceTimes. Morning Snapchats. Study breaks where she'd call and say, “Tell me something random,” and you’d ramble about your day while she half-listened, half-dozed.

—

The first time you hung out outside of school was under the guise of an interview follow-up.

She invited you to a local coffee shop—some cozy little place with plants in every window and tables just slightly too small. You showed up with your laptop and pages of notes. Paige showed up in a hoodie and beanie, no makeup, looking infuriatingly good.

You talked for two hours.

Only twenty minutes was about basketball.

She paid for your drink when you weren’t looking.

“I’ll Venmo you,” you said, pretending to dig for your phone.

She just shrugged. “Nah. Call it a reporter’s hazard fee.”

After that came more not-quite-dates. Study sessions in the campus library where she never actually studied. Walks through the trail behind the dorms where she'd kick pebbles and talk about life like it was something she hadn’t quite figured out yet.

One night, she invited you to “movie night” with the team.

You showed up with snacks and nerves, expecting a whole crowd.

But it was just her.

Two mugs of hot chocolate already on the table. A blanket tossed casually over the couch. She tried to play it off. “The others bailed,” she claimed with a sheepish shrug.

She was a terrible liar.

You stayed anyway.

She fell asleep halfway through the second movie with her head on your shoulder, and you didn’t dare move.

After that night, everything shifted.

—

There were moments. God, there were moments.

The way her hand would brush yours when she passed you something and linger—just a second too long. The way she’d light up when you walked into a room, like you were the only one she’d been waiting for. How she’d say things like:

“Sometimes I forget how to breathe around you.”

And then immediately pretend it was a joke.

You wanted to say it.

You almost did—on Valentine’s Day, when she left a note in your dorm mailbox with a chocolate bar and the words “you’re my favorite notification.”

But you chickened out.

Because if she didn’t feel the same way, you’d lose her. And that possibility was more terrifying than staying quiet.

But then came the silence.

She started pulling away. Fewer texts. Missed calls. Short replies like:

“Practice ran late.” “Sorry, just tired.” “Talk soon?”

And soon became never.

Until the day it broke.

—

It was cold. Rainy. The kind of day that made everything feel heavier. You were walking past the practice facility, hood up, heart aching, when you saw her.

Paige. Alone. Leaning against the wall like she was waiting for something—or someone.

You slowed. She looked up.

“I think we should stop,” she said.

Your stomach dropped. “Stop…?”

“This. Us. I don’t know what this is to you, and I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with not knowing.”

You blinked, throat closing.

“I’m not asking you to guess,” you managed to say.

“Well, then tell me,” she whispered. “Because I think about you all the time, and I don’t know how to make it stop. And it hurts, Y/N. It hurts not knowing if I’m just another story to you.”

And finally—finally—you said the words.

“You asked what love looks like to me.”

She held her breath.

“It looks like you. Like FaceTime calls at midnight and cold coffee on a Sunday morning. It’s how you fight through everything and still smile like you’re not carrying the weight of the world. I didn’t say it before because I was scared, but I’m more scared of losing you.”

Her eyes glossed. She stepped closer.

“You love me?” she asked, barely a whisper.

“I do.”

And when she kissed you, it was soft and shaky and real. Like exhaling after holding your breath for too long.

—

That night, your article sat unfinished.

She lay beside you on your tiny dorm bed, her hand brushing yours under the covers, the silence between you humming with peace.

“Say it again,” she murmured.

You smiled.

“I love you.”

Eight letters.

—

It had been twenty-six days since you told Paige you loved her.

Twenty-six days since she kissed you in the rain like her world had just started spinning again.

Twenty-six days since things finally became real.

And every single one of those days had felt like waking up in the softest dream.

Being with Paige wasn’t loud or flashy—not most of the time. It was slow mornings in bed, tangled limbs and quiet whispers. It was FaceTiming just to sit in silence while you both worked. It was warm hoodies borrowed without asking, and her stealing your socks because “they’re the soft ones.”

It was peace.

One Sunday morning, you found her asleep on your couch, wearing your crewneck and hugging your stuffed animal. She’d crashed the night before after watching movies in your room, the two of you curled together on your tiny dorm bed until she got too warm and rolled onto the floor, dramatically sighing, “This is why we need a queen-sized mattress and a lease.”

You’d laughed, thinking she was joking.

Then she blinked up at you and said, totally serious, “Like… a place. You and me. Off campus. Someday.”

Your heart soared, and you tucked the idea away like a wish on a star.

Later, she sleepily mumbled, “I want you in my mornings and my nights.”

And you knew she meant it.

—

Dating Paige came with little adventures.

Like the time she surprised you with a picnic—on a Tuesday.

You’d been having the worst week: deadlines, papers, zero sleep. Paige texted you in the middle of class: “Be ready at 6. Trust me.”

You met her behind the student union, expecting takeout and a movie.

Instead, she’d laid out a blanket under a canopy of fairy lights she somehow got from the volleyball team’s gear closet. There was music playing from a Bluetooth speaker, a thermos of your favorite hot cocoa, and a little box of cupcakes from the bakery you once mentioned you liked.

“I know you’re overwhelmed,” she said, pulling you into a hug. “So I’m forcing you to pause. Just for tonight.”

You nearly cried.

“I don’t deserve you,” you whispered.

She kissed your forehead and grinned. “Nah. We deserve each other.”

—

Her love came in a thousand small ways.

When your period hit hard, she showed up with snacks, heating pads, and the world’s ugliest cartoon pajamas she said were “scientifically proven to improve moods.” (They did.)

When she won a game, she didn’t go out with the team—she came to your place and danced with you barefoot in the kitchen to 2000s R&B.

When you got a bad grade on a paper and spiraled about being “not good enough,” she held your face in her hands and said, “You’re brilliant. One grade doesn’t get to rewrite the story.”

She never let you forget your worth—even when you did.

—

Your favorite tradition was Sunday mornings.

You’d wake up slow—her arm slung lazily around your waist, her cheek against your shoulder. She always looked soft in the mornings, voice scratchy, hair messy, face unfiltered.

“Don’t look at me,” she’d mumble, burying her face in the pillow.

You always did anyway.

You’d take turns making breakfast—read: burning toast and debating whether Pop-Tarts counted as a real meal. You’d play records on your vintage player, dance around the room in socks, kiss in the doorway like it was a scene from a movie.

She called you “home” once.

You didn’t say anything in return.

You just pulled her into your chest and held her tighter than words could manage.

—

There were no more secrets now.

People knew. Slowly, sure. But Paige had started holding your hand in public. At first on quieter streets, where no one looked. Then at campus parties. Then at a game.

After a home win, she ran over to the bleachers—where you were waiting—and kissed you in front of a thousand fans and a dozen cameras.

“I love you,” she said breathlessly. “Needed you to know before anything else.”

The video went viral. The team teased her endlessly.

She didn’t care.

Neither did you.

—

One night, lying in bed with your laptop open on your stomach and Paige half-asleep beside you, you said, “This is the happiest I’ve ever been.”

She looked up. “Because of me?”

You smiled. “Because of us.”

She kissed your shoulder and whispered, “Let’s stay like this forever.”

And maybe the future held more challenges—graduation, jobs, long-distance talks if things got complicated.

But for now, you had everything you needed.

Her heartbeat beside yours. Her laughter echoing in your chest. And the words you once feared to say now lived freely between you.

“I love you.” Eight letters. Forever on repeat.

[prettealolilol]

i like to think about the duality of the kids about people shipping Bruce with anyone, because the guy has been elected as the most handsome man in the country for years, has this whole playboy Brucie persona and is often seen with someone at his arms (men and women)

on one side, they'll be like "ew god no, i do not want to imagine dad like-" and "oh my god some people actually ship Bantman and Joker wtf ??" and they'll do their best to filter every social media to avoid any thirsty or shipping content about Bruce

when the press ask them about it, they be like:

Tim : "Would you like it if I asked about your thoughts on your dad cheating on your mom with his secretary ? No ? Then mind your own business." when the dad was in fact cheating with his secretary and now everybody knew because Tim was live when he answered

Jason, pulling out a gun : "i swear to god i'll shoot the next person who asks me this and then i'll shoot myself. Ugh, do i look like i fucking care about the old man's sex life ?"

Dick, smiling uncomfortably : "i don't really live at the manor anymore and i barely see him with my job so you know..." when it has been in fact a week he's been sleeping at the manor after patrolling with Batman

Damian, frowning as usual, looking at the guy who asked him as if he did not have a brain : "Father is careful in not mixing his carnal activities with the family life so i do not have any hindsight on his sex life. i do not wish to know regardless." the journalist is taken aback by the explicit answer of this ten year old, while his brothers are trying not to laugh behind him (Jason was not hiding his snickering)

on the other side, you cannot tell me those guys are not the biggest shippers in the world

like Jason would want Batman to date Wonder Woman just so she could be his step mom. i strongly believe the guy has a ao3 and tumblr account and is very much active on both. he definitely reads batman x green lantern fics just to annoy Bruce (even though his dad has no idea, but still gets shivers when Jason is reading one)

Dick and Duke both ship SuperBat although for different reasons. for Dick, that's his uncle there, he was there when they met and saw them as they slowly became best friends. he strongly believes they are made for each other. Duke just think it would be super cool (no pun intended) if the Superman and the Batman were dating.

Stephanie just likes to roll with it, some days she feels like shipping superbat, others she'll be more into batcat, or batlantern. she's pretty volatile and doesn't really have a favourite, but when she gets into one she's all in. she'll be arguing and insulting people online who disagrees, sharing crazy theories...

Cass doesn't really care, she'll listen to any of her siblings ranting about their thoughts (especially Steph) and juts find it adorable (and funny how much they care)

Tim probably ships superbat because they are completely opposed, and he finds the parallels really interesting. he definitely writes fics (Jay reads his fics and they exchange about it without knowing it's each other)

Damian doesn't really see the point. but he has drawn of few fanart (Jason tried to bribe him with money once and Damian had to remind him of his inheritance) when Bruce benched Tim and him and he ended up drawing some batlantern that Tim printed and plastered all over the manor. Bruce had to restrain the access to the printer (Tim hacked into it the next day)

Barbara, although she doesn't really ship, is the one you go to if you search some content, she'll find you the most heart wrenching, 200 thousand words, slow brun, angst/comfort fics you'll ever read (the type of fic that changes you deep into your soul). she still likes debating with the batkid

Regardless, if there's one things they all agree on, it is Bruceman (love those fics were the batkids just go along with it). like it's hilarious but the fans make some pretty good points and they are in fact impressed. it's also the safest ship as it would not happen in any situations so they don't have to worry about their dad being stolen

[liketolaugh-writes]

Bruce looking past the fact that (recently adopted) Danny is a powerhouse and recognizing that he has other skills also. <3

Danny is a STEM kid and just as brilliant as his sister, you cannot convince me otherwise

Danny gave Bruce the handwritten list of powers in the morning. Bruce stared at it over his cup of coffee, then gave Danny a flat, somewhat disbelieving look. Danny shrugged sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” he said, perching on one of the stools. “I can point out the ones I don’t use if you just want to work on the ones I do. At least I have an idea of what needs improving with those.” Alfred gave him a cup of coffee and a plate of bacon and French toast, and Danny smiled at him. “Thanks, Alfred.”

“We’ll have to prioritize your training,” Bruce allowed after a moment, frowning down at the paper. Dick leaned over to look and whistled. “But all of these will be addressed eventually. You should have at least a moderate grasp of every tool at your disposal.” He looked up. “You intended to work in the lab today, correct?”

Danny nodded, playing with a strip of bacon. “I’ll probably spend most of today making a big batch of phaseproof coating,” he said. “Then I can experiment with mixing it with paint and maybe coat some of your spare weapons in it? That should work for the bo staff and escrima sticks, maybe a set of brass knuckles. But I’ll need to make a different solution for the edged weapons.” His mind wandered, thinking of how he could adapt what he knew of the Bats’ gear to work against ghosts.

“Who’re the brass knuckles for?” Dick asked, raising an eyebrow at Danny. Danny flushed and shrugged.

“Batman,” he said. “You don’t really use a weapon, right?” Bruce grunted. “But phaseproof cloth isn’t something my parents ever really figured out. I can work on it, maybe, but I thought brass knuckles would be an okay compromise for now.”

“Hn.”

“Good thinking,” Dick praised with a smile. “It’ll be easy to add to the utility belt too. Should we ghostproof my main set or a spare?”

“The main, I think, if you’re okay with it,” Danny said, tilting his head thoughtfully. “You probably won’t even notice. But the edged weapons should all be spares. Ecto-treated metal tends to glow.”

“Not great for stealth,” Dick nodded. “Whatever you think is best, baby spook. We have the resources.”

“You’re hyper-specialized,” Bruce noted without inflection, sipping from his coffee. Danny winced.

“Sorry,” he muttered. It was easy to forget that all this was pretty useless outside of Amity Park. Bruce shook his head.

“It’s not a problem. But we’ll need to diversify your skillset. Your talent for chemistry and engineering should expand beyond ectoscience alone.” He studied Danny contemplatively. “Higher education might be beneficial, perhaps a PhD.”

Danny’s eyes went wide. “What? I’m barely passing high school!”

“I had Casper High send over your transcripts,” Bruce said. Danny flinched. “You had a B+ average in middle school, with a particular bent for math and science. You also participated in several advanced extracurriculars, including a junior astronaut program, space camp, and competitive robotics. Further, you clearly have a comprehensive understanding of your parents’ work, which eludes both the Justice League engineers and JL Dark. You had these talents prior to acquiring your powers, and it would be a waste to discard them in favor of your raw combat ability.”

Danny stared at Bruce, open-mouthed and speechless. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d considered even the possibility that he could have a future outside of his hero career.

“…Do you think I could do that and be a superhero?” he managed after a minute, quieter than he’d meant to.

Bruce nodded sharply. “Most Justice League heroes maintain a career outside of heroics,” he reminded Danny, without even sounding like he thought Danny was an idiot for asking. “Aside from myself, there is also a Pulitzer prize-winning journalist, a museum curator, a forensic scientist, and a fighter pilot.”

Danny had known that on some level, but it had always seemed unreal. Practically a myth. “When am I going back to school?” he asked, hardly able to believe that he was suddenly looking forward to it.

“At the beginning of next semester,” Bruce said. “Your parents’ trial should be completed by then. I assume you don’t want to be announced publicly until that happens.” Danny shook his head fervently. “You may need to complete some make-up classes online, but we can discuss that next week.”

“Thanks,” Danny said sincerely. He was talking about a lot more than his re-enrollment.

[james-bucky-barnackle]

I mean?

Synopsis: On a press tour with your co-star Sebastian Stan, the interviewer asks you a question about another film he did and the answer surprises him.

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Actress!Y/N

Word Count: IDK I'm too sleep deprived to count.

A/N: Bro I am on a resurgence. Might just fuck around and continue writing more fanfics or whatever.

It’s another busy day promoting your new movie with Sebastian, The Road Trip. It's a funny romcom about two best friends going on a long trip to see another friend who your character is dating. Interestingly enough, the guy who plays him is Chris Evans. The interviews are currently being done in pairs, and you're with Sebastian.

You've always been candid, speaking your mind without feeling shy. Deep down, you're a bit of a pessimist, accepting things as they are. When you first heard from your agent that you were cast in The Road Trip alongside Sebastian Stan and Chris Evans, you laughed hysterically. The idea that you, an unconventional beauty, were chosen to be on screen with those two seemed surreal. You never really think about dating co-stars, which helps with acting in general. The media is impressed with how chill you are around A-list actors, and even though it hasn’t fully sunk in yet, the industry has started promoting you to that list.

The interview has been going on for about 15 minutes when another journalist joins, mostly asking about the experience of working with the cast.

“It’s my first romcom, can you believe it?” you say.

“First?!” Sebastian stares in mock disbelief.

“I know, right?!” You feign surprise.

The interviewer continues, “How does it feel to do something lighter and a bit comedic for once?”

“You mean, a movie where no one dies?” Sebastian covers his mouth at your response.

“I mean essentially,” the interviewer laughs. “Wait, no one dies?!” They nudge you playfully.

“I mean, I’m not sure, no spoilers,” you say, breaking the fourth wall and looking into the camera. Sebastian cackles. “It’s definitely refreshing. It feels like going to school for some reason. Like I don’t want to miss a class just because I might miss something wild happening.”

“What?” Sebastian glares. “What school did you go to?”

“I mean, aside from the learning stuff…” You grimace. “It’s fun, honestly. I’d love to do more romcoms. It’s very down-to-earth and just resonates with you so much. I don’t wanna get too cheesy, but I’m such a hopeless romantic—this is my jam.”

“Sebastian, how’s your experience working with Chris again, this time outside of the Marvel universe?”

“Wait, this isn’t in the Marvel Universe?!” you butt in. Sebastian again, fakes a loud gasp. You two laugh. This interview feels like it’s going nowhere.

“It’s totally fun, as Y/N mentioned—it really is like going to class. But most of my scenes are with Y/N, so she’s like the lab partner I’ve never had. Chris was always texting us, checking which location we’re going to be at, making sure we’re scheduled on the same day. It’s fun when we’re both on set.”

You nod in agreement. “Yeah, we’ve got a good rhythm going. It’s like having a little family on set. Plus, Chris is always the one who brings snacks, so that’s a bonus.”

Sebastian laughs. “Oh, absolutely. Chris and his endless supply of trail mix.”

The interviewer chuckles. “Sounds like you all have a great dynamic. Was there a favorite scene you both enjoyed filming together?”

You think for a moment. “I really loved the scene where we’re stuck in the car during that rainstorm. It was so chaotic, but we had a blast improvising and just playing off each other.”

Sebastian nods. “Yeah, that was a good one. The rain machine was going full blast, and we were just trying not to crack up the entire time.”

The interviewer smiles. “It sounds like it was a lot of fun. And the chemistry definitely shows on screen. Speaking of different roles, Y/N, Sebastian’s been in the movie Fresh where he plays a sociopathic killer who preys on lonely women pretending to be a genuine guy.”

“I don’t like where this is going,” you say, laughing, as Sebastian shakes his head.

“Would you, like Noa, fall prey to Steve’s antics?” This question gets a louder laugh from Sebastian as your face shows pure shock. You hold him back with your hand and say,

“I’ve thought about this, to be honest,” you start, looking at Sebastian as he raises his eyebrows, impressed.

“Oh, you have?”

You laugh and continue, patting his thigh and looking back at the interviewer. “Me and my friend talked about it a while back. And it’s frightening because I would’ve probably ended up on a chopping block.”

“Noooo!” Sebastian shouts, “I was rooting for you.”

“No! But, like, you are incredibly good-looking and charismatic. It would be hard not to give my number at the grocery aisle.”

He tilts his head at your response. “Surely not good enough to get yourself killed?!”

“You’d be surprised how far I’d even go,” you say, as the interviewer laughs with you both. “Oh god, I need to call my therapist,” you add, ending the topic with the three of you gagging.

“Might just have to talk to mine too, after hearing that.”

You can already feel TikTok saving this clip and turning it into a meme.

You notice, after you call Sebastian good-looking, he’s been eyeing you sideways and biting his lip. As if he’s suddenly gone bashful. You can’t help but feel a boost in your ego. Could it be that Stan is shy? You make it a point to tease him for the remainder of the interview.

“What’s something funny or unexpected that happened on set?”

“Oh, there were so many moments,” you start. “One time, we were filming this really serious scene, and out of nowhere, a bird flew into the set and landed right on Sebastian’s shoulder.”

Sebastian laughs. “Yeah, I had no idea what to do. I just froze, and then Y/N started making bird noises to try and get it to fly away.”

You laugh, nodding. “It took a good ten minutes to get back into character after that. Everyone was cracking up.”

The interviewer grins. “That sounds hilarious. It’s great to hear that you all had such a good time. Speaking of moments on set, were there any funny or awkward moments while filming the more romantic or intimate scenes?”

Sebastian raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Oh, plenty. Like the time we were shooting that kiss scene in the rain, and Y/N kept slipping on the wet pavement.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Hey, it was slippery! You were the one who can’t stop laughing during takes.”

Sebastian laughs. “True, true. But come on, we both know it was because you were so nervous about kissing me.” You notice him biting back.

You gasp in mock offense. “Excuse me, I was not nervous! I was just...distracted by how ridiculously good-looking you are. It’s hard to concentrate when you have that face right in front of you.” He smiles uncontrollably again, feeling defeated by your nonchalance. He wonders, how are you so good at this?

The interviewer laughs, clearly enjoying the banter. “So, who do you think had the hardest time keeping a straight face during those scenes?”

You both point at each other simultaneously, then laugh.

Sebastian leans back, shaking his head. “Definitely Y/N. There was this one scene where we were supposed to be having this deep, romantic conversation, and she just couldn’t stop giggling.”

You nudge him playfully. “Well, you weren’t helping with all your ad-libs! You kept whispering things like, ‘Is that your stomach growling or are you just happy to see me?’”

Sebastian laughs. “Hey, I was trying to lighten the mood! And let’s not forget the scene where we had to stare into each other’s eyes for what felt like an eternity. I swear, Y/N, you blink more than anyone I know.”

You smirk. “Only because I was trying to avoid getting lost in those baby blues of yours.” At this point, Sebastian was laughing hard, but feeling nervous at your jokes. He secretly wished it were all real, his ears were red and hot. He’s already thinking of how to approach you after the interview and get himself out of the friend zone which he didn’t even thought he’d be in, having found a new interest in you. 

The interviewer looks between the two of you, amused. “It sounds like you both had a lot of fun with it. Do you think all that chemistry will translate to the screen?”

Sebastian nods. “Oh, definitely. I think our off-screen dynamic really helped make the on-screen relationship feel more genuine. Plus, Y/N here is an amazing actress. She made it easy.”

You smile, feeling a bit bashful. “Well, Sebastian’s not too bad himself. It’s hard not to enjoy working with someone who’s so talented and, let’s be honest, ridiculously attractive.” 

Here she goes again .Sebastian grins. “Right back at you. But let’s be real, we’re both just incredibly good-looking people trying to make a movie here.” The internet is gonna have a field day.

The interviewer laughs. “Sounds like a tough job! Any last funny or romantic moments you’d like to share?”

You think for a moment. “There was this one scene where we had to dance together. Neither of us are professional dancers, so there were a lot of missteps and toe-stepping. But it ended up being one of the sweetest scenes because it felt so real and unpolished.”

Sebastian nods. “Yeah, that was a great scene. It was supposed to be this perfectly choreographed dance, but it turned into us just goofing around and having fun. I think it really captured the essence of our characters' relationship.”

The interviewer smiles, clearly delighted by your stories. “Well, thank you both for sharing these wonderful moments. It’s been a pleasure talking with you.”

As you and Sebastian leave the interview room, you head towards the lobby where a few other cast members are mingling. The energy is still high from the fun and laughter of the interview. Sebastian nudges you playfully as you walk.

“Hey, remember in the interview when you called me incredibly good-looking and charismatic?” he teases, a mischievous glint in his eye.

You roll your eyes, grinning. “Oh, come on. Don’t let it go to your head, Stan.”

He chuckles. “Too late. I’m pretty sure I’m going to bring that up every chance I get now.”

“You would,” you laugh, shaking your head. “ It’s not like I was lying.”

Sebastian stops walking, turning to face you. “Well, thank you. And for the record, you’re pretty incredible yourself. Both on screen and off.”

You feel a warm blush creeping up your cheeks, putting a palm to your chest as if to continue the gag. “Thanks, Seb. That means a lot.”

He smiles, his eyes softening. “No, really, it’s been really great working with you. I think we make a pretty good team.”

“I think so too,” you agree, feeling a flutter in your stomach, you realize he’s actually serious now. There’s a moment of silence as you both just look at each other, the playful teasing from earlier now replaced with something more tender.

Sebastian breaks the silence first. “So, what do you say we celebrate wrapping up the promotion tour? Maybe dinner tonight?”

You raise an eyebrow, teasingly. “Is this your way of asking me out, Stan?”

He grins, a little sheepishly. “Maybe it is. What do you think?”

You pretend to think about it for a moment, then nod. “I think it sounds like a great idea.”

“Perfect,” he says, looking genuinely pleased. “I’ll pick you up at eight?”

“Eight it is."

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[honeyedmiller]

Mr. Bakery Man

baker!joel miller x f!reader

rating: none

synopsis: it’s not every day you get to move from nyc to austin for your job and relish in a pleasant change of pace. it’s also not every day that you discover a cute family owned bakery in the heart of austin—and it’s definitely not every day that you meet the owner and fall head over heels for him.

warnings: this is pure, innocent tooth-rotting fluff ; fun flirting, we’ll call this one a hallmark type beat lol, sarah and ellie are both in this, joel is down bad in this (but so is reader), no use of y/n.

word count: 3.3k

a/n: this was supposed to be for @punkshort’s au writing challenge but i’m hella late on it. life has been crazy lately, but thanks for sticking with me during my unintentional hiatus 🤍

Moving from New York City to Austin Texas had been an oddity in life’s recent escapades. 

Your job had asked if anyone in your department was willing to do the big move because the office in Austin needed a strong journalist on their growing team. With the rest of your colleagues having kids and spouses, nobody was interested in uprooting their whole life to move to a completely different state. 

You, on the other hand, wanted to get out of New York. You yearned for new opportunities, and when this one arose, you didn’t hesitate to tell your boss you were interested. 

You’d been slowly settling into Austin, getting used to life in another city with a completely different atmosphere. You were grateful your new colleagues were all very nice and welcoming. 

The one thing you’d say you missed dearly back in New York City, though, was this amazing bakery off of Fifth you’d frequent before work. Their coffee and croissants were delicious, which is what led you to go on a Google hunt to see what bakeries were good around here in Austin. 

One caught your eye immediately—Sarah & Ellie’s— with five star reviews and multiple photos of all the sweets they had to offer. It was a cozy little café and bakery mixed into one with a homey, warm vibe and cute decorations. You mapped it to see how long it would take you to get to the place, and to your luck, it was only a ten minute walk from your apartment complex. So, you decided you were going to go first thing in the morning before work. 

And for some reason, you felt excited to try a new place. Maybe it was a sign of finally getting used to living in a completely different state, fifteen hundred miles away from your old life. 

You luckily got used to being an early riser, so once morning had rolled around, you were up n’ at ‘em by six thirty. You left your house around seven, making your way down to Sarah & Ellie’s. 

The shop felt more homey than it looked online. As soon as you stepped in, there was already a short line of customers and a waft of delicious baked goods and coffee that filled your senses. You suddenly yearned for a home you’d never even been to. 

You stood in line and observed the menu, deciding on sticking with a classic chocolate croissant and latte for the time being. You wanted to see if this place held a candle up to the place off of Fifth. 

The older gentleman in front of you greeted the cashier with a bright smile, and she immediately typed in an order. 

“Hey Randy, how’s it going?” 

“Hey sweet pea. Just here for my usual mornin’ coffee and danish,” he says, handing the girl a ten dollar bill. She counts out the change and closes the register with her hip before returning his beaming smile to him. “Tell your old man to stop workin’ so damn hard. Cheryl says I need to lay off the sweets once in a while, but I can’t do that if all his baked goods are too delicious to resist.” Randy pats his stomach with a satisfied hum, and the girl laughs. 

“I’ll be sure to pass on the message. Have a good one!” 

After she waves him off, she locks eyes with you and gives you the same beaming smile as you stepped up to the register. 

“What can I get ya, Miss?” she asks, tone cheery and light. 

“I’ll take a chocolate croissant and a latte, please.” 

She nods and rings in your order, grabbing a cup to write your name on it. 

“Not to intrude or anything, but are you new ‘round here?” Her tone is still light, laced with pure curiosity as the sharpie pen hovers over the latte cup. 

You gave her a smile and nodded meekly, “I am.” 

“Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Sarah.” 

You give her your name and her smile never wavers, scribbling your name on the cup. 

“Let me get that chocolate croissant for you—” she started, but was accidentally cut off by a man opening the door that separated the front of the café from the back. 

“Hey babydoll, do we have anymore—” the man stops abruptly, eyes landing on you. A black apron adorned his clearly thick and strong physique, flour dusted on his hands and arms. He was tall, and had a sweet glint in his brown eyes that made warmth flood your whole body. He had a head full of thick brown curls with grays strewn in here and there, and the mustache along with the stubble on his chin mirrored the streaks in his hair.

He instantly gave off a charming aura, and when he smiled at you, you were a goner. 

“Hello Miss. Don’t think we’ve ever met before,” he says, dusting his hands off on the apron before extending one to you. His Southern accent dripped like thick, pure honey, and it made your skin burn hot. 

You couldn’t hold back your smile when you reached your hand out to shake his. It might’ve sounded cliché as hell, but the sudden surge you got from just touching him made every single cell in your body alert, yearning for more. 

“I’m new in the city,” you explain, “Just moved here not too long ago.” 

“Ah, makes sense. Think I’d remember ya even if you didn’t come in often.” 

You’re taken aback by his words. Was he… flirting? You felt your face heat, and your eyes nervously flit to the glass case full of delicious looking pastries. Well, if he was flirting, there’s no harm in doing it back… right? 

“Me coming in often depends,” you find yourself grinning like a fool, “Do your pastries taste as good as they look and smell?” 

“They’re the best in Austin,” he winks, and with that, murmurs something to Sarah before giving you one last smile before walking to the back again. 

Sarah can’t help but giggle as she hands you your croissant. “It’s on the house,” she waves her hand as you pull out your wallet, and you stop short to give her a confused look. She clocks the expression on your face and grins. “Dad said.” 

“That’s your dad?” You didn’t mean to pry, you were just taken aback. 

“Mhm. Family owned and operated bakery,” you immediately hear the pride in her voice, and you can’t help but smile. “I’ll have your latte out in a minute.” 

You grin and nod, stepping over to the other side of the counter. You decided to take a bite of your croissant while you waited for your latte, and god, it was the best pastry you think you’d ever had. The croissants on Fifth had nothing against these gooey, decadent, flaky treats. 

You nearly had to hold back a moan, and the man—Randy, you think—laughed beside you. 

“Good, ain’t they?” he asks, and you nodded expeditiously. 

“Probably the best croissant I’ve ever had.” 

Randy nods in agreement, “Miller’s the best baker in Austin. Been comin’ here since his girls were little.” 

And you finally figured that Ellie must be his other daughter. It warmed your heart that he’d name his place after his two girls, clearly his pride and joy. 

“That’s so nice,” you say, and give him a quick wave goodbye when his order is called out. 

“Hopefully I’ll see you again soon,” Randy shot you a smile before taking a sip of his drink, and you nod at him with a smile before you turn your attention to your name being called out. Sarah handed you your drink and you thanked her, taking a cautious sip. 

Even the latte was superb. You were one hundred percent sold on this place, and maybe even a little smitten with the owner. 

Yeah, you’d definitely be coming back. 

-

A month passes by before you know it, and you’re now deemed an honorable regular at Sarah & Ellie’s. You’ve met Ellie, who was a total opposite of her sister—but you loved both of their personalities all the same. You learned that Ellie was going to art school and you promised her you’d buy a commissioned piece. 

Sarah was going to school for business, studying to take over the bakery one day, and possibly even expand it as a franchise. You told her you’d be at the grand opening the day that it happens. 

As for the owner, Mr. Miller—or, Mr. Bakery Man, you teasingly called him—kept the flirting subtle but fun. You looked forward to the playful banter you two’d exchange, and it always earned a raised brow and a not-so-subtle smirk from either Sarah or Ellie. 

Unbeknownst to you, they’d tease their father about the ‘crush’ he had on the pretty regular that came in and how he should buck up and ask you on a date. 

And he planned to do just that. When you went in on a Saturday morning, you were surprised to see him working the front counter instead of one of the girls. 

“Well if it isn’t Mr. Bakery Man,” you say, and he runs a hand through his hair. 

“In the flesh,” he says, and you can’t help but laugh. 

“Girls didn’t come in today?” You lean up against the counter as he grabs a latte cup, writing your name out on it. He hesitates for a moment, but continues to write on it before setting it down on the opposite countertop. 

“Nah. Sarah was up late doing homework and it’s Ellie’s turn to have Saturday off.”

You nod in understanding, pulling out your wallet. He stops you and shakes his head, and you scoff. 

“You have to let me pay, Mr. Miller. You can’t keep giving me these discounts.” 

“Don’t worry about it, darlin’,” his smile was shy, and he was fidgety—almost like he was scared. Right when you opened your mouth to ask him if he was okay, he cut you off. 

“Would you wanna go on a date with me?” His words were rushed, and your heart melted at how nervous he sounded. 

You paused your movements completely, meeting those warm brown eyes that made you feel so safe. 

“I’d love to,” you answered, and relief visibly washed over his features. 

“Great. I, uh, wrote my name and number on your cup. Hope you don’t mind,” he says, and you have to bite back a smile. Then you suddenly realized you never even knew this man’s first name. You’d just stuck with calling him the nickname you gave him, or by his last name. 

You took the cup from him gingerly as he finished making your drink a few minutes later, and turned it in your hand to see his name and number scrawled on the side as promised. 

Joel. 

The name fit the gorgeous man in front of you. He nervously rubbed the back of his neck, and your palm landed on his insanely toned bicep with reassurance. 

He stared at you, the warmth in his eyes nearly making you weak in the knees. 

“I promise I’ll call you,” you say, giving his bicep a soft squeeze. Your hand falls to your side again before grabbing the croissant from the counter that you didn’t notice until now, and you eagerly took a bite. 

Joel wanted to laugh at the chocolate on the side of your mouth as you tilted the pastry toward him. He restrained himself from reaching up and wiping it from your mouth, but you beat him to it by using your knuckle to wipe it off. 

“Compliments to the chef.” You tease, wiggling your eyebrows. 

He couldn’t help but admire your playful side, ecstatic that you agreed to go out with him. 

“Anythin’ for you darlin’,” he said, and you left the bakery that day with a smile on your face that you couldn’t wipe. 

That night, you found yourself pacing back and forth in your apartment as you chewed on your bottom lip. Your phone was clutched in your hand, keypad open and ready to dial. Your other hand had the empty coffee cup with his name and number. 

You didn’t know why you were battling this in your head. Is it weird? Is it too late to call him? No—No, it’s not weird. He’s the one who asked you out, after all. 

Fuck it. 

You sighed as you dialed the number on the cup, pressing the phone up to your ear. Within seconds, Joel’s deep voice rang through the other line. 

“Hello?” He sounded a bit tired, voice hoarse from what had to be a long day. 

“Hey Mr. Bakery Man,” you said in hopes of lifting his spirits even in the slightest. 

His deep chuckle that sounded through the receiver had a warmth blooming in your chest. Even his laugh alone made you feel good inside—like a cup of hot cocoa in your hands on a cold night while you’re in your pajamas sitting fireside. 

Did it sound kind of insane? Sure. Did you care? No. 

The feelings you’d felt toward him almost blindsided you, but something in your gut told you that Joel would be a constant in your life from here on out. 

“Hey darlin’. How’s your day been?” He asks. 

“Good, good,” you pause for a moment, “So about that date…” 

“I was thinkin’ some dinner? Friday night at seven?” 

“That’s perfect. I can’t wait.” 

-

Friday night rolled around, and Joel was kicking himself for not exactly having a plan B. For some reason, the reservations he made got mixed up and you couldn’t be seated. 

You assured him that it was okay, and that his presence was enough for you to enjoy yourself. 

You both decided to get some pasta to-go and eat your food at a park nearby. Even though you both were dressed to the nines and didn’t exactly blend in, you couldn’t care less. You were enjoying your time with him and getting to know the amazing man that he is. 

He opened up and talked about how Sarah and Ellie were both his pride and joy, how he had Sarah really young and adopted Ellie later on, how he sometimes helped his brother Tommy in the contracting business, and how he’s loved to bake in the kitchen with his mom ever since he was a young boy. 

“Didn’t really think I’d make a career out of it,” he confesses. 

“Looks like it worked out for you really well though,” you nudge his side gently. You were settled onto a bench with him then, closer to each other than anticipated. Neither of you said a word, though. 

Being by Joel’s side radiated nothing but safety and comfort. It felt natural, like you two were meant to find your way to each other. 

“Guess so. ‘S funny though. I meet new people every day because of the bakery and, forgive me ‘f this is too bold to say, but meeting you has completely thrown me off my game,” he chuckles, and you furrow your brows. 

“What do you mean?” You try not to feign hurt in your tone, but he wraps his arm around your shoulders and brings you into his warm body. You’re engulfed in his scent, and you could stay here forever, you thought to yourself. 

“Don’t mean it as a bad thing, sweetheart. I mean you’ve been on my mind constantly, and truth be told, I didn’t think you’d ever agree to go on this date with me. ‘M not really one to put myself out there and go on dates, but somethin’ about you made me want to get to know ya more,” he explained, and you nodded your head in understanding. 

“I get it. I didn’t know what to expect when I moved out here. I always buried myself in work and didn’t pay much attention to dating someone, but I’d like to say this turn of events has been pleasant.” 

He can’t help but grin foolishly at your words. 

“‘M glad it worked out this way too. Y’know my girls pushed me to ask you out? Not that I didn’t want to in the first place, but ‘m… not very good at this,” he waves his hand to the side.  

You could easily picture Sarah and Ellie giving Joel a hard time, hounding him to ask you out. 

“Your girls know what’s best,” you tease, and he can’t help but let out a hearty laugh. “But you’re doing just fine, Mr. Miller. I promise.” 

“Even if I goofed and our reservation got messed up?” 

“Joel, I wouldn’t care if you took me to Whataburger for a date. It’s the company that matters,” you say, and you could’ve sworn you saw him blush. 

“Where have you been all my life?” His question sounded like it was meant to be directed just to himself, but you leaned in and gave his cheek a kiss. 

“Probably in New York City,” you shrugged. 

“You and your sarcasm,” he said, shoulders shaking from laughing. 

“Hey, you’re the one who asked me out. That’s on you,” and Joel couldn’t help the pride that bloomed within his chest. 

“Sure did. What do ya say? Wanna head back to the bakery for a cup of coffee and croissant?” 

“What, like a nightcap, but sweet?” You grinned, and he nods. 

“Somethin’ like that.” 

“I’d love to.” 

Joel offered you his arm and you wrapped your hand around his bicep, staying close to him as you both walked back to his truck. 

It didn’t take long to get back to the bakery. Joel made you some coffee with creamer and sugar while he drank his black. He made you a croissant too as promised, and you couldn’t help but gush to him about how you loved his baking. You’d tried a few other things off the menu since you started coming into the shop, but the croissants were what stole your heart. 

You and him sat there for what seemed like hours just talking and getting to know each other on a deeper level. You told him about your family, your dreams and aspirations, what made you want to become a journalist, and what drove you to reach your goals. 

He loved that you were so ambitious—he didn’t come across too many people these days that seemed to know exactly what they wanted in life. You impressed him, and as he sat across from you listening to you talk about work, he knew you were the woman for him. 

He would’ve deemed himself crazy not even a few months ago for thinking such a thing, but hell, if you know you know. 

So the months passed by, and you two became inseparable.

Both of you didn’t think you’d meet someone like this, let alone someone you both could see sharing a life with. This man, all kind hearted and selfless and a big teddy bear who treated you like a goddess, was the man that swept you off your feet and made you see that work isn’t everything life had to offer. 

You took that leap of faith to move to Austin, not knowing the outcome it would have. But, you sure as hell were so glad that it happened. That this thing with Joel happened. You were decently happy with your life before you met him and let him in, but now, you felt as if you’d been on cloud nine for months. 

You were helping Joel close up the bakery one Sunday evening when he turned to you and confessed that he loved you, and he couldn’t imagine his life without you. Neither could the girls. You’d changed him for the better, even if it hadn’t even been a year of knowing each other. 

You’d said it right back to him, and with flour still lingering on his hands, he’d grabbed your face and kissed you like you were the air his lungs needed, the blood to keep his heart pumping, and his god-given solace. 

And you thought, this was exactly where you were meant to be—safe in his arms, full of love, with a whole lifetime with him to look forward to. 

He was it for you. You'd won the heart of the charming Southern gentleman—your Mr. Bakery Man. 

dividers by @saradika-graphics

p.s. sorry if this sucked i’m genuinely so rusty w writing rn. thanks for understanding <3

[f1cflcfic]

Won't Say I'm In Love (ft. Lando Norris) - part iii

pairing: lando norris x tennis player!reader (fem!y/n); past carlos alcaraz x tennis player!reader (fem!y/n)

summary: As a general rule, y/n does not date athletes. You've been there, done that - would not recommend. Besides, you definitely don't do love. There's no time in the world for complicated feelings when there's a career Grand Slam to be won. But what if your heart just refuses to listen?

genre: social meda/mixed au, friends to lovers

note: this is RPF and is obviously in no way, shape, or form reflective of real persons

A/N: a little bit late but I got very worried about accidentally jinxing the Aus GP haha, and then when it all worked out I thougth I might as well use some most recent photos ;)

series: part i, part ii, part iv

1st week of March, 2025

[Excerpt Daily Mail] Tennis player Y/N L/N stuns on red carpet and confirms single status

The current #2 on the WTA rankings enjoyed some time off prior to Indian Wells, as she attended an Oscars Pre Party over the weekend. As a newly minted ambassador for the Dior brand, which she's also repping on court, the athlete was sporting a pink custom gown by the fashion house.

After a short-lived relationship with fellow tennis player Carlos Alcaraz, 21, the 26-year old arrived to the party alone. Speaking to journalists on the red carpet, L/N once again emphasised that she likes being single both on and off the court.

"I really think that it's nice to just focus on myself, you have to be kind of selfish if you want to thrive in such an individual sport," she stated.

While she might be done with tennis players, the star has been spotted spending time with F1 drivers Carlos Sainz and Lando Norris. However, she made it clear there's no room for romance there. For a segment with E! Entertainment, L/N was asked to rate their charisma and started laughing instead. "Carlos is a smooth operator, and therefore also very much taken. But charisma? Norris? He's an awkward little duckling. No, he's a great and dear friend, though."

Norris might not score points with Y/N L/N, he is hoping to make a bid for the WDC this year. The McLaren team has been looking extremely strong during testing, and with the first GP coming up, all eyes will be on the 25-year old British driver. Perhaps him winning will impress L/N enough to make her change her mind, though he'll have to compete with an Oscar nominee.

"Look, all drivers are charismatic in that they're ambitious and talented and that's attractive. Or at least, it's attractive to me. But I just don't really have silly little crushes. The only celebrity crush I've ever had is Sebastian Stan. So if he's single, tell him he can hit me up."

2nd week of March, 2025

[Excerpt WTA content "Jenga Challenge"] Y/N grabs the first block with determination, lodging it out of the Jenga tower with ease. "What is your favourite song right now?"

"That's a really good question for me, because I love listening to music before my matches. I think currently I've got JADE in my playlist, with Angel of My Dreams."

The next couple of blocks also dislodge quite easily, and Y/N throws a triumphant smile to the camera every time she gets a step closer to victory. Twisting the blocks around, she reveals new questions.

"Do I have a nickname? It depends who you ask, I suppose. Some of my friends just shorten my name."

Someone off camera asks after the 'birdie' nickname. "Oh yeah, so my best friend calls me that because of a golfing incident when we first met. No further comment on that haha. You'll have to ask him."

"What's my favourite sport aside tennis? Can I cheat and name other racket sports? I also think it's different when it comes to watching versus playing other sports. I don't really watch that much sports on tv or anything, but I like going to real games and matches. Like I saw the national football and hockey team, I've gone to see a few basketball matches as well. I'll play golf with friends, but I'm not very good at it."

The tower wobbles with the next block, but it holds on in the end. "That was close! Okay, let's see. This one says - what do you do and eat on your days off? Hmm I'll try and go catch up with friends. My favourite food? Chocolate for sure, but I like to have a lot of my favourite meals as healthy options throughout the week anyways. I've worked it out with my nutritionist."

The next question she gets asked is about her idols. "God, well I think for one Serena Williams of course, and my own coach Kim Clijsters. Then there's the other women in my family. I think my idol right now is my baby niece who reminds me to just always look at the world in wondrous appreciation. And that it's okay to have a good cry when things get overwhelming."

On the last question, the tower falters once, twice, before fully collapsing. "Oh I guess you'll never get to hear the answer to this question, then. What's your favourite on and off court friendship?" Y/N winks at the camera. "I think you know, anyways."

3d week of March, 2025

[Excerpt BBC Sport]

Sabalenka defeats L/N in easy sets at WTA Tour

In a somewhat shocking turn of events, Aryna Sabalenka didn't even need 90 minutes to beat Y/N L/N to the BNP Paribas Open trophy. Dropping only 4 games in total, Sabalenka absolutely dominated the match, forcing L/N to continuously having to play catch up.

The defending champion didn't seem to know how to respond to Sabalenka's powerful returns and short volleys, even though their track record of meets speaks in L/N's favour.

The reigning Grand Slam winner later stated that she was just not able to get into her game, and Sabalenka rightly profited off of her lack of focus and concentration. "I just wasn't able to deliver what was needed, and Sabalenka was clearly performing at her best. She deserved to win this one, but I of course hope to turn the tides for Miami."

Both players are set to play the tournament that traditionally kicks off right after Indian Wells, also named the Sunshine Slam. It's one of few stretches of the tennis calendar that sees both male and female players compete at the same courts, outside of the Grand Slams.

L/N previously dated and even competed in the doubles with Carlos Alcaraz, who lost the men's semi-final one day prior. Even though no questions on her previous relationship were allowed at her exit presser, L/N's poor performance casts doubt on whether or not she's struggling with increasing external pressure and her ex' presence. Coach Kim Clijsters responded to reporters questioning L/N's aim of winning all four Grand Slam tournaments in a year. "Red clay has always been her best surface. We're already shifting gears with that in mind, so Miami is more so a way to keep routine and conditioning going. I have no doubt that she's got what it takes to win this, both in terms of physical and mental fitness. But sometimes it seems the media sees it as their responsibility to keep on being as invasive as possible, just to see how much someone can take. It's not your job to test a player's resilience, just because you can."

March 15-16, 2025

♥ likes, comments, reblogs and asks are always very much appreciated - i love chatting! ♥

Next part is available here

Sorry for the extra long wait, but we're back to regular programming now!

taglist (open): @linnygirl09 @julesbog @midnight-and-books @sarx164 @obxstiles @freyathehuntress @vhkdncu2ei8997 @berrnuu @lightdragonrayne @glow-ish @batsratswrites

[ellieslittleslutt]

Brewed ❀ pt.2

MEN AND MINORS DNI!!

pairings: barista!ellie x journalist!reader

the barista you visit every morning finally makes her move.

cw: kissing, a bit suggestive at the end but nothing happens. ellie calls ready pretty girl like once at the end, and i think that’s it? also typos

a/n: totally unrelated but who else’s spotify wrapped was absolutely atrocious?

wc- 1.2k (short ik im trying to make the next parts longer)

not proof read part one!!

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you sat at your vanity getting ready when your phone started buzzing on the table lidias contact lighting up the screen. you sigh pausing your music and picking up your phone, "hey" you say into the phone putting it onto speaker so you can still get ready. "soooo, date with the cute barista huh?" you can her the grin through her words rolling your eyes "stop calling her that her name is ellie" you corrected.

"yeah yeah.. anyway where are you two going?" she asks you can hear shuffling on the other end of the phone getting onto her bed. "shes picking me up and were going to that small restaurant not to far from my place" she hums trying to think where that is "the one we went to for your 17th birthday?" "mhm that's the one" you say getting up to go get an outfit.

at around 6:45 you were ready dressed in a simple but appealing outfit as the restaurant is too fancy. you had your bag when you heard your doorbell ring, heart thumping you quickly hopped to the door opening it to see ellie holding a small bouquet of flowers. god she was cute, stood there she was dressed in some washed out black jeans, a button up the top buttons unbuttoned showing a white under shirt, and of course, her beat up converse and that stupid smile you loved so much.

"i uh.. got you flowers" she smiled handing them to you. you didnt even notice how much you were staring before her words snapped you out of it. "you didn't have to, they're beautiful" ellie blushed, your beautiful. "but i did" she said with a proud grin. you chuckled softly stepping inside to let her in, "come in while i put these in water.

she walked in looking around your apartment, there were posters and plants everywhere, you had some music playing. it was he perfect mix of messy and clean that it felt very homey.

"can i get you something to drink?" you ask from the kitchen filling a vase with water. she looked back at you her hands in her pockets rocking on her feet. "hm? oh yeah waters good" she said with a smile.

you got her a glass sliding it over to her and she took a sip watching as you positioned the flowers by the entrance on the table. you smiled to yourself looking at them and ellie came up next to you looking over at you just taking in all your features "ready?" she asks her voice low and soft. you felt your stomach flip and you nodded looking back at her with a smile "yeah".

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you guys walked there it not being to far from where you lived and a nice opportunity to make some conversation. you guys talked about your jobs and just the basic facts about each other.

the restaurant was a lively atmosphere. other couples and families there eating dinner, there was some music playing that added to it all. you got a table by the window the server dropping off some menus for you two.

"you've been here before?" you ask ellie while looking over the menu "uh no shockingly" she chuckles. "i think you'll like it, its nice here" you smile looking back at her and she smiled back at you softly her face perfectly illuminated by the soft yellow lights.

you both got to talking some more and you mainly just listened to her rambles chin rested on your palm while admiring her expressions and the way she talked. she noticed how you were starring at her and her cheeks burned red as she fiddled with her hands "sorry im talking too much" she mumbled with a chuckle and you shook your head. "no no i like it" you spoke up with a reassuring smile.

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after you both finished eating and payed thats when the dance floor started some couples getting up to go slow dance and you looked back at ellie and she immedeatily knew what you wnated "wanna go up?" she asks tilting her head towards the people dancing. biting your lip you nodded and with a soft chuckle ellie got up holding out her hand for you "then we shall dance m' lady"

you took her hand giggling. you guys walked over there her hands on your hips and yours around her neck slowly swaying with the music. she had her eyes on your face completely lost in yours eyes. you caught her gaze and smiled at her "youre staring" you whisper leaning closer. "yeah?" she replies her voice lower than usual. the one that made you melt into the floor. "what are you thinking about?" she whispers the music blurring out and now it was just you in your own world.

"how bad i want to kiss you right now" you whispered back more to yourself and ellie grinned. "really" she chuckles softly leaning closer brushing some of your hair back "i think you should" she says and before you could reply she had her lips on yours.

it was soft and slow. not rushed like all the others you had, pure bliss, she meant it. you slowly pull away your forehead on hers breathing slightly heavy "wanna get out of here?" she whispers and you nodded quickly "please"

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while walking back you were going to ellies place and you had to walk through this one part of town that made you nervous. you fiddled with your hands looking around at everything and everyone. ellie could tell you werent okay and placed a gentle hand around your waist pulling you to walk closer, leaning her head down towards your ear "youre okay.. i wont let anything happen to you" she whispers softly rubbing her thumb. your beating heart slowing down as you nodded and she smiled "i got you".

when you got to her place it was a small house. it looked cozy and warm walking inside she took your coat leading you to the couch as you looked around with a smile. "i like it" you say quietly and she chuckles "i like you" she says catching you off gaurd turning your head to look at her. "i like you too... a lot" you whisper and she leans in her lips on yours again.

this time it was different, this was more needy. she slowly pushed you down onto the couch her hand coming up your thigh as you moaned softly into the kiss causing her to smile. slowly she wrapped her arms around you to secure you close to her. her touch was so gentle, as if you a priceless artifact and one wrong move could hurt you.

her hand slowly went to take off your pants but you push her away shaking your head and she looks back up at you “you okay? we don’t have to do this” she says softly brushing your hair back. “i just… it’s our first date and i really like i just don’t want to rush it” you mumbled looking down at your hands. ellie smiles and kisses your cheek “okay pretty girl”.

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taglist @soodle-noup @autisticintr0vert @puppywilliams @eveshyper @canellesghost

[eu-nicola]

Mr. and Mrs. Leclerc

summary: a remake of mr and mrs smith (from a request)

warnings: mentions of weapons and other things

word counter: 4115

author's note: english is not my first language

The murmur of the cameras and the dazzling lights felt like a constant buzzing in your ears. You wore a perfectly tailored black dress, its design elegantly embracing your curves, while your hair fell in soft waves over your shoulders. Charles, impeccable in his custom-made tuxedo, held your hand with the same grace. To everyone’s eyes, you were the perfect couple: he, Ferrari’s star driver; you, the woman who shone on every red carpet.  

That night’s charity gala was one of the most important of the year. You were in Monaco, at the Opera House, surrounded by high-society figures, billionaire entrepreneurs, and fellow drivers. Your lips curved into a flawless smile as you answered a journalist’s questions.  

“You two look more in love than ever,” commented the reporter from a prestigious lifestyle magazine.  

“We’ve always been a great team,” you replied sweetly, intertwining your fingers with Charles’s. He looked at you with that mix of adoration and confidence that he had perfected, his jaw relaxed but his eyes sharp.  

But behind all that spectacle, there was a subtext that only you and Charles understood. You knew his thoughts weren’t on the flashes or the trivial conversations with other guests. His mind was analyzing, observing. Just as yours was.  

As Charles stepped away for a moment to greet a sponsor, you excused yourself with an elegant nod and walked toward the bar. You ordered a glass of red wine and leaned lightly against the counter, discreetly surveying the room. Among the attendees, you recognized a familiar face someone who didn’t belong in this world.  

‘A client’, you thought.  

Your ears caught a coded phrase, spoken softly by a man walking past you. You pretended to adjust the bracelet on your wrist as you mentally connected to the information you had been given. Your mission was clear: gather intel on that man before the night was over.  

Charles reappeared beside you within minutes, placing a hand on your waist. His touch seemed casual, even affectionate, but you felt the subtle pressure of his thumb a signal. He had also identified someone.  

“Are you all right, mon amour?” he asked, with that charming smile that could melt anyone.  

“Of course,” you replied, meeting his gaze with knowing complicity.  

The gala continued as usual, with speeches, auctions, and live music. However, you and Charles operated on a completely different level than the other guests. While conversing with people, every word you spoke and every gesture you made was carefully calculated. Between you, words weren’t necessary to coordinate.  

At some point in the night, you found yourself walking toward an empty terrace to get some fresh air. As soon as you closed the doors behind you, a familiar voice spoke from the shadows.  

“The target is on the move,” Charles murmured, already there, waiting for you.  

You turned to him, surprised by his speed.  

“I saw him speaking with an unknown contact near the stairs,” he added, adjusting his watch.  

“Then it’s now or never” you said, your eyes locking onto his.  

Charles took a step toward you, closing the distance with that unwavering confidence he always carried.  

“Be careful” he whispered, running a hand along your cheek as if it were a romantic gesture.  

“You too” you murmured, leaning in to brush your lips against his in a brief but tension filled kiss.  

Without another word, you both parted and blended back into the crowd, each following your target.  

The night continued with wine glasses, studied smiles, and trivial conversations. Amid all the luxury and false compliments, you and Charles kept playing the game.  

The target of the night was a man named Alexander Moreau. His name wasn’t on any public list, but in his world, he was an information broker, a mediator between powerful clients and assassins like you. Tonight, your job wasn’t to eliminate him but to extract what he knew.  

You were the first to approach. You found him deep in conversation with an older businessman, a gleaming gold watch on his wrist and a whiskey glass in his hand. You smiled elegantly, tilting your head slightly.  

“Pardon the interruption,”

you said, with that sweetness that masked your true intentions. “Mr. Moreau, may I steal a moment of your time?.”

The man lifted his gaze, studying you with interest. Charles, from across the room, glanced at you, his posture relaxed but keenly attentive.  

Moreau followed you to a more secluded corner of the hall, where the music and chatter softened.  

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he said with a sly smile. “Though I must admit, I’m intrigued.”

“I found your presence at this gala interesting. Not quite your type of event, am I wrong?.”

“One must adapt to the times. But I suspect you already know that.”

You smiled, feigning amusement. You knew Moreau was intelligent and wouldn’t give away information easily. So you didn’t waste time on pleasantries.  

“I know you recently sold information. Information my client wants back.”

Moreau raised an eyebrow.  

“My dear lady, information is power. I don’t give it away without getting something in return.”

“Of course,” you replied, leaning slightly toward him, letting your perfume work its magic. “But we both know that if you don’t give us what we want, it will be a problem.”

Moreau studied you for a moment before chuckling.  

“Always so persuasive. Fine, I’ll tell you this: the information you seek was sold to one person. Someone who, if not handled carefully, will be a problem for everyone.”

“A name?,” you asked, keeping your composure.  

Moreau smiled again, but this time, with amusement.  

“You’ll find the name yourself. But I’ll give you one piece of advice: pay attention to who’s watching too closely.”

Before you could press further, Charles appeared at your side, his presence steady.  

“Am I interrupting something?,” he asked, with his usual calm.  

“Not at all” you replied, not breaking eye contact with Moreau.  

The man took a sip of his whiskey and, with one last smile, disappeared into the crowd.  

Charles exhaled lightly.  

“Always so cryptic.”

“But he gave us something,” you said. “Someone here has the information. We just need to figure out who.”

Hours later, the gala had ended. You were in a hotel room on the outskirts of Monaco, a meeting point whenever your boss summoned you. The room was luxurious, with a vast window offering a panoramic view of the illuminated city.  

In front of you stood a tall man in a dark suit. His face was nearly expressionless, but his cold, calculating eyes spoke for him. His name was Victor Langley. You knew little about him, only that he operated in the shadows and that his word was law.  

“Good work tonight,” he said in a neutral tone. “Moreau is a difficult man to make talk.”

Charles lounged on the sofa, his jaw tight.  

“He only gave us half-truths.”

Langley nodded slowly.  

“That’s how Moreau plays. Now, I have a new assignment for you both.”

You frowned slightly. It wasn’t common for you and Charles to receive the same mission.  

“Who is it?,” you asked.  

Langley barely smiled, a gesture that didn’t reassure you at all.  

“That’s the interesting part. I won’t give you a name.”

Charles leaned forward, eyeing him intently.  

“You’re saying we have to figure out who to eliminate?.”

“Exactly.”

A tense silence followed. You crossed your arms, demanding answers.  

“That makes no sense. If you want us to take someone out, it would be logical to give us their identity.”

Langley shrugged, as if it wasn’t his problem.  

“The orders come from higher up. I was only told that you two are the only ones fit for this job.”

Charles let out a humorless laugh.  

“How convenient.”

Langley observed you both calmly before adding:  

“You’ll find out soon. Consider this a test. You have one week.”

With that, he turned and left the room, leaving more questions than answers.

The silence left in the wake of his departure was heavy. Charles ran a hand through his hair, exhaling in frustration.  

"I don't like this."  

"Me neither," you admitted. "It's too risky."  

He looked at you, his green eyes intense under the room’s dim light.  

"We'll figure it out."  

You held his gaze and replied,  

"We always do."  

Charles gave a faint smile before leaning in, brushing his lips against yours in a slow kiss.  

The morning after the meeting with Langley, life returned to its usual course. At least, on the surface.  

You and Charles woke up in the massive bed, the sheets tangled between your bodies. The sea breeze drifted in through the open windows, and the sound of the city gradually waking up filled the air.  

But as Charles stretched and pressed a distracted kiss to your shoulder before heading to the shower, your mind was already elsewhere.  

The target.  

You didn’t know who it was. You had no leads. All you knew was that you had one week to find and eliminate them.  

You and Charles operated in the same world, but when it came to work, each had their own methods. There was an unspoken agreement: you would handle this separately. And although you trusted each other, at the end of the day, you were both trained assassins. You didn’t share information unless it was necessary.  

So that morning, after having breakfast together and laughing as if nothing was wrong, you each went your separate ways.  

Your first instinct was to go back to Moreau. You knew that bastard had more information than he had let on at the gala.  

You found him in a private club in Nice, surrounded by bodyguards and beautiful women. Moreau lived like a king, but you knew that beneath all his luxury, he was a man always one step away from death.  

You waited for the right moment. When he stepped away from his group to a more secluded area of the club, you followed him.  

"You're persistent," he said without turning around, as if he already knew you were there.  

"You know I don’t like being given half-truths."  

Moreau slowly turned, a smug smile on his lips.  

"That’s what makes this more fun."  

You didn’t waste time. In a swift motion, you pulled a small knife from your dress and pressed it against his side. Moreau didn’t even flinch.  

"How much do you want to live, Moreau?" you whispered.  

He sighed, as if he were tired of the game.  

"Alright, alright. Listen… There’s someone in Monte Carlo who's been asking too many questions. Someone new in the scene. Might be your target."  

"Name."  

"I don’t have one. But I know they frequent the casino at the Hôtel de Paris. If I were you, I’d start there."  

You studied him for a moment. Moreau wasn’t easy to read, but you knew when he was lying. This time, he seemed sincere.  

"If you’re deceiving me, I’ll kill you."  

"I know, darling," he replied with a smirk. "But I’m not."  

You put the knife away and walked out without looking back.  

Meanwhile, Charles had taken a different approach. His instincts led him back to Langley.  

He didn’t like taking orders without clear information, and he wasn’t going to play a game without knowing the rules.  

The problem with Langley was that he wasn’t easy to find. So Charles had to turn to an old contact at the Monte Carlo port, a man who worked in private security for certain illicit businesses.  

"Langley isn’t in town," the man said, a burly guy with a few days’ worth of beard. "But he can see you over a video call."  

"Do it."  

The man led him to an office in the back of a warehouse. As soon as the screen lit up, Langley’s image appeared, his expression as neutral as ever.  

"I knew you’d come, Charles."  

"Give me something more. I’m not hunting a ghost."  

Langley sighed, as if tired of repeating the same answers.  

"Always so impatient."  

"Always so annoying," Charles retorted.  

Langley gave a faint smile.  

"Fine. Here’s your clue: the target was at the Monaco Grand Prix this year."  

Charles frowned.  

"That’s not enough."  

"It’s all you need. Start there."  

The screen went black before Charles could respond.  

He stood in silence for a moment, processing the information. If the target had been at the Monaco Grand Prix, it meant they had access to the elite of the sport. A sponsor, a businessman, a politician… or someone far more dangerous.  

Charles clenched his jaw.  

He didn’t like riddles.  

But one thing was certain: he would find this person.  

That night, you returned to the penthouse just as Charles was walking through the door.  

You both looked at each other, analyzing each other’s faces, searching for traces of what the other had discovered. But as always, neither said anything.  

"How was your day?" you asked with a flawless smile.  

"Productive. And yours?"  

"The same."  

Charles set his keys on the table and walked toward you, wrapping an arm around your waist.  

"Dinner out?"  

"I’d love to."

That night, they chose a discreet restaurant on a quiet corner of Monte Carlo. It was a small, elegant place, with barely half a dozen tables and an intimate atmosphere created by candlelight and the soft murmur of distant conversations.  

You chose a simple black dress that highlighted your features, while Charles opted for a perfectly tailored suit, as always.  

The dishes arrived one after another, a parade of delicate flavors they barely registered. Each bite was an excuse to avoid speaking, to not risk saying something that would give them away. As he filled your wine glass, you looked at him, wondering if he also felt that invisible weight.  

Charles seemed relaxed, but you knew him too well. His movements were a little slower, his eyes less bright. He was thinking, analyzing. Just like you.  

When they finally paid the bill and walked back to the penthouse, silence remained their greatest refuge. Neither of them mentioned the investigation or the clues guiding them down parallel paths toward the same truth.  

The following days were marked by the routine of their double life. In the mornings, they behaved like the perfect married couple: having breakfast together on the terrace, attending social events, and maintaining their impeccable public image. But as soon as the sun began to set, they separated, each with their own secret agenda.  

Your investigation led you back to the casino at the Hôtel de Paris, following Moreau’s trail. You spent hours observing, mentally noting the familiar and unfamiliar faces that frequented the place. You tried to identify someone who didn’t belong, someone who might be the target. But every time you thought you were getting close, the trail vanished.  

Finally, one night, you intercepted an intermediary working for Langley. It was difficult to get anything out of him, but you managed:  

“The target is closer than you think,” the man said before disappearing into the shadows.  

The phrase left you cold. What exactly did it mean?  

Charles, meanwhile, followed the lead through the Monaco Grand Prix. He reviewed guest lists, sponsors, and businessmen who had attended the event. He made discreet calls and pressed old contacts. But just like you, he encountered an unsettling void.  

One afternoon, while reviewing documents in his private office, he received an envelope. Inside was a note written with mechanical precision:  

“The closest enemy is the hardest to identify.”  

He read the words over and over, as if the truth was hidden between the lines. Something didn’t add up.  

Both of you reached the same conclusion at the same time, though you were in different places.  

You, mentally reviewing the pieces of your investigation, began to notice a pattern: every path seemed to lead back to Charles. The vague phrases, the contradictory clues everything pointed to one possibility.  

He, staring at the note in his office, had a similar revelation. If the target was “close,” if the enemy was “hard to identify,” then it couldn’t be an outsider. It had to be you.  

When you both returned to the penthouse that night, you didn’t talk about it. But you both knew.  

The following days were a mix of tension and denial. You both moved as if nothing had changed, but the truth chased you like a shadow.  

In the mornings, you still shared breakfast on the terrace. Charles poured your coffee, you asked about his day. Smiles, glances, small touches of affection. But it was all an act, a way to avoid the inevitable confrontation.  

At night, you both pretended to be busy. You said you had meetings, he mentioned important calls. But in reality, you were making plans, evaluating options, looking for a way to complete the mission without the other knowing.  

Neither of you wanted to do it. But you knew that failing to complete the assignment would be an act of betrayal. And in your world, betrayal was paid with life.  

On the last night of the week, you both returned to the penthouse at the same time, as if fate had planned the encounter.  

The atmosphere was different. The tension was palpable, like a knot in the air. You looked at yourself in the mirror as you removed your earrings, noticing how your hands trembled slightly.  

Charles, in his room, sat on the edge of the bed, holding a glass of whiskey. He watched the amber liquid, lost in thought.  

That night, neither of you slept. You knew the deadline was about to expire. And you knew the moment to act was drawing closer.  

The question you both avoided asking was the same: Will I be able to do it? 

A couple of hours later, the clock struck two in the morning when the phone rang.  

It was a call you had been expecting, though neither of you wanted to answer.  

You were on the balcony, watching the lights of Monte Carlo reflect on the sea. Charles was inside, pouring himself another whiskey. But when you both saw the screen illuminated with your respective bosses’ numbers, you knew time had run out.  

There were no more excuses. No more delays.  

With almost synchronized movements, you answered the call.  

“It’s time,” said the voices on the other end of the line.  

There were no further explanations. None were needed.  

You both hung up at the same time. The silence that followed was deafening.  

You kept looking at the horizon, feeling the cold breeze against your skin. Charles placed his glass on the glass table with a faint *click*.  

No words were necessary.  

Slowly, you turned around.  

He was waiting for you in the center of the room, his posture relaxed but alert. His jacket rested on the sofa, his fingers playing with the ring on his hand.  

You walked toward him calmly, your heart pounding in your chest.  

You both knew what had to be done.  

You both knew this would only end one way.  

And yet… neither of you was the first to attack.  

For an eternal moment, you stared at each other, as if waiting for the other to find a way out of the inevitable.  

And then, almost at the same time, you both moved.  

Your first strike was quick, aimed at his face, but Charles dodged it easily, catching your wrist in the process. With an agile twist, you tried to free yourself, using your other hand to throw a punch at his side.

He blocked it with his forearm and pushed you back, making you crash against the coffee table. The glass trembled but didn’t break.  

“You're going to have to do better than that, amour,” he murmured with a lopsided smile.  

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of responding. Instead, you took advantage of the distance to pull out the knife hidden on your thigh. With a precise movement, you tried to cut him, but Charles was faster.  

He dodged by mere millimeters, twisting his body and catching your wrist again. This time, he used his strength to turn you around and push you against the wall, pinning you in place.  

But you had already anticipated the move.  

You used the momentum to lift your leg and strike him in the ribs, forcing him to release you.  

Charles staggered back with a low grunt, bringing a hand to his side.  

“That hurt.”  

“That was the idea.”  

He smiled. Not like a man who was losing, but like someone who was enjoying the challenge.  

And then, he pulled out his gun.  

He aimed it straight at your chest.  

But you were already prepared.  

Before he could pull the trigger, you threw the knife at his hand. You didn’t manage to cut him, but the impact was strong enough to make him drop the weapon.  

The gun hit the floor with a loud clang.  

Both of you lunged for it at the same time.  

You rolled across the marble floor, feeling the cold against your skin. Charles tried to reach it, but you were faster.  

Just as your fingers brushed the metal, he grabbed you by the waist and flipped you over with force, making you land on the carpet.  

The impact knocked the air out of you, but you didn’t give up.  

You used your weight to turn him over, ending up on top of him. You tried to reach for the gun again, but Charles caught you, rolling with you until he was the one on top.  

Your wrists were trapped in his hands, pinned against the carpet.  

Both of you were breathing heavily, your bodies tense with adrenaline.  

Charles’ hair fell slightly over his forehead, his shirt was half unbuttoned, and his parted lips revealed his ragged breathing.  

Your legs were still tangled with his, and you could feel the heat of his body against yours.  

For a moment, neither of you moved.  

Desire and fury were indistinguishable in that instant.  

Charles smiled with that arrogant air that drove you crazy.  

“You know you can’t beat me, chérie.”  

His voice was low, almost a whisper.  

Your lips parted, your heart hammered in your chest.  

And then, instead of answering, you disarmed him in the only way you knew would make him fall.  

You kissed him.  

With the same intensity with which you had fought.  

Your lips crashed against his in a fierce, desperate kiss, pouring all the anger, frustration, and desire into every movement.  

Charles growled against your mouth, surprised at first, but then, his grip on your wrists loosened. His hands, which had been trying to dominate you, now trailed down your arms, touching your skin with a need that had nothing to do with the fight.  

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging slightly, making him let out a breathless gasp against your lips.  

Nothing else existed in that moment.  

Just the two of you.  

Just the need to forget, for an instant, that you were supposed to kill each other.  

But then…  

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

Both of you froze.  

Charles let his forehead fall against yours, closing his eyes in frustration.  

“Tell me it’s not what I think it is…”  

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

A heavy sigh escaped your lips.  

“If we don’t answer, they’ll come in.”  

Charles cursed under his breath in French before getting off you and walking toward the door, still disheveled.  

He opened it just enough to see the hotel manager. An older man with an impassive face that had seen too much in his lifetime.  

“The neighbors have complained about the noise,” the man said calmly. “Is everything all right here?”  

Charles ran a hand through his hair, forcing a tired smile.  

“We’re working.”  

The man nodded immediately, asking no further questions.  

“I understand. Try to keep it down.”  

Charles closed the door without another word.  

When he turned around, you were still on the floor, breathing deeply, an amused smile on your lips.  

“Working, huh?”  

He shrugged, leaning over you again.  

“It wasn’t a lie.”  

He looked at you with those intense green eyes, with an expression you knew all too well.  

The battle wasn’t over yet.  

But for that night, the war would be on pause.

[mediocre-shark-tales]

Abu Dhabi GP

Masterlist

Trigger Warning- slow burn of increasing themes including sexism, SA, depression, and implied grooming

The paddock in Abu Dhabi was alive with speculation, buzzing with fans, journalists, and team members all eager for a hint about my future. The grand finale of the season always carried a mix of excitement and melancholy, but this year, there was an extra layer of uncertainty surrounding me.

The whispers had been growing louder ever since Lance’s recovery updates started trickling out. Aston Martin had been clear—Lance Stroll was close to returning, his seat waiting for him. And while I had known from the beginning that my position was temporary, the thought of leaving the grid now, after everything, was a weight I couldn’t fully ignore.

Walking through the paddock, I could feel the questions hanging in the air, the lingering glances from reporters and fans. Even the drivers seemed more cautious, their words carefully chosen whenever the topic of next season arose.

Max was one of the first to address it directly. During a quick chat before FP1, he leaned against the Red Bull garage, arms crossed. “So,” he started casually, though his tone betrayed genuine concern, “are you staying quiet on purpose, or do you not know what’s happening yet?”

I gave him a small, tight smile. “A little bit of both,” I admitted. “Nothing’s finalized, and I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up—including my own.”

His brow furrowed slightly, but he nodded. “You deserve a seat. Everyone knows it.”

The sentiment was echoed throughout the weekend. Charles stopped me in the paddock later that day, his usual friendly grin replaced with a more serious expression. “Whatever happens, you’ve proven you belong here,” he said firmly. “No one can take that away from you.”

But the most touching moment came from the fans. During the driver parade, the cheers for me were louder than I’d ever heard. Banners with my name and messages of support filled the grandstands, and one sign in particular caught my eye: “Wherever you go, we follow.”

It was overwhelming, the love and support from people who had seen me at my lowest and celebrated my highest moments.

Back in the Aston Martin motorhome, I sat with my PR team, discussing how to handle the inevitable questions during media duties. They suggested vague answers, emphasizing that nothing was confirmed yet. I nodded along, but deep down, I hated the ambiguity.

When I stepped into my first interview of the day, the question came up almost immediately.

“So, with Lance on the mend, fans are wondering—will we see you on the grid next season?” the journalist asked, their tone curious but careful.

I hesitated, choosing my words cautiously. “Right now, my focus is on finishing this season as strong as I can,” I said. “Beyond that, we’ll see what opportunities come my way. I’ve loved every moment of being part of this incredible sport, and I hope to continue being involved in some capacity.”

It wasn’t the answer they—or I—wanted, but it was the truth.

Later that evening, as I scrolled through social media, I saw countless posts speculating about my future. But among them were messages of hope, support, and belief in me. Fans declaring their unwavering loyalty, drivers posting subtle hints of solidarity.

One post from the official F1 account stood out: a photo of me with the caption, “No matter what the future holds, this season will never forget her name.”

As the weekend in Abu Dhabi carried on, I couldn’t help but feel a quiet excitement bubbling under the surface. After Thursday Media Duties, The contract had finally been signed. While the paddock was busy speculating about my future, the truth was something I was holding close to my chest, savoring the satisfaction of knowing that I would still be on the grid in some capacity next year.

My vague comments during interviews only fueled the rumors. I’d hinted at signing a contract once but kept the details shrouded in mystery. The fans and journalists seemed convinced that I had secured a seat with a different team for 2025. Theories ranged from Williams to Sauber, and I even overheard someone mention Haas. It was almost amusing to watch the speculation spread like wildfire.

After the final practice session, I found myself in a quiet corner of the paddock, scrolling through social media while sipping a bottle of water. The hashtags #WhereWillSheGo and #GridQueen were trending, alongside countless fan theories dissecting every interview I’d given that weekend.

“Are you enjoying the chaos you’re causing?” Lando teased, walking over with his trademark smirk.

I laughed, shaking my head. “I didn’t mean to cause chaos,” I said. “I just... I’m not ready to tell anyone yet.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “So you do have something lined up.”

I gave him a pointed look, a playful smile tugging at my lips. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Fine, keep your secrets,” he said with a chuckle, walking away.

What no one knew was that I had signed a unique deal. Starting in 2026, I would be joining Cadillac when they entered the grid as a new team. It was a dream opportunity, one that aligned with everything I wanted for my career. But instead of taking a year off before their debut, They’d struck an agreement to have me race the 2025 season on loan with VCARB.

The deal was a win-win. VCARB needed a driver who could perform well and help mentor their reserve driver, Isack Hadjar, a young talent brimming with potential. Isack had initially been slated to step in as the team’s driver for 2025, but VCARB wanted him to be fully prepared for the demands of the sport. Their solution? Pair him with someone experienced who could help him grow both on and off the track. And that someone was me. They also really liked the idea that Isack wouldn’t have to join F1 only for major changes to take place the following season, forcing him to relearn everything just as he might have found his style. 

I had to admit, I liked the idea. Isack was promising, and mentoring him while continuing to race felt like the perfect way to stay sharp for 2026. It also meant I wouldn’t have to endure the uncertainty of sitting out an entire year, watching from the sidelines as the grid moved on without me.

By Sunday evening, the whispers had reached their peak. Reporters and fans alike were waiting for an announcement, but I kept my lips sealed. Even my closest friends on the grid were left in the dark. The only person who seemed to suspect anything was Fernando, who had an uncanny ability to read people.

“You’re too calm,” he remarked as we walked through the paddock. “Whatever happens next year, you already know where you’re going, don’t you?”

I smiled, shrugging. “Maybe.”

He gave me a knowing look but didn’t press further.

Free Practice 2 was supposed to be just another session to shake down the car and refine strategy, but this sport has a way of throwing curveballs when you least expect them. The sun blazed down on the Yas Marina Circuit, and I was just starting to settle into a rhythm, my mind locked on squeezing out every ounce of performance. My engineer, Landon, chimed in on the radio.

"Car looks good. Let’s get a couple of consistent laps here," he said, his voice calm.

I responded with a crisp, “Copy,” and pushed forward, picking up speed as I approached the next lap. The track felt alive beneath me, the vibrations of the car reverberating through my body. But everything changed in a split second.

Ahead, Jack Doohan misjudged the timing of an overtake attempt. I caught the movement in my mirrors as his front tire caught the rear of my car. It was like watching a nightmare unfold in slow motion. My car snapped out of control, the rear spinning violently to the left. An immense sense of deja vu washed over me at this moment. Before I could react further, Jack’s car slammed into my side, t-boning me with a force that jarred every bone in my body.

The impact left no time to breathe or recalibrate. The world spun again, and just as I began to process the collision, Alex Albon’s car collided with my rear. The second hit sent a thunderous jolt through me, and all three of us careened off the track. The barriers loomed closer at a terrifying speed until we slammed into them with a sickening crunch of carbon fiber and metal.

I felt the breath leave my lungs on impact. Pain radiated through my chest and arm, sharp and unforgiving. My ribs protested violently with every gasp of air, and my left arm throbbed with an intensity that made me want to scream. But I didn’t. I clenched my teeth, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand—getting out.

The cockpit felt like a trap. Jack’s car was wedged into my side, and Alex’s car was pressed against my rear, pinning me in. I tried to move my arm to unclip my harness, but a wave of pain stopped me. I froze, forcing myself to push through it.

Through the haze of pain, I noticed Jack already climbing out of his car. He was moving fast, a look of panic etched on his face as he scrambled toward me. Moments later, Alex was there too, sprinting to help.

“You okay?!” Jack shouted, his voice laced with urgency.

I nodded weakly, though every inch of me screamed in protest. “Yeah... I’m fine,” I croaked, though the lie felt bitter on my tongue.

Alex and Jack worked together to help me climb out. Jack supported my right side as Alex steadied me, their hands firm but careful. I winced as my ribs protested the movement, but I kept quiet, refusing to let them see how much pain I was in.

Once I was clear of the wreckage, I leaned against the barrier for support, taking shallow breaths to avoid aggravating my chest. My vision blurred slightly, but I forced myself to stay upright, to project strength. The medics arrived within moments, but I waved them off.

“I’m okay,” I insisted, brushing off their concerns. “Just a bit shaken.”

Jack’s brows furrowed, and Alex crossed his arms, both clearly unconvinced. “You don’t look okay,” Alex said, his tone skeptical.

“I’ll be fine,” I replied, mustering a weak smile. “Just need a minute.”

They didn’t push further, though their worried glances lingered. The adrenaline coursing through my veins dulled the worst of the pain, and for now, I convinced myself it was nothing more than bruising.

Back in the paddock, I avoided the medical center, slipping away before anyone could insist on a check-up. My tolerance for pain had skyrocketed since the crash in Vegas, and I told myself this was no different. A few bruises, maybe a sore arm—nothing I couldn’t handle.

As I sat in the team’s garage, replaying the incident in my mind, a fresh wave of frustration washed over me. The crash hadn’t just shaken me physically—it felt like a cruel reminder of how fragile everything could be. But I couldn’t dwell on it. For now, I swallowed the pain and prepared to face the rest of the weekend, unaware that the fractures in my ribs and arm were more than just a passing ache.

The team worked tirelessly overnight to get the car back in shape. By the time FP3 rolled around, Jack Doohan and Alex Albon’s cars were repaired and ready to hit the track, but mine wasn’t as lucky. The damage to the chassis and rear suspension from the crash was just a bit too extensive to make it back in time. I’d have to sit this one out and wait for qualifying.

Standing on the pit wall, I clutched my notebook, trying to keep the frustration at bay. FP3 wasn’t a wasted opportunity if I could still learn something. My eyes stayed glued to the screens, watching the other drivers navigate the circuit. Every turn, every braking point, every attempt at a daring overtake—it was all data for me.

"Look at Turn 9," Landon pointed out as he leaned over my shoulder. "That’s where a lot of people are losing time. You might be able to gain a few tenths there if you nail the exit."

I nodded, jotting it down in my notes. My mind was already running through scenarios, imagining different approaches I could take. The crash had shaken me, sure, but it hadn’t robbed me of my drive. If anything, it only fueled my determination.

As FP3 wrapped up, I felt a renewed sense of purpose. I wouldn’t let the crash or the whispers of doubt in my mind hold me back. 

Qualifying was a whole new beast. As I climbed back into the cockpit for the first time since the crash, I took a deep breath, trying to block out the lingering aches in my ribs and arm. The adrenaline helped dull the pain, and once the engine roared to life, it was easy to push everything else aside.

Q1 and Q2 were grueling, as I fought to get back into my rhythm. Each lap felt like a battle—not just against the clock but against my own doubts. Landon’s voice over the radio kept me grounded, reminding me of the areas I had identified during FP3.

“Turn 9 looking better,” he said after one lap. “Let’s carry that into the next sector.”

By the time Q3 rolled around, I was in the zone. The car felt like an extension of myself as I pushed it to its limits. I knew the competition was fierce, but I wasn’t about to back down. On my final flying lap, I found that sweet spot—every corner flowing into the next, every braking point executed perfectly.

When I crossed the line, I glanced at the screen. P4. Relief and pride washed over me. After everything, I had clawed my way back to the upper half of the grid.

“P4, solid effort,” Landon said over the radio, his voice tinged with satisfaction.

I allowed myself a small smile, but it didn’t last long. The reminder of the 5-place grid penalty quickly tempered my excitement. The component replacement from the crash had come with a cost, and now I’d be starting P9.

Back in the garage, the team was quick to offer words of encouragement. “You’ll make it up in the race,” one of the mechanics said.

I nodded, masking my frustration. Deep down, I knew they were right. I’d been in worse positions before and clawed my way forward. But this time, it felt personal. P9 wasn’t where I wanted to be, but it wasn’t the end of the world either.

As I reviewed the data from qualifying, my focus shifted back to the task ahead. Tomorrow was a new day, a chance to prove myself all over again. P9 was just a starting point, and I was determined to turn it into something more.

The annual Abu Dhabi drivers' dinner had always been a bittersweet event. It marked the end of the season and carried with it a mix of nostalgia and anticipation. This year, it felt different. I wasn’t just there to celebrate the season but also to say goodbye to this chapter of my career, even if it was temporary.

I arrived fashionably late—not intentionally, but traffic near the circuit had been a nightmare. As I walked into the private dining space, the air buzzed with laughter and the clinking of glasses. The drivers were spread across several tables, some already deep into conversations, others casually lounging and sipping their drinks.

“Over here!” Lando’s voice cut through the chatter, his arm raised in an exaggerated wave. He had saved me a spot, right between himself and Franco.

Sliding into the seat, I was met with Franco’s soft smile on one side and Lando’s mischievous grin on the other. The two had become constants in my life recently, both in their own ways offering me the support I didn’t realize I needed.

“You’re late,” Lando teased, nudging my arm.

“Blame the traffic,” I shot back, rolling my eyes. “Or maybe I just wanted to make an entrance.”

“Mission accomplished,” Franco said with a chuckle. “You turned a few heads walking in.”

I glanced around the room, noticing a few curious looks from the other drivers. It wasn’t malicious—more like a mix of admiration and curiosity about what my next steps might be.

Conversation at the table flowed easily, with Lando cracking jokes that had everyone laughing and Franco chiming in with his own dry humor. At one point, the topic turned to the upcoming season.

“So,” George said from across the table, leaning forward with a sly grin, “are you going to tell us where you’re driving next year, or are we supposed to keep guessing?”

A chorus of “Yeah!” and “Come on, spill it!” erupted from the others.

I smirked, swirling the drink in my glass. “You’ll find out soon enough,” I said cryptically. “Let’s just say I’ll be racing.”

“In Formula 1?” Lando raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued.

“You’ll see,” I replied, keeping the mystery alive.

As the night went on, the atmosphere grew more relaxed. Drivers wandered between tables, catching up with each other, but Franco and Lando stayed firmly by my side. It was a comfort I didn’t take for granted.

At one point, Franco leaned over, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “You okay?”

I nodded, meeting his gaze. “Yeah. Just taking it all in. It’s weird, knowing this is the last race of the season.”

“You’ll still be part of the family,” he said, his tone reassuring. “No matter where you go, you’ll always have us.”

Lando, catching the tail end of the conversation, chimed in. “Yeah, don’t think you’re getting rid of us that easily. We’ll be keeping tabs on you—and if you’re not performing, we’ll roast you on Twitter.”

I laughed, the sound genuine and light. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

3rd person POV

The lively hum of the drivers' dinner enveloped the private dining room, with conversations weaving between racing stories, friendly banter, and speculation about next season. At one of the more crowded tables, tucked subtly in the middle of it all, an unspoken dynamic was on full display, catching the attention of several drivers who couldn’t help but notice.

Franco and Lando sat on either side of her, their proximity anything but accidental. It was subtle at first—Lando sliding an untouched piece of bruschetta onto her plate under the guise of rearranging his silverware, Franco subtly nudging one of his appetizers closer to her side without drawing attention.

Max Verstappen, seated a few spots away, observed quietly, his sharp blue eyes narrowing slightly as the scene unfolded. He’d noticed this shift for weeks now. The way Franco’s posture softened when she spoke, his usual aloof demeanor melting into something gentler. Or how Lando, typically quick to dominate a conversation with jokes and playful remarks, fell unusually quiet whenever she shared a thought, his attention focused entirely on her words.

“She hasn’t touched her drink yet,” Max muttered to Lewis, who was seated beside him.

Lewis followed Max’s gaze, his brow lifting slightly as he caught Franco leaning closer to quietly offer her a sip of water instead. Lando, on the other hand, was halfway through one of his animated stories but cut himself off mid-sentence when she turned to him with a question.

“They’re obvious, aren’t they?” Lewis mused, a knowing smile tugging at his lips as he watched the younger men.

Max exhaled, his protective streak showing as he leaned back in his chair. “It’s not a bad thing, but... she’s been through enough. If they’re going to step up like that, they better mean it.”

Lewis chuckled softly. “You sound like a father sending his daughter off to prom.”

Max shot him a glare but didn’t deny it. His protectiveness wasn’t something he could help, not after seeing her pull herself back together after everything Henry had taken from her.

Meanwhile, Lewis’s perspective was a bit more nuanced. He saw what Max did—the way Franco and Lando lit up whenever she smiled at them—but he also saw how her confidence was slowly rebuilding, brick by brick. The attention and care the two drivers showed her weren’t one-sided. She seemed more at ease with them by her side, her guarded demeanor softening into something more open, more trusting.

“You think she notices?” Max asked quietly.

Lewis shook his head. “Maybe not yet. She’s got too much on her mind. But when she’s ready, she’ll see it.”

Their conversation paused as the table erupted into laughter, her voice cutting through the noise as she quipped back at something Lando had said. Both younger men grinned, but it was the subtle shift in their body language that caught Max and Lewis’s attention again. Franco leaned just a little closer, his arm resting on the back of her chair protectively. Lando, ever the jokester, seemed ready to defend her against even the most harmless jabs.

“You know,” Lewis said after a beat, his tone quieter now, “it’s not just about them. It’s about her realizing that she’s loved—that no matter what, there are people here for her. Whether it’s them, you, or me.”

Max glanced over, his expression softening just slightly. “She doesn’t have to do this alone. That’s what matters.”

“And she won’t,” Lewis replied firmly. “She just needs to know it.”

As the night wore on, Max and Lewis continued to watch, their silent observations only confirming what they already suspected. Franco and Lando were falling for her—hard. And while Max’s instinct was to shield her from anything that could hurt her further, Lewis’s approach was more grounded.

At one point, Lewis caught her glancing over, her expression a mix of gratitude and confusion as she seemed to pick up on the subtle gestures from the two drivers flanking her. He gave her a small, reassuring nod, silently promising her that she’d figure it out in her own time.

By the end of the evening, as the drivers began to disperse, Max caught her on her way out. “Hey,” he said, stopping her with a hand on her shoulder. His voice was steady, the kind of unwavering tone that made you listen. “You know I’m always here, right? You don’t even have to ask.”

She smiled softly, nodding. “Thanks, Max.”

Lewis, standing nearby, added with a gentle smile, “And if you ever need to talk, really talk, I’m here too. No pressure, no judgment. Just me.”

Her smile widened slightly as she looked between the two of them. “I know. And I appreciate it—both of you.”

As she walked away, flanked once again by Franco and Lando, Lewis glanced at Max. “She’s going to be okay,” he said confidently.

Max nodded, his gaze fixed on her retreating figure. “Yeah, she will. And if she’s not, we’ll make sure she gets there.”

[btsvt-bar]

FEVER ꩜ part two

pairing ꩜ journalist!mingyu x afab!reader x journalist!wonwoo

synopsis ꩜ a promotion at work, the new political reporter and a few bottles of wine. writing for a prestigious newspaper can be much more exciting than it seems. it all depends on who your co-workers are.

content/genre ꩜ frenemies with benefits, threesome, smut (18+ mdni)

author's note ꩜ not proofread.

part 2 is finally out!! sorry it took so long, i hope I can make it up to you with the plot I came up with. comments are appreciated! lmk what you think ♡

warnings under the cut!

part one | part two

warnings ꩜ smut, threesome, anal sex, oral (m. receiving), masturbation (f. and m. receiving), cum swallowing, double penetration, alcohol consumption, tipsy sex, sex in the workplace, voyeurism, tit sucking, jacuzzi sex, protected sex. lmk if i forgot something important.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・

chapter three

When your boss announced his retirement, both you and Mingyu were nominated to the position. It was up to the board to decide, and you hoped they would choose you.

Being an editor in chief has always been your dream. Even before you started college, you knew you wanted to be the head journalist. So you worked hard for recognition and it happened, almost ten years later. You got promoted earlier, and now you’re at the club with your friends to celebrate it.

You’re dancing along with Yunjin, a mojito in your hand. The music is really loud and it reverbs through your body. Your eyes are closed, you’re just enjoying the moment as much as you can.

Some drunk girl bumps on you and you spill your drink. “Ah, shit!” You curse loudly. “I’m going to buy another one, wait here!” You yell at Yunjin and she gives you a thumbs up.

You work your way through the crowd and reach the bar with some difficulty. As you get there, you find Wonwoo sipping on some whiskey.

“I think I owe you congratulations, editor in chief.” He smiles brightly, making your insides burn a little. “Lemme buy you a drink!” He offers and you accept.

“Thank you!” Your voice is loud and excited. “That’s nice of you.”

He winks.

"I need to use the bathroom, can you hold my drink?" You ask.

"I’ll come with you and we’ll buy it when we come back."

You lead the way and Wonwoo holds you by the waist so you won’t get lost. His big hand burn your skin through the fabric of your clothes and you shiver slightly.

When you reach the dark hallway at the back of the club, you blindly enter the first door you find.

"Oh, I think we’re on the wrong place."

The bathroom had some lockers and you assumed it was for the usage of the working crew. The music fades away and you see Wonwoo’s closed the door.

"I think we’re on the right place." Wonwoo speaks in a low tone, making his voice even more sensual.

"Why is that?" you make a thoughtful pout.

Wonwoo approaches you slowly. The hot look he shoots your way sends a shiver down your spine and makes something in your belly twist and turn.

"I can show you better than I can tell you." he says while licking his lips and bringing both hands to your face.

"Go ahead." you reply and let out a sigh when the man slides his elegant nose against your cheek.

His breath was an intoxicating mixture of mint and alcohol, and that, mixed with his striking perfume, makes you completely trapped in his sensual and dangerous atmosphere.

"Are you dating Mingyu?"

"Does it matter?" you sigh.

"Yes or no?" Wonwoo pulls away, looking into your eyes.

"No." you roll your eyes, feigning impatience. "May I know why you’re so interested?"

Wonwoo gives a side smile, the kind that makes the hairs on your arms rise.

"To know if I can do this." he says and pulls you by the waist, pressing your lips together in a passionate kiss.

The kiss is hot and filled with pure lust as he searches for your tongue, which you willingly present to him, letting him explore your mouth as he pleases. Your fingers delve into the strands of his hair, pulling carefully.

You tilt your head a little so he can deepen the kiss. Wonwoo swallows all the soft moans you emit as he thinks about the things he would like to do. You feel his cock throbbing in his pants, transforming him into a needy being desperate for friction.

On the other hand, you feel your body overheating, almost as if you have a fever. You want the man in front of you with such intensity that you fear exploding if you have to wait any longer.

You break apart for air. Heaving chests, swollen and red mouths after the hungry kiss.

"Your idea gave me an idea." you say seductively. "Sit there.”

Wonwoo doesn't even question the request and sits in the huge wood bench. He sits with his legs open, trying to give his erect penis some space.

Your gaze settles on the spot between his legs almost immediately. You lick your lips in an unconscious gesture, thinking that you made the best decision of the night.

You kneel down in front of Wonwoo, and slowly run your hands and nails up and down his thighs. The man feels his head spin just thinking about where that would lead. All of this feel like he is dreaming. You squeeze his erection over his pants and Wonwoo lets out a hoarse moan. You keep teasing him like this for a few minutes, making him get harder and harder.

When you decide you’ve tortured him long enough, you open the button on his black pants and pull it down along with the white boxers, releasing him from the fabric prison. Taking his member in hand, you begin slow movements. Wonwoo lets out a breathless moan, he wasn't ready for that for the fast pace. So he squirms, trying to hold his body weight with shaky arms.

You stimulating him abruptly. Wonwoo opens his eyes, his eyelids heavy due to excitement. You stare at him through your lashes, a wicked smile plastered on your beautiful face. Without ever breaking eye contact, you poke your tongue out and lick his member, from the base to the head. You start to gently suck at it, swirling your tongue around the entire length and eliciting moans from Wonwoo.

The man grabs your hair, the sight of what you were doing driving him crazy. You start to take him in your mouth slowly, your hand stimulating what doesn't fit inside and the other playing with his heavy and hot balls. Wonwoo's head is thrown back as he sighed in pleasure, your skilled mouth and hands working on his cock deliciously.

Wonwoo pulls your hair lightly and lowers his gaze. Understanding what he wanted, you stop sucking him for a few seconds to give permission. Then, he starts to guide your head, speeding up the pace of things a little.

He closes his eyes tightly and mentally curses every swear word available in his dictionary, feeling closer and closer to completely catching fire. Wonwoo's abdomen tightened as he began to feel his peak, his moans getting louder and louder.

"I-I’m a-almost" he gasps when you squeeze his member a little harder. "I’m almost there, you can stop now" he warns, but you don’t care and redouble efforts.

You move your hand up towards his abdomen. In a few moments, Wonwoo’s mind goes blank, as if you controlled him, and he groans in satisfaction.

The hot, salty liquid takes over your mouth, and you swallow everything in the best way possible.

Releasing him with a pop, you admire the man's exhausted state through your eyelashes. Wonwoo collects a few white drops that escaped from your mouth with his thumb and you suck his digit clean. The man moans softly, completely spent. You sport a satisfied and cunning smile. Wonwoo caresses the skin just below your eyes with his thumb, wiping away the moisture and gently removing a fallen eyelash.

"I guess you just earned a day off now." you state while biting your lower lip.

Wonwoo laughs loudly and covers his face with one hand, his whole body shaking in amusement. "I’ll take you up on that, boss."

chapter four

Mingyu blinks several times as he tries to focus on what was written on the computer screen. The man was trying to write a short article about the NFL players' statements on the pre-season, but he couldn't stay focused for long. Sighing in frustration, the journalist decides to get a mug of coffee.

As he passes your empty table, he realizes he misses spending time with you. He’s used to sharing work space with you since you two were interns. Exchanging insults and secret glances had been part of the routine for years. So not having you around was strange, to say the least.

Arriving close to the small kitchen, Mingyu notices that two people are talking inside the room. He reaches out to open the frosted glass door, but stops halfway when he realizes that the people in question are Yunjin and you. Mingyu leans against the wall next to the door, hiding from your view.

"Where did you go on Saturday?" Yunjin asks as she stirs the spoon in the coffee mug.

"Nowhere?" you respond with a confused tone.

"Come on, Y/N." The other says while rolling her eyes. "You disappeared for about thirty minutes during the party."

You widen your eyes, understanding what your friend was talking about. Taking a sip from your own mug, you try to buy a few seconds.

"If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell Dino!"

"For God’s sake, who did you kill?!"

You purse her lips, unsure of how to say what had happened. You feel your cheeks heat up with embarrassment. Not because of what you had done, but because of how it all happened.

"Don't worry, you won't need to help me clean up a crime scene." you laugh and Yunjin shows a smile. "I needed to use the bathroom…"

"Why do I feel like the end of that sentence is going to be shocking?" Yunjin rests the mug on the table, preparing herself for what you would reveal. "Go on."

"And Wonwoo went with me."

Outside the room, Mingyu feels his blood heat when he hears the exchange. He just couldn't tell if it was out of jealousy or embarrassment for eavesdropping.

"Aaaaand…?" Yunjin encourages you to continue.

"Why do you assume there's more to it than that?"

The youngest closes her eyes and gives you a bored look, as if to say “please, I know you!”.

"We kissed. And I gave him a blowjob." you speak quickly and quietly, leaving Yunjin stunned by the revelation. "Happy?"

Mingyu's eyes widen at the information. Now Wonwoo's smug expression made perfect sense. The other was passing him behind and, until that moment, he had no idea.

"Y/N! I can't believe you kept this from me all these days!"

"What did you want me to do?" you put your hands on your waist. "Hi, Yunjin. I just sucked Wonwoo off in the club’s crew bathroom. Do you want to see the place?"

"It would’ve been better than hiding this information!"

You throw a crumpled napkin in her direction, and Yunjin just laughed as she dodged the object.

"You are ridiculous!" you stick out your tongue and your friend returns the gesture.

"I can't believe something finally happened!" She takes a quick sip of the coffee she was cooling down. "What about Mingyu?"

The man straightens his posture when he hears his own name and frowns, trying to understand where the conversation would lead.

"What about him?"

"He's a little jealous, isn't he?"

"We’re friends. Who have sex from time to time." you shrug. "He knows that, or at least he should."

"And even then he won't make it easy for Wonwoo." Yunjin lets out a little laugh.

"He could stop being annoying and agree to have a threesome with me and Wonwoo, that's for sure."

Yunjin chokes on the dark liquid she was drinking. She wasn't ready to hear that.

Still standing outside, Mingyu takes a deep breath. Your last statement had come as a slight shock. He knew he definitely shouldn't be listening to that conversation, but his feet felt glued to the floor. Because he’s lost in his own thoughts, he misses Yunjin's response. But he comes back to reality in time to hear the end.

"Anyway, he can't do anything about it." you wrinkle your nose. "He could accept it, so everyone has fun."

Mingyu realizes that you and Yunjin could leave at any moment, so he returns to his own table as quickly as possible. He settles into the black leather chair, the information he had just acquired swirling in his mind.

So you wanted to have a threesome with him and Wonwoo? Normally, he wouldn't object if you expressed this desire to him. But it was difficult to say yes when the situation involved Jeon Wonwoo.

Yes, he was jealous.

Mingyu knew you were just friends, but he couldn't help but feel his blood boil when he understood that he was no longer your only focus. He liked having undivided attention.

He could stop being annoying and agree to have a threesome with me and Wonwoo, that's for sure. Your words echo in his head. Mingyu wanted to prove that your judgment was wrong.

The gears in his head began to turn. He had two options: leave that unrequited jealousy aside and surprise you or continue picking on Wonwoo and risk losing what he had. It seemed like an obvious choice.

The sound of Wonwoo's keyboard catches Mingyu's attention. The man looks at the other's profile, who was focused on whatever he’s doing on the computer.

Mingyu thoughtfully rests his face on his hand. He was determined to give you what you wanted, but would Wonwoo be willing to do the same?

He only had one way to know.

"Hey, Jeon." Mingyu calls and the other turns to look at him. "So, I was thinking…"

chapter five

You ring the doorbell at Mingyu's penthouse and sway anxiously from side to side as you wait for the man to open the door. He had invited you over for dinner — according to him, to celebrate your promotion.

I want to know if my new boss can spare a few hours to come over and have a bottle of wine with me. Maybe two, if you’re feeling generous. Mingyu's words echoed in your mind. “Have a bottle of wine” was your code for asking each other to have sex. Of course wine was involved, but it was nowhere near the main attraction of the night.

So you had high expectations.

The huge white wooden door opens, revealing Mingyu. You analyze him from head to toe. He wore a black fishnet tank top, his beefy chest on full display, black swimming shorts and black leather sandals. You bite your lower lip, already feeling your insides begin to stir just from that simple visual stimulation.

"Ah, finally!" he exclaims as he opens the door and you enter the apartment. Mingyu takes your bag — the one that carries your personal belongings to spend the night there — and the black Chanel you carried around every day. "I was about to start drinking your favorite wine without you."

The place was impeccably tidy, as it was every time you visited him. Mingyu was very organized at work, it was no surprise for you to discover that his house followed the same pattern.

"It took me longer than expected to get out of the Tribune." You sigh, exhausted after the day of work. "I'm ready to sink into the hot water of the jacuzzi."

"Let’s go, then."

You climbed the few steps of the staircase that led to the second floor of the penthouse, where Mingyu's huge suite and leisure area were located.

"I'll leave it in the room, can you go ahead open the wine?" Mingyu asks as soon as you reach the last step.

You nod with a smile and head to the bar area. As soon as you turn the wall that limited the room, you realize you’re not alone with Mingyu. Sitting with his back facing you, with a can of beer in his hand, is Jeon Wonwoo.

You freeze in place. What was he doing there? Mingyu and Wonwoo weren't friends. Why was the political journalist sitting on Mingyu’s balcony drinking a cold beer while listening to some hip hop coming from the speakers installed throughout the apartment?

"Do you like your gift?" Mingyu whispers in your ear as he sneaks closer. "I thought you deserved something special, boss."

You shudder at the proximity. Mingyu hugs you from behind, his strong hands flat on your stomach.

"I-I’m not sure if I understand..." you murmur. Your blood’s rushing quickly through your veins, overheating your body. "What kind of joke’s this, Mingyu?"

"There’s no joke, baby." he provokes. His hands played with the hem of the white blouse you wore. "I'm just making a new friend."

You take a deep breath in complete disbelief. Your skin burned with the promise of something you don’t even understand yet. Mingyu was up to something and the target of the trick was you.

"Did you make some kind of stupid bet? Whatever it is, leave me out of it!"

Mingyu lets out a low, amused laugh. He brushes your hair out of the way before placing a quick kiss on the side of your neck, and you instantly relax into his touch.

"Stop being annoying, Y/N. It's not what you're thinking." Mingyu says close to your skin. "And, fyi, I really bet on you. But not in the way you think."

You voice a sound of doubt, not understanding what the hell he was talking about.

He gives you another kiss, this time near your jaw. "Now, how about we drink some wine?"

That’s when you understand the real reason for being there. Mingyu had spoken from the beginning, but you didn’t get it. Using the metaphor you created, he invited you for a threesome with Wonwoo.

"Wine sounds good." you respond softly, feeling your head spin. "Both bottles."

Mingyu pulls you in for a quick kiss, pleased with your response. He caresses your cheek affectionately and you smile before asking "Do you want to start with white or red?"

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・

Your reflection’s slightly blurred. You tie your hair into a high bun and carefully adjust the straps of your bikini. You’re in the bathroom of Mingyu's suite, preparing to go to tbe jacuzzi with the men waiting on the balcony. When you’re satisfied, you open the sliding door and turn off the light before going out.

You stop at the door and lean against the dark wood while analyzing the two men who were talking near the railing. Wonwoo was already shirtless, wearing only white shorts. Mingyu says something that makes the other laugh. The animosity between them was forgotten many glasses of wine ago.

You analyze them both thoroughly. Jeon Wonwoo was the very definition of hot. The defined chest and marked collarbone makes your head dizzy. His abs were defined, but nothing too exaggerated, his arms are strong too. You want to feel the muscles under your palms. Kim Mingyu wasn't left behind. All the hours invested in the gym were worth it. You were used to seeing him naked, but you never stopped feeling your stomach heat up at the sight of his perfect body.

You’re slowly losing sanity, for sure.

"Ready for the jacuzzi, baby?" Mingyu's voice brings you to reality and you feel your cheeks heat up from being caught staring at them.

"Yes, sir." You turn around slowly, showing off your white bikini. "But you don't seem to be." You add, nodding at the lame excuse of a tshirt that Mingyu is still wearing.

"Why don't you help me, then?" He challenges with one of his eyebrows raised.

You shrug and approach him. Mingyu raises his arms and you remove his shirt while smoothing your hand over his toned torso in the process. As soon as he’s free, Mingyu discards the clothing on the lounger next to him. He holds your face with one hand and presses your lips together in a passionate kiss.

Wonwoo watched everything with interest. The wine served perfectly to calm him down and helped him get used to the idea of what you’re going to do, but it didn't stop his heart from beating faster in his chest.

Mingyu wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you closer. With a quiet moan, you allow him to wrap his tongue around yours, kissing you slowly.

Wonwoo approaches and starts kissing your neck, taking advantage of the fact that the area was exposed. You break the kiss to look at him, two sets of eyes burning with lust. Without further ado, you kiss. Wonwoo takes on the task of distributing kisses and caresses over your body. When you’re satisfied, you pull Wonwoo's lower lip between your teeth, ending the kiss.

"Shall we go to the jacuzzi?" You invite them before heading towards the raised area of the balcony.

You climb up the five steps carefully, Wonwoo and Mingyu following. They cross the few meters of the deck and stop at the edge of the jacuzzi. The water bubbled and gentle steam rose from the surface. You sit on the edge and put your feet inside, enjoying the warmth.

"I want champagne." You look at Mingyu, who carried a bucket with a bottle and glasses inside.

"You're very bossy." He jokes, but opens the sparkly drink quickly.

"We're having a celebration in my honor, aren't we?" you roll your eyes as he picks up a glass full of the bubbly liquid. "I can be bossy."

The men laugh at your words. Finally, they enter the jacuzzi and are submerged in the hot water. You stand between them, your left hand — which was holding the glass — resting on the edge.

You sit in silence for a few minutes, just enjoying the view. Mingyu's apartment had the perfect location: no buildings around and a clean view of the river.

Mingyu rests the empty glass on the deck and his eyes lock on you. Without breaking eye contact, he approaches you. His left hand squeezes your right thigh. "I think it's time for you to enjoy your gift." he whispers close to your skin, sending shivers through your body.

You try to kiss Mingyu, but he holds your chin and guides your attention to the other end of the jacuzzi. You stare at Wonwoo. He’s biting his plump lower lip at the scene. Unable to resist for another second, you call the man closer with your index finger and he promptly complies. You kiss Wonwoo as he pulls you onto his lap.

The addition of the hot water with Wonwoo's hands squeezing your waist and Mingyu's hands roaming your body made you feel like your blood is boiling in your veins. It’s the true feeling of a fever that gets higher by the second.

You separate from Wonwoo and give Mingyu a teasing look. He knows the game you’re playing, but he wants to see what you’re doing next. You start distributing kisses across Wonwoo’s jaw and neck, occasionally touching your lips in a tempting way. Wonwoo's big hands are now resting on your hips, tightly griping you when he likes the stimulation.

Mingyu calls you, needing some attention. You shake your head and plant a kiss at the base of Wonwoo's neck, without peeling your eyes off of the other.

"Are you really going to use him to make me jealous?" Mingyu grunts, feeling strangely excited about the situation.

"I don't particularly feel used." Wonwoo chuckled. Mingyu frowns. Of course that idiot would side with you.

"I'll only make you jealous if you're jealous of me, my dear."

"I’m not."

"Great. Then I can pay exclusive attention to him."

Mingyu lets out a low growl and grabs you by the wrist. You try to hold back a laugh.

"Okay. I'm jealous and I want some attention too." he reveals reluctantly. "Happy?"

You tilt your head, a mischievous smile painting your lips. You shuffle around to sit on Mingyu's lap, with one leg on either side of his body. He’s already showing signs of excitement and you let out a contented sigh at the feeling.

"Overjoyed." The kiss you exchange is hungry. You kiss passionately, your tongues caressing each other quickly and possessively. Mingyu looks for the clasp on your bikini and unties the white strings from your back and neck with ease. He pulls the fabric off and throws it anywhere, soon filling his hands with your breasts.

Your snake your left hand to the back of Mingyu's head and lightly pull the strands. With your free hand, you reach out to caress Wonwoo's erection through his shorts.

He closes his eyes and lets out a heavy sigh, happy to be getting some attention too. You brush your fingers across his lower abdomen, teasing him, and Wonwoo catches his breath. You play with the hem of his shorts for a few seconds, making him practically squirm in anticipation. Slowly, you enter the shorts, sliding your fingers gently until you reaches Wonwoo's cock. You wrap your hand around his thick girth and start moving back and forth inside the tight space.

Wanting to see the scene, you move away from Mingyu and fix your gaze on Wonwoo's expressions. His head’s hung back, eyes closed tightly and his slightly open mouth emits low, deep moans.

The water from the bathtub reached his chest, the droplets glistening on his golden skin. Meanwhile, Mingyu starts to guide your hips against his, both of you needing the friction. Suddenly, Wonwoo grabs your wrist, stopping the movements.

"Your turn." Once again, you sit on Wonwoo's lap. This time, you lean your back against his chest. He directs both hands to your breasts and squeeze them eagerly. He plays with your hard nipples between his fingers and kisses your neck, eliciting high pitched sounds of pleasure. You move your hips slowly, teasing his erection. After a while, Wonwoo's right hand continues to pay attention to your breasts while his left one slides down your belly and stops at the hem of your bikini. He pulls the fabric down and you help him remove the last item that’s somehow covering you. You open your legs widely, resting your right foot in the small space between both men, to have more stability.

You feel a third hand touching your thigh. Mingyu caresses your skin with one hand while the other slowly stimulates his hard cock through his shorts. You’re pulled back to Wonwoo when slides a thick finger inside you. Without encountering much difficulty, he fingers you slowly, earning a surprised exclamation in return.

"One more." You demand after a few seconds, thinking that the single digit is not enough.

Wonwoo readily complies and adds another finger, receiving a moan of approval in response. Mingyu lets go of your thigh and his fingers find their way to your clit. He draws small circles and see stars. It’s definitely a unique feeling to have two men in charge of your pleasure.

Not long after, Wonwoo feels you squeeze his fingers, an indication that you’re close to cumming, so he fingers you more vigorously. Your hands hold Wonwoo's biceps tightly and hides your face in his neck, preparing yourself for the explosion that’s coming. Mingyu continues his movements on you and moves closer, connecting his lips to your free breast. It’s the feeling you needed to push you off the cliff.

You shudder, feeling your insides melt and your mind fly thousands of meters away. You faintly hear someone talking, but you can’t make out a word. When you come back down, Wonwoo and Mingyu move away, giving you space to recover. You let go of Wonwoo's arm and small crescent moons are marked in the place where you clawed him without noticing.

"How about we get out of here?" Mingyu proposes and everyone agrees.

The wind outside punishes your naked body. You shudder and try to protect yourself with your arms. Mingyu hugs you from behind and guides both of you to the double lounger. While you get comfortable, the men remove their shorts to be completely naked. You get goosebumps, but that had nothing to do with the turbulent air around you. You let the vision of their naked form burn in your brain, wanting to remember this moment forever.

Mingyu climbs onto the lounger, positioning himself above you before kissing you again. You let him slide between your legs, his dick sliding with easy against your wet pussy. Wonwoo sits next to you and jerks his own cock. Mingyu lets go of you, leaving you wanting more. He stretches his body to the side table and returns with condoms and lubricant in hand. You open your mouth in shock when you realize Mingyu had actually planned this whole moment.

"Are you going to join us or just watch like you did in the archives room?" Mingyu teases Wonwoo, who rolls his eyes.

"If you keep teasing me like that, I'm going to start thinking that you're the one who wanted this threesome." the other sasses and grabs one of the condoms.

Mingyu laughs and turns to you, who’s silently watching everything. He gives the you a reassuring smile, his whole sexy persona fading away for a bit.

"How are we doing this?" you ask and lick your lips, looking forward to the main event.

"Mingyu in the back, me in the front." Wonwoo responds as he gets up from the lounger, already properly protected. "Is that okay with you?"

You nod, either way being completely fine. Mingyu sits in the empty space and slaps his hands on his thighs, inviting you to come closer. Anal sex was nothing new for you two, but you’re a little apprehensive every time.

Mingyu hugs you, placing a tender kiss on your shoulder. He stimulates your clit, hoping it’ll relax you. Soon enough, you feel less tense. "Do you remember our safeword?" Mingyu asks close to your ear, causing goosebumps.

"Tamagotchi."

"Good girl." he whispers and kisses your shoulder again.

Mingyu applies a good amount of lubricant to his cock and to your rim. He positions himself and penetrates carefully, pulling your hips down. He feels the familiar tightness and takes a deep breath, trying hard not to lose control and shove everything in at once. Concentrating on continuing to stimulate your clit, he is soon buried in you to the hilt. You move up and down Mingyu's length a few times, trying to get used to him.

"Your turn." You call Wonwoo when you think you can handle both.

Wonwoo licks his lips and positions himself between yours and Mingyu's legs. He adjusts himself as best he can to have support, staying close to you. You stare at his cock, salivating as you remember the feeling of sucking it. He was thicker than Mingyu, so you couldn't wait to feel him inside you after having sex with just the same guy for so long.

Wonwoo aligns himself with your entrance and slides in. You moan softly as you feel him penetrate and fill you. He proceeds slowly, afraid of hurting you. When he's completely inside, the three of you let out a sigh in unison. The men stand still, waiting for you to authorize them to start moving.

You had never felt so full before. Having Wonwoo and Mingyu inside you at the same time filled you in ways you only dreamed of. But that alone wasn't enough to put out the fire that consumed your veins.

Mingyu and Wonwoo also feel something different. It’s more then the tight fit of your inner walls hugging them. They feel each other through the thin wall that separated both your wholes. They won’t say it out loud, but it’s is slowly driving them insane.

"You can move now."

They begin to move their hips, each at their own pace. In a matter of seconds, they synchronize their pace. Two pairs of hands caress your entire body, leaving a warm trail wherever they touch.

Your bite your lower lip to hold back your loud moans, feeling like you’ll collapse at any second. Mingyu bites your shoulder to contain his own grunting and Wonwoo growls softly close to your ear, making you even more excited. You hands grab Wonwoo’s ass eagerly. They maintain the rhythm for several minutes, their bodies reaching a feverish state.

Mingyu feels like he's getting dangerously close to his peak, but he refuses to let it happen without you getting there first. So he kisses every available inch of skin and slides his hand between Wonwoo and you, once again stimulating your clit.

"Baby, I'm dying here. I need you to cum for us." he pants between moans.

"I’m almost there."

Wonwoo feels his muscles burn with effort, but he speeds up his pace. You bury your face in his neck and grab him tightly. You try to focus on everything that’s happening, on the hands that touch you, on the lips that wander over her neck, on the two men who are trying so hard to give you pleasure. Giving in to the sensations, when you least expected it, fireworks explode behind your eyelids.

For the second time, your body shudder as you let out a long, contented moan. Seeing you reach your orgasm, the men let go and followed behind, the two falling over the edge together. They slow their movements little by little, enjoying the ecstasy. Wonwoo pulls out, complaining about the loss of contact, and throws himself into the empty space next to Mingyu. He uses the last bit of energy to take you off his lap and place you between him and Wonwoo.

The three of you remain practically motionless for several minutes, your legs intertwined, each one enjoying the dopamine that circulating in your veins. When the cold of the night begins to become unbearable, Mingyu takes you in his arms and Wonwoo the glasses of champagne, and you the apartment.

"You were very good for us, baby." Mingyu praises you softly as he carefully places you on the bed. He plants an almost innocent kiss on your lips and heads to the closet looking for something to wear.

Now that things are over, Wonwoo doesn’t quite know how to act. He notices that his backpack is on the table next to the window and walks over to it, taking off a pair of boxers and putting them on so he doesn't feel so exposed.

"Hey, can you get my panties from the white bag?" you ask with a smile and he does as asked.

He hands the light blue cotton panties to you, who slide the fabric over your trembling legs. Mingyu returns wearing leopard print shorts and a Sid Vicious tshirt.

"Now, besides your panties, did you also lose your blouse, Y/N?" Mingyu teases, returning to the role he usually played.

"It’s not lost, you're wearing it." you reply and pull the hem of his tshirt up. Mingyu rolls his eyes, removes the garment by the collar and hands it for you to wear, but not before stealing another kiss from you.

Wonwoo feels uncomfortable watching the scene, as if he's watching something he shouldn't. "Well, I think it's time to go."

"No!" you exclaim and Wonwoo turns around, his face contorted in confusion. "We're going to watch a movie, I want you here too."

"We'll probably sleep within the first fifteen minutes..." Mingyu says with a laugh. "But you can stay and watch everything if you want."

Wonwoo seems to analyze the proposition. "You want me to sleep here?" He pats his hand on the bed, perplexed.

"Your dick was buried in me until fifteen minutes ago, so why can't we sleep in the same bed?" you retort with a shrug and Mingyu stifles a laugh at your words.

You settle in the middle of the bed and pat the free space on your left side while Mingyu walks to the right side. Wonwoo hesitates, but accepts the invitation.

As soon as he settles down, you lay your head on his chest and Wonwoo lets out a satisfied sound. His warm skin warms your cold cheek.

"You put on the bedding I brought." you comment, smoothing out the pink sheets you gave Mingyu a few months ago, after the two of you ruined a set of his.

"This ugly thing was the only clean one." he shrugs.

"It's not ugly!" You whimper and slap the man.

"It’s very ugly." He laughs while smoothing the affected area. The smile never leaves his face.

"It's not ugly, right Wonwoo?"

The man jumps slightly when he hears his name, his eyes staring at the sheet. "It’s cute." he agrees with you, making Mingyu roll his eyes and you giggle.

"Whatever, let's just pick a movie and sleep." Mingyu takes the remote from the bedside table and turns off the lights using the switch next to the bed.

The bright light on the TV shines and Mingyu chooses the movie Divergent, after much insistence from you. Wonwoo pays attention to the beginning of the it and relaxes into a comfortable position to fall asleep. Mingyu doesn't even try to watch, he hugs you from behind and hides his face in your hair. A few minutes later, you also fall asleep, still snuggled comfortably against Wonwoo’s chest. Closing his eyes, Wonwoo allows the exhaustion to take him to dreamland.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・

© btsvt-bar, 2024

m.list ♡

tags ꩜ @asscoups17 @wonvsmile @porridgesblog @gaslysainz @thepoopdokyeomtouched @sunset-sana @coupsgfsstuff @stagefrjghts @wonuwonder @pepmiw @walkxthexmoon @cecefarm @nerdycheol @thedensworld

thank you for reading! it made me really happy to see you wanted to be tagged in part 2, so i hope i made you justice 🫂🤍

[aeristudios]

here's to forever (the athlete)

summary: today is the day you finally marry your best friend

genre: fluff, suggestive, 18+ warnings: mentions of sex (hoshi wants to pump some babies into you), mentions of pregnancy words: 0.9k AN: Thank you, @horanghater, for looking over this for me. Every year on the anniversary of the OG fic, I always end up writing another part about their lives since they met. I'm becoming a real yearner. Anyhoo, I decided to go ahead and make a series master list because I am sure more will come, lol. -series masterlist

“I love you.” You rub Soonyoung’s hand with your thumb as he holds back tears, standing before the officiant, his football coach. You just married the love of your life and best friend in front of your family and friends on a large farm in the country. You exchanged heartfelt vows in front of one hundred people on the estate, with the birds singing in the sky and the geese swimming happily in the lake. So far, this day has been nothing short of magical, with those six little words sealing the deal. “You may now kiss the bride.”

Soonyoung pulls the veil over your face and kisses you with a fervent need that sets your nerves on fire. Everyone and everything disappears for a second, but it doesn’t matter; you got your dream guy. Your fingers intertwine with his as you finally break apart, met by the thunderous applause of your guests who watched you become one with your now husband, their approval and joy palpable in the atmosphere. Soonyoung waves your hands triumphantly in the air as you walk down the aisle, flashing your wedding rings with pride for everyone to see. You haven’t seen him this proud since he won his first Super Bowl. Two and a half years later, with two more championship rings added to his collection, his eyes have never shined brighter. Soonyoung leads you away from your guests, taking you down a short path to the lake's edge. When you looked at venues, you found this place while looking through Pinterest, falling in love with the green pastures of the farm and the shining crystal-like waters. Soonyoung didn’t care where you married as long as you were his wife by the end of it. But when you took a trip out here and looked at the place in person, you both knew this was where it was meant to be. With the sun shining through the ivory clouds, it was almost as if your dads were looking down and giving their blessing.  

“We did it, babe,” you revel at the scene. “It’s you and me officially.” 

“Darlin’, you and I were official from the day we met. You just didn’t know it yet.” 

You chuckle and lean into him because, honestly, he is right. You were interested in him the first time you met; you were in denial then. You always swore you wouldn’t be one of those journalists who mixes business with pleasure, yet here you are, marrying the said pleasure. Life works out funny that way. 

“You look so pretty, baby,” he murmurs as he pulls you close. “I can’t wait to get out of here and pump some babies into you.”

“Same here, baby,” you kiss his lips. “We might be a little late on the baby part, though.”

Soonyoung looks at you curiously as you reach into the secret pocket of your wedding dress. You had it sown in secret when it was tailored initially to keep your lipstick in if you needed to freshen up or had anything else in mind. But a couple of weeks ago, when you went for your routine check-up, you found out you were ten weeks pregnant. You and Soonyoung talked about kids, and you both want them; this will be earlier than you both planned. It explained why you felt lethargic lately and the smell of anything nauseated you. You weren’t sure how to tell him, so you carried it around just in case the opportunity arose. Now is the time. 

Holding up the ultrasound, you hand him the black-and-white photo of the baby growing inside of you. He studies the picture, then looks at you and your stomach, the dots connecting in his brain. You nod, confirming what he is thinking: you will be having his first child. 

“Aww baby,” he whispers. “You’re pregnant.” 

“Mmhmm,” you nod as you wipe his tears away. 

He kisses you again, this time sweeter, more tenderer, and full of emotion that he can’t convey in words. You naturally melt into him, feeling safe and secure that the future you two have will be bright. Soonyoung has always said he loved you more than anything, but that’s not true. You love him more. He made you believe in love again, protected you when you needed it, and showed up when you needed him the most. You never felt scared to share your thoughts with him, and even if he didn’t understand, he listened and tried anyway. He never tried to take your spotlight. He respected you and made sure others did, too. Soonyoung brings an array of colors to your mundane world that you hope never goes away. God, you love him so much that it hurts.  

“Well, it makes sense why you weren’t drinking the champagne last night,” he muses. “You love champagne.”

“Y-yeah,” you sniffle. 

A comfortable silence falls between you two, taking in the moment as you watch two geese embrace one another. If someone had told you over three years ago that you would be marrying thee Kwon Soonyoung and having his child, you would have laughed in their face. But clearly, the universe has a sense of humor. 

“I want to keep this between us,” you say suddenly. “It’s our first child, and I want to hold on to this a little bit longer before family, friends, and the media get a hold of it. You already know how it goes.”

“Of course, baby,” he readily agrees. “Whatever you want.”

He kisses your forehead, leading you back to the photographers so you can start taking pictures. Your makeup artist brushes up your makeup, and unbeknownst to you, Soonyoung gazes at you from afar, watching you with so much pride and love in his heart. The sun shines brighter as if it’s reflecting the future you will have with each other. 

Here is to forever.

[azuraaass]

"Press Pass and Racing Hearts"

Content: Lando Norris x NewJournalist Reader - Fluff

The press pass felt foreign against her chest, the lanyard still stiff and new. First day jitters mixed with the humid Singapore air, making everything feel slightly unreal. She'd dreamed of this moment—standing in the paddock, notebooks in hand, finally calling herself a motorsport journalist.

She just hadn't expected to literally run into Lando Norris.

Well, not run into. More like... collide with his existence in the most embarrassing and clumsy way possible.

She was balancing her camera, recorder, and about three different notepads when she turned the corner too fast near the McLaren hospitality. Her equipment went flying, scattering across the concrete like confetti made of professional embarrassment.

"Shit," she muttered, dropping to her knees to gather her things.

"Language," came a teasing voice from above, tinged with that familiar British accent she'd heard in countless interviews.

She looked up. Lando Norris was crouched beside her, picking up her scattered pens with an amused smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Up close, he looked younger than she expected. More real, somehow.

"Sorry," she said, face burning. "I'm still figuring out the whole... coordination thing."

"First time in the paddock?" he asked, handing her the pens. His fingers brushed hers briefly—warm, calloused from years of gripping steering wheels.

"That obvious?"

"The deer-in-headlights look gave it away," he grinned. "Plus, most journalists have mastered the art of walking and carrying things simultaneously."

She laughed, surprising herself. "I'll add that to my list of skills to develop."

"Lando," he said, extending his hand like she didn't already know exactly who he was.

"I know," she replied, then immediately felt stupid. "I mean—I'm covering the sport. For motorsport weekly. I'm—" She fumbled for her press badge, as if she needed to prove she belonged there.

"Relax," his voice was gentle, eyes kind. "Everyone's new somewhere first."

There was something about the way he said it—not patronizing, not rushed. Like he actually meant it.

"What's your angle?" he asked as they both stood up, her equipment finally rescued.

"Angle?"

"For your first piece. What story are you telling?"

She hesitated. The truth was, she didn't have some grand narrative planned. She'd spent months preparing for technical questions and race analysis, but standing here now, looking at him—really looking—she realized maybe the story was simpler than she thought.

"I don't know yet," she admitted. "Maybe... what it's like to be new to something everyone else makes look easy."

Something shifted in his expression. 

"Yeah," he said quietly with a soft gaze. "I remember that feeling."

-----------------------------------------------

Later, after the chaos of qualifying, after her first real interviews and the adrenaline of actually doing the job she'd worked years to get, she found herself outside the media center. The Singapore night was alive with distant engine sounds and the hum of the city beyond the track.

"How'd it go?"

She turned. Lando was walking toward her, still in his racing suit, hair messy from his helmet. He looked tired but content—like someone who'd just done exactly what they were meant to do.

"Better than expected," she said. "No one laughed at my questions, so I'm calling it a win."

"What were you worried about?"

"Everything," she laughed. "Sounding stupid. Asking something that's been asked a thousand times before. Feeling like I’m not belonging to this place"

"You know," he said, leaning against the barrier beside her, "everyone asks the same questions anyway. But the way you asked about the mental side of racing... that was different."

Her heart did something weird. "Different how?"

"Like you actually wanted to know the answer. Not just to fill column space."

They stood in comfortable silence, watching mechanics wheel equipment past. The night felt full of possibility—like standing at the edge of something she couldn't quite name yet.

"Can I ask you something?" she said eventually.

"Go for it."

"Off the record?"

He nodded.

"Do you ever feel like you're pretending? Like everyone expects you to have it all figured out, but inside you're just... winging it?"

Lando was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer than she'd heard it all day.

"Every single day," he said. "Especially the big moments. Everyone sees the confidence, the jokes, the social media stuff. But sometimes I'm just that kid from Somerset who can't believe he gets to drive these cars."

"And yet you make it look effortless."

"So did you today," he said, turning to look at her. "I watched you interview Charles. You were nervous, I could tell, but you made him comfortable. Made him laugh. That's not something you can fake."

Something warm bloomed in her chest. 

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"For being kind. When I was flailing around with my equipment earlier. You could have just walked past."

"Never," he said, and there was something in his voice that made her believe him. 

"Besides, I have a feeling we'll be seeing a lot more of each other."

"Oh yeah?" her eyes widened

"Yeah. You're going to be brilliant at this. And I'm going to enjoy watching it happen."

The way he said it—like it was fact, not opinion—made her stomach flutter.

As she walked back to her hotel later, press pass still warm against her chest, she realized something had shifted. The paddock didn't feel foreign anymore.

And maybe, just maybe, neither did the idea of Lando Norris looking forward to seeing her again.

Because sometimes the best stories aren't the ones you plan to write.

Sometimes they're the ones that find you when you're just trying not to drop your notebook.

[folkwhoreberry]

Could you do a part 2 and a part 3 of 'Against the Odds' where Miles ends up getting her pregnant and the media is all over it

Against The Odds pt. 3

hamilton!oc x verstappen!reader

or... the one where the bump is under the radar. or is it?

word count : 1k

warning : none, english is not my first language!!!

on the radio : we found love by rihanna

part 1 part 2 part 4

🦁🧡 X 🤙🏾💜

being labeled as the “power couple” of the paddock had never been something you or miles had planned. but somehow, over the last few years, you had grown into that role effortlessly. from sneaking around monaco streets to walking hand in hand at every race, you and miles had become inseparable. the media had stopped speculating, not because they lost interest, but because the truth was too obvious to ignore.

you were 18 now, and you and miles had been together for what felt like forever. people had watched you grow up, watched your relationship bloom under the intense spotlight of the f1 world. it wasn’t easy, but the support of your families - especially your dads - made it all a little easier. max and lewis had come a long way from their old rivalry, and in a way, their kids’ relationship had bridged a gap that no one had expected.

but recently, things had changed.

it happened so fast, and even though you and miles had tried to process it together, there were still moments where it didn’t feel real. you were pregnant.

it was a mix of emotions at first - shock, excitement, fear. but through it all, miles was by your side, as calm and supportive as ever. you both decided to keep the news quiet for as long as you could. with your dads’ help, and the understanding of your closest friends, it remained a secret. just a few months of peace, of adjusting to the idea before the world found out.

but as the months went by, your body began to change. at first, it was easy to hide the bump with baggy clothes or strategic angles, but after a while, there was no avoiding it. and then came the day when the secret was no longer something you could control.

you weren’t planning on making any grand announcements. you had been out with some friends in monaco, enjoying the afternoon like any other, when the inevitable happened. the bump was visible - clear as day. it wasn’t huge yet, but to those paying attention, it was unmistakable. you hadn’t even realized until later, when you checked your phone and saw the photos all over social media.

the headlines were instant, blowing up your feed and flooding every f1 forum and gossip site. is the verstappen-hamilton power couple expecting? baby on the way for f1’s most famous young couple? the media was all over it, and within hours, it felt like the entire world knew.

you sat on the couch, staring at your phone in disbelief. “it’s out,” you muttered, showing miles the screen.

miles sighed and ran a hand through his hair, sitting beside you. “we knew it would happen eventually.”

“yeah, but… I just wasn’t ready for it to be today,” you admitted, feeling overwhelmed. “it’s everywhere.”

he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “it’s okay. we’ll get through this. we always do.”

your phone buzzed again, this time with a text from your dad. we’ll talk soon. don’t worry too much about it. max had been supportive from the moment you told him, but you knew he wasn’t happy about the media attention. neither was lewis. they had both been fiercely protective of you and miles, trying to shield you from the frenzy of public life, but even they couldn’t control this.

over the next few hours, the media storm only intensified. photos of you in monaco were plastered everywhere, and speculation about your pregnancy was the top story. you had already gotten a few calls from journalists asking for confirmation, but you and miles decided not to respond. not yet.

it was later that night, when you were back at your apartment, that you both realized there was only one way to handle this: you had to address it. if you didn’t, the rumors would only get worse, and the scrutiny would become unbearable.

“we need to tell them,” miles said softly, as you sat together on the couch. “we can’t keep hiding it.”

you nodded, feeling a mix of nerves and relief. “yeah, you’re right. but how? do we just… post something?”

“yeah, we’ll post something,” miles replied, reaching for his phone. “just… us. nothing big, just the truth.”

you leaned into him as he opened the camera app, positioning it so that you both were in frame. your hands naturally rested on your bump, and miles wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. you smiled softly, glancing up at him before looking back at the camera.

he took the photo and then stared at it for a moment before turning to you. “ready?”

“as ready as I’ll ever be,” you replied, your heart racing slightly.

miles typed out a simple caption: we’ve got some news to share. baby hamilton-verstappen coming soon. we’re excited to start this next chapter together.

he hit post.

the reaction was immediate. comments flooded in - supportive messages from fans, congratulations from friends and fellow drivers. even your dads commented, though they kept it short and sweet.

max’s comment was simple: can’t wait to meet my grandkid. lewis followed up with a proud: new chapter, here we go. love you both.

you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. the weight of the secret had been heavy, but now that it was out there, you felt a sense of relief. you didn’t have to hide anymore.

“there. it’s done,” miles said, setting his phone down and turning to you. “how do you feel?”

“better,” you admitted, leaning your head on his shoulder. “still a little nervous, but better. at least now we can control the story, right?”

“exactly,” miles said, his fingers gently brushing against your arm. “we’re in this together. no matter what happens next.”

you smiled softly, feeling the warmth of his words settle over you. despite the chaos of the last few hours, you knew you had miles, your family, and a new chapter ahead. the media could speculate all they wanted, but you had something far more important to focus on now - the life growing inside you, the future you and miles were building together.

you were ready.

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© all rights reserved to folkwhoreberry. no stealing or copying will be tolerated.

a/n : I do now crave teen pregnancy teen pregnancy craves me!!

[adventuringblind]

Cutting Tensions

Daniel Ricciardo x Reader x Max Verstappen x Lando Norris

Dialouge prompt: "The deal was that if I won, you'd all have your way with me."

Genre: SMUT

Summary: Reader wins a bet and spicy things ensue

Warnings: Filthy, PinV sex, implied anal, oral, fingering, thigh riding, degradation, praise, under negotiated BDSM, dom/sub,

Notes: I'm back from the dead! Finished my bachelor's degree today and move on to my masters in January! How do we celebrate? Smut. This is filthy and part of my 1000 follower event. Requests will close at the beginning of January. If you'd like to participate, click on the link :)

Masterlist

Minors DNI please

She's more observant than the boys give her credit for. They aren't being subtle or even smooth, for that matter.

Daniel flirts openly with her every chance he gets. Max is always trying to spend time with her both inside and outside the paddock. Lando is very handsy at the most inconvenient times. While they are busy oggling at her, they have failed to notice the longing looks that pass between the three of them. She's getting sick of it, really. Macho men who are fighting over her don't have the balls to admit they are also trying to show off to each other.

She's hit the breaking point and has decided to do something about it. And, if everything goes according to plan, they will have a lovely night and hopefully some realization of feelings while they're at it.

She'd managed to place the car on pole for the race tomorrow. Her odds of actually turning it into a win look good so far. She takes her phone out and sends a quick message to the boys.

'If any of you three win tomorrow, I'll spend the night with you. But if I win the you three take me at the same time. Deal?'

A course of enthusiastic replies cause her phone to explode. They really are the most oblivious boys she knows at times.

Just as she'd hoped, she stands on the top step of the podium. Drenched in champaign with adrenaline coursing through her veins. Max is a step below looking at her knowingly.

The anticipation builds over the course of debriefs and media work. The interviews take hours and she want to throw the microphone at the journalists who constantly ask her about being a female in formula 1. The same question they have asked over the entire course of her career.

She runs into the three boys looking at each other awkwardly. Max flashes the keys to his car and she feels her shoulders intense knowing escape is near.

"Your hotel room I'm assuming?" Daniel throes her a playful smile.

"Well, unlike the three of you, I'm pretty sure I cleaned before I left." She throws as they walk towards Max's car.

The rest of the trip back is filled with playful and teasing Comments. Daniel is the least petrified of the three boys and even leaves a few lingering touches along her thighs.

They toss their stuff into random corners of the room. It's not like it's massive, but she knows they'll find a way to make it work. Unless they decided to stare at her all night instead of doing anything.

She faces them and huffs. Daniel looking a little more amused then the other two at it.

"The deal was-" She puts her hands on her hips. "-That if I won, you'd all have your way with me."

Daniel finally takes the initiative and slams his lips onto hers. It's wet and hot. She can't help but moan into his mouth at the sensation. His fingers hook into the belt loop of her jeans to pull her closer. "You mean like this, darlin?" She just moans back in agreement.

Daniel pulls back, leaving her to whine in anticipation. He yanks on Max's wrist to pull him into the mix. The Dutch looks both helpless and surprised, and his lips land on Daniel's. The Australian slides Max into his place. He looks sufficiently warmed up now and in his element.

He places kisses everywhere along her neck and jaw line. His hands wrestle with her clothes until she's exposed and the feeling of the duvet is beneath her; flush against her skin.

She feels small beneath him. Max's hands groping at her like she'll fly away. Her hips already blossoming with dark marks.

His lips leave her for a second as he throws his shirt off. Her hands fly to belt around his waist. It's messy, but he's left in his boxers eventually.

On the other side of the bed, Lando was clueless. Despite his show of confidence, he was prepared for it to either be just him or not at all. Not to say that he doubted her skills. No, he doubts himself. Didn't mentally prepare for this outcome.

Daniel takes the initiative with him just like he'd done Max. Daniel curls his fingers around Lando's waist and hesitantly leans closer. It's enough that Lando has time to back out if he wants, but he doesn't. He hates admitting it; that he wants this desperately. He also just wants to be good, and that usually comes with experience. Something he doesn't have in this scenario.

His thoughts come to a screeching halt when Daniel's lips land on his. It's much softer than he'd seen with the other two.

It lasts for a measly minute until Lando's body is being manhandled onto the bed. Litgerally thrown onto it like he weighs nothing more than a sack of potatoes. He doesn't do any of the work aside from lay there in sheer cluelessness.

Everyone if fumbling out of their clothes. It's frantic and animalistic now, but he's definitely turned on at the sight of it. Yeah... this is definitely what he wanted.

She is going to explode. Max's tongue has found her ripples, and his hands are pressed into her back to keep her close. His thigh sits between her legs up against her core. She grinds her lower half against Max's skin. Her moans come out as high-pitched whine as the stimulates become too much.

Max releases his tongue from her and takes over, moving her hips for her. "You like that baby? You're leaking all over my thigh, so you must."

She's about to hit that point when Max throws her off him. He loses his boxers in record time and slips on one of the many condoms sitting on the bedside table.

Her and Lando lay in opposite directions. Enough for her to land her lips on his and her hands to make contact with his skin. The Brit is whining loudly at something. The beginnings of tears prick at his eyes. Daniel is running hands up and down Lando's sides, occasionally brusing against her own.

It feels like seconds of peace before Max is slamming into her. He throws her leg over his shoulder and hits the same place every time. Hips snaping so hard the sound echoes in the room. Her hands immediately find some kind of hold on his arms. Behind her, Daniel is praising both of them. "You two look so good. Look at how she's falling apart underneath you, Maxy."

Lando's cries and incoherent babbling are also increasing. It's messy and the heat of the room is already causing her skin to become slick with sweat.

"Can you two manage coming at the same time? Can you do that for us?" She's pretty sure she could come undone any second now. Max's pace hasn't faltered. If he continues, she's going to combust.

Max is whispering praises in her ear. Landos hand grips whatever it can of her body. Frantic moans and flailing limbs come with crashes of endorphins. It's blissful. Max draws it out until he finishes and collapses on top of her.

There is no reprieve for her and Lando. Daniel is a puppet master and both of them are merely on strings being moved to his will.

She ends up on top of him. Neither she nor Lando move. Their skin is plastered together as she buries her nose in the crook of his neck.

Daniel is moving her up and down in rough motions. His grip is changing in strength every few seconds as Max is somewhere out of sight sucking off the Australian.

He's directing Lando on where he wants the Brits hands on her. Eventually coming to the point he isn't holding onto her at all. It's Lando guiding her body. His hips buck into her, but it isn't like Max. Lando tries different things. Enough to startle her into a second orgasm when he begins to hammer up into her relentlessly. He has her begging for it this time.

Daniel and Max find both them at the top of the bed. They whisper things at them. Max is praising on one side while Daniel degrads on the other.

She is putty in their hands. Molded to their will. Swimming in the bliss of their attention.

"My turn." Daniel growls at her. He moves them all again. Her body is swiftly turned to where she can clearly see Daniel's eyes wide with something primal. "Need your mouth baby. Are you okay with that? Can I fuck your throat?" She responds by simply throwing her mouth open and sticking out her tongue. "Dirty."

The smirk on his lips disappears as his cock slides down the back of her throat. She can helpless to do anything except let her mouth be used.

Max is back between her thighs. This time with a tongue on her clit and three fingers moving inside her in such a way that she sees white. Occasionally she hears Max pull away to praise Lando who is out of her sight. Whatever he's doing is working as Max's movments begin to randomly falter.

Daniel is wiping away the stray tears that are sliding down her cheeks. She's coughing and gagging but the ecstasy is to overpowering for her to think to much about it. "Such a good girl." He coos after a particularly nasty cough.

He warns her about five seconds before he finishes. On last slam into her mouth and he's spilling into her throat. Far enough back that it hardly touches her tongue.

He holds her there as Max brings her over the edge again. His hands pin her wrists as she frantically tries to pull him closer or push him away, she's not sure which is happening.

She's still riding the high, Daniel barely out of her mouth when Lando pops back onto the bed sputtering and wiping his mouth. "That - was amazing." His chest falls heavily as he regains his breath.

Her body won't move. It's exhausted. Every last ounce of energy spent. Everything feels sticky. Lingering electric pulses stem from the soft touchs of Daniel and Max.

"You did so good, loves." Plural, meaning with her and Lando. She's curious what she'd missed while wrapped up in her own pleasure.

"Cuddles?" Lando squeaks.

There are a few chuckles and a denial. "Bath and water first."

It's much softer then she'd anticipated. Max and Daniel don't get in the bath with her and Lando, but the sit on the edge and keep them company. Just chatting like this is a normal Sunday nightm

The bed is really to small for four people, but they make it work. They fall asleep tangled together. Limbs tossed in all sorts of directions and phones still on silent.

She wakes up first and orders breakfast. Foods that she knows are trainer approved across the board.

She's lost in her own thoughts. So much so that she doesn't notice the three boys beginning to wake. Not until a set of arms wraps around her waist.

"How long did you know for?" Asks Daniel from right behind her. The other two boys still wrapped in each other but eyeing her intently.

"A year now."

Lando sits upright "You set us up?!"

"The way I see it, we all got a good fuck out of this and feeling have come to light." She shrugs.

"So-" Max sounds unsure of himself. The anxiety seeping through just the tiniest bit. "-Are we going to keep doing this?"

"I was thinking a proper date might be next up." Lando nods in agreement at her proposal.

Daniel's gein is magnificent. He scans the three of them, pondering what to say next. "Alright, a date it is then."