#networking interview questions and answers

[axmxz]

You're shaming people for not reading the study and relying on summaries, but you neglect to mention the fact that it's 206 pages long.

Gee, I wonder why more people haven't read a 206-page study packed with encephallographic tables that mean nothing to the layman?..

So here's the abstract and the conclusion. Judge for yourselves what the study says.

Abstract

With today's wide adoption of LLM products like ChatGPT from OpenAI, humans and businesses engage and use LLMs on a daily basis. Like any other tool, it carries its own set of advantages and limitations. This study focuses on finding out the cognitive cost of using an LLM in the educational context of writing an essay.

We assigned participants to three groups: LLM group, Search Engine group, Brain-only group, where each participant used a designated tool (or no tool in the latter) to write an essay. We conducted 3 sessions with the same group assignment for each participant. In the 4th session we asked LLM group participants to use no tools (we refer to them as LLM-to-Brain), and the Brain-only group participants were asked to use LLM (Brain-to-LLM). We recruited a total of 54 participants for Sessions 1, 2, 3, and 18 participants among them completed session 4.

We used electroencephalography (EEG) to record participants' brain activity in order to assess their cognitive engagement and cognitive load, and to gain a deeper understanding of neural activations during the essay writing task. We performed NLP analysis, and we interviewed each participant after each session. We performed scoring with the help from the human teachers and an AI judge (a specially built AI agent).

We discovered a consistent homogeneity across the Named Entities Recognition (NERs), n-grams, ontology of topics within each group. EEG analysis presented robust evidence that LLM, Search Engine and Brain-only groups had significantly different neural connectivity patterns, reflecting divergent cognitive strategies. Brain connectivity systematically scaled down with the amount of external support: the Brain‑only group exhibited the strongest, widest‑ranging networks, Search Engine group showed intermediate engagement, and LLM assistance elicited the weakest overall coupling.

In session 4, LLM-to-Brain participants showed weaker neural connectivity and under-engagement of alpha and beta networks; and the Brain-to-LLM participants demonstrated higher memory recall, and re‑engagement of widespread occipito-parietal and prefrontal nodes, likely supporting the visual processing, similar to the one frequently perceived in the Search Engine group.

The reported ownership of LLM group's essays in the interviews was low. The Search Engine group had strong ownership, but lesser than the Brain-only group. The LLM group also fell behind in their ability to quote from the essays they wrote just minutes prior.

As the educational impact of LLM use only begins to settle with the general population, in this study we demonstrate the pressing matter of a likely decrease in learning skills based on the results of our study. The use of LLM had a measurable impact on participants, and while the benefits were initially apparent, as we demonstrated over the course of 4 months, the LLM group's participants performed worse than their counterparts in the Brain-only group at all levels: neural, linguistic, scoring."

Conclusion:

"As we stand at this technological crossroads, it becomes crucial to understand the full spectrum of cognitive consequences associated with LLM integration in educational and informational contexts. While these tools offer unprecedented opportunities for enhancing learning and information access, their potential impact on cognitive development, critical thinking, and intellectual independence demands a very careful consideration and continued research.

The LLM undeniably reduced the friction involved in answering participants' questions compared to the Search Engine. However, this convenience came at a cognitive cost, diminishing users' inclination to critically evaluate the LLM's output or ”opinions” (probabilistic answers based on the training datasets). This highlights a concerning evolution of the 'echo chamber' effect: rather than disappearing, it has adapted to shape user exposure through algorithmically curated content. What is ranked as “top” is ultimately influenced by the priorities of the LLM's shareholders [123, 125].

Only a few participants in the interviews mentioned that they did not follow the “thinking” aspect of the LLMs and pursued their line of ideation and thinking.

Regarding ethical considerations, participants who were in the Brain-only group reported higher satisfaction and demonstrated higher brain connectivity, compared to other groups. Essays written with the help of LLM carried a lesser significance or value to the participants (impaired ownership, Figure 8), as they spent less time on writing (Figure 33), and mostly failed to provide a quote from their essays (Session 1, Figure 6, Figure 7).

Human teachers “closed the loop” by detecting the LLM-generated essays, as they recognized the conventional structure and homogeneity of the delivered points for each essay within the topic and group.

We believe that the longitudinal studies are needed in order to understand the long-term impact of the LLMs on the human brain, before LLMs are recognized as something that is net positive for the humans."

(bolding and scaling mine)

Link to study.

So, I wouldn't say the study authors are "cautiously neutral to slightly positive on AI as a whole", as OP claims. I would say they detected quantifiable degradation in cognitive processes for those participants who used LLMs to produce essays.

LLM-users showed

a) degraded neural networking

b) no ownership of produced content

c) no critical evaluation of what LLM presented to them as fact

d) little to no recall of what was in the essay, even right after "writing" it

I.e., LLM-users did the OPPOSITE of learning.

The "benefits" of LLM? Fast answers.

The costs? All of the above.

And the fact that you are white-knighting LLMs while distorting the results of the study to people who only read journalist summaries, while shaming them for not plowing through 206 pages of data tables and scientific jargon, is a Soviet parade's worth of red flags.

Seeing a thousand "fork found in kitchen" and "believe scientists" and "we all knew about AI" tags on a post with an AI incorrectly summarizing a preprint study advising thoughtful use of AI as "AI is making your brain weak and ineffective" was making me crazy i'm sorry i tried not reblogging it like four times and every time i didn't reblog it it had like an order of magnitude more notes

[yzzart]

⋆˚࿔ JINU + HUNTR/X!READER. ── HEADCANONS!

── content warnings: F!reader, mention of twitter, compilation of enimies to lovers, light content.

── word count: 674!

⭑.ᐟ He was just a pretty face. — perhaps, apollonian, charming, delicate. — Only. — There was no way you could start admiring that man, besides, he wasn't everything they keep saying, gossiping about; you weren't a teenager.

⤷ But, damn, in a few moments, you were judging and scolding Zoey, alongside Rumi, for admiring the new, damn, demonic boy band; and right now, you're reveling in the group's leader. — No, you weren't proud of that, not even a little bit.

⭑.ᐟ Jinu was looking for your contact; regardless of whether he could be rejected, snubbed, offended or completely threatened. — Funny, he liked the rude and confusing way you greeted him politely next to the girls. — The boy, demonic and enigmatic, dedicated himself to tormenting you.

⤷ Daring winks, mentioning your name in an interview, flirtatious greetings, or compliments on some song you wrote? — Oh, that man was a stupid curse; you wished you had the chance to kill him. — Mira was begging you to put this plan into action.

⤷ It was ridiculous; Jinu was ridiculous. — The feeling of vulnerability could never taste your chest, however, you knew that his actions made you curious, almost disturbed; it was not out of fear, anguish or lack of security, it would never be that. — After all, you had always been taught to bury those feelings in the tombs of demons.

⭑.ᐟ OH, THE GOSSIP? — Zoey, as always, updated on everything that was being said about HUNTR/X on all social networks; seriously, she was starting to outgrow Bobby. — So, every night, especially during breaks and rests, you all got together to read all the news, tweets.

⤷ And of course, your fans and SAJA BOYS were commenting, almost obsessively, about the amount of interactions that happened between you and Jinu; right, there were many, many tweets. — Photos and some videos of him looking at you, with those soft, venerable eyes, while answering a question from the interviewer or how you were together when it was time for the photo shoot for a magazine; there were many situations.

⤷ On the one hand, you were curious to read all those tweets, posts just out of curiosity about the fans' creativity, just for that. — Ah, a demon with a huntress, what a joke in terrible and horrible taste.

“OH, look at this one!” — Zoey exclaimed, with great enthusiasm, almost spilling her soda on the couch, earning a sigh from Rumi. — “I wish i had thought of that one before.” — She laughed as she tried to show and tell what the tweet would be; Mira and you looked at each other, not trying to contain your laughter.

“Say it!” — Participating in the excitement, you said to the youngest.

“Okay, okay…” — As she turned the tablet, Zoey showed two photos where you and Jinu were greeting each other; in the first photo, you had bowed and in the second, you stared at each other for a few seconds. — Do you remember this moment? — “Listen, “They look like a couple of divorced parents who still see each other every day because of their child and who are going to fall in love again.”” — She repeated what was written in the post.

“Oh, no…” — Your hand found the small, white pillow, then slapped it against your face, hiding your red, embarrassed cheeks.

⭑.ᐟ He intrigued you; he disturbed you. — There were times when you felt persecuted, but you allowed yourself to be; acting as if you were cat and mouse, or rather, two individuals who were hard to antagonize in any environment. — You swear you couldn't say whether or not you liked maintaining this feeling, a dangerous, forbidden feeling with a creature you knew was cruel.

⤷ Jinu could contemplate, worship your presence; sometimes, you didn't even need to know or fear that he was near. — It was always a mystery. — Likewise, how he enjoyed feeling all your anger, confusion and, perhaps, fascination in singing a part of the song that might — or might not — be for him.

“How can you sleep or live with yourself? a broken soul trapped in a nastiest shell.”

[allisonperryart]

In case you missed it: I talked with Animation World Network about Carol and the End of the World alongside showrunner Dan Guterman and fellow art director @ellemichalka leading up to the Emmy's - this is a great, comprehensive article for anyone wanting to get to know more about the spirit of the show! Thanks for spotlighting our show, Victoria Davis!

[meowse]

That AMA marks the end of Dragon Age.

In my opinion.

I'll start by saying that I have played all 3 of the previous games repeatedly, I've loved the series for 15 years, more than half my life. These games inspired me to become a writer and they've shaped a lot of my tastes and interests in shows and writing -- to say they were formative is kind of an understatement. Don't want to go on and on about how much I loved them, that's not the point here.

I didn't care for Veilguard for pretty much all of the reasons people have already discussed at length on Reddit and Tumblr. The writing is comprehensively bad, the romances are easily the worst Bioware has written by pure virtue of having the most cookie-cutter pacing and shallow characterization I've seen across their games, the lore has been shafted in every direction, and the nuanced storytelling and roleplay I came to expect from the series has been taken out back and shot in the head.

All, apparently, in the name of a "clean slate". It seems to me that, rather than familiarizing himself with the existing lore of the game he took the creative reins on, Epler clearly had a vision for Dragon Age (or perhaps a different IP entirely) in his head that he decided to transplant into the game (and possibly Trick? But they've said so little beyond defending their work that I can hardly theorize what direction they were coming from). That being a sanitized, wildly self-contradicting, morally absolute shitshow focused on distancing itself from the previous games as much as possible. Now, I know it's unrealistic to blame one person entirely, and I don't blame him entirely. Corinne was there. Trick was there.

But if it wasn't already evident from the numerous interviews Epler's given on the game as well as his participation in the Q&A's (while the actual lead writer of the game has been completely absent in not just the marketing, but in most fan-related interaction pre and post-launch outside of BSKY), this AMA seems to have confirmed, more than anything else, that Epler doesn't understand the game nor does he understand its audience. Neither does Corinne Busche, who despite being Game Director for only the last two years of development, has been answering lore questions a) like she has any fucking clue and b) like she thinks Dragon Age is a cozy-gamer IP, meant to appeal to people that want uplifting stories with uncontroversial characters, morally upright heroes, and unquestionably evil villains.

So as of today's AMA, I think I've finally had enough. We're just outright retconning the lore in Reddit AMA's now, I guess. Among other things. I'll provide a few examples, just so we're all on the same page.

This was part of Epler's response to why Solas didn't have his cult following in the game (insert "We Kind of Forgot" meme here):

Solas' experience leading the rebellion against the Evanuris turned him against the idea of being a leader. You see it in the memories - the entire experience of being in charge ate at him and, ultimately, convinced him he needed to do this on his own. And his own motivations were very different from the motivations of those who wanted to follow him - he had no real regard for their lives or their goals. So at some point between Trespasser and DATV, he severed that connection with his 'followers' and went back to being a lone wolf.

The fact that this (the not caring bit) directly contradicts the writing in the actual game is absolutely INSANE to me, moreso than the lack of Solas's spy network (which he apparently carried with him for 10 years only to conveniently drop right before the ritual? Because he clearly had them research Rook?). But in regards to the not caring -- here's a line from Solas's memory of killing Mythal in Veilguard, which. I'll get to Mythal in a minute:

Why should I not tear down the Veil, and bring back immortality to all the elven people? They deserve it!

Which is it? Does Solas care about the people he's saving (the venn diagram of people he's saving vs. the people following him is surely a circle, i.e. elves) or not? Does he even care about the spirits trapped behind the Veil anymore or is it just convenient to abandon them and have him only care about elves, now? What happened to saving The People? What happened to him not identifying as an elf in his conversations with a Dalish Inquisitor? And what the absolute fuck happened to him wanting to bring back the magical marvels (that the ancient elves did in fact achieve) that were greater than anything we see in Thedas today? Here's what Epler has to say about elven magic, now:

I do agree that the elves have had their place in the sun at this point. [...] The thing about the Evanuris is that, ultimately, they were able to take a very specific type of magic and shape it into doing what they wanted. But even their understanding of magic was only skin deep [...] Even the magic that Tevinter wields, the magic of the Southern mages, is different from what the Evanuris used. The magic of the Evanuris is powerful but it's sterile, and it's constrained. So while the Evanuris have made magic work in a way that's more predictable and understandable, it's not the only kind of magic out there, and even then, I'd say they understood it at a very surface level. People were confidently describing how the natural world worked back in the 16th century. Very few of them were right.

First of all, Tevinter has been stated in previous games to have clumsily adapted ancient elven magic for their own, but they did adapt it. To the point where even Solas is surprised that Corypheus achieved effective immortality -- by binding himself to a dragon the same way the Evanuris did. So, cool, more contradicting the lore here. "They understood it at a very surface level" you mean when all of the magic of the Fade wasn't locked behind the Veil? You mean when magic flowed freely through the world? What do you mean, Surface Fucking Level? The entire point of the Dalish elf culture is what they lost; this wasn't the ancient elves thinking the sun revolved around the earth, the Veil was their fucking Library of Alexandria burning. Oh my god. I still cannot believe he said this.

And how have the elves had their day in the sun? I'm sorry, was Arlathan not given to... the Veil Jumpers? Instead of the Dalish? What happened to all the Dalish clans in the south, who had no infrastructure when the world was apparently blighted to hell? I guess they're just gone now! They've had their day! The story of the Dalish and the Evanuris is over (also confirmed in this AMA), and it apparently ends with the final snuff of the candle that is their culture. Congratulations, Chantry, you've won! Only took two genocides and a double blight, but we're done with the Dalish now! We get your mind-numbingly superficial factions instead!

What happened to Mythal, by the way? What happened to "She was betrayed as I was betrayed, as the world was betrayed! Mythal clawed and crawled her way through the ages to me, and I will see her avenged!" What happened to the reckoning that will shake the very heavens? John's answer to this:

People grow and change over time. Mythal's essence - and in particular, the fragment of her spirit that Morrigan carries, that she got from Flemeth - is not the same Mythal who he knew millennia ago. Centuries of living in this world and being around the kinds of people Flemeth found herself around - the Hero of Ferelden, Hawke, the Inquisitor - changed her views, and made her realize her own culpability in turning Solas into the kind of person he is now.

Oh, right, okay. So she was pissed for like a thousand years, got her big speech about the impending "reckoning" out 10 years ago, and then she just chilled out because the last 3 heroes were neat people. What a fucking joke. And yes, here is the confirmation that the Evanuris story is over --

The story of the Evanuris is done - the gods are dead (or imprisoned) and Thedas is in a state of flux and uncertainty. I imagine that whatever happens next is going to be a surprise to everyone, including the people of Thedas."

So I guess Mythal's reckoning is never coming. One of the most fascinating characters in the series, shrouded in mystery for those first 3 games, PROMISING US a blaze of glory, only to fizzle out in this one. Again, and I can't emphasize this enough, for Epler's clean fucking slate. And we've not just tied up her story, but also the Veil and the Blight:

When Solas bound himself (or, depending on your ending, was forcibly bound) to the Veil, it severed the connection that the Blight had to the waking world. The reality is that the Veil has been leaking ever since the Magisters first entered the Black City, and the dreams of the Titans gave it its terrible and awesome power. Now that the Veil is fully repaired, the Blight lacks that motive force, and being so close to the epicenter of that change has stripped the Blight in Minrathous of its vitality. It's calcified now - dead - and Bellara/Neve no longer suffer its effects. If they'd been anywhere else, further from that epicenter, it would've likely been different and they still would be looking for a cure.

So the Veil is permanently fixed now because our half-dead Dread Wolf bound himself to it (a decision I still don't understand) and that somehow fixed every single hole ever poked in it. Fully repaired. No more holes, no more "Veil is thin here" because tons of people died in the same spot, nope, we're washing our hands and leaving it (and the spirits) behind us because we've wrapped up both the series-long Veil storyline and the blight storyline in a big red bow.

And Epler tells us Solas not only bound himself to the Veil but fixed it entirely in one fell swoop, no ritual required, just a little slice to the hand. Again, all in the name of a clean slate, so any future installments or media centered around Thedas can turn away from this story.

Then there's this. What we can expect from future installments, I freaking guess. The aforementioned roleplay getting taken out back and shot:

Q: "What lead you to the decision to step away from active conversations with the companions as in previous Bioware games, where you can initiate them at any moment and ask exhaustive questions?"

John: "For us, because of tech limitations, it became a choice between exhaustive investigate conversations, or letting the companions move more freely around the Lighthouse. With the kind of experience we were going for, one where seeing the team grow around you is paramount, we felt that seeing them interact in common spaces (and in each other's rooms) made more sense."

Literally confirmed that they chose companions moving freely about the cabin over ... interacting with them outside the handful of cutscenes we got. Who in their right mind would think this was a good call in a Dragon Age game? A series that quite literally prides itself on complex character interactions and storytelling? So they could... sit in different places? Are you kidding me?

They don't see an issue with the game's reception. They don't have any interest in addressing or responding to criticism. They're either happy with their choices or EA's got a gun pointed at their heads, I'm honestly not sure anymore. I used to believe the latter was true, but looking at both Epler's and Busche's responses today, I'm inclined to believe the former.

So I think that's it for the series. Not that I thought it was going to get another game after this, but on the absolute off chance it did, what would be the point? The best stories were ruined. Anything left they have to tell is going to read a lot like Veilguard -- superficial, morally absolute, flagrantly disrespectful to the lore, and delivered in a very poorly written package.

[zyafics]

HIII!!! I love ur writing sm <3 If you're taking requests, I was wondering if you could do one about a reporter reader who used to date Rafe but they broke up and now she has to interview him??? Set in college if possible! Thank you so much! I hope you're having a good day 🥰

hi baby! yes, i do take requests and i absolutely love this one 🥰 i made reader work for a network company but she's still in college and he plays basketball! (but fair warning, i know absolutely nothing about basketball so if i got the terminologies wrong, look away!!) i hope you enjoy <3 this is angsty as fuck

ALL FOR THE GAME | Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST (Oneshot)

Pairing — College Basketball Player!Rafe x Ex!Reporter!Female Reader

Content — college au, athlete/reporter, prior breakup, heavy angst, hurt/no comfort

Word Count — 4.2K

You couldn't believe it.

It's considered lucky. For someone in your position—having received this entry-level job a couple of weeks ago—to have the opportunity to interview an athlete. In fact, many people would call it a great honor.

And it is. Under normal circumstances, you would be more than happy to oblige—elated, even—because people at this stage in your career rarely get such an opening. Especially since you're in college, fully prepared for this internship to be nothing more than grunt work.

Yet, this? This would allow you to advance your career at an expedited rate only offered to nepotism. You should be thrilled, overcome with joy, jumping at your feet and thanking whatever deity you believed in for such a chance.

But you don't.

Because the person to interview is Rafe.

Rafe Cameron, the top prospect of the NBA draft picks.

Rafe Cameron, your ex-boyfriend.

Your boss waits for an answer. He proposed the question a few moments ago, about covering the press conference for the last game of the season. Because of a sick reporter who called out at the last minute, your objective is to build a profile on Rafe Cameron. Since he's the leading prospect, with scouts all over the country looking at him, many people want to know more about the rising all-star who's done nothing but dominate the court.

This proposal, however, was done more out of common courtesy. No one would be stupid enough to say no, and when your boss raises a brow, signifying his manifesting annoyance from your silence and lack of celebratory cheers—you stammer.

"Um, um," you say.

"Um, what?" He prompts. "Will you be doing it or not?"

You shouldn't. There are many reasons why you shouldn't attend Rafe's basketball games. There's resentment because when you step back into that arena, back onto that court, you're reminded of how Rafe picked it over you. There's lingering sadness, residing heavily against the back of your heart, dulled from the passage of time, but not completely forgotten. And lastly, there's anger, because sometimes, all you want to do is scream, cry, and yell at the man who shattered your heart into a billion different pieces.

But that doesn't matter, does it?

Romance has no place in a reporter's life because you're nothing more but a projection for the audience, a vessel for the readers to learn about something else. You don't have feelings; you're a prop. And, certainly, it doesn't matter to your boss, who's only asking you because you're the last choice.

"Well?"

Seconds away from retracting the offer, something in your chest tightens. Logically, you know the choice to make. But your heart doesn't agree. It still hurts, aches, and burns at all of the past memories. It wants nothing more than to bury itself in a hole and pretend that such a critical part of your history does not exist.

But you can't. Life only moves forward. So, all you do is move with it.

"I'll do it."

By the time you arrive at the stadium, all you want to do is run. Anxiety pricks at your spine and your palms grow clammy by your side. Everything inside you is blaring like a warning, cautioning that this is a mistake, that you aren't ready, and that you should turn back.

Despite the badge dangling around your neck, you almost listen. Put your career on hold for a man who hasn't given a single thought about you since the breakup. You can't let him win, and with that reminder, you move with the mob, flocking to their seats.

The atmosphere is charged with exhilaration, and you're reminded of everything before. It's automatic. How easy it is for you to return to old patterns, to follow them, and to find yourself trickling down the steps and towards the courtside seats reserved for family and friends of the team.

Until a hand is placed on your lower back, and a security guard guides you to the press box instead.

It's quieter. The enclosure of the room dulls the energy of the crowd, with a thick sheet of glass separating you from the rest of the people, and reminding you of your purpose.

You take a seat on a cushioned chair, reserved for your network, and look around the place. You're among the most seasoned reporters in their field, chatting with one another, familiarity engulfing the air that somewhat alienates you. They pay you little mind—saved for a curious-yet-judgmental glance at how you wore a jersey compared to their formal suits and pencil skirts. When you follow their line of vision, you realize it wasn't an ordinary merch of the UNC team but Rafe's.

"Fuck," you mumble. You hadn't realized you picked out his jersey; it was left in the back of your closet and you couldn't see yourself attending your college's game without a visual form of support. This probably appears to the rest of the journalists that you're nothing more than a superfan who managed to weasel their way into their network.

It makes your stomach flips with nausea. You want to separate Rafe from you as much as possible, and with a quick run to the bathroom, you change out of the merch and throw it over your tote, straightening out your blouse underneath. When you return, the players are slowly filling out to court.

The visitors' team enters first; UNC follows. You count each player that exits the locker room, watching their expressions as they grin and absorb the energy of their home stadium, as they walk down the length of the bench, as they talk among themselves and share playful jests and banter. You didn't even know you were holding your breath until Rafe stepped out last, to the loudest cheer of the crowd, with a solemn look on his face.

You watch as Rafe searches the stands. Not in the same manner as his teammates, where they're acknowledging fans, or sending flirtatious winks to pretty girls sitting front row. It's different— with purpose. He's searching for something—someone—and your heart clenches in your chest at the thought of Rafe having found your replacement.

But it's been months, hasn't it? It should be more than fair game for him to date whatever he wants. You can still act professionally with this developing news, but it's striking down at your armor.

However, whoever he's looking for, he doesn't find. Rafe goes to huddle with the rest of his team as their Coach gives a final motivational speech before releasing them.

The game starts with a tip-off, and once the referee throws the ball in the air, Rafe takes it into his possession.

He sprints across the court, slicing through the opponent players, and scoring points on the board. Rafe is powerful, knowing exactly when to exchange his hands and pass to his teammates, where exactly to cut through, and when to commit to a play. Commentary heard from the built-in speakers can attest to it, as their primary focus is on how Rafe is taking the last game of the season by storm.

But, while everyone's eyes are glued to the game, as much as you try not to, you can't do anything but stare at Rafe.

He's just as incredible as he was when you were dating him; if not, more. In some way, it makes your heart tighten, knowing that this validates his reason for the breakup. You just wish he felt some semblance of the pain you feel. But as much as you hate it, you're also proud. Rafe has come so far, and trained so hard, to make it to where he is. If he secures a win for the last game, it will be nothing but a guaranteed track to the NBA and luxuries and fame ahead.

All without you.

By the time the game ended, Rafe scored the last shot in a close game, delivering the end of the conference with a secured UNC victory. Everyone in the press box stands from their seats, heading to the media room where they'll be meeting a panel of UNC athletes for questions.

Yet, you linger. You step up to the glass, watching as the erupted cheers of the audience surround the entire stadium, much to the glee of the UNC team, while Rafe stands in the middle of the court for a few seconds, soaking everything in. His eyes pan across the bleachers again, in search for something, before his expression falls and he retreats to the locker room.

When you enter the room of journalists, you slip into a seat. It'll be a while before the players come shuffling in, and you take each second to rehearse and calm your nerves. In one hand, is a tape recorder, while the other is a notepad of the written questions you plan to ask.

UNC's Publicist steps out first to provide an official statement and give a brief overview of the conduct of this press conference. She'll be the moderator, giving everyone enough time to ask all of their questions, and she'll be selecting the networks to her own accord. After everyone comes to the general consensus, the door opens and the Coach steps out with his players.

You watch with bated breath as Rafe is the last to enter, freshly showered and changed into grey sweatpants with a matching UNC zip-up jacket. His headphones dangles around his neck, while his expression exudes nothing but boredom and reluctance. Rafe has always hated interviews, especially post-games, during your relationship. At least that's the one thing that hasn't changed.

You drop your gaze to your lap, swallowing hard as you calm your racing heartbeat. It's been months, yet you still feel the same emotions coursing through you as if no time has passed—longing, hurt, sadness. You whisper positive affirmations, reminding yourself that it's just a job, and that'll be short and simple. You won't even have to speak to Rafe, because your boss may have said to find out more about Rafe Cameron for your profile, nowhere did he say you have to ask him specifically.

When Rafe sits on his chair, he lazily scans the room, a habit of his to pass the time, before he spots you among the crowd. In the third row, second seat; your favorite choice to sit. You don't see it, but a corner smile lifts to his face, demeanor changing, and he straightens up in his seat.

Throughout the conference, the publicist hands the microphone off to whoever she selects. They often direct their questions at Rafe, to which he gives monosyllabic and deadpanned answers. Then, when they try to seek more clarification, Rafe gives them nothing, much to their grimness.

You keep your head low, writing down notes, and drawing doodles on the edge of your notepad. Anything to avoid making accidental eye contact with Rafe. But, regardless, you feel him. The heat of his stare remains on you the entire time, especially when the publicist approach you and hands you the microphone.

It’s time.

With trembling hands, you stand from your seat. You turn your attention to the front of the panel, introducing yourself, your network, and your job. Smiles spread across Rafe's teammates as they recognize you, and you offer a polite one of your own.

Beginning at the furthest player at the end of the table, you ask, "How would you describe Mr. Cameron as a teammate?"

He grins as if he was prepared for this. "Rafe's an incredible teammate and captain. He's a capable leader, who's strong on the court, but also strong on having his teammates' back. You saw it back there—" That earns a small laugh from the reporters. "But, yeah. Rafe's one of my favorite teammates, if I'm being honest."

You tilt your head at that conclusion, because, if you remember correctly, in freshman year, he often rivaled with Rafe and got into fights over minor things. Regardless, you nod, thanking him for his response, and moving on to the next player with the next question.

"What do you think about Mr. Cameron's plays throughout the season?"

"Is that all you got for me, Mrs?" The second player teases playfully, causing heat to warm your cheeks. "Whatever, I got this. Well, let me think. Rafe's always had solid stats. He's one of the hardest-working players on and off the court, and he always keeps his head focused. Even when he had a bit of a bump a couple of months back, he adjusted his plays and bounced back. That’s his resilience."

Your breath hitches at the implication. You try your hardest not to sneak a glance at Rafe, but you can't help yourself. Turning to your side, you discover Rafe watching you, his expression grimacing at the confession of his teammate.

Months ago. The only thing that changed was your breakup. Does this mean he was as affected as you were?

You try not to think too much about that. Thanking the player again, you move to the next, asking more about Rafe's character—his prospects for the NBA, and his experience managing a student-athlete. You didn't ask just about Rafe, you asked about the games and conferences too, but most of the players always return their answers to Rafe. Positively. As if they had this unspoken agreement behind the scenes to hype Rafe up to his ex-girlfriend.

Time goes on, and you start to immerse yourself in the role. It wasn't as difficult as you expected, especially because you're entertaining a team who've known you all throughout their collegiate career. They answered the questions with enthusiasm and a playfulness that can only be recognized by years of familiarity. You can feel the energy from the reporters shift, stewed with envy, because of how the players are showing favoritism to a novice reporter who barely has her foot in the door.

Rafe watches you the entire time. How truly riveting you are in your role. How you command the room with your questions, how you captivate the players, and how you grow more comfortable as you talk to your teammates. He waits patiently as you make your way down the table, for his chance to talk to you.

But just as he's about to be next, you return the microphone to the moderator. You were going to leave him hanging. Before you can fully hand off the mic, a voice commands the room.

"What about me?"

It was Rafe. You lift your head to find him leaning against his own microphone propped on the table, his blue eyes pinned on you, his expression full of want. Your lips part, but no words fall through. The publicist doesn't take back the microphone.

You stammer. "What about you?"

"Don't you have any questions for me?" He questions, as the crowd murmurs with surprise. On any other day, Rafe would've gladly taken the lack of questions aimed at his face. You've done your research; you've seen his previous interviews.

"I..." You can't seem to answer him. All eyes—from the Coach, to the players (who are smiling their head off), to the reporters—turn to you. "I've asked all my questions."

"I'm sure you can think of one more," he declares, his eyes not once straying from your face. As if he's taking the time to memorize all of your features, to absorb any changes. "Come on, hit me."

Everyone waits. Eagerly. With jealousy. The media room stills with a palpable silence, and you can't do anything but retract your arm, holding the microphone back up to your lips.

You blink, racking your brain for any questions. You truly did ask all of them, and there's nothing appropriate enough to ask in front of a room full of people who are recording and monitoring your moves. So, you settle on something safe.

"How did you feel scoring that winning shot?"

Rafe takes a deliberate moment to consider his answer. His silence tells it all. Before he leans down against the mic, his lips centimeters from the pop filter, and he says, "Empty."

Flashes of the camera go off, and hushed whispers are heard throughout the room. But none of that matters to you. Your eyes remain on Rafe, your heart skipping beats from his confession, and you tame enough of your voice before asking a follow-up. "Can you explain why?"

He nods. "Basketball is great and all, and I'm grateful for everything that has happened, and all I have accomplished. Hell, I'm even grateful for this team right here that's been such a hardass on me since day one," he gestures to his teammates on the panel, and they all grin and laugh. One even blows him a kiss. "But, at the end of the day, it's just a game. Without the people you love by your side, it's meaningless."

You truly feel like all the air has been sucked out of your lungs and tears crowd your waterline. When his words finally deliver through, it's almost a straight shot to your chest. This was the admission you'd been waiting for, but it didn't feel satisfactory whatsoever. It's painful, all of the old wounds opening by their stitches, and grief comes crawling up your throat, demanding to be felt.

You don't answer him. You can't. Rafe watches you carefully, trying to gauge your reaction, trying to see if his words had any impact, but you hide them well. For now. With tears stinging your vision, and seconds from unraveling at the seams, you drop the microphone onto the chair and leave the room in a rush.

That's when he realizes he fucked up.

Rafe stands from his seat, ready to follow after you, but his Coach commands him to sit down. His gaze remains on you until you exit the room, but with direct orders, he can do nothing but slump back into his chair.

When Rafe finishes the rest of his interviews, with more reluctance than he had before, he wants nothing more than to go back to campus to search for you. But he doesn't know if that's such a good idea. Clearing out, Rafe steps out of the doors.

To where you were waiting.

"You had no right," you snap, as Rafe heads to the exit of the stadium. He whips around at the sound of your voice, finding you leaning against the wall. As much as he knows he fucked up, he can't explain the happiness he feels at seeing you still here.

"For what?" Rafe prompts with an easygoing smile, "Talking? I'm pretty sure that's what the press conference is about."

But you don't take it so easy.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," you huff, "You used my words against me."

During the breakup, Rafe had said something along the lines of focusing on his basketball career. You had rebutted that basketball can't be the one thing in his life. At the time, he disagreed, prompting the necessity of the breakup further. It had hurt to hear your words twisted and used against you.

"It was friendly," he reassures. "Just like the rest of my teammates. Talking like we're friends."

"We're not friends and you know that."

He frowns. "We said we would be."

"No, you said that," you hiss, clenching your hands by your side, memories slapping you and prickling your skin. "To rid yourself of the guilt, or to make it seem like permanent. I don't know. But it doesn't work that way with me, Rafe. We aren't friends."

His brows pinch together, and agitation flares through his hard features. "So, that's what it's gonna be like? You come to my games and you interview my entire team but you ignore me because we broke up? That's unprofessional."

You falter. "That's not fair."

"It isn't?" He challenges, stepping closer into your space. "How do you think I felt when you were interviewing every single one of my teammates about me, but refusing to talk to me? To look at me? What does that suggest?"

"That I got everything I needed from your teammates."

"You could've gotten it directly from the source."

"I didn't need to,"

"You could've,"

"Why are you so adamant about me talking to you?"

"Because you're acting like a vindictive bitch."

You stagger back as if he struck you, and Rafe instantly regretted the words that left his mouth. But he can't take them back. Your lips part, and you stare at him in disbelief, but you come up with nothing to defend yourself.

With the hardest glare you can muster, you proclaim, "Fuck you, Rafe."

And you turn to leave.

Rafe quickly follows after you. "Wait—that's not—I didn't mean that."

"I don't want to talk to you anymore."

"Just like you didn't want to talk to me in the conference room?"

"You broke up with me!" You snap, stopping in your tracks with such abruptness, that Rafe almost ran into you. Turning back around to face him, you say, "You were the love of my life, and you left me, and you expect me to keep it professional?"

Rafe says nothing.

"I'm trying," you croak, tears crowding your vision again, and you hate how vulnerable and pathetic you feel in his presence. Like it was back to that night in the car, where Rafe said it was over. "I'm trying to do this right."

Rafe watches your face with anguish, but he can't say anything. You're trying hard to keep your composure, and regain some semblance of stability, you say with a even voice, "I'm glad everything is working out the way you want it to. I'm glad you get this bigshot career and you're about to make it in the NBA, and I'm glad you found it so easy to move on but that's not how it worked with me." Your voice cracks. "I loved you. I can't just forget about it like it's nothing."

His voice is small when he answers. "I didn't."

"You didn't?" You repeat with disbelief. "Rafe, you're thriving. You barely look like our breakup had any impact on you. You're about to secure one of the biggest deals in NBA history. What else could you possibly be missing?"

"You."

His dark eyes connect with yours in utmost vulnerability and it cripples you. All your aggression and anger, all your pent-up frustration—it makes you upset that Rafe manage to disarm you with one word.

"No," you step back, shaking your head, "You can't do that."

"It's the truth."

"It's too late."

Rafe looks pained at your declaration. "Don't say that."

"Don't say what?" You sniffle, your vision blurring with hot tears. "My truth? Did you expect me to wait around for you to come to your senses? To beg for you to take me back?"

"I didn't..." Rafe stammers, searching your face for any indication that it isn't too late. That he still had a chance. But he doesn't find any. "I was honest back there. Any win without you feels empty."

"Stop,"

"I made a mistake."

"Rafe—" You shake your head again, sucking in a deep breath, and needing him to listen and step back. "I'm not here to talk about that. I don't want to talk about that."

"But I do,"

"But I don't," you declare firmly. "I just... I need you to understand. You can't do that. I'm trying to move on with my life. And I understand that we're going to be seeing each other, no matter how I don't want to. But I'll get used to it. I'll numb that pain. But you can't do that. Here; back there. It wasn't fair to me."

Your words sound too permanent. Too real. Rafe can't stand it.

With desperation, he pleads, "Can we talk?"

"We're already talking."

"No, I'm talking about us," Rafe says, taking a step forward. Only for you to take one back. "Please."

"There's nothing to talk about it."

"There's so much to say."

"Name one."

"I miss you."

"Rafe," you cry, tears streaming down your face that you can no longer contain. He hates seeing you cry. He hates it more to be the reason. All he wants is to pull you into his arms and apologize, over and over, to soothe the pain, but it looks as if it would hurt worse if he tried to touch you. "Please stop. You're breaking my heart again."

He made a mistake. There are so many times he can say that. When he saw you in the media room, for the first time in months, it came rushing back to what he's missing. How much he's losing you. He wanted to ask you so much—about how you're doing, to learn how you got the job, to uncover more about how close you are to achieving your dreams.

But he was barricaded. By responsibilities, obligations, and duties. He couldn't ask you in a room full of people. He couldn't help you when his father pressured him to break up with you for his career. He couldn't do anything, then. But he wants to do better now.

He says your name, so defeated, in a last-ditch effort. But you shake your head.

You need to leave this place with whatever is left of your pride and dignity. So, you straighten your spine, take out his jersey from your tote, and hand him the last remnant of your relationship. "Congratulations on your win, Mr. Cameron. I wish you the best in your career."

And when you turn to leave this time, he doesn't stop you.

IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications!

[karvokr]

unscripted

it was all for show– until it wasn’t. now the lines are blurred, the feelings are real, and no one remembers who’s cast in what role.

pairings: actor!gojo x actress!reader x actor!geto content warnings: mdni, smut and angst, unprotected piv sex, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), infidelity/cheating themes, love triangle, fake dating/pr relationship, secret relationship, they did NOT rehearse their lines series masterlist • episode 2 >>

S1, E1: casting call

You sign the contract on a Wednesday.

It arrives in your inbox under the subject line: “CONFIDENTIAL.”

A PDF. Nine pages long. Paragraphs of stipulations, contingencies, and conditions dressed up in PR language so pristine you almost laugh. Coordinated appearances. Joint interviews with dates staggered across press cycles. Exclusivity clauses for red carpet events. “Spontaneous” candid moments approved in advance. At least four public outings a month. A shared stylist to align aesthetics without making it too obvious. No real intimacy, but enough illusion to stir the right kind of attention.

At the bottom: “Duration: Minimum 6 months. Option to renew through awards season.”

Your name is already typed in the signature line, blank and waiting.

It’s ridiculous. A fake relationship designed to sell a real story– two beautiful leads, off-screen romance bleeding into on-screen chemistry, timed just right to catch the eye of the Academy. It feels like theater. Like marketing dressed in Dior and Versace.

Your publicist says it’s “industry standard,” and your agent reminds you that an Oscar doesn’t just happen. It’s built.

And Suguru Geto is a very good brick.

So you nod. Sign. Smile.

The next morning, you wake to two calendar invites and a wardrobe fitting already on the books. Friday is a blur of meetings– PowerPoints, color swatches, talking points, binders stacked with everyone else’s expectations. You’re poked, pinned, and polished into someone just glossy enough to photograph well. Saturday is quieter, technically free, but your nerves don’t get the memo. You feel it in your chest, in your skin– the stillness before something begins.

By Sunday, Suguru Geto is your boyfriend– on paper.

It’s not like he’s a stranger. You met him once– briefly– at a film festival in Toronto. It was years ago, before your first major role, before the PR teams and stylists and publicists started forming a protective wall between you and the world. You were still wide-eyed, still watching everything like it was a dream you’d wake up from. The kind of version of yourself that lingered too long at open bars and felt guilty for answering questions during panel Q&As.

Suguru was already someone then. Not yet a household name, but he was well on his way– fresh off a Cannes nomination and a string of indie shoots that made critics go quiet in their chairs. You knew him the way everyone in that circle did: respected, rumored, slightly haunted. He carried himself like someone older than his age, like the world had already tried to take something from him and failed.

You ended up in the same green room by accident. He was tucked into the corner of a velvet couch, thumbing through a paperback that looked older than both of you. Everyone else was networking, talking too loudly, smiling too hard. He wasn’t. He barely looked up when you walked in, but when he did, he blinked like he recognized you– from the festival lineup, probably– and offered the barest, quietest nod.

You’d been introduced by someone else– your manager at the time– and it was awkward. His handshake was warm but brief. He said your name like he didn’t want to forget it. And he was polite, thoughtful, soft-spoken.

But mostly, he seemed tired. Not rude. Just spent. A little hollow around the edges. Like he was doing his best to stay upright in a space that wanted too much from him.

You remember liking that about him. Not the weariness, exactly, but the honesty of it. There was no fake smile. No attempt to charm you. Just a quiet man in a crowded room who didn’t pretend he wasn’t drowning in it.

You’d watched him from across the room later that night at a private party. He leaned against the balcony railing, lit cigarette forgotten between two fingers, eyes unfocused like he was somewhere far away. When he laughed at something someone said, it was sudden. Soft. Real. You’d only heard it once, and it had stuck with you.

The festival ended. You moved on.

You didn’t think you’d ever get close to him– not because he wasn’t interesting, but because men like Suguru Geto didn’t orbit close to people like you. He existed on a different rung. Quiet, unreachable, curated by some invisible machinery you hadn’t yet learned to navigate.

And besides, you didn’t think you’d want to. At the time, you still believed in real chemistry. In relationships built on off-camera glances and unspoken moments. You thought PR couples were hollow. Manufactured. Maybe even sad.

That version of you didn’t know anything yet. She didn’t understand how useful illusion could be.

So when they first floated Suguru’s name– your team, the studio, the awards consultants already plotting headlines and camera pairings– it felt surreal. Distant. Like a ghost reaching back from a past life.

You were already flipping through moodboards and shoot schedules when they said it. “We’ve spoken with Geto’s team. He’s open to it.”

Open to you.

The version of him you remembered didn’t do this kind of thing. He didn’t fake romance for the press. He didn’t post birthday selfies or tweet cryptic captions about breakups. He was… reserved. Controlled. Private.

And yet here he was. Signing the same contract you were. Ready to stand beside you in softly blurred photos, his hand on your waist like it belonged there. Willing to laugh at your red carpet jokes, low and close enough that the cameras could catch it– but not close enough to be real.

The first staged outing is in West Hollywood. Lunch. Alone. Private– but not private enough to escape the paparazzi’s watchful lenses, peeking through bushes and around street signs. But it’s shaded, the espresso is good, and Suguru is already waiting when you arrive.

He stands when he sees you.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t overact. Just offers a gentle smile, takes off his sunglasses, and says: “Hey. You look… perfect for the role.”

There’s a pause. He lets you laugh.

You press your cheek to his in greeting. A soft brush. His palm grazes your waist. You smell cologne– cedar, bergamot, maybe vetiver. It lingers on your dress after you sit.

The cameras click in the background, but it’s easy to ignore. For a little while, it feels like lunch.

You talk more than you thought you would. He asks about your last film– not the big one, the little indie one that barely got distribution. You’re surprised he’s seen it.

“It stayed with me,” he says, stirring sugar into his coffee. “The way you didn’t say anything in that scene by the river. That kind of stillness is hard to find.”

You blink. Most people missed that scene entirely.

When you compliment his recent performance in a war drama, he winces a little. “Too loud,” he says. “Too much grit, not enough meaning. But thank you.”

It’s rare, you think, to meet someone so deliberate. He listens. Really listens. He’s not trying to impress you. He’s not trying at all.

And that makes it easier to relax.

The lunch ends. He walks you to your car, lingering just long enough to let his hand graze your arm– not for the cameras, not to garner buzz for the movie. Just to steady you in heels. A small gesture. Unremarkable, maybe, to anyone else. But it feels intentional.

You think maybe it’s just how he is. Quietly thoughtful. Present without pressing. Almost caring, but in a way that never risks anything.

You don’t hear from him the rest of the day. Not the next morning, either.

But late the following night, just as you’re settling into the kind of silence that feels too big for the room, your phone lights up.

Suguru [11:12 PM]: Are you awake? Suguru [11:12 PM]: If not, don’t worry.

You stare at the screen for a moment– thumb hovering, heartbeat heavier than it should be.

Then you call him. It rings twice.

Then his voice, low and unguarded: “Hey.”

You sit back in bed, tuck the phone against your shoulder. “Hey. Sorry, I just saw your text.”

“No, it’s okay. I wasn’t sure if I should bother you. It’s late.”

“I’m glad you did.”

Silence stretches– not awkward, not tense. Just quiet.

You hear a door shut on his end. Something rustling. Maybe a blanket. Maybe a cigarette box. You imagine him in some hotel suite somewhere– dim light, half-buttoned shirt, bare feet on cold tile.

“Rough day?” you ask.

Suguru breathes out. “Long. Not bad. Just… hollow.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “I get that.”

Another silence. This one more personal.

You don’t know why it’s easier to talk to him like this– through a line, without his eyes on you. Maybe it’s because there’s no script here. Just the two of you, drifting closer in the dark.

“I didn’t think I’d enjoy this,” he says eventually.

You blink. “The… PR thing?”

“Mhm.” You hear the faint creak of a mattress. “Figured it’d be fake. Cold. But you’re… not.”

A soft smile tugs at your lips. You tuck your knees up under the blanket. “You’re not what I expected either.”

“Oh?” There’s a teasing lilt in his voice, just a hint.

“I thought you’d be more–”

“Arrogant?”

“I was going to say distant.”

He hums. “Maybe I still am.”

“You’re here, though,” you say. Quiet. Honest. “Talking to me at midnight.”

“That’s true.”

You listen to each other breathe for a few seconds. It’s strange how comforting it is– the intimacy of being heard without having to perform.

“You don’t have to be anything with me, you know,” you say softly. “Off-camera, I mean.”

There’s a pause.

Then, quietly, “that’s the hard part. You make me want to get to know you.”

Your chest aches a little at the way he says it. Not fragile, but resigned. Like someone who’s used to being alone in rooms full of people. Beautiful, adored, unreachable.

“I don’t mind you,” you say, teasing just slightly.

He laughs, just barely. You wish you could see it.

“You’re easy to like,” he murmurs.

You feel warmth creep into your throat, your chest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And for a moment, it’s just that. The softness. The space. The two of you suspended between pretending and something that might not be.

“I’ll see you soon,” you say eventually.

“Looking forward to it.”

You hesitate. “Suguru?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you texted.”

Another pause. This one full. 

“Me too.”

You hang up a minute later. Your phone lights up again after a few minutes. A photo– from him. A blurry one. Just your feet next to his on a sidewalk after lunch. You hadn’t even noticed a camera had caught it.

Suguru [11:46 PM]: This one feels real.

You stare at your phone longer than you mean to. Then you type: “Maybe it was.”

You don’t send it. You just watch the words sit there– half-formed, unfinished– like a secret only you know.

The next day, you're both scheduled for a surprise sighting at a bookstore in Silver Lake. The type of place where the press just happens to catch you with your fingers brushing over the same dog-eared copy of some retro novel no one’s actually read.

But Suguru gets there early. You spot him near the poetry section, tucked into a quiet corner chair like he was born to inhabit silence. There’s a book in his hands and a pair of wire-framed glasses balanced on his nose. He doesn’t look up when you walk in.

He looks up when he feels you.

You crouch beside his chair, the hem of your coat brushing his shin, and he smiles at you like he knows something you don’t.

“Tell me that’s not just for the cameras,” you say, eyeing the book.

“It isn’t,” he replies, closing it gently. “But I wouldn’t blame you for assuming.”

You end up sitting across from him on the floor, backs leaned against the same bookcase. No photographers yet. Just you and him and the faint smell of old paper and something woodsy lingering on his coat.

He reads you a line from the book– something Rilke, something sad– and doesn’t flinch when you look at him too long after. Neither of you says anything about how close your knees are. Or the way he looks down at your hand like he’s memorizing the shape of it.

Another night, it’s a low-profile dinner. Outdoor patio, dim lighting, no press invited this time– just a couple of phones in the hands of distant patrons who might or might not realize who you are.

Suguru orders for both of you without asking. You let him.

You talk about dumb things. Favorite comfort foods. Least favorite roles. He tells you about a movie he almost did, then didn’t. You tell him about the one you regret turning down. When dessert comes, you end up sharing it.

He doesn’t touch you. Not once.

But his knee brushes yours beneath the tablecloth, and he doesn’t pull away.

You wonder if he notices how close your breath gets when you laugh.

There’s a photoshoot the day after. Joint promotional spread. All silk and soft light and posing like your arms fit naturally around each other’s waists.

At one point, you’re positioned facing him, chests almost touching, eyes locked.

“Closer,” the photographer says. “Tilt your face toward him, not the lens.”

You do.

Suguru’s breath is steady. So is yours. But something in the air between your mouths feels like a wire strung too tight.

The shutter clicks.

Later, he shows you a shot on his phone. One no one else has seen yet. Your face is turned toward him. His eyes are on you, not the camera.

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you for a second longer than he should, and then locks his phone.

You text more than you mean to.

Mostly in the late hours. He sends you half-thoughts. You send him blurry photos of your takeout. He sends you voice notes when he's tired– one of them is just him humming something you don’t recognize.

You listen to it three times before you place it– Erik Satie, maybe. One of those pieces that feels like a memory you forgot you had.

You [12:03 AM]: you always sound like you're somewhere else when you talk at night Suguru [2:14 AM]: Maybe that’s the only time I’m anywhere at all.

There’s one afternoon where it rains unexpectedly and you're both caught leaving a meeting in Midtown. No umbrella. Just the two of you ducking into a covered alley behind a hotel entrance, laughing like you’ve been running through puddles your whole life.

He’s soaked. You’re worse. Makeup smudged, hair plastered to your cheeks.

He takes off his coat and gives it to you without thinking.

“No cameras,” you whisper, curling into the warmth of it. “You don’t have to play the part.”

He glances at you, a drop of rain sliding from his temple to his jaw. “Maybe I want to.”

You don’t answer. Not out loud.

But when the valet pulls up and you climb into separate cars, you realize the smell of his cologne has already settled into the lining of your sleeves.

A few days later, you’re on the rooftop of a downtown hotel for a fashion house pre-party. Your heels are too high. Your dress is too sheer. And the wind is just aggressive enough to ruin every shot the team set up.

You step aside to fix your hair and find him standing by the railing, holding a glass of whiskey and watching the skyline like he’s trying to memorize it.

When he sees you, he doesn’t say anything. Just lifts the glass in a lazy toast. You walk over.

“Cold?” he asks.

“A little.”

He shrugs off his jacket. Drapes it around your shoulders.

You both stay there a while– saying nothing, not moving. And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like pretending.

Then comes the gala, and it’s all polished surfaces and curated light– a sleek event for the casting reveal of the film you’re starring in with Suguru and the opportunity to go officially public as Hollywood’s latest co-star couple.

You stand beside him for photos, and his hand settles against your back like it belongs there. Warm. Steady. Measured down to the inch.

He leans in between flashes, voice low and careful, whispering little things to keep you calm. 

“You’re doing great.” 

“Don’t lock your jaw– just breathe.” 

“You’re a natural, stop stressing.”

It doesn’t sound rehearsed. It sounds like he means it. And for a moment, you let yourself believe he does.

And then, like a needle skipping over a record, the elevator dings. The air changes. A new energy enters the room like a shift in temperature. Like a spotlight without a switch.

Satoru Gojo walks in– late, unbothered, and dressed to be looked at. White tux. Shirt slightly unbuttoned. Sunglasses dangling from the bridge of his nose like he forgot they were there. He’s in the movie too, but everyone knows he’s better suited for chaos: tabloid rumors, non-committal nights out– the kind of press you can’t plan for.

You? Tied to someone like that? No one would’ve bought it for a second.

He looks at Suguru first. Smiles like there’s history in it. Something private. Sharp-edged.

Then he turns to you.

And suddenly, the room feels too small. Too loud. You’re hyper-aware of everything– how your body holds itself, how Suguru’s hand rests on your waist, how close you are, how visible it all is.

Like just standing there, being touched by someone else, is enough to offend Gojo. Like your posture alone is a challenge he’s already accepted.

But you don’t realize what’s shifting– not yet.

Not until he starts walking your way. Not until he says your name like it tastes good. Not until the weight of his gaze makes you feel like the scene has already started– and you missed your cue.

thank you for reading! <3 ily

comment to be added to the taglist: @twilightsumu

[dreamydrifts]

zitti e buoni: charles leclerc

| pairing: charles leclerc x reader

| genre: f1driver!charles, f1journalist!reader

| stefy's note: i've written and rewritten this fic since last year, from october. and this time i had some help from @ellieisque (with feeding my charles delulu scenarios) so this is for both important girlies in my life @violletsareblue and @ellieisque , so enjoy girlies ;)

| warnings: swearing, manipulation (by the media), toxic behaviour (by the media), hardships of journalism, mentions of make out, minors dni

| face claim: sabrina carpenter

| word count: 6.2k

[ BACK TO MASTERLIST ]

The vivid memory of your boss giving you the opportunity to cover the Monza Grand Prix by yourself, still lingers in yout mind. Being here is what you waited for since you looked at races with your father. He made you see the sport from a different perspective, which you then realized you could use for pursuing journalism.

Checking and memorizing the stats followed by writing freelance articles late into the night for several years must have payed off because they were the reason you were given your first major Formula One assignment. The same day, the boss called you in his office handing you this opportunity with a warning. "Don't mess this up."

And you didn't plan onto. That's what you had planned. No distractions. No drooling over drivers. You'll be focused only on work.

"The Italian Grand Prix at Monza is considered a whirlwild of scarlet-clad, Tifosi along with the roaning engines and the intoxicating scent of burnt rubber." Opening the notebook, you started writing after clutching the paddock pass tightly as you looked curiously arounf the paddock.

Coming from a small but ambitious media outlet most of the time meant no exclusive interviews with the drivers, but the usual a meeting room. You couldn't complain a lot as the meeting room was quite spacious but the amount of questions you could ask were limited. Limited to none.

The spacious meeting room you were promised in the official Formula One email was nothing compared to reality. The meeting room consistend of a small square table and a chair right in front of it. As soon as you entered it, the image of hundreds of phones openly recording the famous Ferrari driver, Charles Leclerc talking about his expectations about the race.

Checking the time once again you realize that you were given the wrong or the supposedly wrong meeting hour. From the ten or fifteen minutes you thought you had none left, making you late to the interview all together. As soon as you entered the room, all the eyes were on you for a split second. All judging you for being late. But it wasn't your fault after all.

The pre-race conferrence is packed with reporters from major networks, but you manage to squeeze into the third row. With your phone raised to record Charles Leclerc's answer, you could feel his dark eyes scanning the room as he discusses the strategy. His voice is calm, but there's something beneath it. An intensity. A quiet confidence that sends a shiver down your spine.

Then, disaster strikes.

Your phone slips from your sweary grip clattering onto the floor interrupting the press conference. The sound is deafening in the momentary lull between questions. Fuck. What a way to catch his attention. Heat floods your cheeks as you bend to grab it, but before you can, a hand - sleeve rolled to the elbow, a silver watch glinting - plucks it up effortlessly.

Charles Leclerc himself.

He straightens, holding your phone out with a faint smirk. Your fingers brush as you finally take it back, and then subtle - barely there - he winks at you before returning back to the table. To the other journalists's questions. The room erupts into judging eyes, but your pulse still hammers in your ears.

For the rest of the press conference, you were nothing but focused. Your mind replays the moment over and over again. The warmth of his hand. The playful glint in his eyes. Was it just politeness, or did he actually notice you? Did THE Charles Leclerc notice you?

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

"The air in the Monza paddock crawled with the anticipation as qualifying began. The Tifosi packed the grandstands, their scarlet flags waving in unison as their chants of "Forza Ferrari" echoing through the trees of the old royal park." You continued writing in your notebook as the atmosphere was totally different that you have expected. It was nothing like you had imagined.

You stood at the edge of the Ferrari garage, your press pass dangling from your neck, your fingers gripping the notebook as you watched the screen intently. Ferrari had been strong all weekend, but so had McLaren. Charles' first runs in Q1 and Q2 were clean, his lap times consistently near the top. But Q3 - the fonal shoutout for pole - was where the real drama unfolded.

On his first flying lap, Charles was purple in Sector 1, his razor-sharp Ferrari through Curva Grande. But then, a slight lock-up into the second chicane cost him a tenth. He crossed the line P2, just behind Lando Norris.

Then the radio icon of Charles pops up into the screen seeing what the engineer had told him on the radio: "One more lap, Charles. Push for everything."

Come on Charles. Come on.

You held your breath as he began his final attempt. The car was a blur of red, howling down the main straight, the RPMs screaming as he breaked impossibly late into Turn 1, but then -

A sharp of oversteer exiting Ascari.

Fuck. Not again. So close.

The rear stepped out, and for a heart-stopping moment, it looked like he might lose it. But Charles caught it his reflexes almost supernatural. The mistake did cost him precious time.

When the checkerer flag fell, the standings flashed on the screens:

1. Lando Norris (McLaren)

2. Oscar Piastri (McLaren)

3. George Russel (Mercedes)

4. Charles Leclerc (Ferrari)

A groan rippled through the Ferrari garage. So close.

The media immediately swarmed the drivers after the session. You positioned yourself near the back of the scrum, listening as Charles faced the press.

"Charles, P4 - how do you feel about that?" A reporter asked.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, his expression calm but his jaw tight. "Not ideal, but not a disaster. The McLarens are quick here, but our pace is strong. Starting on the second row means we'll have options for the start."

Another journalist cut in. "That monent in Ascari - did that cost you pole?"

Charles exhaled, a flicker of frustration crossing his face before he schooled it back into professionalism. "Maybe. But that's qualifying. One small mistake, and it's over. Tomorrow is what matters."

Then his eyes scanned the crowd - and landed on you.

You haven't raised your hand, but something about your quiet focus must have caught his attention. He tilted his head slightly, as if waiting for you to speak.

Heart pounding, you seize the moment. "Charles, you were talking about a wider line through Parabolica all session conpared to last year. Was that a deliberate change to manage tire wear for the race?"

A beat of silence. Then his lips curled into a small, appreciative smile. "Exactly right." He said, his voice warmer now. "We're expecting high degradation, so we adjusted the line to keep the tires alive. Smart observation."

The other reporters glance at you, some with curiosity, some with annoyance. Charles however held your gaze for a second longer than necessary before turning back to the next question.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

"Race day dawned under a blistering Italian sun, the air thick with the scent of fuel and Tifosi anticipation. The sea of red in the grandstands rippled like a living thing, their chants of "Forza Ferrari" shaking the old royal park." You wrote down in the small notebook you always kept with you. You stood once again at the edge of Ferrari garage, your paddock pass sticking to your shirt in humidity, as you cletched the notebook.

"Plan A", you could hear coming through the Ferrari garage. "One-stop. Hard tire start. We go long."

A gamble.

When the lights went out, Charles launch was electric. He rocketed past Russel into Turn 1, his Ferrari's nose edging alongside Piastri's McLaren through the Rettifilo chicane. The crowed roared as the scarlet car emerged P3 by Curva Grande.

While Norris pulled away out front, Charles bibed his time. His hard tires, durable but slower early on, needed laps to settle. He held his position, his lap times metronomic - 1:24.5, 1:24.3, 1:24.4 - never pushing too soon. Never letting Piastri breathe.

Lap eighteen. Norris pitted first, swapping for mediums. McLaren expected Ferrari to cover them. They didn't.

"Stay out, Charles. Extend the stint." The icon of his radio pops up again. They were really going for it.

He obeyed, his pace now scintillating - 1:23.9, 1:23.7 - as his hard tired, now in their sweet spot, devoured the track. By lap twenty two he'd built a twenty two second gap to Norris.

Then Ferrari struck. "Box now. Box now. Soft tires."

A flawless two second stop. Charles rejoined ahead of Norris, whose fresher mediums couldn't match his soft-tire grip. The Tifosi erupted.

Now P2 Charles hunted down Piastri. The young McLaren driver defended hard, but on lap forty two, Chsrles feinted left into Curva Grande before jinking right, darting past through the Roggia chicane with a move so bold Mclaren's front wing nearly clipped his rear.

The italian commentator could be heard speaking through the barely heard speakers "He's through! Charles Leclerc is leading the Italian Grand Prix!"

The final laps were a masterclass in tire management. His softs were fading, Piastri closing at half a second per lap, but Charles was working his magic. He took every curb perfectly, his voice calm on the radio. "Tell me the gaps."

"1.2 seconds. Two laps to go."

The main straight on the final lap was a wall of sound. Piastri's McLaren loomed into his mirrors, DRS wide open - but Charles crossed the line 0.8 seconds clear, his fists already pumping into the cockpit.

As the Monegasque anthem, followed by the Italian anthem blared, Charles stood atop the Monza podium, champagne soaking his fireproofs, the Tifosi singing in exstasy. In the garage, engineers hugged; in the stands grown men wept.

And in the media pen, your hands shook as you scribbled your notes.

This is why you loved racing.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The Monza podium celebrations had been electric - Charles drenched in champagne, the Tifosi roaring as he held the Italian frag high. Now, in the press conference room, the atmosphere was more subdued but still buzzing with energy.

You sat at the back, your small media outlet's logo barely visible on your pass compared to the Sky Sports and ESPN badges surrounding you. Most of the questions so far had been predictable: "Charles, how does it feel to win at Monza?", "Can you walk us through the overtake on lap forty two?", "Do you think Ferrari can keep this momentum?".

Charles answered them all with the usual polished charm, but you noticed the way his fingers tapped the microphone - just slightly - when questions got repetitive.

Then, the moderator pointed to you.

"Question from Y/N Y/L/N, Trackside Media." A flew journalists glanced back, eyebrows raised at the unfamiliar outlet. Charles gaze flicked to you, and for a split second, you could swear that his lips twitched into recognition - the girl who dropped her phone.

You cleared your throat. "Charles, you took a different line through Ascari on your final push lap compared to your earlier attempts. Was that a pre-planned adjustment or something you felt in the moment?"

Another beat of silence, just like before.

Then, Charles smiled - not the polite press smile, but something sharper, more intrigued. He leaned forward. "It wasn't planned. The car was understeering a bit early on, but after the last pit stop, the tires came alive. I felt i coild brake earlier, carry more speed through double apex. So i went for it."

He held your gaze just a second longer than necessary before adding. "Glad someone noticed."

A murmur rippled through the room. Your cheeks burned, but you grinned as you scribbled down the answer.

As the conference ends you pack your gear, satisfied with the footage you could have gotten and had got already - until a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

"You dropped this earlier."

You turn. Charles stands there, holding out your press pass - the one that must have fallen during your fumble. Up close, he's even more striking, sweat still glistening on his brow, his race suit unzipped to reveal the scarled Ferrari fireproofs.

"Oh - thank you." You stammer.

Charles studies you for a beat, then tilts his head. "You're not with the usual press."

"No. Small independent outlet." You admit, bracing for dissmissal.

But Charles grins. "You seemed....different. Not asking the same questions everyone else does." A pause. "Would you be interested in a proper interview?"

Was he really asking you this? Was this a joke? Your breath catches. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. How about my place? Less...chaotic."

The invitation hangs between the two of you, electric. Before you can overthink it, you nod. "I'd love to."

You couldn't believe it. You just scored an exclusive interview with THE Charles Leclerc. And not only that?but at his house also.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Charle's Monaco penthouse was nothing like the sterile press rooms you were used to. The elevator opened directly into a sun-drenched living space, all warm wood accents and floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Mediterranean like a painting. A vintage Ferrari poster hung beside modern abstract art, and a well-loved piano sat in the corner, sheet music splayed open - his new song.

He greeted you barefoot, in dark jeans and a sofr gray sweater pushed up to his elbows, a half drunk espresso abandoned on the kitchen counter. "You're early." He noted.

"Professional habit." You answered him, suddenly hyper-aware of your own outfit. A silk blouse and tailored slacks, dressed to impress bout now feeling overly formal.

"Relax." He murmured, as if he was reading your mind. "This isn't Sky Sports." He led you the living room, where a low leather couch faced the sea. Instead of the expected table-and-chairs interview setup, he'd arranged two microphones on a coffee table, a single camera on a tripod angled to capture the view behind the two of you.

"No press team?" You asked, while you sat your bag down.

"I sent them home." He handed you a glass of sparkling water lime wedges floating atop the ice. "Figured if we're doing this, we do it right."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

"You've said before that racing is as much mental as it is physical. What does a bad day in your head look like? The kind no camera catches." You ask the question before checking once again your notebook to see if you read it correctly.

Charles exhaled, rubbing his jaw. "It's...like static. You know every move you're making is wrong, but you can't stop it. Your hands feel heavy on the wheel. Your foot hesitates on the pedals. And the worst part?" He met your gaze. "You know it's happening, and you're powerless to fix it."

Your pen hovered over the notebook. This wasn't the polished answer he gave Sky Sports.

"You grew up watching Schumacher dominate in Ferrari red. What did you feel the first time you sat in a real Ferrari cockpit?" You continued asking the questions you had prepared.

A slow smile spread across his face. "I cried." At your raised brow, he laughed. "Not in the garage - I waited until I was alone. But it was...overwelming. That childhood dream? Suddenly it was real. And the weight of it hit me all at once."

"What a mistake you made early in your career that still keeps you up at night?" You knew this would be a deep question for him as it can turn back to the races he lost in his career.

"Baku. 2021." The answer came instanty his voice tight. "I was leading , got greedy and crashed in qualifying. Threw away a sure win. Now? I never push quite as hard on thag corner, even when i know i can." A rueful shrug. "Fear stays with you."

"You're one of the best qualifiers on the grid. What's actualky going through your mind during a pole lap?" You wanted to ask this questions for years, it was a question both you and yout father were curious about.

"Nothing." Your surprise made him grin. "That's the secret. When it's perfect, your brain shuts off. You're not thinking - you're just doing. It's the closest thing to flying i'll ever feel."

"Ferrari's strategy calls have been...controversial. How do you stay calm when you hear something you dissagree with over the radio?"

Charles leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You don't. You rage - but only after the race. In the moment? You trust. Even when every instinct screams not to." A bitter chuckle. "Doesn't mean i don't yell into my helmet sometimes."

You laugh for a moment along with him. "What's something about Formula One that frightens you?"

Silence. Then, quietly. "Being forgotten." He looked away, out at the harbor. "Not the crashes. Not the pressure. The idea that one day, no matter what i do., the sport will move on without me."

"You're known for being hard on yourself. What's one thing you're proud of, no asterisks?"

"Monaco. 2024." His voice softened. "Not the race - the qualifying. That lap was mine. No luck. No favors. Just...perfection."

"If you could erase one rumour about yourself, what would it be?"

"That i'm cold." His jaw tightened. "People think i don't care because i don't show it like others do. But the fire's there. It just burns quieter."

"What's a piece of advice you'd give your sixteen-year-old self?" You looked once again at the notebook checking to see if you were on time with the questions.

"Enjoy it." A sad smile. "I was so focused on the next step, I forgot to live the dream."

Last one. "What's something no one knows about Charles Leclerc?"

He held your gaze, suddenly serious. "I hate being alone. The silence after the race? It's the hardest part."

As the final question faded, you realized that your notes were abandoned. This wasn't an interview anymore - it was a confession. The Charles Leclerc the world saw - the focused, composed race winner, was just the surface.

The man in front of you? He was human. Flawed. Fearful. Real.

"That's it." You whispered shutting off the camera.

Charles slumped back into thr couch a hand running through his hair. "That was..."

"Honest."

Your eyes met. Somethibg unspoken passed between the two of you - an understanding.

Then with a shaky laugh, Charles gestured to the camera. "Please tell me that thing was off for the last part."

Your lips curved. "Wouldn't you like to know?" You say as you sat back next to him in the couch after shutting off the camera.

Impulsively then Charles says, as he catches your wrist where you hold the memory disk of the camera. "We should do this again. But without the cameras."

You froze. "Are you...asking me out?"

Charles blinked, as if startled by his own words. Then, with a slow, deliberate smile. "Yeah. I think i am."

A beat. The camera was off. No PR, no audience - just you and him.

"Good." You whispered. "Because i'd say yes."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The moment TrackSide Media uploaded the interview, the internet lost its collective mind.

Your phone erupted in a symphony of pings before you even had time to process what was happening. Twitter, Instagram, Reddit - every platform had already dissected the final thirty seconds of footage where Charles Leclerc, Ferrari's golden boy, had looked directly into the camera and said. "We should do this again. Without the cameras."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

| INSTAGRAM POST - SEP 3rd

F1Gossip

Liked by charles_leclerc, lando and 969,670 others

F1Gossip Charles Leclerc just publicly asked out a journalist. I REPEAT: WE ARE NOT SURVIVING THIS

View all 15,786 comments

user1 Lecler's PR team currently drafting a statement: Charles was merely being hospitable while Charles himself is texting Y/N 'so dinner tomorrow'?

user2 if this woman doesn't say yes, i will personally fly to Monaco and accept on her behalf

user3 who is she? some nobody trying to get some clout?

user4 charles could do so much better

user5 she's actually kind of cute though

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

You stomach twisted as you scrolled. You expected some reaction, but not this. Not memes of your stunned face, not think pieces analyzing Charles body language, not hate messages flooding your DMs.

Your editor's text was the final nail in the coffin

| Mark Y/N. The video's at 500K views in two hours. The board wants a follow up. Are you actually dating him?

You threw your phone onto the bed like it had burned you.

For the next forty-eight-hours, you existed in a state of suspended disbelief. Charles had texted you immediately after the interview dropped, "Ignore the noise - They'll move on by next week." but the noise was deafening. Every major sport outlet had picked up the story. Even Sky Sports had a segment titled "Leclerc's Love Life: What this means for Ferrari's Season."

Your inbox was a warzone. Interview requests. Podcasts invites. A People Magazine editor asking if she'd do a Getting Ready For My Date with Charles" spread.

By the time Friday rolled around, you were half-convinced you should cancel. It was too much. Too public. Too dangerous.

Then your phone buzzed.

| Char❤️ Still on for tonight? I promise i won't let Autosport crash our date

Against all logic, you smiled.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The cobblestone path twisted away from the glittering harbor, the air thick with the scent of salt and frying garlic. Charles led you by the hand, his fingers warm and calloused against yours, his other hand shoved casually in the pocket of his dark jeans. He wore a simple black t-shirt, the fabric stretched sloghtly across his shoulders, and a silver chain glinted at his throat in the dim glow of the streetlights.

No sunglasses. No pretense. Just him.

"You're taking me to a back alley?" You teased, your heels clicking against the uneven stones. "Should i be worried?"

Charles glanced over his shoulder, a smirk playing at his lips. "Only if you're scared of the best socca in Monaco."

He stopped in front of an unassuming blue door, the paint peeling slightly at the edges. A handwritten sign above it read "Chez Manthieu" in faded script.

"This is your idea of a date?" To say the least that you were skeptical about his ideas of date and how he saw them, but in the same time intrigued.

"Better than some overpriced terrace where they serve three scallops and call it dinner." He pushed the door open, the warm hum of conversation and clicking silverware spilling out into the night.

Inside the restaurant was all cozy-checkered tablecloths, chalkboard menus, and the rich aroma of simmering tomato sauce and fresh bread. An older man with a flour-doused apron looked up from behind the counter, his face splitting into a grin. "Charles! Enfin!"

Charles laughed, releasing your hand to embrace the man in a quick, back-slapping hug. "Mathieu, this is Y/N."

Mathieu's eyes twinkled as he took you in. "Ah, so this is why you called ahead."

Charles rolled his eyes, but his ears pinked slightly. "Ignore him. He thinks he's funny."

Mathieu led you to a small corner table, half-hidden by a shelf of wine bottles. "I'll bring you the usual.", he said already walking away.

"The usual?" You raised your eyebrow at him. The usual would mean that he must have come here often enough.

Charles leaned back in his chair, his knee brushing yours under the table. "I come here when i don't want to be Charles Leclerc."

And just like that, you understood.

The socca arrived still sizzling from the oven, its golden surface blistered and crisp at the edges. Charles watched as you broke off a piece with your fingers, the stream curling between them.

"Careful." He murmured, catching your wrist before you could burn yourself. His thumb brushed against the delicate skin of your inner wrist - just ince - before releasing you. "It's hotter than it looks."

You blew on the chickpea pancake before taking a bite, the flavours exploding - wood-fired crust, sea salt, rosemary. Your eyes fluttered shut. "Oh my god."

Charles lips curved as he leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. "Told you."

Mathieu appeared with two mismatched wine glasses and a carafe of something deep ruby. "The '98 Bandol," he said pouring without asking. "Charles's favorite when he's celebrating."

You asked, accepting the glass. "And what are we celebrating."

Charles knee bumped yours under the table. "You not running screaming when i took you to a back alley."

Not long after bringing the appetizer, Mathieu comes back with two delicious plates, a tender octopus confit, handmade ravioli oozing sage butter. Charles plate looked at appetizing as yours, it's like he knew that the two of you would share them.

"I used to keep a notebook for every driver's helmet design," You admitted, swirling your wine. "Had this whole rating system. Schumacher's 2000 design? Perfect ten. Villeuve's 1997? A travesty."

Charles nearly chocked. "You rated helmets?"

"Still do." You tilted your head, studying him. "Yours is a solid eight."

"Eight?" He pressed his hand on his chest in mock outrage. "The prancing horse? The Monegasque colors? The -"

"Too busy," you interrupted, stealing a bite of his raviolli. "Sometimes less is more, Leclerc."

He caught your wrist as you pulled back, his thumb tracing the pulse point. "Next season's design," he said quietly. "You'll help me with it."

It wasn't a question.

The tiramisu arrived, dusted with cocoa powder still trembling from the impact. Charles pushed it towards you. "You first."

The first spoonful was pure bliss - espresso-soaked ladyfingers, mascarpone so light it dissolved on yout tongue. You moaned without thinking.

Charles fork clattered against his plate. When you looked up, his eyes were dark, fixed on your mouth, "You're killing me." he muttered.

You dragged your spoon through the dessert slowly deliberately. "Problem?"

"Yeah." His voice dropped an octave. "Big fucking problem."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The warm Mediterranean night wrapped around them like silk as the two of you left the restaurant, Charles fingers laced loosely with yours. The harbor lights danced on the black water, painting liquid gold across the waves.

"This way." Charles murmured, tugging you gently down a narrow alleyway away from the main streets. The cobblestones glowed under the antique iron lamps, their footsteps echoing between centuries-old buildings.

"Taking the scenic route?" You teased, your shoulder brushing his arm.

Charles smirked, his thumb tracing absent circles on the back of your hand. "Avoiding paparazzi. And...maybe showing you my favorite view."

The alley opened suddenly into a hidden terrace overlooking the entire bay. The city spilled down the cliffs like scattered diamonds, the yachts bobbing like toys in the distance. Charles leaned against the stone railing, pulling you gently in front of him, his chest warm against your breath.

"I come here when the world gets too loud." He admitted, his breath stirring your hair at the temple. His arms circled your waist, loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted. You didn't.

You leaned back into him, watching the moonlight carve silver paths across the water. "It's beautiful."

"Not as beautiful as-" He cut himself off with a quiet laugh, his nose brushing your ear. "That sounded better in my head."

You turned into his arms, your faces suddenly inches apart. "Smooth, Leclerc."

"I'm a driver, not a poet." His gaze dropped on your lips. "Though right now i'm thinking of several very creative-"

You silenced him with a finger on his mouth. "Show me the way home, hotshot."

Charles caught your finger between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp before releasing it with a grin. "Your funeral."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The hotel hallway was too bright, too quiet after the intimacy of the night. You fumbled with the keycard, paintfully aware of Charles leaning against the wall beside the door, watching you with dark eyes.

"So," You said, the word hanging between the two of you.

"So," he echoed, pushing off the wall to stand before you. The dim lighting caught the stubble along his jaw, the faint scar above his eyebrow.

The keycard slipped from your fingers

Charles caught it before it hit the floor, his other hand coming to rest against the door beside your head. "Nervous."

"No," you lied, your breath coming faster as he stepped closer. His cologne wrapped around you - salt and something woodsy, with the faintest hint of wine.

"Liar." His nose brushed against yours, your lips a breath apart. "Tell me to leave."

Your hands found his waist, fingers curling into the soft cotton of his shirt. "Make me."

Charles made a low sound in his throat before closing the distance.

The first kiss was soft - testing, questioning. The second wasn't.

His hands cradled your jaw as he backed you against the door, his body pressing yours into the wood. You gasped as his teeth caught your lower lip, your fingers scrambling for purchase on his shoulders. The keycard dug into your palm where it was trapped between the two of you, forgotten.

"Charles-"

"Tell me to stop," he murmured againsy your mouth, though his hands were already sliding down to grip your thighs.

You arched into him instead, your nails scraping through his hair. "Never."

The elevator dinged down the hall.

Charles pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard. "Fuck," he whispered, his thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip.

You stole one last kiss before twisting the keycard from his grip. "Goodnight, Charles."

You slipped inside before any of you could change your mind, leaning against the closed door as your heart threatened to beat out of your chest. Outside, you heard Charles exhale sharply before his footsteps retreated down the hall.

Your phone buzzed into you clutch

| Char❤️ Karting. Tomorrow. Wear something you can lose.

You bit your still-tingling lips as you typed the reply. "Only if you're ready to lose too."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The private karting track nestled in the hills above Monaco smelled of scorched runber and adrenaline. You stepped out of Charles black Ferrari 812 in the golden afternoon light, squinting at the row of gleaming karts line up like racehorses at the starting gate.

"You own this place?" Your fingers tightened around the strap of your duffel bag as you took in the grandstand, the timing towers, the Ferrari-red barriers lining every corner.

Charles emerged from the driver's side, his aviator sunglasses hiding his eyes but not only his smirk. "Not own. Let's say...the manager owes me favors." He tossed you a helmet - custom-painted in matte black with a single prancing horse on the side. "You'll need this."

The helmet was lighter thank you expected. "This is carbon fiber.

"And you're avoiding the question." He stepped closer to you, his shadow falling across you. "Scared?"

You met his gaze evenly. "I grew up racing motorcross in the Australian outback. Your little go-karts don't scare me, Leclerc."

Charles grin turned funeral. "We'll see about that."

The engines screamed to life beneath them, a chorus of mechanical wasps buzzing in the pit lane. Charles had changed into a tight black racing suit, the fabric staining across his shoulders as he adjusted his gloves.

"Rules," he shouted over the noise. "First go ten laps. No bumping. No crying when you lose."

You yanked your hair into a hasty ponytail before sliding your helmet on. "Winner gets bragging rights and picks dinner."

Charles eyes darkened before his visor. "Deal."

The starting lights flashed red...red...green.

Your kart rocketed forward, the acceleration slamming your back into the seat. The wheel vibrated violently in your hands as you took the first corner flat-out, your knee brushing the concrete barrier. Charles pulled alongside at the hairpin, their wheels inches apart as you dove into the turn.

"Inside line." His voice crackled through you helmet comms.

"Eat my dust!" You braked late, forcing him wide.

By lap three, sweat trickled down your spine. Charles was relentless, drafting you on the straights, his front wheels kissing your rear bumper through the chicanes. Every time you glanced in your mirrors, there he was, his driving mirror-perfect and infuriatingly patient.

On lap seven, he made his move.

You took the sweeping right-hander too wide, just half a meter, and Charles pounced like a shark scenting blood. His kart slipped up the inside, the wheels interlocking for heart-stopping second before he pulled ahead.

"Merde!" You slammed your fist on the wheel.

Charles laugh echoed through your headset. "Told you i'd destroy you."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

You yanked off your helmet, your hair sticking on your neck in damp curls. "You cheated."

Charles was already unbuckling his racing suit, the top half tied around his waist, leaving only a sweat-darkened white t-shirt clinging to his chest. "How exactly?"

"You-" You gestured wildly. "You distracted me!"

"By being better?" He stepped closer, the scent of gasoline and warm wrapping around you. "Admit it. You liked watching me win."

Your pulse pounded in your ears. "I liked watching you sweat."

Charles gaze dropped in your mouth. "I'm sweating now."

The pit crew suddenly found something very interesting to do on the other side of the garage.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The locker room was all white tile and stream, the air thick with the scent of citrus body wash. You stood under the scalding spray, willing your racing heartbeat to slow.

The curtain rattled.

"Occupied!"

"Relax, it's me." Charles' voice, closer than expected.

You whipped around to find him leaning against the sinkoutside your stall, his reflection blurred in the fogged mirror. His shirt was off now, his torso a masterpiece of leaned muscle.

"You lost," he reminded you, tapping the tile wall with one knuckle. "Winner picks dinner, remember?"

Water suiced down your back as you glared through the mist?. "And?"

Charles smile was pure sin. "I'm starving."

The curtain yanked open.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Charles killed the Ferrari's engine, leaving on the crash of waves against the cliffs below. The leather seats creaked as he turned to you, his fingers drumming an uneven rhythm on the steering wheel.

"Come with me." His voice was oddly strained.

He led you to the edge of the lookout, where the wind whipped at your clothes. The sun hung low over the Mediterranean, painting his profile in molten gold. When he dropped to one knee, your breath caught-

"Wait!" Charles fumbled with his pocket, producing a small black box. "Before you panic - not that kind of question."

Inside lay a silver key, it's teeth grinting.

"I practiced this," he admitted, running a hand through his windswept hair. "Pierre made me do it twelve times last night. Still fucking it up."

You laughed for a moment before regaining your posture as you then focused on him.

"I don't share," Charles continued, his thumb brushing your knuckles. "Not my toothbrush, not my Playstation, certainly not my home. But i want you there. Waking up to your hair in my face, your terrible coffee mugs..." His voice cracked "So will you? Be mine officially?"

The key warmed in your palm. Somewhere below, a speedboat carved white lines into the blue.

"Only if you swear Pierre won't be best man at our wedding." you whispered.

Charles laughter echoed off the cliffs as he kissed you, his hands cradlling your face like you were the only solid thing in a spinning world. "Good because I already told Ferrari you're coming to Silverstone."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The Ferrari garage froze when you stepped inside to be supporting your now boyfriend at the practice sessions.

Mechanics paused mid-wrench. Engineers' tablets dimmed. Carlos Sainz eyebrows dissapeared under his helmet.

"Putain," someone muttered.

You clutched your "Guest of Charles Leclerc" pass like a fineline. The scent of burnt carbon fiber and warm electronics wrapped around you as you edged past the gleaming car parts.

Then - chaos.

Charles emerged from the driver's room, his fireproofs unzipped to the waist, revealing a sweat-darkened Ferrari t-shirt. His eyes lit up.

"You came." He closed the distance in three strides, ignoring the team's stares to press a kiss to your temple - just as a photographer raised his lens.

Flashbulbs erupted.

Charles, of course, was oblivious - too busy shoving ice cream cones into your hands between sessions.

"You're insufferable," you hissed as the cameras clicked outside the motorhome.

He licked a stray drop of chocolate off your wrist. "You love it."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

| INSTAGRAM POST - JUL 4th

F1Gossip

Liked by charles_leclerc, yourusername and 689,233 others

F1Gossip Charles Leclerc brings mystery woman into Ferrari garage (PS: it's that journalist)

View all 14,987 comments

user1 Ferrari strategists when they realize Charles new performance coach is actually his girlfriend

user2 she's so pretty

user3 she's such a clout chaser. charles could do so much better

user4 THE SAME JOURNALIST

user5 he's so down bad for her

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The media scrum surged as Charles entered, still damn with champagne. He ignored Sky Sports microphone, making a beeline for-

"Question for TrackSide Media," he announced, grinning at your stunned expression.

Reporters swarmed.

"How does it feel," Charles continued "to be my good luck charm?"

The room lost it. Flashbulbs popped like fireworks.

Your cheeks burned. "I think you did the driving, Leclerc."

"Nah." He tugged you closer, his lips brushing your ear as cameras exploded. "This one was all you."

The clip hit 10M views before the two of you even left the circuit.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

You pressed Charles against the bedroom door, your fingers tangled in his still-damp hair. "My good luck charm?"

"Oui." He nipped at your jaw. "Got a problem with that?"

You bit his earlobe, hard. "Only if you ever call me that in public again."

Charles laughed, flipping both of you so your back hit the door. "No promises."

His mouth found yours, tasting the champagne and victory. Somewhere outside, the team cheered for their golden boy's victory.

© DREAMYDRIFTS — do not translate, plagiarise or claim any of my works as your own.

[gamesetattach]

On the Record

Jannik Sinner x Reader A well liked personality in the tennis world, reader is one the favored sports commentators. Her interviews always make headlines for all the right reasons—the people love to watch her crack all their favorite players... especially Jannik Sinner because, I mean, the poor boy seems to just shatter. Honestly. Somewhere in time, this was an 800 word blurb... And now it's nearly 8,000. Not sure when that happened. This just became a tennis player personality study at some point, tbh

---

You weren’t just another sports commentator—you’d quickly made a name for yourself in your short career in the tennis world. The networks and the fans loved you, and so did the players. Your approach was the kind where players actually liked talking, one that made post-match interviews feel less like an obligation and more like an easy conversation. You had built a reputation for striking the perfect balance—professional and sharp, but always with just the right amount of humor to put players at ease.

It wasn’t uncommon for your analyses and your interviews to be clipped and spread, tennis fans enjoyed your commentary and admired how effortlessly you got athletes to open up. You asked questions that felt fresh, steering clear of the usual clichés that players had answered a hundred times before. You could tease them just enough to get a smile, knew when to pull back, when to lean in. And many of the players responded more than favorably to that.

---

Ben Shelton was a natural entertainer—electric on the court, brimming with confidence, always ready with a quip. But post-match interviews? Reporters could easily get him ticked off—understandably so. Questions were too often repetitive, formulaic, and sometimes interviews could be straight up disrespectful.

But with you holding the mic, it was never that.

"Ben! Congratulations on the win—another five-setter. You really like giving the crowd a show, huh?" you teased once, microphone in hand as he wiped sweat from his forehead.

Shelton grinned, shaking his head. "Look, I’m just trying to keep ticket sales up. If I finish in straights, what’s the fun in that?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Tell us, do you hold back on that power serve of yours sometimes—just to keep the game going?"

"I don’t know about all that," he replied smoothly, "But I will say, the longer I’m out here, the more entertainment value there is. I’m doing everyone else a favor."

"Selfless. A true man of the people." The crowd laughed, and so did you. “I can see why they like you.”

Ben nodded at you, moving to dap you up as the cameraman dipped the lens for the interview to wrap up. "See, you get it."

The moment was well loved, fans loving the ease of your exchanges. And that was nothing unusual—your interviews often made waves.

---

Your position often called for a sensitive touch, and your intuition meant you navigated that aspect better than most. You were always sure to respect the players’ boundaries.

When Jack Draper won his first top-ten match of the season, it hadn’t been pretty. He had barely scraped through in three sets, visibly struggling throughout, even throwing up courtside between games. It was impressive tennis, but it had been the kind of match that took everything out of both players, winner or not.

Networks had a certain, set agenda, and the players all knew of that obligation. And so some commentators might’ve been waiting, mic in hand—ready to pounce with questions about endurance, fitness, and whether he should’ve retired—without being mindful of the condition he was in. You’d offered Draper’s circumstance more tact and understanding than others would have.

You caught sight of him near the bench, after barely celebrating and stumbling his way to the net to shake hands with his opponent. He was still catching his breath as he toweled off and gathered his things, the sideline cameras were on him as your own crew quickly assembled in the middle of the court. You’d gently approached, mic cast behind your back to prevent any sound from being picked up, crouching slightly so he wouldn’t have to stop his movements to answer you. 

The exhaustion was evident in his features to all who watched, his skin pale beneath the sweat, and you kept your voice soft, careful. "Jack, hey—no pressure. Are you feeling up for the interview? All good if not, I can cover for you."

Jack blinked up at you, sluggish, like it took effort to focus. For a split second, you’d even wondered if you should’ve asked at all—maybe it was better to deflect the crowd and let him slip away. But then recognition clicked in his eyes, and for a moment you thought he might wave you off, but he moved his head just a fraction down in a nod.

With a small, grateful smile at his lips, he said. "Nah, I’m good. Just… maybe we keep it short?"

You nodded immediately. "Of course. I got you."

So you’d kept the interview brief and simple, unprobing. Your voice stayed even, the questions light and general.

"Jack, congratulations. That was an impressive win against an impressive opponent. What are your thoughts coming out of it?" You asked, keeping the question away from his state.

 "Yeah, tough one today, but looking forward to tomorrow." Jack exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Apologizes for the throw up, everyone.”

A soft chuckle rippled through the crowd.

You’d smiled, keeping it easy. "I won’t keep you long, but one thing’s for sure—you showed a lot of fight out there and we’re sure you will tomorrow as well. Anything more you’d like to say to the crowd, along with that?"

Jack turned toward the stands, where the crowd erupted into cheers just at the acknowledgment. "Yeah, just… thanks for sticking it out with me. You all carried me through."

You gave him a nod, and he backed out of the frame with a grateful look as he took your okay to head out. "Alright. Go get some rest, Jack. You’ve earned it."

---

Sometimes, you’d poke fun with the players—though you never crossed the line. And those interviews always showed the strength of your rapport with those on tour.

Carlos Alcaraz was truly sunshine personified. Always wearing that wide smile, he was friendly with everyone. And, with you, he was always outright charmed, knowing the interview would be memorable and fun.

After yet another dramatic comeback win, you stood across from him, shaking your head. "Carlos, you make my job so hard. I try to plan questions, but every time you pack the game with so many good shots I have a hard time choosing which one to talk about."

“Sorry.” He said, grinning and laughing up at the crowd. "You know, maybe I'll make it easy for you next time."

"Now, don’t do that. We love watching you fall into the splits and run all over the place." You both chuckled, and you continued with your questions. “Tell me, today was a spectacular match—now you're moving on to the finals—will you get a tattoo of the match date?”

“We’ll see,” Carlos’s smile had widened at that, if even possible. "If I win, maybe. Let’s see."

“What makes a day great enough to qualify for a tattoo of the date?”

“I always just try and play well, but if there’s something really special—then I like to remember that.” He shifted his weight back and forth between his feet, nodding up at the crowd as they cheered. “Especially with the great fan atmosphere, like here in the tournament.”

"Well Carlos, if you continue playing as well as you did today, I think you may run out of space pretty soon."

He’d grinned, pointing to the tiny text of his newest addition. "I get them small, still have lots of room. On the legs and all—"

You shook your head. "I say, skip the legs—go straight for the forehead."

He threw his head back at that, leaning up and away from the mic for a full-bellied laugh, and the crowd erupted with him. "We’ll see, we’ll see."

"Alright, Carlos! Thank you for your time. Great tennis tonight, we’ll see you again in two nights against Rune!" You easily finished, wrapping up the interview as he waved once more to the crowd.

---

The same often went with Andrey Rublev, a character loved by all. An intense firestorm on the court, but forever soft-spoken off it. He was one that could be reserved and bashful in interviews, even though he often couldn’t help his witty remarks—a large part of why he was so well liked. 

“Andrey, congratulations! You’re having a great year so far—making it to the finals again after just winning a title,” He nodded, taking off his headband as you began the interview. “I was wondering, do you have any new superstitions this season? Or any old ones that have evolved over time?"

“Superstitions… I don’t know...” Rublev exhaled, brushing a hand through his damp hair. His eyes landed on the headband he was spinning on a finger. "Maybe this one—the headband. When I was younger, in juniors or something, I didn't have this long hair, but now before the match I’m tying like this every time."

“Ah yes, I’ve had the privilege of seeing you primp and preen before a match.” You’d teased, laughing lightly. “It’s quite the routine.”

“Yes…” He smiled, looking down a little. “It’s not so easy.”

“I mean, yeah, with that head of hair—I believe it.” You grinned at him. “I know you always looked up to Rafa Nadal growing up, do you feel like it’s kind of an ode to him?”

“Yes, of course. He was always my favorite—I was… when I was little, I was always wearing the same kit as him. Same shorts and shirt, and headband—everything. But, yes, it takes some time in front of the mirror.”

“That it does—you diva.” You laughed, and those in the stands followed suit.

“No… Diva? What is this?” Rublev glanced off camera before looking back at you, perplexed but smiling still.

“Don’t worry about it… They know.” The crowd cheered again.

He shook his head at you, chuckling a little before he gestured to you in confusion at the crowd.

You continued on, still laughing to yourself. “Everyone, Andrey Rublev! Our finalist—thank you Andrey!”

With that, the sound of your mics cut out and the other commentators came back into the audio, but the camera stayed on you and Rublev—panning out a bit. The remainder of your teasing conversation could be seen, with you presumably explaining what you had meant by diva between laughs and him playfully swatting you away immediately after. 

It was a fan favorite moment, one that Rublev couldn’t seem to escape for the rest of the season. He was always sure to give you shit for it whenever he saw you around, but no one—including him—could deny that you always carried out the most entertaining interviews.

Though no interview was watched quite as closely as your ones with Jannik Sinner, however…

---

When it came to Jannik, the lens people would watch your interviews with became something else entirely.

The same reason people loved your interviews still held true—the way you got players to open up, the way you made even the most media-wary athletes feel at ease.

And Jannik wasn’t cold by any means, but he was careful. Composed. Someone who, in most press conferences and interviews, gave measured almost scripted answers, efficient and to the point. He was never rude—just reserved. He’d smile, be polite, but rarely let people in further than he had to.

And yet, every time it was you standing across from him, microphone in hand, his expression changed—softer, just barely perceptible. But people started to catch on… And when they did, they started to look for it as well.

A flicker of something lighter in his eyes, the way his usual, fidgety stance seemed to relax. If fans didn’t know him well, they might’ve missed it. But those who did could always tell that, even if he would never express it outright, he genuinely enjoyed talking to you.

---

One of the first times people noticed it was soon after your promotion, when you conducted one of your earlier on-court interviews.

It was after an iconic, comeback three-set win of Jannik’s. And something about the way he answered your questions—the way he looked at you—set the viewers abuzz. It was like the crowd had faded away for him. He still inserted his usual expressions of gratitude, but it seemed you and your questions were the center of his focus. 

"Jannik, long night for you. With quite an abrupt turnaround," you had started, a smile in your voice as he nodded at your words. "Was there ever a moment where you doubted that you could take back the match? You were down for the first half there."

“No—,” He blinked, a smile slowly growing on his face. "What do you think of me? I try not to doubt… Of course, it’s not so easy but…"

He grinned at you as he trailed off, and you jumped right back in. "Oh, so you always knew you could take the game back is what you’re saying?"

His eyes stayed on you, corners of his lips twitching up again. "No, but—it’s important to stay positive. You know… I just try and play well."

“You just try…” You scoffed and looked at the camera. “You know, I think on most people’s best and most positive days, they probably can't serve so many aces in a row…”

Jannik shrugged, smiling up at the crowd as the crowd laughed at his nonchalant reaction.

It wasn’t necessarily a funny answer, or even a funny question, but Jannik’s cheeky smile and your quiet laughs in response added another layer to the tone of the interview. The audience cheered at his demeanor, a rare display of tasteful gloating from one of the world's best players. 

That interview reemerged pretty consistently, you just brought out a different side of him. Not too many saw it then, but those who did were hooked.

---

The moment people most loved to replay went down after a late-afternoon match, the sun casting long shadows over the court as Jannik walked back on court for the interview, exhausted but victorious against his self-proclaimed rival. When he saw you waiting for him on the service, he didn’t just nod in acknowledgement and snap into his professional, media mode—his face visibly brightened, a slow smile tugging at his lips before he even reached you.

The smile stayed on his face, eyes fixed on you as you gave the cursory congratulations and eased the viewers into the interview while welcoming Jannik to the frame. "—and you had quite a few dives today, are you still in one piece?" You transitioned the introduction into the first question, microphone poised at his mouth after asking.

He nodded, eyes having never left you, but stayed quiet. His mouth opened as if starting to answer, but then he stopped and shook his head, hands on his hips. "... Sorry, can you repeat the question."

He pushed down protruding hairs under the brim of his cap with a sheepish smile as the audience laughed.

“Wow, zoning out already—that was only the first question Jannik.” You shook your head in teasing disapproval at the camera, and the corner of his mouth lifted to widen his smile at your reaction. “That might have been an answer to the question in and of itself—maybe you’re not in one piece… I asked about the dives you took during the match—any scrapes or scratches?”

“Ah, okay,” He nodded in understanding, catching up and smiling when people laughed once more. “No I—I’m okay. It is hard court, yes, but no scrapes so far.”

“Seems like Carlos has that effect on you, doesn’t he? You’re always diving after his balls—” You cut yourself off immediately, hand slapping to cover your mouth when you realized how that last sentence could have been interpreted.

You doubled over in laughter, unable to help yourself, and Jannik joined in when he pieced it together. It took you too long to recover, more time than was professional for sure, but the stadium was laughing along with you. Jannik watched as you tried again and again to compose yourself before you broke back into laughter each time, he chuckled at you while wagging a finger at the camera.

Then he set his palm on top of yours, taking your hand holding the mic to lift it to his mouth. “What kind of interview is this?”

The crowd went wild, pleased to see Jannik play into the humor of the situation. You wiped tears from your eyes and covered your face in embarrassment, his hand still over yours for longer than it needed to be. 

When he returned the mic, and your hand, you gave an exaggerated look of regret towards the camera, breaking the fourth wall in more ways than one. “So sorry if I violated any network guidelines with that one… Did not mean for the interview to take this turn…”

And then the production assistant behind the camera, also in tears from laughter, signaled that time was almost up. Jannik teasingly threw his hands in the air when he saw the count down, poking fun at the fact that you’d derailed the interview and eaten up the screen time.

You lifted the mic and continued, shaking your head at yourself once more while smiling. “Looks like we need to wrap this up… Jannik any final words?”

“Well this is also some of my first words…” He laughed as you mouthed something in response. Don’t remind me, you’d mimed. “But I want to thank everyone here for the good energy and Carlos for another great game… And, of course, thank you for finishing off this day with such a… interesting interview.”

He said the last bit towards you, not missing the opportunity to tease you further—and nobody missed that.

The interview had understandably blown up. It had all the makings of a viral moment. An accidental, suggestive line implicating both Carlos and Jannik was bound to spread like a wildfire. Adding Jannik’s funny reaction on top of that only fueled the fire. People enjoyed seeing the facade of his usual composure break, fans were quick to interact with those rare moments where he revealed more of his charm and humor. 

Though somehow, with all the traction the clip received, the discourse always seemed to land on you. Or rather, how he was with you. After getting past the comedic banter in the video, people started commenting on his behavior. On how he looked at you, how he seemed to miss the first question because he was admiring you. How he took your hand with no hesitation, and how you seemed unfazed by the touch. He was clearly comfortable with you—and you with him, judging by how naturally you took his teasing.

And so, anyone who wasn't already watching the two of you closely certainly started to after that.

---

It wasn’t just post-match interviews people watched. It was media days, press conferences, those brief moments of footage where your paths crossed in hallways.

Fans really started to notice the way his eyes would stay on you, taking just a second longer than necessary before answering the question. The way he always seemed to open up when it was you on the other side of the mic. 

Jannik wasn’t the type to talk much during an interview, he kept his answers concise, but with you, there was always something—an easy joke, a quick remark, sometimes he’d even ramble on in an answer. 

"Try to behave this one," he had joked when you were up to interview him after another game against Carlos, referencing that one, fateful slipup of yours a few months after its debut. You gave him a look, that line was sure to spread everywhere whether or not the rest of the interview was entertaining, and you both knew it. The people present in the stands were already whooping.

"I’ll try my best,” You smirked anyways. “I’ll try my best not to mention how Carlos gets you to fall for him.”

The crowd roared, and he shifted his jaw as he laughed with you. “That’s not how you said this the last time.”

“Well, I made many promises to many important people that I wouldn’t say anything like last time. Ever again.” You winked at the camera. “—Not on TV, at least.”

He inhaled a laugh, “Good. It’s for the best.”

"Okay… Let’s leave that behind us." You raised your brows at him as you offered a hand to shake in truce.

“Okay. Promise.” He took your hand, trying to look serious while fighting back a smile.

“Okay.” You nodded up at him, matching his expression even though your lips pursed with an incoming laugh, hands intertwined.

You both just stood like that for a beat, looking at each other with your hands clasped in a stilled handshake, laughter clearly threatening to take over. He was the first to break the silence.

“Are you going to ask a question, or what?” A smile ripped onto his face, and then your laugh just had to come out. Everyone in the stands had been in pieces since the interview’s start, but the laughter doubled at that.

“Yeah, yeah,” You shook your head. “What am I going to do with you—I’m going to be out of a job.”

“Ah, no. You’re too good for that.” His own laugh had faded into an amused smile. An affectionate one, even.

“Hear that?” You address the camera, deadpanning. “Glad we got that on tape.”

That interview continued on without any inappropriate hitches, though it stayed just as entertaining throughout. 

And it wasn’t just a one-off thing. The more you interviewed him, the more obvious it became—it was a pattern. And the common denominator was you.

Fans were relentless. They clipped every smirk, every subtle glance. Every moment where Jannik let himself react.

He’s always laughing when its her She’s the only one who gets him to act like this. i love how he forgets all his media training when he’s with her Jannik, blink twice if you’re in love There’s no way they’re not a thing. If theyre not, they should be. Like now.

---

The best part? The most implicating part? You never even tried to make those moments with him. It just… happened. It always happened.

Like the time you’d been interviewing another player on court—someone else entirely, an opponent he’d lost to. Jannik could be seen in the back of the frame, still packing up at his bench. You hadn’t given any sign of noticing him, there was no moment of acknowledgement, you were faced away from Jannik as you interviewed the winning player with your usual, unique questions and comfortable professionalism—but the viewers’ eyes were on Jannik in the distance more than the interview itself, because the camera had caught everything. 

It seemed the moment Jannik realized it was you speaking, that it was you on court, his head snapped to your direction. He was slower in gathering his things, looking back at you often. Even when signing things for fans on the sidelines, he’d turn his face to you every time you laughed. When he did finally walk out, his eyes stayed trained on you, turning his neck towards you until you simply had to leave line of sight. 

And, even after the loss, it seemed he had a slight smile playing on his lips when he left. The soft kind, the same one he always seemed to wear when you were around. 

Fans had slowed it down frame by frame, zooming in—and they saw it all.

---

The phenomenon quickly took on a life of its own. People had moved past just noticing, fan just straight up speculated after a while. Even other players and commentators were aware of the trope—it was everywhere online and it was hard to ignore the dynamic between you and him even in person.

It started small. A few viral clips, some curious tweets, the occasional comment under a post-match interview: He never laughs like that with anyone else. But that phase passed quickly. Then the compilation videos came in swarms soon after. The frame-by-frame breakdowns of every interview, every shared glance, every moment where Jannik seemed just a little too engaged, a little too interested.

"It’s the way he looks at her," Coco Guaff even said in a WTA YouTube video, the content being a montage of players’ talking about associations and relationships with umpires and broadcasters. You and Coco had an easy friendship, despite your role usually landing on the ATP side, so it only made sense that she dropped your name… 

But it just so happened that her mention of you very quickly devolved into propaganda supporting those fan speculations of Jannik’s relationship to you.

"I mean, that’s not normal." She continued, shrugging at the camera as she giggled to herself. “The proof is in the footage, I don’t know what to tell you.” 

And that wasn’t the only instance—Coco herself being notorious for backing the allegations.

Once, a post on a tennis podcast’s Instagram had gone doubly viral after she liked it. It was a screenshot of Jannik in mid-interview with you, visibly engaged, stars in his eyes. The text above the image read: Mans has never been happier in his life.

And the comments were rampant.

Need someone to look at me like that Guys, Coco liked?? You’d never know he just won a title, looks like the highlight of his day is just her Si vede che è cotto! Uh, heyy Coco

Another, a comparison of images—A photo of Jannik immediately after a match, visibly drained, side-by-side with another of him only minutes after, beaming down at you. Find someone who looks at you the way Jannik Sinner looks at his favorite commentator.

Forget clostebol, bros drug is just love Si vede che è cotto a puntino if they have no fans, im dead 

Even official tennis accounts and sports networks got in on it, subtly referencing it in posts and during match breakdowns and things of that sort. 

The ATP social team once posted a story of you two laughing behind the scenes on media day. And people immediately jumped on it, the screenshot spreading all over twitter.

Tennis Channel’s table of commentators once referenced you after discussing the tennis rankings and Jannik’s consistent performance.

“How does he do it?” One asked, after running through Jannik’s match statistics and win streak.

“I’m not sure, but I doubt he’d say.”

“We gotta get [Your Name] to ask, then I’m sure he’ll tell all.” Another chimed in.

Everyone at the table laughed, very obviously understanding the context. “It’s true, it’s true.”

And, of course, that clip was everywhere within minutes of it airing, as well.

...But the kick of it all was that neither of you ever seemed to deny the rumors—no matter how many times they were thrown at your face…

It wasn’t like anyone was subtle about it.

---

Once, Frances Tiafoe, never one to pass up the chance for a joke, had been sitting in the player locker lounge when Jannik walked in after a win. 

“The match was tough,” He said as he briefly looked up from his phone to clap Jannik’s hand in congratulations. Then Frances smiled to himself before tacking on a cheeky line for the room to hear. “I’m sure the extra motivation helped… Knowing you’d get your favorite interviewer after, and all that."

Frances immediately seized with laughter, cracking himself up, and others around chuckled with equal enjoyment.

Jannik only shook his head as he made his way to the stationary bikes, smiling at Tiafoe’s antics, but he was mostly unfazed. He didn’t bother to give a response—no denial, not even much overt amusement—just that calm, neutral reaction. Masterfully deflecting without a single word.

It was the response he always gave when people brought it up, behind closed doors or otherwise.

Like when John McEnroe playfully called Jannik out on camera during a post-match interview after a Grand Slams quarterfinals. When Jannik approached the court again after winning, waving at the stands, it was McEnroe waiting to ask questions, mic in hand. 

The crowd still listened and cheered throughout the interview, hanging on to all of Jannik’s words, but it was nothing compared to the reactions your interviews always prompted.

McEnroe decided to bring you up towards the end of his questions, dramatically sighing and shaking his head. "Alright, thanks for humoring me Jannik—Sorry it’s me today and not your favorite commentator."

The audience roared at your mention, but Jannik only exhaled a laugh, catching one of his ankles in his hands to stretch as he simply shook his head. 

And McEnroe took Jannik’s lack of response as an answer. "Won’t even deny it, huh?"

Jannik just smiled, eyes drifting off to his box, and McEnroe took the action as reason to continue. Looking towards the camera in exaggerated belief, he threw his hands up, “And now he’s looking away from me—Wow, I can’t even keep his attention.”

Jannik laughed at that, placing a friendly hand on McEnroe’s shoulder. “No, I just—I saw my team say something so I looked over.”

“Right, right.” McEnroe kept on with his lamenting, teasing at the point further. “I was only the World Number One for a bit, won 70 titles…”

“I think—I think we go back to the questions, maybe.” Jannik said jokingly and McEnroe let out one more incredulous laugh. 

“Okay, I’ll try… but I’m starting to doubt if I’m any good at that now…”

“I have no favorite.” Jannik finally offered, his voice faint as the mic was still pointed away from him.

“Too late, Jannik, it’s too late.” 

The moment was all in jest, and John was sure to relay the interaction back to you later that day, as if you hadn't already watched it unfold live. You only laughed in response, teasingly placating him but never touching on what he’d suggested in the interview. McEnroe was just one of many peers in the sports broadcasting world that would make little comments to you, and you never gave them much of anything.

It was harder when players called you out though—especially when they did it live, in front of thousands of people.

Fresh off a hard-fought win, Matteo was still slightly out of breath when you grinned at him for the interview. "Matteo, great tennis out there today! We’ve been seeing you play at the net a lot more since your return—more confident, more aggressive with those volleys—tell us about that."

"No, no, I think I've always felt comfortable at the net.” He shook his head immediately, ducking his head down to really look at you, teasing glint in his eyes. “Maybe you’re too young to know my earlier game… or maybe you’re getting me confused with someone else."

The crowd already latched on to the reference, a collective ooh passing through the stands, you tried your best to play dumb despite that. You went the first reason he offered,  "I mean I remember watching your games before I got on the job, but if I blocked out memories of volleys like today’s, then no one’s more sorry than I am."

Matteo smirked, looking out toward the crowd, not letting you change the subject or take the easy way out. "I know we’re both Italian, but come on."

You allowed a laugh, but were quick to move on, not lingering on Matteo’s implication very long.

The exchange had made the highlight reels, fans eating up both Matteo’s teasing and your barely-there reaction, and the way you had to abruptly ask the next question to avoid it from dragging on too long.

But the teasing, the compilations, the endless speculation—it was all fun, all harmless. Because as far as anyone knew, it was just a fan theory. Just playful banter and an easy chemistry that everyone got to bear witness to. And, if yours and Jannik’s response to all the teasing was anything to go by, it really was just baseless guess work—after all, neither of you had ever given concrete proof on any of it.

But most continued to entertain it anyways, because if it was true: it was only a matter of time before it came out…

---

The long-awaited proof came after an especially grueling match of Jannik’s.

The game had been absolutely brutal.

It was one of those that felt less like a tennis match and more like a battle of sheer will. Three and a half hours in the sweltering heat, the air thick and unmoving, turning every rally into a war of attrition. Jannik had fought through service games that stretched over ten minutes, through back-to-back tie-breaks where every point had felt like a match in itself. He had been pushed to his limits, his legs leaden, his body aching from the relentless pace. Every time it seemed like he had finally broken free, his opponent clawed back, forcing another hold, another deuce, another impossibly long rally. 

By the final set, even his renowned movements had lost their usual crispness, his footwork a fraction slower, his serves just a little less sharp. But he refused to let up.

So when he finally won—when the last point ended and his opponent’s shot sailed long—it took him a second to process it. It took a second for everyone watching, too.

He barely lifted his arms in victory, letting his head drop as he panted. The stadium erupted around him, the crowd on their feet, but it seemed that all he could think about was how his entire body felt like it had been wrung out. He made his way to the net, movements heavy but thoughtful in his handshake and hug as he offered a good game to the opponent that matched and elevated his level throughout the game. Then trudged toward his bench with a nod to the umpire, shoulders still rising and falling with every exhausted breath.

The play had tested endurance more than anything—nearly four hours under the blazing afternoon sun, and no easy points. He held his face into his towel for a long moment, and then flicked water from his bottle over his face and on the back of his neck, his usual expression one of raw exhaustion. 

He barely had enough left in him to toss a fist into the air when he made his way back onto the court, though the crowd had yet to cease their cheering. And then he all but stumbled his way over to you.

You. Waiting just off the service line, a steady presence in the chaos, a welcome face after the intense match.

And the familiarity of it, of you, cut through his exhaustion. Your expression was still pleasant, but it was different from the smile you usually had during interviews. There was something tight under your professional exterior—concern, maybe subtle, but unmistakable once anyone saw it. It was in the way your eyes flickered over him, assessing, before you even said a word.

And still, as he approached, his gaze softened—as it always did when his eyes landed on you. But his face was flushed from the heat, sweat dampening the curls at the nape of his neck, so as he stepped closer, you instinctively reached out, fingertips brushing against his arm before you pulled back.

Maybe people would pick up the small gesture later, but for now the stadium was still roaring, the energy crackling through the stands. You hadn’t moved to begin the interview yet, your crew still assembling beside you.

He gave you the slightest of nods, eyelids low and heavy. You held his eyes, raising a single brow, before giving the go-ahead to the production assistant. And then the mic was live, and you fell into interview mode.

Or you tried to, as best as you could.

"Jannik—what can I even say? That was a battle out there," you started. "I know you love tennis, but a part of you has to hate it at least a little right now. I mean, congratulations for sure, but are you regretting any life decisions?"

His head was down for most of your intro, chin tucked to his chest as he rolled out his ankles and looked at you through the brim of his cap. He smiled, despite himself—he could always count on you to keep the mood high.

“What do you mean? That was the most fun I’ve had in my life.” His voice was a little labored, but he managed to answer lightly.

“The scary part is, I believe you.” The crowd laughed. “I think we can all agree, watching that match was the most fun any tennis fan could have. Honestly.”

You had to raise your volume towards the end of your praise as the audience joined in to cheer in agreement. It really had been an incredible display of the sport.

The stands then erupted into a joint song, all chanting his name in unison. You dropped the mic as he stepped back to humbly receive the attention, and he looked up at the people while you looked up at him.

You held the mic back to him after the chants subsided, knowing his next move would be to thank the crowd. “Thank you everyone for supporting. It really is an incredible thing to play such tennis with this amazing crowd—it’s very special. Thank you!”

He waved up at everyone for a moment longer before returning his attention back to you. You were waiting patiently, watching him with a tender smile. 

“We should probably be grateful that even such a taxing match could only make you love tennis more.” You restarted, picking back up from your initial question. “I don’t know if the sport could take it if that wasn’t the case—”

“No, I will be honest—” Jannik interjected, and you tilted the mic to him so it could catch his voice properly. “I will be honest. Right now I feel good, tired, but good. But maybe tomorrow, when I wake up, my legs will be sore and this kind of things… and then I might hate tennis—just a little bit. I will still be happy, but…”

“Wow, thank you for the honesty.” You laughed at the confession. “But even then, you say hate but it’s probably just like a ‘minus one’, right?”

“That’s true, 'minus one' on a scale of ten.”

“So where do you usually rank tennis, when you're not terribly sore? On a scale of ten?”

“... At least 11, maybe higher.” He said grinning, proud of the answer.

“So, we’re right back where we started then.” You threw up your hands in fake exasperation. “I’m trying to make you look bad here, at least help me a little.”

He shrugged and continued to smile at you, and you shook your head before moving the interview along. “In two days, hopefully after recovering from any remaining soreness, you’ll face off with De Minaur. He’s been playing really well throughout the tournament, how do you plan to approach that?”

He nodded thoughtfully, as he shifted to stretch his legs. It seemed that his adrenaline had faded again, along with the banter and the peak of the crowd’s celebration. The tension of exhaustion furrowed his eyebrows once more as his smile lessened while he took a moment to deliberate an answer. 

“Alex and I are good friends, we practice together often and he’s a great player. I look forward to playing him in the finals. And hopefully, we can make a good match like today.”

You cast a glance at your production assistant, who signaled that you still had half the allotted session for the interview left, before nodding at Jannik’s answer. You decided to use up the bulk of the remaining time yourself, to help take the weight of Jannik a bit, and so you let your next question have a long and wordy lead up.

“You and Alex go way back. You kind of made your breakthrough a little after his, winning the ATP Next Gen tournament against him soon after he broached the top 20. You’ve kind of revolved near each other since then—you practice together often, like you mentioned—and it seems you and him often make big evolutions for your respective careers in and around the same tournaments.” You droned on, stalling an actual ask of any question, and you hoped no one took notice.

His face was strained, though his eyes were still on you—even though you hoped to cover your intent, it seemed Jannik had caught on to your attempt to alleviate the need for him to use any further brain power. You could tell he’d switched off from listening because of it, now focusing on his body. You continued to string together facts in the background, trying to catalog Jannik’s state as you did. 

Within the minute and half you spoke, it seemed he couldn’t help but fidget in all his fatigue. He flexed his right wrist once. And lifted one heel, and then the other. Rolling his shoulders back four times and then forward three times. He hit the heel of his palm against his quads, once, then once more. And his fingers twitched, rubbing absently at the sorest spots—digging into the tender muscle of his forearm, kneading at the base of his neck. 

Every shift in position came with the faintest grimace, something only you could catch in your proximity to him. In all your closeness to him.

Then Jannik parted his mouth every so slightly, a quiet exhale leaving him as he did. He shifted his jaw side to side in a slow, stiff motion, testing the tension held there before it clicked with a faint pop. And, words still on autopilot, you forgot yourself.

You kept speaking, though the spiel was probably well past erring on excessive, but you unconsciously reached a hand up. Your palm settled on the side of his face, index on the bone behind his ear, thumb on hinge of his jaw. Your fingers nestled under the hair at the nape of his neck as you gently rubbed your thumb back and forth. 

It was a simple, almost thoughtless action. An instinct. An undeniably intimate one. And then, before you could move to pull away, he caught your hand in his.

He lifted it ever so slightly, so your palm rested on his cheek, and he pressed his own hand into yours as he leaned his face into your touch. 

The gesture was effortless, organic, like he had done it a hundred times before. Like he needed it then.

He sighed and his eyes flickered closed. His thumb brushed against the back of your hand, and he didn’t let go immediately. And when he did open his eyes, his expression softened just slightly as he glanced at you, as if all his strain melted away with your warmth.  

The whole display happened within just a handful of seconds, but it was like the stadium fell still. And it might have just been the moment between you, but as you slipped your hand back to your side from underneath his, it really did feel like the entirety of the crowd was holding their breath.

You had trailed off somewhere in your monologue, and you couldn’t be sure of where, but you didn’t dare risk a look at the camera or towards your crew. The audience came alive again, murmurs rippling through the stands.

Jannik ran a hand over his face, taking only a beat to reset and set his attention back to the interview, looking as collected as ever. You tried to follow suit and compose yourself, finally asking the last question. "So, how do you plan to go into the match with Alex?"

You resisted smacking your hand to your face as soon as you said it. That might as well have been the exact question you’d asked earlier—it basically was—and it was far from the natural recovery you’d wanted. But Jannik, to his credit, took the redundant ask in stride and mixed up his response from his last one.

“Alex has kind of this defensive playing style that matches well with mine, and, of course, he’s fast and has the ability to return every ball. I’ve seen him grow and develop into an even better player in the past few years… so, it will be a very tough match—but, we’ll see.”

“Yes, we will!” You tried not to slump in relief when you caught the times-up signal in your periphery, and faked the best, most enthusiastic camera voice you could muster. “Thank you, Jannik, and good luck!”

You avoided his eyes, and the lens of the camera, and he smirked a little at that as he waved once more to the crowd before walking back to his bag. You allowed a single glance at him when he moved to the tunnel after signing some autographs, and he was already looking towards you. His smile was small and teasing, and you could see the mirth in his eyes even from your distance. You shook your head at his expression, just enough for him to see—he should’ve been more scared.

Because you both were in for it.

It was all out now.

---

The internet lost its mind.

For a year—two, even—everyone had speculated. The entirety of the tennis world.

They analyzed every glance, every subtle moment, every clipped interaction, convinced there was something there. And now? There was no denying it.

What you both pulled in that last interview couldn’t be faked, it couldn’t be rationalized. This wasn’t playful banter or a viral compilation of smirks and long-held eye contact. This was something neither of you could explain away. It was intrinsic. Reflexive intimacy, something was too practiced, too familiar.

It was proof.

Slow-motion replays were everywhere even before you ended the interview. The reception flooded all social media platforms.

Okay that wasn’t just chemistry. That was straight-up muscle memory. This whole time??? This WHOLE time?? I KNEW IT. I KNEW IT. Guys we called it

Tennis journalists tried to stay professional, but even the most formal accounts posted some variation of "well, this is interesting… "

And the fan posts were endless. Someone strung together a complete timeline of your relationship, tracing back all the way to when you started your role. Another person edited a fake wedding invite. 

And the players—the players…

When Jannik walked into the gym to cool down, it was like stepping into an ambush. All eyes were on him.

Everyone behind the scenes has stopped in their tracks to watch the legendary game of his that had just gone down. And so, everyone behind the scenes also witnessed your accidental reveal. The confirmation.

Every congratulations he received was immediately followed up with some sort of reference to it.

“Great game,” Alex De Minuar said. “...And, mate… the whole time?

"That game was insane, man…" Ben Shelton patted Jannik on the back as he passed, turning as he added. "And I guess now's as good a time as any… to hard launch I mean."

“No words, no words.” Carlos Alcaraz, from where he was stretching, shook his head up at Jannik in disbelief. “For that match, and for the reveal.”

Jannik chuckled a little with Carlos, shaking his head to himself as he moved deeper into the facility.

“I knew it so—” Coco just watched from a distance, her and Madi Keys stopping mid conversation when Jannik entered. "Like literally the whole time, I believed it."

"Niente da dire?" Nothing to say? Matteo drawled, clapping Jannik on the back with a smirk. "Neanche una spiegazioncine?" Not even a little explanation? 

And, around then, you’d made your way back to the commentary box, bracing yourself. You heard John McEnroe's voice from behind the door before you even entered. You couldn't help but cringe at the volume.

“Where is she?” The sound of a headset being placed down, with significant force. Laughter came from around him. “Where is she at?”

“Here we go.” You whispered to yourself.

---

Okay so, tell me, like for real, were you surprised? Did you know they were together all along, or did I get you? Because, I meant to get you, I did. Tell me where you realized, please please. It's okay if it wasn't a surpise, dw

Okay anyways, this was so fun. Too fun. Got carried away, in a lot of places, but I hope it's a fun read. Did not in fact edit, don't care, too long, didn't read—jk I'll go back in at some point soon. But if you're one of the lucky early few, read with one eye closed, and with the other mostly squinted.

Got almost all my favs in here, not nearly enough of the ladies, but my near-goat Ms. Coco has a cameo and what else really matters. What else really matters? And maybe, while reading, you were wondering: when is Jannik coming in? Does he ever? Well, I was wondering the same, okay...

K , kisses xx

[xoladybella]

The Red Herring: My Discourse on A

Imagine seeing how your "boyfriend" interacts with his talented, kind, brilliant, charismatic, absolutely gorgeous co-star/friend and have it live in perpetuity on the internet. Imagine having interviewers, fans, and GA alike speculating their relationship. Imagine seeing a video where his jaw literally drops after seeing her. Imagine a hug between them is going viral (one video had over 6 million views). Imagine that the SS Lukola needs its own fleet because more and more people are boarding the ship. Imagine being presumably holed up in a hotel while he is having the time of his life with his friends and coworkers and is like a moth to a flame with one of them in particular. Imagine him looking at her like she hung the moon.

You can't say that this is all acting or PR because the chemistry between L and N is undeniable. The trove of candid photos and videos show how organic their affection is for one another.

Personally, if that was my boyfriend, I would have ended things a long time ago to preserve some sense of self-worth. Heck, I would have probably had an aneurysm after the release of the Misdirected audiobook alone; nevermind everything else.

Nobody, I mean NOBODY, not even someone like Beyonce who oozes confidence (remember Becky with the good hair), can stomach all this. That is why I find it hard to believe that L and A are dating and that a young, 20-something year old nobody has the impenetrable self-esteem to condone all this. Even his ex, who surpasses A in maturity and is familiar with the industry and how it works, couldn't handle it.

I am not bashing L. He is widely known to be the kindest person in the world, and there is more than enough evidence to support this claim. His digital footprint shows what a sweet lover boy he was towards his previous girlfriends. But his dynamic with A is so strange and unusually cold. It is more believable that she is a red herring than his actual girlfriend. It would explain their odd recent appearances with all the stiffness and forced smiles, the convenient release of old photos, the panicked IG follow, etc. I can drone on and on.

The question is then why would she agree to all this? The answer is that she is simultaneously rewarded free publicity.

L is a stepping stone for her. Since this past summer, she went from a mediocre Tik-Tok dancer to modeling for several ad campaigns (Dower and Hall, bybarely and now Vauxhall).

In fact, it is possible that she is dating L's very close friend, JV. Others have suspected the same. It would make sense that L, being the nice person he is, begrudgingly drags his close friend's GF to certain events like BOSS and BAFTA afterparty to network.

If L and A are truly an item, the math simply does not add up. However, the math does add up if A is just a red herring to divert attention away from L and N relationship. I find this to be the most plausible explanation.

Absolutely love this theory. I love the thinking behind it. No notes!! 💗

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Marita Vlachou at HuffPost:

CBS on Thursday filed two motions to dismiss President Donald Trump’s amended complaint against the network over its editing of an interview with former Vice President Kamala Harris during the 2024 presidential election campaign. Paramount Global, CBS Broadcasting Inc., and CBS Interactive Inc., the three defendants in the case, argued that Trump’s lawsuit, which was amended last month, in part, to add Rep. Ronny Jackson (R-Texas) as a plaintiff, is “an affront to the First Amendment and is without basis in law or fact.” Trump and Jackson “seek to punish a news organization for constitutionally protected editorial judgments they do not like,” the defendants said. “They not only ask for $20 billion in damages but also seek an order directing how a news organization may exercise its editorial judgment in the future,” they added. “The First Amendment stands resolutely against these demands.” Trump’s legal action stems from two different versions the network released for Harris’ answer to a question about Israel during a “60 Minutes” interview broadcast in October. Trump has accused the network of election interference over what he described as deceptive editing of the show’s sit-down interview with Harris, an assertion that has been repeatedly disputed by CBS. “The answers that aired on each news show were simply excerpts of a single answer Vice President Harris gave to a single question, and taken together, viewers heard virtually all of Harris’ answer,” the CBS motion said. CBS has also released the full transcript and camera feeds of its interview with Harris following pressure from Brendan Carr, the new chair of the Federal Communications Commission under Trump.

CBS rightly calls Donald Trump’s frivolous lawsuit against the network “an affront to the 1st Amendment.”

See Also:

The Guardian: Paramount files to dismiss Trump’s ‘baseless’ $20bn 60 Minutes suit

[lanf1an]

DREAMS lando norris pt.2 When your childhood bestfriend Flo had convinced you to get the fashion design job at her brother's company Quadrant, it finally paid off when Louis Vuitton was announced as the new sponsor for F1.

pt.1 pt.3 pt.4 pt.5 pt.6 pt.7 wordcount: 1248

The Louis Vuitton event was everything it was supposed to be—elegant, high-profile, filled with models, designers, and A-list athletes. You had been to fashion events before, but this was different. The merging of fashion and motorsport brought a unique energy, an almost surreal overlap of two worlds you hadn’t expected to be a part of at the same time.

You kept yourself busy, moving between conversations with your colleagues at Louis Vuitton, small talk, strategic networking, and answering questions about the collection. Lando had been doing his own thing—flashing smiles for the cameras, entertaining sponsors, talking to reporters, and a rotation of beautiful women.

You didn’t interact much throughout the night. Still, you were aware of him, it was impossible not to be in the suit you styled him in. You knew you had done a good job.

Until you heard your name.

The interviewer was smiling, microphone angled toward Lando as cameras recorded. 

"Yeah, the partnership with Louis Vuitton is great. But not only that, this outfit is styled by my sister’s best friend, which makes it extra special," Lando said smoothly, the perfect PR-trained answer. "Means a lot to me to be working together—first at Quadrant and now here at Louis Vuitton."

You stilled.

It wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it. Like it was some full-circle, sentimental thing. Like he had ever said something like that to you before. As if you had actually personally worked together at Quadrant. It annoyed you, making your professional work sound like something personal and intimate, reserved for him, as if you hadn’t styled some of the other drivers with the same attention.

You turned away, ignoring the weird mix of irritation and something heavier sitting in your chest. You weren’t going to let it get to you.

And you hadn’t planned on saying anything.

But when the event was wrapping up and you were back at the hotel, by some cruel twist of fate, you ended up in the elevator together. Just the two of you, the hum of the lift filling the silence as the doors slid shut.

Lando leaned back against the mirrored wall, hands in his pockets, looking unbothered as ever. You had to say something. 

"What was that all about?" you asked, breaking the silence.

He glanced at you, feigning innocence. "What are you talking about?"

You gave him a look. "That perfect little PR answer."

He smirked slightly. "Thought you’d appreciate the shoutout."

You folded your arms, unimpressed. "You’ve never said anything like that to me before."

"Didn’t know you wanted me to, the media has given you enough attention." he shot back, tilting his head.

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. "Right, cause that’s all I care about."

Lando turned, arms folding over his chest. "What’s the problem? It was a nice answer."

"That’s not the point."

"Then what is?"

You didn’t have an immediate response, which only made his smirk widen.

The elevator doors slid open, and before you could walk out, his voice stopped you.

"Anyway," he drawled, walking towards the door. "Thanks for the nice outfit, it was great, should’ve asked you to style me sooner.’’ he stretched his arms above his head, yawning.  ‘’Can’t wait to take it off though. Looking good is exhausting, sweet dreams stylist" 

You rolled your eyes without a response, walking to your room annoyed that it had gotten to you.

-

The second night of the Louis Vuitton x F1 launch was in full swing, luxury and motorsport merging under glittering lights. You kept to your side of the event, mingling with the LV team and ensuring the drivers looked sharp.

You barely interacted with Lando after yesterday, just the occasional glance across the room to admire the suit you had picked out for him tonight.

Then, as if sensing your thoughts, your phone buzzed.

Lando: Where are you?

You frowned, typing back.

You: At the event, obviously.

Lando: Need you. Now.

Your heartbeat kicked up. You glanced around, trying to spot him, but he wasn’t in sight.

You: What? Why?

No response.

Then another buzz.

Lando: Toilets. Back hallway. Please.

Your stomach twisted. Without thinking too much, you slipped away from the crowd, making your way toward the hallway. You pushed open the door to the private restroom area, and there he was—leaning against the sink, looking both frustrated and amused.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, shutting the door behind you.

Lando exhaled sharply, tugging at the waistband of his pants. “Zipper broke.”

You stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“No, I’m making it up for fun,” he deadpanned. “Yes, I’m serious.”

Your eyes narrowed, stepping closer. “A Louis Vuitton zipper doesn’t just break.”

Lando hesitated. Just for a second.

It was quick, but you caught it. And suddenly, the situation felt… off.

You crossed your arms. “What exactly were you doing before this broke?”

Lando’s expression didn’t change, but you knew him well enough to catch the shift—the slight smirk, the too-casual way he leaned back.

“Are you implying something?” he asked, voice teasing.

You raised a brow. “I don’t know. Am I?”

His grin widened, but he didn’t answer.

Your stomach twisted, an irrational frustration bubbling up. Why did you care? It wasn’t your business what—or who—he was doing before this event. But the thought of him slipping away with someone, being careless enough to mess up his suit right before stepping out onto the carpet, annoyed you more than it should have.

“Forget it,” you muttered, stepping closer. “Just—hold still.”

Lando’s smirk lingered, but he obeyed, shifting just enough to give you better access.

You knelt down, fingers adjusting the fabric quickly. The problem itself wasn’t as bad as he made it sound—it was a minor snag, nothing you couldn’t handle. But the proximity was dangerous. Your fingers moved with careful precision, but it was impossible not to graze the warm skin beneath the waistband. You could feel the way Lando barely shifted, his breath steady but controlled, like he was making an effort not to react.

“Not bad at this, are you?” Lando murmured, voice lower than before.

You didn’t respond. You just focused, ignoring the way his muscles tensed when your fingers brushed against him.

Finally, with one last tug, you straightened. “There. Fixed.” 

Lando glanced down, then back up at you. Neither of you moved.

The air shifted.

And then, before you could think too hard about it, he leaned in.

His lips met yours, firm and insistent. It was messy, rushed, like neither of you had planned for this but couldn’t stop it either. You barely had time to react before you were kissing him back. His hand slid to the small of your back, pressing you into him like he was afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t hold on.

Then, as suddenly as it started, you pulled back.

Breathless.

Lando exhaled, eyes flickering over your face, searching. “Well,” he murmured. “That’s one way to handle a wardrobe malfunction.”

You stared at him, your own breath unsteady.

What the hell just happened?

WN: Hope you guys like it! Let me know!

tl: @freyathehuntress

[yzzart]

Tom Blyth being really fucking obsessed with actress!Reader, like constant physical contact, many kisses, maybe some moments on set? I love your writing 💖

"Oh, the lovebirds."

pairing: tom blyth x actress!reader.

summary: another compilation between you and tom? we have!

word count: 538!

notes: thank you for requesting this, anon and i hope you know that i love you and beg you to request more ideas!

"See them over there?" — Recording and switching the camera to frontal mode, Rachel pointed to you and Tom sitting under the tree, in the forest setting, together. — "Two lovebirds in love." — Tom's arm was around your shoulder, he was saying something that was, technically, impossible to identify, but then he left a long kiss on your forehead. — "Look!"

Rachel saved that video with a triumphant, happy smile on her face in an album she had made specifically for behind the scenes and it was the thousandth video of you and Tom that she had saved. — The first and biggest fan of both of you.

It wasn't difficult, and not at all complicated, to find behind-the-scenes photos of 'The ballad of songbirds and snakes'; so soon, it wasn't hard to see photos and videos of you and Tom together on set. — So much for you posting and Rachel too.

There were videos where he put Coriolanus' peacemaker helmet on you; your hands between his rough and cut hair, commenting on the possibility of him temporarily turning blonde;; a photo they took of him and him lying on the grass. — Several moments recorded, captured and saved with lots of love.

Also, the small and peculiar fact that you left written messages or just heart symbols on paper, sometimes torn up, for each other. — Hunter thought this was cute, and she even helped Tom put one of them in your trailer.

In every interview, to repeat, in every interview, Tom always tries to be in contact with you; mainly, the physical. — It doesn't matter if your chair is a little far from his, or if you or he are on the other side of the row. — Nothing can stop that man.

The cameras record, with attention and great focus, Tom holding your hand while you answered questions from the interviewer, who was also watching, and admiring the rings that were present on your fingers; and that some were gifts from him. — If Tom had the opportunity, he would never let go of you.

He contemplated carefully; distributing affection with his fingers on your hand and your palm, at certain moments, even tickling you and, sometimes during the interviews, a brief laugh accompanied your words.

And every time it happens, that passionate smile wrapped in such a strong emotion curves on Blyth's lips.

Well, it's not just the contacts and touches between your hands that are captured by cameras and the watchful eyes of fans; Tom's arm resting on the back of your chair, your leg touching his, your head on his shoulder and once again Tom's hand resting on your knee. — You looked like a pair of magnets.

Oh, and not to mention, a moment from an interview, another one from Vogue to be a little specific, in which Tom removes one of the rings that was on his fingers, the one that is always on his pinky, and decided to put it on your finger. — God, your fans went completely crazy on all social media, especially on Twitter. — It wasn't so perfect, in the right measure, but you didn't remove it in any way.

During the premieres, several photos with you kissing Tom's cheek and him kissing your hand, like a knight, spread across networks and even on the film's official accounts. — And Rachel commented on all of them. — And the photos that show Tom's hands on your waist, holding you so gently accompanied by such a sweet and intimate look and following you wherever you went became your favorites.

Flashes and snippets of interviews, videos of Tom's hand on your back, helping you with your long dress and him brushing some locks out of your face while you answered questions. — Even the interviewers smiled witnessing those acts.

And there's always a like from Tom Blyth on Instagram posts of these photos.

[all444glo]

𝙋𝙊𝙄𝙎𝙊𝙉

“Girl you do damage to me”

📷:You’re a former athlete turned rising sports journalist, and you met Anthony Edwards while covering the 2024–25 season. By Christmas, you were inseparable. But even love couldn’t protect you from the kind of betrayal that follows men with too many cameras and too much access.

⚠️ ||makeup sex, unprotected sex, light choking, hair pulling, possessive dialogue, breeding kink, stomach pressure, praise and degradation, mentions of cheating (past), toxic relationship dynamics, strong language blah blah blah

The bass of the after-party pulsed through my chest, but my body wasn’t moving. I sat at the bar in a ed hardy crop top and cheetah print skirt that clung to my thighs, sipping something pink and sweet, smiling politely when anyone came up to speak. My camera crew had already dipped. My manager texted me three times to “network,” but I’d stopped trying to force a good time two hours ago.

I should’ve been happy. This was the biggest moment of my career so far—an invite to cover the Western Conference Finals, interviews with players, press passes, private dinners, free fits, the whole dream package. I had footage to edit, a podcast to record, brand deals to lock in… but my head was stuck on him.

Anthony Edwards had played his ass off. Forty-two points in Game 5. As usual he pissed everybody off, but played so well you couldn’t tell him shit. Carried the Wolves, and then went straight-faced into the press conference like it was just another Tuesday. I watched him answer every question with that cocky smile and pretend like nothing phased him. Not even me, seated front row, scribbling notes like him and I didn’t have a devastating breakup weeks ago.

I'd ignored the blogs. The Twitter whispers. The random girl tagging herself at his crib with a caption that said “he love it here” Everyone warned me. “All athletes are the same .” “You know he’s a whore.”

But I didn’t care about any of that.

That was the problem. I looked past the chain and the smirk and the shit-talking and saw Anthony, the one who rubbed my feet while I edited videos on deadline and kissed my shoulder before he left for road trips. I thought he was different because he said he liked me for my brain before my ass. Stupid.

“Y/N.”

My eyes snapped up, of course he was here.

He had on a black tee, low gold chain, and sweatpants that screamed “I just threw this on.” Although He did look good—too good. Too tall. Too smug.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” he said, sliding next to me at the bar.

“I didn’t come for you,” I replied instantly.

He smirked. “Didn’t say you did.”

I sipped my drink and didn’t look at him.

“You could at least say congrats.”

“Congrats,” I muttered sarcastically, glancing at his lips, then away. “You played great. Amazing, actually. MVP-worthy.”

He leaned on his elbows, his voice low. “That pride shit is gon be the death of you, but let me not talk to you crazy. I know how you get.”

I turned to him. “You still mad I said you weren’t media trained on my podcast?”

He laughed. “You still mad I said being an influencer ain’t a real job?”

I tilted my head. “It’s funny. I actually work for a living. You just bounce a ball and cheat.”

That made his jaw tick.

“You still believe that bullshit?”

“She posted you in her bed, Anthony.”

He scoffed. “After you ghosted me for a week and went to that Spotify summit with your lil media friends.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault you couldn’t keep your dick to yourself?”

He leaned in closer, breath warm against my cheek. “You act like you ain’t miss it.”

I scrunched my nose up at him, looking him up and down. His self prostitution always disgusted me. Anthony probably thought his dick had more value than his actual ability to play basketball. I put a few bills on the counter and walked out, needing to get away from the tension in the club.

Outside the club, the cool air hit me like a slap. I was already calling my Uber when he followed me out.

“I’m not letting this be the last time we talk,” he said.

I didn’t even turn around. “You already did that when you let someone else fuck you.”

He sighed. “I know I messed up, you keep punishing me instead of moving forward”

“I’m moving forward, by moving on Anthony“

He stepped in front of me. “Y/N—”

“What?”

“I miss you. And I ain’t gon’ lie like I don’t still think about you every damn day.”

“You think I give a fuck about you missing me?”

“I’m saying I want to fix this.”

I laughed. “With your dick? With your money? With your petty insults? With what Ant?”

I felt my eyes get heavy. I was tearing up outside of one of the biggest events in my career field, how embarrassing? “You could’ve just left me alone, I really don’t understand—”

He ran a hand over his face. “I ain’t come here to fight.”

“I don’t care what you came here to do, I don’t want you here in general”

That one hit.

He went quiet for a moment, staring at me like I’d slipped through his fingers.

“I ain’t never love nobody like I loved you,” he finally said.

I blinked back the sting in my eyes. “And I ain’t never hate nobody like I hate you.”

My Uber pulled up, and I turned to leave.

“Y/N,” he called after me.

I paused. Only a little.

“Let me come up. Just to talk.”

I exhaled, throat tight. “You get five minutes.”

I unlocked the door to my room and tossed my stuff to the side. I didn’t even take off my shoes before I turned around.

“You cheated. I trusted you.”

He stepped forward. “You ain’t never really trusted me.”

“You made me feel like I could have! You made me feel safe—then you let the internet treat me like a clown.”

“I defended you—”

“Where? In private? Quietly? While you let people say I was just some IG bitch who got lucky?”

He sighed, shaking his head. “I was tryna protect you.”

“Don’t flip it,” I snapped. “You let the media drag my name, let people call me a clout chaser while you were out here smiling in post-game interviews.”

He crossed his arms. “Y/N Please. Let’s not act like Ian make yo name jump. You were just doing youtube relationship recaps showing all 32 until we—”

“Wow.” My chest hollowed. “That’s sick.”

He shrugged. “Tell me I’m lying.”

“I have a whole master’s degree, Anthony. A real one. Not honorary. Not gifted. I did the work—publications, bylines, panel talks—before you ever followed me. Don’t ever try me like I’m some groupie bitch you elevated.”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Say it again,” I challenged. “Say you made me. I dare you.”

He stepped closer, jaw tight. “I ain’t mean it like that.”

“No—you did. And you know what? That’s what hurts the most. Not the cheating, not the girls in your phone. It’s that deep down, you really believe I need you to be something.”

He didn’t say anything. His breathing was heavy. So was mine.

“You really think after all this I don’t care?”

“I think you care about yourself, and you wanna keep me around—“

“I still read every damn article you publish. I know when you’re faking a smile on camera. I saw that whole Pour Minds interview—you looked sad as hell even while smiling with your favorite people.”

I looked up at him, stunned, silent.

“You think you slick, Y/N? I love you—even when you try so hard to make the fucking media think I don’t .”

My chest heaved. “I hate you.”

He leaned down, his lips a breath from mine. “Then why are you still letting me stand here?”

I kissed him first.

Harsh. Angrily. Like I hated his guts but couldn’t keep my hands off of him.

He caught my face in his hands and kissed me back like he missed the taste of my mouth. Like he'd been starving. His hands roamed my waist, my thighs, gripping and releasing like he didn’t know where to hold on.

He spun me around, pressing me against the door, tongue licking into my mouth like he needed to silence everything we hadn’t said.

“You look so fucking good,” he whispered, teeth grazing my neck. “You wylin for what, knowing damn well you coming home .”

“You’re still not forgiven,” I breathed.

“I know.” His hands slid under my skirt, gripping my ass fingers grazing the growing wetness in my underwear. “But that pussy forgave me”

I moaned as he lifted me, carrying me to the bed, laying me down like I was still a doll he was scared to break. He stripped me slow, kissing every inch of skin he uncovered, whispering variations of , “You still mine” “I Love you.” “You so pretty”

“Open ,” he demanded. I hesitated just to spite him, but he didn’t flinch. “Don’t make me ask again.”

I giggled lightly and spread my legs.

The first lick was soft. Gentle. A tease.

But by the third? He was eating me like he’d gone starving since the last time. Hands gripping my thighs, tongue deep and sloppy and deliberate. What Anthony lacked in overall decorum, he made up for in the bedroom.

“Mmmm,” I gasped.

“You still don’t want me?,” he said, rising to kiss me, my taste lingering on his lips. “You still hate me?”

I nodded furiously, only to be grabbed by Anthony suddenly. He had that same smirk on his face, such a prideful man. He loved when he had a point to prove.

He flipped me over, ass up, face down, the way he knew made me melt and rage at the same time.

“You mad, huh?” he muttered as he slid in, slow and thick, my breath hitching with every inch. “Mad as fuck I still feel this good.”

“Ooo you get on my nerves.” I teased

“And you love it.” His hand gripped my throat from behind, bending my back toward him like a bow. “This pussy made for me. She don’t want nobody else.”

He pushed deep and stayed there, grinding into me slow. “Tell me it’s not mine.”

I couldn’t—I wouldn’t

“Go ahead tell me Y/N.”

“You ain’t shit,” I whispered.

“But It’s mine, ain’t it?” he whispered back, voice raw.

His hand slid down my stomach, pressing firm. “You feel that?” he muttered. “That’s me. Deep in this shit. Where I belong.”

He leaned down to my ear, breath warm.

“Finna get sixty acres with you. Our own land. Compound. Goats and shit. You barefoot in our garden pregnant with my fifth.”

“Stop! I told you bout that shit!—,” I hissed, knowing his intentions.

“Hush.” His fingers forcing their way into my mouth, I sucked them on instinct.

Lord we knew each other so well.

He started snapping his hips harder, meaner, but still with that sick, rhythmic control. Every thrust a punctuation mark. I met him just as hard, matching it out of spite, out of need, out of a love i’d never say out loud.

He came in me with a growl, chest pressed to my back, still whispering filth and fantasies.

Afterward, he collapsed beside me, both of us catching our breath, the room silent except for the faint hum of the city.

I turned my back to him. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

He pulled me close anyway, hand sliding up my thigh. “Yeah, yeah you still ain’t told me to leave.”

“Shut up.”

“Still mad?”

“I will always be mad.”

He kissed the side of my neck. “And I’mma always love you.”

I didn’t answer. But I didn’t move either.

I knew Anthony loved me, he always showed it but I knew I couldn’t trust him. But lord knows I could try.

I reached back, grabbed his hand, and pressed it to my belly.

“Sixty acres?”

“Minimum,” he whispered.

[saywhat-politics]

A right-wing conspiracy theory falsely claimed media outlets took millions from USAID this week, and President Donald Trump tried to shoehorn CBS into the baseless narrative.

President Donald Trump called for CBS News program 60 Minutesto be “immediately terminated” and its network shut down Thursday, as he escalated campaign threats to punish media outlets that don’t offer coverage to his liking.

He also tried to shoehorn the network into an online rightwing conspiracy theory that falsely claimed media outlets took millions in government kickbacks.

In a post on Truth Social, Trump reiterated his claim that 60 Minutes committed “election interference” last year by advantageously editing an interview with his then-Democratic opponent, former Vice President Kamala Harris.

“CBS and 60 Minutes defrauded the public by doing something which has never, to this extent, been seen before,” Trump fumed Thursday. “They 100% removed Kamala’s horrible election changing answers to questions, and replaced them with completely different, and far better, answers, taken from another part of the interview.”

Transcripts released by CBS Wednesday discredited his claim, showing the network’s flagship newsmagazine made routine edits to the Harris interview for time and clarity.

[alltimecharlo]

Me frothing at the mouth: MoRe! MORE!! Honestly love you and the work you’re doing. Honestly you are so right about how no one writes enough Omega Will x Alpha Mack fics. Humbly requesting something like that. Maybe them doing media and answering questions about each other after they have officially mated? Idk you choose.

thank you!!! 🥹🩵 i love your idea about a post-bond media interview hehe — fic under the cut!!

Mack’s been through a lot of media days. He’s done early-morning promos, charity shoots, feature interviews with sports networks where they make you wear suits and talk about your “journey.” He’s good at it. Quiet, polite, focused.

But this is the first time he’s done one with Will since they mated.

And he’s not okay.

Will is perched on the stool next to him, bouncing one leg and grinning at the small group of Sharks media staffers behind the camera. He’s wearing Mack’s chain, his scent is everywhere, and he’s clearly feeling himself.

“Alright,” one of the staffers says. “Let’s start with some basic questions. Just say the first name that comes to mind. Ready?”

Will leans forward. “Ready.”

Mack nods, already nervous.

“Who’s more likely to wake up early?”

“Mack,” Will says immediately, poking him in the arm. “He’s like a golden retriever. Up at dawn. Looks personally offended when I sleep in.”

“You fall back asleep after breakfast,” Mack mutters, nudging him back.

“Yeah, because you wear me out.”

Mack freezes. The room laughs.

Will just looks pleased with himself. “What? We work out together.”

The staffer clears her throat. “Okay, uh—who’s the better cook?”

Will points at Mack again. “No contest.”

Mack shrugs. “I like it.”

“He meal-preps for both of us. Labels my tupperware. He made banana bread for my mom last week.”

“She said she liked it.”

“She asked if he could marry me again, just to be sure.”

Will’s teasing, but his voice softens near the end, and Mack can’t help the way his chest tightens. His omega always says stuff like that—offhand and bold and proud—and it never stops wrecking him.

“Alright,” the staffer says, smiling. “Who’s the clingy one?”

Will raises his hand. “It’s me. I’m the problem. I would like to be held at all times.”

Mack grins, eyes still on him. “That’s not a problem.”

Will glances at him, a flicker of something softer passing between them.

The staffer flips to the next card, a little more cautious now. “Uh, okay. What’s your favorite thing about your bondmate?”

Mack opens his mouth—and then immediately closes it again.

Will watches him. Doesn’t interrupt. Just waits.

Mack exhales slowly. “He’s…” He shakes his head. “He’s the bravest person I’ve ever met. Not just on the ice—like, yeah, he’ll throw himself into a corner with a guy twice his size and chirp him the whole time—but more than that.”

Will’s teasing grin fades, his expression going still and open.

Mack goes on, voice quieter now. “He never hides who he is. Not once. He walks into a room like everyone should be lucky to know him. And he’s funny, and smart, and a pain in the ass, but he makes me feel like I’m more than just a hockey player. He makes me feel like I’m wanted.”

Will stares at him. Breathes in, slow and deep.

“Mack,” he says softly. “…you really like me a lot, huh?”

The whole room breaks into laughter. Even Mack has to duck his head, laughing with them.

Will leans over, grinning, and touches their shoulders together. “It was very sweet. You’re gonna get laid for that one.”

“Will,” Mack groans, face red.

“I mean, I was gonna jump you anyway, but now it’s confirmed.”

“I hope we cut these.”

“Oh, we’re not cutting anything,” Will says brightly.

“Alright,” the media girl says, laughing. “One last one: how did you know he was the one?”

Will turns serious faster than Mack expects.

“I didn’t,” he says. “Not all at once. I just—every time I looked at him, I felt steadier. Like I could handle anything, as long as he was there.”

Mack’s throat goes tight.

“And I’m annoying,” Will adds cheerfully. “So if he didn’t run away in the first month, I figured it was meant to be.”

Mack laughs again, a little hoarse. “I was never gonna run.”

Will looks at him, eyes bright. “I know.”

They sit in silence for a second, the air thick with the comfort of being known, of being chosen.

“Okay,” the staffer says. “That’s everything. We’re done—thank you guys so much.”

Will leans back, stretching his arms overhead. “Can we get smoothies on the way home?”

“Yeah,” Mack says automatically.

Will hops up from his stool and walks past the camera crew, ruffling Mack’s hair on the way. “I’m gonna drive. You’re in a bond-haze.”

“I am not.”

Will snorts. “You said I was brave. You’re wrecked.”

He walks out, smug and glowing.

Mack stares after him, heart pounding, scent heavy with mine.

He is, in fact, wrecked.

But he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

♡

[xoxorory]

Final Lap !

POV: FemJournalist!Reader Pairing: F1 Driver!Percy Jackson x Journalist!Fem Reader Genre: Humor | Fluff | Romance | Tension | Slow Burn | Flirting | Suggestive Comments Word Count: ~3000 words Tag list: @simpingmyassoff , @shootingstargirl2001,@yintous (if you want to be added,comment below! !) Warning:English isn't my first lenguage,enjoy ! ! !

I. On the Starting Grid

Interviewing Percy Jackson was like trying to stay calm while a Formula 1 car sped past you at 300 km/h.

Inevitably, you'd get distracted.

Because Percy wasn’t just a talented driver—he also had that carefree boyish smile that made any professional question feel absurd.

And you, as a sports journalist, had to stay professional.

“Well, Percy, it’s been a pretty intense season so far…” you begin, holding the mic firmly, ignoring how his green eyes lock onto yours with a disarming intensity.

He tilts his head with that ever-confident expression.

“Intense in what sense? Competitive, or the part where I almost died in turn 3 last week?”

You’re usually good at keeping your cool during interviews, but Percy Jackson tests your limits every time.

“I’d say both.” You smile, trying not to play into his game.

“Ah, then yeah. Pretty intense.”

The mechanics and other reporters around him are used to his humor, but you notice something else in his tone. Something playful. Like he’s more interested in your reaction than in the question itself.

“Now that we’re halfway through the season,” you continue, regaining control, “a lot of people are wondering if you plan to renew with your team next year.”

Percy leans his forearms on the pit wall and gives you a slow smile, like he knows something you don’t.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’ll interview me again soon.”

The cameras are still rolling. His mechanics exchange glances. You feel a sudden heat creep up your face.

“Percy…”

He shrugs, unbothered.

“What? It’s a serious question.”

Your producer signals you to keep going, and you force yourself to get it together.

Percy Jackson was a problem.

One with a helmet, a Formula 1 car, and an impressive talent for getting inside your head.

II. Yellow Flag

The problem with Percy Jackson was that he didn’t know when to stop flirting.

From the first time you interviewed him, it became a kind of running joke in the paddock. His answers always included some offhand comment directed at you, and his teammates—pretty much everyone in the paddock—had caught on.

“So, has he proposed yet, or is he still pretending he only wants interviews?” Annabeth Chase, a reporter from a rival network, asks while flipping through her notes.

You sigh.

“Don’t start.”

Annabeth raises an eyebrow.

“Why not? It’s fun watching him fail at flirting.”

You won’t say it out loud, but you don’t think he’s failing all that much.

Especially lately, every time Percy looks at you, there’s an annoying flutter in your stomach.

Annoying… and very, very dangerous.

III. DRS Zone

The next time you interview Percy, it’s after a chaotic race where he finished second. He’s drenched in sweat, hair tousled, and his race suit is unzipped halfway, revealing the top of his fireproof undershirt.

And you… well, you try to stay composed.

“Percy, after that nail-biting finish, do you think there’s anything you could’ve done differently to win?”

He runs a hand through his hair, never taking his eyes off you.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. I should’ve made a bet with you before the race.”

You blink.

“Excuse me?”

Percy grins, clearly enjoying your confusion.

“Yeah, something like: ‘If I make the podium, you owe me dinner.’”

The crowd around you reacts with laughter and murmurs.

You try to come up with something professional to say, but Percy’s already won.

“I think that would violate journalism’s impartiality rules…” you finally say, knowing full well it’s a weak excuse.

Percy doesn’t flinch.

“Then let’s call it a ‘work meeting.’”

Mechanics and journalists around you laugh, and you know this moment will hit social media before you even process it.

Percy Jackson was a problem.

And worst of all, you were starting not to want a solution.

IV. Final Lap

The season’s nearly over. Percy is fighting for the championship.

And you… well, you’re still in denial.

Until Annabeth shows you a video on Twitter.

It’s a clip of Percy, just before a race, when a reporter asks if he has a lucky charm.

“I don’t carry anything special,” he replies. “Although…” He pauses for a second and smiles. “Lately I seem to do well when a certain journalist is on the grid.”

The comments are full of theories and speculation.

And you know Percy Jackson is playing with fire.

Or with you.

Or both.

That night, when you check your phone, there’s a new message.

Percy Jackson: So? Have you thought about the dinner?

You close your eyes and sigh.

Percy Jackson was definitely a problem.

But maybe…

Just maybe…

He was the kind of problem you didn’t want to escape from.

Do y'all want a second part of it? I was thinking about it but idk honestly LOL