#that seems to be responding to the main title

[lu-is-not-ok]

Very normal about the literal translation of Canto 8's title and the subtitle text on the teaser image from the stream.

[neferaskingdom]

♡ Vegas Baby | MV1

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: After winning his fourth world championship, Max Verstappen stuns the world with a live radio proposal.

A/N: This was inspired by this post by @altxanna idea so good it made me get over my writer's block and write this 4.2k monstrosity.

MAX VERSTAPPEN MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

Max Verstappen crossed the finish line in fifth place, but that didn’t matter. The entire world was fixated on the fact that he had just won his fourth World Championship.

“AND MAX VERSTAPPEN DOES IT AGAIN! FOUR WORLD TITLES!” David Croft shouted, his voice teetering on the edge of hysteria. The Las Vegas skyline lit up like a fireworks display on overdrive, the crowd roaring in approval.

“Forget where he finished—he’s a four-time world champion!” Martin Brundle yelled, equally excited. “This is history!”

Max, however, barely seemed to notice he’d crossed the line in fifth. He was just… Max. Calm. Collected. His voice came through the radio, steady as always, but with a hint of amusement.

“Thanks, guys. It’s been an incredible season. I’m so proud of the team. Huge thanks to GP, Christian, everyone.”

“You’ve done it, Max! Four-time champion, man!” GP screamed, clearly unable to keep the excitement in. “This is massive, mate! You’ve earned this!”

“Yeah, I know,” Max said, his voice deadpan. “But listen, there’s one more thing.”

The radio went quiet for a second.

“Uh… What’s that, Max?” GP asked, his tone suddenly cautious.

Max didn’t respond right away. Then, he casually dropped the bomb.

“Y/n, a bet’s a bet. We’re getting married tonight.”

“WHAT?!” GP exploded. “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST SAY?”

Max’s tone didn’t change. “We’re getting married. Vegas chapel. Tonight.”

The entire Red Bull garage froze. Even the other engineers looked around in total confusion.

Max continued, his voice as if he were discussing the weather. “It’s been planned. I won the fourth title, she agreed to the bet, so… wedding time.”

GP sputtered. “Max, you—WHAT? No, no, no. You can’t just say that on the radio! You can’t just—”

“I’m doing it,” Max said, already tired of the conversation. “It’s happening. Vegas. Tonight.”

The radio was dead silent for a long moment, then GP finally spoke, his voice laced with a mixture of disbelief and dread. “Max, I—What in the world did I just hear? Are you seriously making your wedding announcement over the team radio?”

“Of course, I’m serious,” Max replied. “She said if I won my fourth title in Vegas, I could pick the wedding date. So, I picked tonight.”

“Max, you can’t—you—what the hell is wrong with you?!” GP spluttered.

Back in the commentary booth, David Croft could barely hold it together. “Did Max Verstappen just announce his wedding on live radio after winning his fourth world championship? Is that what I just heard?!”

“I think that’s exactly what you heard, Crofty,” Martin Brundle said, voice dripping with astonishment. “This is pure, unfiltered Verstappen.”

David Crofty just stared at the screen, blinking in disbelief. “Honestly, I can’t even process this. We’ve seen some wild moments in F1, but this... this might just take the cake.”

“Yeah,” Brundle said with a chuckle. “You can’t script this stuff. Not even in Vegas.”

Meanwhile, in Red Bull’s hospitality area, Y/n was standing stock-still, her eyes wide as she stared at the screen. The radio call still blaring in her ears.

“Did—did he just announce our wedding? Like… right now?!” she hissed, her hand gripping the counter in disbelief.

A Red Bull mechanic standing nearby looked just as stunned. “Uh, I think he did, yeah.”

“He’s lost it,” one engineer muttered under his breath, his face pale.

“I don’t even know what’s happening anymore,” another whispered.

The others weren’t any better off, most of them looking like they might faint. A PR rep came over, trying to maintain professionalism but clearly in shock. “Y/n, um… Max just… did he just announce your wedding?”

“Don’t look at me,” Y/n groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I can’t even… He’s the worst.”

“Vegas, baby!” another joked, only to get smacked in the arm by Y/n as she stormed past.

Back on the track, Max, utterly relaxed, parked his car in parc fermé and stepped out, throwing his helmet in the air before catching it like it was no big deal.

“So, yeah,” Max said, grinning at the cameras. “Got my fourth title, and now I get to marry my girl. Vegas chapel, let’s go!”

The reporters and photographers surrounding him stared at him in utter confusion.

“Wait, what? You’re—what?!” one reporter stammered.

Max smirked. “Yep, Vegas. I won, she lost, and now we’re getting married.”

He tossed a thumbs-up to the camera as if it were a completely normal thing to say.

“Max,” one reporter finally managed, “you’re serious about this, right? You’re really getting married in Vegas?”

Max’s grin widened. “I’m serious. A bet’s a bet. No turning back.”

Back in the Red Bull garage, chaos had officially set in. Christian Horner, who had been pacing for the last five minutes, finally stopped and glared at a nearby mechanic. “What am I supposed to do with this now?!”

“I don’t know, Christian,” the mechanic said, holding up his hands in defeat. “Maybe we start picking out flowers?”

“Someone get me a drink,” Christian muttered, walking off, leaving a sea of confusion behind him.

Y/n stormed through the paddock like a woman possessed, her face a mix of disbelief, panic, and barely contained rage.

She spotted Max leaning casually against a barrier in parc fermé, looking like he had no care in the world—despite having just announced their impending Vegas wedding to the entire world. He was surrounded by Lewis, Fernando, George, and Carlos, who were all still there congratulating him and clearly trying to comprehend what had just happened.

“MAX!” Y/n screeched as she closed the distance.

Max turned, his smug grin stretching even wider. “Oh, there she is! The future Mrs. Verstappen. Took you long enough.”

Y/n planted herself directly in front of him, glaring. “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

Max blinked, his expression far too innocent. “What? I kept my promise.”

“Your promise?” Y/n echoed, incredulous. “You hijacked the championship celebration to announce a fake wedding! On LIVE TELEVISION!”

“It’s not fake,” Max said matter-of-factly. “A bet is a bet.”

Carlos, standing nearby, raised an eyebrow. “Wait, wait, wait. You bet your wedding on the championship?”

“Of course,” Max said with a shrug, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m a man of my word.”

George choked on air. “You’re a menace.”

“Exactly,” Y/n said, throwing her hands in the air. “Max, this is insane! You can’t just—”

“Relax, schatje,” Max interrupted, his tone annoyingly casual. “It’s Vegas. This is what people do here.”

“Not normal people!” Y/n snapped.

Lewis, still dabbing at his face with a towel, gave a bewildered laugh. “I’m sorry, are we actually talking about a real wedding right now?”

“Yes,” Max said confidently. “Tonight.”

“No,” Y/n shot back.

“Yes.”

“MAX!”

“Yes, Y/n,” Max said, leaning forward slightly. “We are getting married tonight, and that’s final.”

“Final?!” she spluttered. “How is this final? There’s no plan, no venue, no—”

“Vegas has plenty of chapels,” Max interrupted smoothly.

“I don’t have a dress!”

“You’ll look great in anything,” Max countered.

Y/n groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t even have someone to walk me down the aisle!”

Max tilted his head, clearly unbothered. “Oh, that’s easy.” He turned to his left, where Lewis stood mid-sip from his water bottle. “Lewis! Can you walk Y/n down the aisle tonight?”

Lewis froze, the bottle halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“Can you walk her down the aisle?” Max repeated, as if this were a completely reasonable request.

“I—” Lewis blinked, looking between Max and Y/n. “Uh… sure?”

“What?! No!” Y/n shouted.

“Why me?” Lewis asked, baffled.

Max shrugged. “You’re a world champion. She deserves someone of high status.”

Before Y/n could combust, Fernando Alonso stepped forward, a sly grin on his face. “Hold on,” he said, raising a hand. “If anyone is walking her down the aisle, it should be me. I’m the most appropriate for the role.”

Lewis turned to him, visibly confused. “How do you figure that?”

Fernando gave a dramatic shrug. “Experience. I’m wiser, more distinguished. A father figure, if you will.”

Y/n groaned, “Oh my God, Fernando—”

Lewis snorted. “Father figure? Please. More like grandfather figure.”

The group exploded into laughter. George doubled over, wheezing, while Carlos clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his own cackles.

“You wound me, Hamilton,” Fernando said, his tone mock-offended.

“Yeah, but I’m not wrong,” Lewis quipped, smirking.

“This is not happening,” Y/n muttered, covering her face with her hands.

Max leaned closer to her, his grin pure mischief. “See? Problem solved. You have two excellent candidates to walk you down the aisle.”

“This is NOT solved!” Y/n screeched.

George finally spoke up, still chuckling. “You know, for the record, this is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen”

“Agreed,” Carlos said, shaking his head with a grin. “But I can’t look away.”

Max clapped his hands together. “Alright, then. We’re all set! Lewis or Fernando—it’s Y/n’s choice.”

“I CHOOSE NEITHER!” she yelled, clearly on the verge of a breakdown.

Max leaned back, entirely unfazed. “Suit yourself. But one way or another, schatje, we’re getting married tonight.”

Y/n turned to the other drivers, her eyes pleading. “Can someone PLEASE talk some sense into him?”

Lewis shrugged. “I don’t know, Y/n. He seems pretty set on it. You might just have to roll with it.”

Fernando smirked. “And let me know when you decide. I’ll be practicing my ‘giving away the bride’ speech.”

George buried his face in his hands again, mumbling, “This is a fever dream.”

Y/n, meanwhile, was contemplating her life choices as Max grinned at her, utterly pleased with himself. This was going to be a nightmare—and she was the star attraction.

Suddenly, Lando came sprinting out of nowhere, practically skidding to a stop in front of Max. His curls were a chaotic mess, and his face was split into an ear-to-ear grin that made him look like an overexcited puppy.

“MAX!” Lando yelled, throwing his arms up. “FOUR-TIME WORLD CHAMPION! YOU LEGEND! Also mate, what the hell?! Are you really getting married?!” 

Max turned, his ever-present grin widening. “Obviously.”

“I thought it was just a rumor!” Lando said, flinging his helmet onto a nearby table. “I mean, come on, you say insane stuff on the radio all the time! I figured this was one of those things.”

“Nope.” Max popped the “p” for emphasis. “It’s happening. Tonight.”

Y/n, who had been pacing nearby in a futile attempt to process her life choices, groaned audibly. “I hate all of you. All of you.”

Lando glanced at her, then back at Max. “Wait, so this is real? Like… actually real?”

“As real as it gets,” Max replied, clapping Lando on the shoulder. “And since you’re here…”

Lando squinted. “Since I’m here, what?”

Max’s grin turned sly, his hand still on Lando’s shoulder. “How do you feel about being my best man tonight?”

Lando froze, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me,” Max said, still looking far too pleased with himself.

“Me?!” Lando gestured wildly at himself, his voice rising an octave. “Why me?!”

“Why not you?” Max countered smoothly.

“I don’t know!” Lando threw up his hands. “You could ask your trainer, your engineer—anyone! We’ve been rivals this entire year!”

Max tilted his head, his expression softening slightly. “Exactly. We’ve had a lot of ups and downs this year, yeah? Fighting for the championship and everything. But at the end of the day…” He paused, his grin shifting to something more genuine. “You’re a good friend, Lando. One of the best. And I’d like us to bury the hatchet. Tonight.”

The sudden sincerity hit Lando like a truck. His eyes widened, his lip quivering just a little as he stared at Max. “Max…”

The group went quiet—well, as quiet as it could be with the chaos of the paddock swirling around them. Even Y/n stopped pacing to stare, her eyebrows raised in surprise.

“You really mean that?” Lando asked, his voice thick with emotion.

“Of course,” Max said, giving Lando a firm pat on the back. “You’ve been there through all of it, mate. Who else would I want standing next to me tonight?”

Lando’s hand flew to his face, his bottom lip wobbling. “Oh my God. I think I’m gonna cry.”

“Don’t cry,” George mumbled, clearly trying to stifle a laugh. “This is ridiculous enough already.”

“Shut up, George!” Lando snapped, though it lacked any real venom. He sniffled, blinking rapidly. “Max, you big idiot. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Max smirked. “Well, don’t get used to it.”

Y/n, watching this entire exchange with her arms crossed, muttered under her breath, “I cannot believe this is my life right now.”

Carlos, standing nearby, leaned over to George and whispered, “Do you think Lando will actually cry at the altar?”

“Oh, 100%,” George replied without hesitation.

“I’M NOT CRYING!” Lando shouted, wiping furiously at his eyes.

“Sure, mate,” Carlos said, grinning.

“Shut up!” Lando whirled back to Max, pointing a slightly wobbly finger at him. “Fine! I’ll do it. I’ll be your best man. But only because that was the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Good.” Max nodded approvingly. “We’re gonna have a great time. Bring tissues, though. You’ll need them.”

Lando groaned. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re emotional,” Max teased, clapping him on the back again.

“Can I leave now?” Y/n interjected, looking thoroughly exasperated.

“Nope,” Max said cheerfully. “We’ve still got wedding planning to do. And Lando needs to rehearse his speech.”

“Speech?!” Lando exclaimed, his face paling. “No one said anything about a speech!”

“Oh, come on,” Carlos said, grinning. “Just wing it.”

“This is a nightmare,” Y/n muttered.

“See, schatje?” Max said, turning to her with a mischievous smile. “Everything’s settled”

“Kill me now,” she groaned, dragging her hands down her face.

“Not before the wedding,” Max quipped. “I need my bride alive, schatje.”

Carlos, grinning, nudged George. “Do you think she’ll kill him before they even make it to the altar?”

“I actually might” Y/n snapped, making everyone laugh—except her.

Max clapped his hands together, cutting through the lingering laughter. “Alright, boys, fun’s over. See you after the podium, yeah?”

Carlos snorted, throwing an arm around George. “Come on, hombre. Let’s get out of here before they decide to do something crazier.”

Max turned to Carlos, his grin turning devious. “Speaking of you, Carlos, I need another groomsman. What do you say?”

Carlos blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Me? Really?”

“Obviously,” Max said, rolling his eyes. “You’re good at standing around looking pretty. Perfect for the job.”

“I’m honored,” Carlos said, puffing out his chest dramatically.

Y/n, standing a few feet away, raised her hand. “Dibs on George for my side, then.”

George’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait, what?”

“I called dibs,” Y/n said firmly, crossing her arms.

“That’s not how this works!” Max exclaimed, glaring at her.

“It is now,” she shot back, grinning.

Max groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You are impossible.”

“You’re marrying me,” she said sweetly. “This is your problem now.”

Before Max could argue further, he grabbed her hand, tugging her away from the group. “We need to pick more people. Properly.”

As they walked through the paddock, Max started listing names under his breath. “Alright, I want Charles on my side.”

“No way,” Y/n said immediately.

Max frowned. “Why not?”

“Because I’m picking him,” Y/n declared, speeding up her pace as soon as she spotted Charles standing by his car.

Max groaned. “You can’t just steal all the good ones!”

“Watch me.”

By the time they reached Charles, Y/n was already stepping in front of Max, her grin wicked. “Charles! You’re going to be my maid of honor.”

Charles looked up, his face blank with confusion. “Wait, what?”

Max shoved Y/n aside, scowling. “Ignore her, Charles. You’re going to be one of my groomsmen.”

“No, he’s not!” Y/n snapped, stepping back in front of Max.

“Yes, he is!” Max shot back, sidestepping her.

Charles blinked between them, his brows furrowing. “What is happening right now?”

“You’re gonna help me with my wedding,” Y/n said, grinning like she’d just won the lottery. “It’s happening tonight.”

Charles just stared at her, still not sure if he was in a dream or being pranked. “Uh… are you serious?”

“Charles, listen to me,” Y/n said, grabbing his hands dramatically. “I need you on my side. You’re the only one who understands how insane Max is.”

Max pulled her back by the shoulder. “He does not understand that! He’s my friend, not yours.”

Charles raised a hand. “Guys, what—”

“Do you really want to stand next to Max?” Y/n asked, cutting him off.

Max glared at her. “Do you really want to be stuck with her?”

“I feel like I don’t want to be stuck with either of you,” Charles said cautiously, his confusion growing.

“Charles,” Y/n pleaded, gripping his arm. “Please. You’ll get to wear something cool”

Charles blinked, still completely befuddled. “I… I don’t know what’s happening. Am I even invited to this wedding? Because you’re asking me to do a lot without any context.”

“Don’t listen to her!” Max interjected, gesturing wildly. “You’ll have more fun on my side. I’ll let you hold the rings.”

“No we’re letting Yuki hold the rings!” Y/n shouted.

Charles blinked again, looking between them like they’d both lost their minds. “Are you two seriously fighting over me right now?”

“Yes!” they yelled in unison.

Charles sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Say yes to me, Charles,” Y/n said, batting her eyelashes.

“No, say yes to me,” Max countered, practically growling.

Charles threw his hands up. “Fine! I’ll be on Y/n’s side. But only because she asked first.”

Y/n cheered, sticking her tongue out at Max. “Suck it!”

“I feel like I should be insulted,” Max muttered as Charles smirked at him.

The wedding was somehow happening. In the span of a few hours—thanks to an intense series of last-minute phone calls, frantic text messages, and a team of Red Bull employees being worked to the bone—the ceremony was set to begin. And despite the fact that no one really knew how they’d gotten here, the whole thing had turned into the weirdest Formula 1 event in history.

Y/n stood in the back, adjusting her dress, eyeing the people around her in disbelief. Max had somehow managed to throw together an entire wedding in record time, which was somehow both impressive and terrifying. She was walking down the aisle with Lewis and Fernando—two of the most iconic figures in F1. She couldn’t decide between them, so she’d invited both to walk her down the aisle. Because, why not?

“You sure you’re okay with this?” Lewis asked, smoothing out his jacket. His suit was impeccable, of course. He was an icon of style, so a last-minute wedding wasn’t going to stop him from looking good.

“I’m just trying to survive this,” Y/n muttered

“We’re in Vegas. Anything goes,” Fernando quipped, the slightest hint of a smile on his lips. “At least the wedding's got personality."

“You both know I’ll never live this down, right?” Y/n said, shaking her head. "This whole thing is so Max, I feel like I should apologize to everyone for being part of it."

“You’ll be fine,” Fernando added with a smile, adjusting his cufflinks. “It’s Max. You know he doesn’t do anything half-heartedly. He’s probably already planned the honeymoon.”

Y/n laughed nervously. “I’m pretty sure he has. You’ve both seen what happens when Max gets an idea in his head. And somehow... this is actually happening.”

“You’ve got this,” Lewis said. “We’re here for you.”

Before Y/n could respond, the doors swung open, signaling that it was time. The aisle was a bit too short for a proper procession, and the whole thing had a sense of hurried chaos as they started walking down toward the altar.

At the front, Max stood there waiting, looking like he was about to burst with excitement. His best man, Lando, had been fighting tears all night and was now sniffling into a tissue. "I swear this is the happiest day of my life," Lando muttered to Carlos, wiping his eyes.

Carlos, looking slightly concerned, just shook his head. “It’s their wedding Lando, not even your own. stop bawling.”

“Yeah, but it’s their wedding,” Lando said, eyes still damp. “There’s too much love in the air.”

Max had his hands tucked in his pockets, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. When he spotted Y/n, he gave her an exaggerated wink, as if to say, “We made it.”

“You good?” Fernando asked, glancing at Y/n as they reached the front.

“I’m questioning every life choice I’ve made,” Y/n muttered under her breath, feeling the full weight of the absurdity of the situation.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Max said, grinning.

At the back of the room, Oscar and Franco stood with baskets of flowers, both looking thoroughly confused in their roles as flower boys. Oscar had been dragged into this because of his unwillingness to protest. Franco, on the other hand, was too amused to care about the situation and just went along with it.

“Oscar, why are we doing this again?” Franco whispered, furrowing his brows as he sprinkled petals on the floor.

“Because Yuki said we had to. And I’m not arguing with him,” Oscar muttered, holding his basket as if it were a grenade about to go off.

“Who cares? It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience! Attending Max Vertsappen’s wedding?,” Franco said with stars in his eyes, “I’ll tell my grandkids about this.”

Yuki, holding the rings, couldn’t contain his excitement as he gave them instructions. “Guys, you’re doing great. Just, uh, try not to look confused. I need this to look professional. Oscar throw the petals properly! more passion! more energy! more footwork!”

“I’m already questioning my entire existence,” Oscar said, looking at Franco for solidarity. Franco just smiled and threw a handful of petals into the air.

The Elvis officiating the wedding was already in full swing, not entirely sure of the gravity of the moment but having a blast nonetheless.

"Y’all ready to get hitched?" Elvis said, his voice more vibrant than Y/n could’ve imagined.

Max, barely containing his excitement, looked over at Y/n. “Ready for this, love?” he asked, his voice low, though it carried a hint of playfulness.

Y/n smiled, glancing at him for a moment. “More than ever.”

Then, in front of everyone, they exchanged their vows.

Max spoke first, his voice unwavering, but there was an undeniable tenderness in his words. “Y/n, you’ve turned my world upside down. You’ve made every race, every moment, better just by being there. I promise to keep being the person you’ve decided to stand at an altar with, the person you love—even when I’m an absolute nightmare. I’ll always fight for us, for this. I love you.”

Y/n could feel her heart in her throat as she spoke. “Max, you’ve always been… Max. But you’ve shown me that you are a person with the biggest heart. You’ve made me laugh, cry, and love harder than I thought I could. You’re my best friend, and I can’t wait for the next chapter of this crazy life with you. I love you.”

There were no grand gestures or over-the-top theatrics; instead, it was just them��raw, honest, and completely present in this moment.

Max smiled at her, the kind of smile that made everything feel right, before turning to the officiant.

“Elvis, hit me with that ‘you may kiss the bride’ line,” Max said, giving a wink.

And so, amidst the madness, they kissed, sealing their vows with a moment that felt right in all its simplicity. The crowd cheered, some clapping and others, like Lando, wiping away happy tears. It wasn’t the wedding anyone had expected, but it was exactly what Max and Y/n had needed.

As they pulled away, Y/n’s gaze met Max’s, and for a brief moment, it was just the two of them, everything else fading away.

As the ceremony ended and the newlyweds turned to leave, the crowd of friends and teammates erupted into applause, some of them still trying to process what had just happened.

Lando was grinning, wiping his eyes. “This is so perfect. I’m still not sure how we managed to get here in two hours, but it’s amazing.”

Charles was smiling too, giving Y/n a thumbs up. “Congrats, both of you. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that Max is married now.”

Lewis patted Max on the back. “She’s got you now. Good luck with that.”

Y/n smiled at him, a little breathless. “So, are you planning to annoy me for the rest of our lives?”

Max grinned back, a playful gleam in his eyes. “Absolutely. You’ve signed up for it, so no turning back now.”

Everyone laughed, but there was a deep sincerity in the air. This was their moment—imperfect and hurried, but beautiful in its own way.

[yoonguurt]

Pairing: non idol Jihoon x F!reader

Genre: fluff, angst if you squint, smut

Trope: friends to lovers, idiots to lovers

Word Count: 5,088 

Trigger Warnings: none

Summary: Jihoon always joins in when his group of friends makes fun of Mingyu for being a simp for his girlfriend. It isn’t that he thinks that a man shouldn’t go above and beyond for their significant other, it’s just that he hasn’t had a girlfriend that makes him want to go that far. Maybe one day, though.

A/N: This is for @ddeonghwa-s secret cupid event! Surpise @strawberry-skiess I'm your cupid! This honestly was hard to start, but once I started I just couldn't stop. I hope you enjoy it! Happy Valentine's Day (even though I'm a day late) Thanks to @kwanisms for this lovely little banner. I love it so much. This is for adults only, no minors allowed! I will fight you.

Read all of the other wonderful entries here

Smut Warnings: slight nipple play, dom!Jihoon, sub!reader, fingering, oral (f receiving) unprotected sex (do not), maybe two thigh slaps

“Well, if it isn’t the simp of the century.” Jeonghan’s voice floats through Jihoon’s ears and he looks to the door as Mingyu walks in. Over the last couple of months, calling their group giant a simp has become something of a ritual. They don’t mean it, they honestly think it’s adorable how whipped Mingyu is. And he certainly isn’t ashamed of it. He wears the title like a badge of honor. “Still single and bitchy, I see.” Mingyu’s retort is almost immediate, a cheshire grin adorning his face as he watches the rest of the group burst into laughter and Jeonghan’s face turn into a mix between a smirk and a scowl. 

Jihoon retreats into his thoughts while his friends chatter amongst themselves. He does think it’s sweet how much Mingyu loves his girlfriend, he just isn’t sure that he understands. Sure, he’s had a few relationships of his own, and while he cared about them, even loved one or two, he has never known the amount of love Mingyu seems to wield. His friend found his self described love of his life around 4 months ago and he’s been head over heels the entire time. Jihoon has watched Mingyu rush to get to his phone when he gets a text, with a special ringtone for his girlfriend, and smile like an idiot at whatever it is she has said.

He’s lived through Mingyu leaving nights at the bar solely because his girl wanted to cuddle. When her birthday came around, the two men spent hours going through unlimited stores while Mingyu tried to find the perfect present. Every time Jihoon suggested something, Mingyu had a retort on why it wasn’t good enough. The new cd by her favorite band? “I don’t have enough time to get it signed.” The pretty pink purse that screamed something his girlfriend would like? “I already got her that one.” Eventually, the tall man had settled on a necklace that Jihoon was certain cost more than a used car. Mingyu had the money to throw around, he guessed. 

Part of Jihoon wants to know what it’s like to feel like that. Another part thinks that it seems like a burden. He can’t decide where he stands on the topic. Sure, he wants that great love that novels describe, wants to give his heart to someone and know that they’ll always be there. But at the same time, he isn’t sure he’ll find someone that can deal with his finicky moods. There are times when he wants someone to cuddle, only to immediately change his mind. He knows that can be annoying, and he is working on it. One of his other issues is time. He takes his job seriously. 

Working as a producer, he is a busy man. He doesn’t know if there’s a person out there that will understand that sometimes, he loses himself in his work. His phone drifts to the back of his mind, dates forgotten without him meaning to. It’s the main reason his relationships have failed. He genuinely doesn’t mean to, and it’s another thing he has been working on. He’s been getting better at responding to his friends in a timely manner, he’s even taken to setting alarms on his phones so he doesn’t miss the planned hangouts. Sure, he still falls into the music and forgets the world around him, but he’s getting better.

There has always been an exception, though. You. His best friend. The two of you have known each other for years, having met in freshman year of college. Your sunny disposition sometimes clashed with the grumpy facade he puts on, but it’s always worked. A couple of his exes thought there was something going on between the two of you, but that’s never been the case. He just clicks with you. You understand him. You’re a busy woman, too. The journalism world stops for no one. 

“Isn’t that right, Jihoon?” He snaps head up toward the voice. Soonyoung looks at him expectantly, obviously waiting for him to agree with him. “Sorry, what?” The huff of air that comes from Soonyoung’s mouth lets him know how annoyed his friend is. “I said that it’s cute that Mingyu loves his girl so much, isn’t that right?” Honestly, he doesn’t know how to answer this. “Sure, it’s cute, but it seems exhausting.” The sound of a scoff comes from behind him and he turns to the sound. He hadn’t realized that you were here. He suddenly feels like he said something wrong, like when a teacher calls on you to answer in class and you fumble and answer wrong. It’s embarrassing for some reason. “So what I’m hearing is that you would find caring for your partner that much to be an inconvenience?” Everyone’s eyes flit between you and Jihoon, waiting for a debate to start. The two of you have always been like that. You’re able to have a small, argumentative conversation and then go back to joking like it never happened. 

Jihoon sighs deeply, knowing where this is going. “That’s not what I said.” His tone lets you know just how annoyed at having a conversation like this again. “I’m just saying that Mingyu’s level of simpdom sounds like a bit much. I’m happy he has someone that he loves so much, but being at her beck and call constantly sounds tiring.” Mingyu responds before you can even open your mouth. “That isn’t how it is.” His tone isn’t defensive in any way. He just sounds like he’s explaining something to a child. “She doesn’t ask me to do any of that. She actually encourages me to have fun with you guys. I just feel so happy that I have her and I want to make sure she knows that.” 

Jihoon stays silent for a moment, thinking over Mingyu’s words. He thinks to himself, wandering again if he’s ever had something like that. He thinks the closest thing he’s had is you. He’s dropped more things that he can count to be at your side when you need him. He’s even dipped on girlfriends because you were upset. Once, he canceled on his most recent ex just because you secured a front page spot for the local paper. He needed to be the one to celebrate your accomplishment with you, needed to be the first one to congratulate you. He didn’t want to think too deeply about what that meant. Sure, he had had a massive crush on you in college, he thought he might have been in love with you, but that had disappeared a long time ago. 

When you showed no sign of reciprocating his feelings, he decided to let it go, letting you go, at least in the romantic sense. 

Of course, there were still times where he’d look at you and think about how beautiful you were, especially when you’d just woken up and the light was hitting you in a specific way. But, that was just him appreciating your beauty as a best friend. He was sure of it. Realizing he had been quiet for too long, he glanced at Mingyu, nodding his head. “I guess I could see how someone could feel that way.” He chose to ignore the way Soonyoung cut his eyes toward him, knowing what he was thinking. Soonyoung had been the only person who had known about his college crush. He always insisted that you had felt the same, and that Jihoon still held a candle for you. 

“You’ll find it one day, Hoon. Don’t close yourself off to it.” Your voice is strained, though you try to hide it. You’ve always admired Jihoon, even if he was a bit closed off. He’d never really let himself go in a relationship. It was like he never felt comfortable. But you knew him at his core, knew how sweet and thoughtful he was. He had always been there for you when you needed him, which was probably why your love for him had never died. You’d tried to find someone else, dated people, even loved one or two, but not like you loved Jihoon. No one could compare. You’ve seen every side of him and there isn’t a single one of them that you don’t adore. He’s also been growing his hair and God does he look better than you’ve ever seen him. You can tell his confidence has grown a little and that is even more attractive. You know you’re well and truly fucked, but you aren’t sure you want to change that.

The night winds down and everyone gathers their things to leave. Soonyoung takes the time to pull Jihoon aside, making the younger boy look at his friend in confusion. “Look, I know you’re going to deny it like you always do, but watching you two pine after each other is getting hard to do.” Jihoon opens his mouth, only to be silenced by Soonyoung’s hand lifting in the air. “Have you ever stopped to think that there’s a reason that relationships never worked out for either of you? If you haven’t, then think about it, ok?” Soonyoung clapped his friend on the shoulder before he moved to hug you and tell you goodbye. 

“I’ll help clean up.” Jihoon’s words cut into your thoughts, distracting you from what it is you were thinking. You turned to face him, a teasing smirk gracing your features. “Take a look around. There’s nothing to clean up. Go home and actually get some sleep tonight. I know you have to be at the studio early tomorrow, just like I know you haven’t been sleeping. Just listen to me and go sleep.” He was baffled at how you knew that, but then again it was a talent you seemed to have. Knowing everything without him having to tell you. But then again, he guessed he had the same talent. It was like a sixth sense. Some real ‘There’s a disturbance’ shit. He simply nodded at you, saying goodnight and leaving without even stopping to think that you barely had to have any force behind your turn to get him to do exactly what you wanted.

The thinking came when he walked through his door. A lot of it. Soonyoung’s words began to float through his mind. Did they have any weight to them at all? Sure, relationships had really never worked out for the two of you, but that didn’t mean anything. Relationships come and go, that’s what they do. Occasionally, people get lucky and they find who they’re supposed to be with. Sometimes, they don’t. That was just life, it didn’t mean that the two of you were the reason the other’s relationships failed. The more he thought about it, though, the more merit Soonyoung’s words seemed to hold. Any time you needed him, he came running, and the same applied to you. You’ve both left dates and anniversaries because the other needed something. He’s had to assure quite a few exs that there was nothing romantic between the two of you and if he had to guess, he’d say you’ve done the same. Everything hits him at all once and he feels the need to sit down to process. 

You’re going through your own mental roller coaster. You know that Jihoon could find his person if he would just let someone in. It doesn’t have to be you, though you desperately want it to be, you just want him to find someone that will make him happy, someone that will bring out the loving side you know that he has. You sigh deeply as you lock up your apartment, making your way to your bed to get some much needed sleep.

You don’t hear from Jihoon for a few days, but that isn’t totally unusual. Sometimes he gets so lost in the music and you just wait until he’s back in the land of the living. But as a whole week passes, you start to worry. He’s never gone more than 3 days without speaking to you. You try to play through the events of the last time you saw him, thinking about if you had done something out of the norm. The only thing you think of is the conversation everyone had about Mingyu. He must have been offended that he was ganged up on, but then again that didn’t make sense. It wasn’t the first time everyone had had this conversation and he has never reacted like this before. It takes a split second for you to make up your mind and grab your purse and walk out the door.

Jihoon sits at his computer, staring past it like it’s not even there. He can’t focus, hasn’t been able to focus for a week. His thoughts always float back to you and how he feels. Now that he has realized he does in fact have feelings for you still, he can’t seem to bring himself to face you. What if he acts different? What if you realize? He can’t risk it. There are too many years of friendship on the line. Sure, not answering your texts is the coward’s way out, but he doesn’t know what else to do. As he had sat on his couch a week ago, the realization that he was in love with you hit him in the face. Damn Soonyoung. He would have been totally fine if he had kept being ignorant. Now though, he knows that he’d do anything for you. He knows that he already does do anything for you. 

The beeping on the keypad to his studio brings his attention back to reality. There are select few who know the code to his studio and he looks at the door with held breath, hoping it isn’t who he knows it is. You swing the door open, displeasure written all over your face. “What the fuck, Lee Jihoon?” He grimaces, hating that you’ve pulled his full name out of your pocket. If he didn’t before, he knows now that he is in deep trouble. He sits in his chair, slouching like a scolded child as you glare at him. “No text in a week. No reply in a week. Nothing to let me know that you’re even alive. Who the hell do you think you are?” Jihoon almost wants to laugh, thinking you’re adorable even when you’re angry, but he doesn’t dare. He knows that will only make things worse for him. 

Jihoon is hit with a sudden urge to touch you and he can’t hold back. He quickly stands and moves towards you slowly, watching as your demeanor changes. You go from angry to confused as you watch his steps. He stops in front of you, wrapping his arms around you. “I’m sorry.” The words are whispered, but you can still hear them. All of the anger leaves you, almost. You hit his shoulder lightly, making him giggle slightly. “You damn well should be. Had my ass worried sick, asshole.” There’s a playfulness in your tone, one that you can’t help but let out. Your confusion grows as you realize that Jihoon hasn’t stopped hugging you. That is definitely different. Jihoon hates physical touch, he always has. In the entirety of your friendship, he’s only hugged you a handful of times and everyone has been quick, lasting only a few seconds.

“What happened to you in the past week for you to be so affectionate? You hate physical affection.” Your words come out teasing, trying to mask your genuine curiosity as a joke. He doesn’t answer for a moment, seeming content to just continue holding you. When he finally does speak, you choke on air, starting a small coughing fit. “Yeah, but I love you.” There’s no teasing tone. No joking. You can hear the sincerity in his voice. You have no words. No thoughts, head empty. 

Jihoon pulls back just enough to look at you and you can see the hesitation and worry in his eyes. You need to say something, you want to say something, but nothing is coming out. Your mouth is opening and closing like a fish gasping for air and you’re sure you look ridiculous. When you finally find words, they aren’t what you planned to say. “Are you sure about that?” Jihoon can’t contain his laugh and the sound hits you in your gut. It makes every fiber of your being tingle. Hearing him laugh brings you back to reality and you give him a playful shove, smiling and letting out a huff of laughter of your own. “Shut up.” There’s no real bite to your words and you know that he knows that. “I tell you that I love you and your response is to ask me if I’m sure?” He’s teasing you and loving it and you pout. “Hey! It’s a perfectly valid question!” Looking at him your heart surges with affection. 

“As funny as that was, I’m kind of panicking over here. A response would be nice, even if it’s a rejection.” Jihoon chews his lip as the nerves show on his face. You can’t help but smile at him and reach up and lace your fingers in the hair at the back of his neck. “Have I told you how much I love your hair like this?” Your statement throws him off guard and he looks at you with furrowed brows. “Wha-” You cut him off with a finger to his lips. “Almost as much as I love you.” The smile that comes across his face could light up a room with no lights. He leans down and presses his forehead against yours. “Are you sure?” He giggles against your lips as you give him a pout and a shove. His reaction is to pull you closer to him, pressing you as close to his body as possible. 

His eyes flit down to your lips before trailing back to your eyes, in silent question. You give him a slight nod, knowing that he’ll get the message. You watch as his lips slowly move towards yours, as if he’s teasing you by making you wait. You let out a whine of impatience and he giggles. He can’t help but give you what you want. When he finally presses his mouth to yours, it’s like the world explodes in a rainbow of colors you didn’t even know existed. You feel as if your entire purpose makes sense now that you have tasted his lips. It doesn’t take long before the sweet pecks turn into desperate, open mouthed kisses. His tongue dances with yours, fighting for dominance, which he quickly wins. The way he takes control of the kiss goes straight to your core. You’d thought about this and sure, you thought he’d be more of a dominant lover, but the reality is greater than what you could imagine. And this is only kissing. You can only imagine what it’s going to be like when he’s actually fucking you. The thought alone has your thighs clenching.

Of course, Jihoon notices even though you’re trying to be subtle about it. He pulls back with a smirk. “Oh? Is someone getting needy?” The way his voice drops in octave only causes you to clench tighter and let out a small whimper. Jihoon’s lips make their way to your neck, leaving small nibbles and kisses in their wake. “Aww. My poor baby. Already getting desperate, huh?” All you can do is nod against him as your hands grab at his shirt. He lets out a deep chuckle against the skin of your neck and the vibrations make you shiver. His hand slowly makes its way from your neck down the front of your chest, stopping just above your breast. He lifts his head to look you in the eyes, silent asking for consent. Instead of giving him a verbal answer, you take his hand, completely bypassing your clothed breast and placing it at the hem of your shirt. He takes the hint, leaning back just enough to lift your shirt from your body.

The chilly air in the studio causes your nipples to harden immediately and Jihoon’s eyes fall to your chest and darken with lust. His hands instantly find your bra covered breasts, pulling the cups down just enough to him to see your peaked buds. Taking one in between his thumb and index fingers, he pinches lightly, just enough to see your reaction. When you arch into him, he smirks, knowing he’s found something you like. “Hoon, please.” Your voice is light and airy, the need evident. “Please what, sweetheart? What do you need? You’ve gotta use your words, pretty.” The way you buck your hips and whine tells him all he needs to know. 

He moves his fingers to the button of your pants, making a show of slowly loosening the button. His teasing is both driving you crazy and making you more horny than you have ever been. Your hips are bucking into nothing, desperate for some sort of stimulation. When he finally gets the button undone, he sinks to his knees, pulling your pants down as he lowers himself. “Hands above your head, baby. No moving unless I say.” The softness of his tone does nothing to hide the dominance and it makes you weak. You nod and move your hands above your head against the wall. Jihoon flashes you a smile that makes your heart flutter. “What a good girl I have. You listen so well, my love.” 

When he taps your leg to signal for you to lift your legs to step out of the pants. You obey slowly, trying to tease him a little bit. A quick slap to your thigh makes you gasp, a moan slipping from your lips. “Behave. I’m trying to make our first time sweet. Don’t test me, angel.” His patience wavers slightly when he can’t wait to remove your panties, simply using his strength to rip them so that they fall off of you. It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. “Holy shit, Jihoon.” He smirks like he knows how much his strength affects you, because he does. He doesn’t say anything, simply lifts your right leg and places it over his shoulder. Your breath hitches as you look down at him, making eye contact as he makes a show of sticking his tongue out, flicking it over your clit. The sudden contact makes you jerk forward and your eyes fall closed. Even though the action was nowhere near enough, it made you even more wet. You’re practically dripping at this point and once glance at the man below you lets you know that he enjoys the effect he has on you. 

He spends what feels like forever just slowly giving your clit kitten licks, driving you insane just as slowly. Without warning, his actions speed up. He grips your hips and harshly pulls them forward, shoving his face as far into your pussy as he can get it. The moan you emit is bordering on pornagraphic. Your fingers twitch, wanting so badly to grip him by the hair and ride his face. As if he can sense your thoughts, he pulls back, making you whine. “Don’t even try it. Move those hands and you won’t cum at all.” The slight growl in his voice does things to your insides. “Yes, sir.” Your voice is low and desperate and Jihoon groans, approving of your choice of title. 

He dives back into your cunt, quickly sliding his middle finger inside of you, his ring following a few seconds later. He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that he knows will make you come undone. It doesn’t take him long to find it, pressing the tips of his fingers against it and rubbing. You can’t control the sounds that come from your throat and you’re beyond glad the studio is soundproof. You can feel yourself getting closer to your peak and you do your best to communicate that. “Ji, please. So close.” Your hips are moving without your control, chasing your end on instinct. Jihoon leans back long enough to give you permission to come. “That’s it baby. Let it go. Let me taste you. Give it to me.” His words throw you over the precipice, launching your mind into a different plane, one that is filled with nothing but pleasure and the sound of his voice. Jihoon works you through your orgasm, slowing down gradually to draw it out as long as possible. 

“Breathe, love. In and out.” You don’t even realize how hard you’re panting, but you listen to him regardless. Your eyes are closed and your legs feel like jelly and you’re aware that you’re only standing because he’s holding you up. You aren’t sure when he stood, brushing his fingers across your face and through your hair. When you finally return to reality, he’s looking at you with concern. “Are you ok?” His voice is shaky with hints of worry and his eyes flicker all over your face like he’s looking for some sign of distress. It takes you a moment to respond and when you do, you can only say the first thing that pops into your mind. “Are you fucking kidding me? That was insane and amazing and I need your cock in me right now or I’ll die.” The laugh Jihoon lets out is loud and unrestrained and it makes you smile. 

He places a quick kiss to your lips, letting you taste yourself briefly on his lips. His hands take hold of yours and he slowly moves you toward the couch that sits against the wall behind his computer chair. With another kiss, he steps back, his hands moving to the hem of his shirt. “Lay down on your back, baby.” You don’t even think before doing as he says, keeping your eyes on his as he lifts his shirt over his head. It isn’t the first time you’ve seen Jihoon shirtless, but the fact that you know what’s about to happen makes it all the more erotic. He drops the shirt on the floor, not caring where it lands, moving his hands to the basketball shorts he’s wearing. Your breath hitches in anticipation, and you refuse to even blink as he eases his shorts and boxers down together. When his length comes into view, your mouth goes dry. He’s the perfect amount of length and girth, not too long or short and you just know the stretch will be heavenly. He watches you look at him for a moment before he steps out of his clothes completely and makes his way to the couch where your body lies limp and needy.

His eyes wander your body, simply taking you in, clearly liking the way you’re spread out for him. “You are so fucking beautiful, do you know that?” The way he’s looking at you makes your insides turn to mush and you reach for him, making grabby hands at him. He gives you a soft smile, kneeling in between your legs and linking his fingers with yours. After giving each hand a kiss, he lifts them to fit around his neck, leaning down to give a slow kiss, full of nothing but love. Giving you one last questioning look, he waits for you to smile and nod before he reaches down to align his length with your entrance. When he pushes forward, it feels like the world expands and closes in at the same time. You’re hyper aware of everything while also only focusing on the feel of him. It’s like you’ve finally found a piece of yourself that you didn’t even know you were missing. 

The first thrust steals every bit of oxygen you have, replacing it with love and just Jihoon. The sound he makes causes a groan to erupt from your throat. He sounds wrecked already and you love that you’re the one that is making him that way. His face buries itself in your neck, lips littering kisses along the exposed skin. “Fuck, you feel so good.” You can tell that he’s holding himself back. You lift your head just enough for your lips to be close to his ear, giving it a soft bite. “Jihoon, you can be soft later. Right now, I need you to fuck me.” It seems like that’s all he needed to hear. He pulls his hips back until his cock is almost completely out of you before he slams back in. Hard. The movement jolts your whole body, shoving your head against the arm of the couch. Without missing a beat, Jihoon brings his hand down to place it between your head and the couch, his thrusts still hard and fast. 

With the combination of his speed, depth and roughness, you’re embarrassingly close to coming for the second time. You dig the nails of one hand into the skin of his back, the other making its way to his hair, pulling just enough for him to feel it. The groan he lets out lets you know that he very much enjoys that. Your moans are loud and mixing with the filthy babbles that are coming from him. Praise of how good you feel, how badly he’s wanted this, how you’re his now. Your orgasm hits you full force without you even realizing just how close you were. The squeezing of your pussy around his cock and the look on your face has Jihoon following you immediately, filling your cunt with every bit of cum he has. You look up at him, and his breath hitches. You’re so, so beautiful and so, so his. Looking at you like this, he knows that he would do anything for you. Anything just to see you happy and smiling. He would eat glass if that would cause you joy, even though he knows it wouldn’t. A sudden realization hits him and he lowers his head.

“Shit, I’m a simp, too.”

[temis-de-leon]

He has a nightmare where he rejected you

Characters: Diavolo and Barbatos (x gn!reader, separately)

Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3 , Part 5

Main Masterlist

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Diavolo – No one would ever accept you

Your willingness and capability to adapt quickly to the Devildom delights him. Sure, the friendship you develop with the seven brothers helps in your journey, but even that requires some talent and persistence; not everyone gets to enjoy Lucifer’s company, after all.

What a wonderful surprise you were. The perfect human exchange student for his program; you make him have high hopes for the foreseeable future.

The way you grew up, what were you taught and how you existed amongst those who resemble your life are nothing like anything he has ever seen before. Since Solomon is a human with no humanity, the contrast between you and him and everyone else is overwhelming.

Curiously, perhaps that’s why your interest in him developed so quickly.

Sure, he’s handsome and powerful and you will never meet anyone like him ever again, but that’s not why you search for his company, isn’t it?

While accepting his dark nature and respecting his position, you don’t see a ruler whenever you look at him, nor a figure to be afraid of. On the contrary, you smile and join him at his childish whims and treat him like you would with any of the brothers; no titles or inhibitions, just a pure honest wish to spend your free time with him.

Rejecting you is not an enjoyable experience and he regrets doing it for many long days, but the truth is, he doesn’t see a friend in you whenever he stops to gaze at your features.

He sees a human, a short lifespan and no presence in the demon hierarchy; judging eyes questioning his decision to accept your feelings.

He sees no place for you in his life and that breaks his heart more than anything.

Of course, of all the nights he could’ve had this type of nightmare it had to be the one when he wasn’t sharing his bed with you.

His arms stretched, foolishly searching for your body, but he knew you were in your room in the House of Lamentation; sleeping peacefully, he hoped, although he could picture you mindlessly scrolling through your Devilgram feed.

He pushed himself off the bed, grimacing from the ache in his back, the point in his spine where his wings merged with bone. It felt as if he was still carrying his whole weight, standing straight for hours to smile at people who preferred him to be silent and pliable. Responding with hostility would never be the better option, that he knew, but he had spent every year of his life learning how to control his emotions for the future of his country and still, the universe seemed to enjoy testing his patience now and then.

Announcing your relationship to the public had been a calculated choice. While everyone knew you spent time together, holding hands and kissing when you didn’t mind who was watching, and surely doing even more than that in private, it had never been clarified whether yours was a casual affair or a serious commitment. The first would mean the prince was allowed to have fun, with a human no less, but the second implied taking too much from you; perhaps more than you could handle.

You had been there with him the whole night, chin high as well, but no wings or tail to back you. No horns to crown your head. For the first time, he saw your nature bother you, even if you tried to hide it from him. The scrutiny of others had tired you and your smile had disappeared long before his, which he couldn’t blame you for.

Spending the rest of your life with him was a sacrifice on your part. Blood, sweat and tears that you would shed together.

And he respected you for it.

He was so proud of you. So thankful.

Saying the whole situation wouldn’t be easier if he found someone more suitable for the spot you were in would be a lie, but that wasn’t what he wanted. Couldn’t he be selfish this once? He’d already given so much of himself to his kingdom; couldn’t he keep you at least?

The darkness of his room did nothing to ease his solitude, making it seem bigger than it was.

He paced around trying to tire himself again, to no avail. His mind was with you and with the sad expression you wore when you parted ways after the formal dinner and left with Lucifer and his brothers. Although you both expressed wanting to spend the night together, you desperately needed some time alone to clear your head and comfort your heart and, to be fair, so did he.

However, Diavolo couldn’t stop himself from grabbing his DDD to check your chatroom; thankfully, you had been offline for hours. Sitting in his bed while stretching despite the pain, he slowly crafted a long good-night message. A bit cryptic, perhaps, but concise enough for him to go to bed peacefully again.

He would try again tomorrow.

He would try as many times as necessary if just for you.

Barbatos - You didn't catch his attention

He is, by a long far, one of the most important figures in the Devildom. A powerful being who swore servitude to an equally, if not more, powerful demon and acted true to his word from the beginning to the very end.

Ears and eyes everywhere, every time even, he is a valuable asset to the prince and even a friend when the moment is appropriate.

That implies secrecy and control. His speech is calculated and always limited, careful around others. He has to be mindful regarding what he talks about and with who.

What would Leviathan call him? The Dungeon Master?

He is no master of any kind, but the title amuses him nonetheless.

Thankfully, he enjoys the air of mysteriousness his job gives him.

Apparently, you do too.

Even though you’ve always been special, regardless of your unique magic, he hasn’t found you exceptional enough to open his heart to you.

He could and he definitely would in any other circumstance, but there was no push that would make him go forward.

Your confession, somehow, still surprises him.

Him, of all people? Him, who never bothered to spend time with you because he never found a reason to?

Dejecting your feelings is a pity, but you feel no different than a normal friend. It would be a waste of time to try for anything more.

He’s flattered, mind you, but that’s it.

Although he hopes you can continue to be friends, he would understand if you turn him down.

He can live with it; and he knows, with time, you will too.

As much control as he normally had over his unique power, it was impossible not to have slip-ups. Dreams, as he unfortunately came to discover, were the one door he couldn’t figure out how to close. Real alternate timelines and possibilities that never came to be merged in his subconscious, sometimes with unnecessary cruelty.

Rejecting you? Sadly, that’s something that could have happened. There’s so much he has to do, so many things he is responsible for… Perhaps time was for other versions of him more a tool to use than a treasure to keep. Perhaps, for those other versions, you didn’t fit in their schedule.

What a foolish mindset.

How realistic.

How sad.

He scowled, both from the thought and from the pain in his shoulder and his neck. The cushion he had been sleeping on wasn’t fluffy, more to decorate than to do its purpose, and his previous posture was as uncomfortable as it could get. When he tried to get up, planning to continue to do his job, no muscle in his body moved as it was supposed to do. A groan disrupted the silence of the room.

You would’ve called him an old man had you been there and he wouldn’t have had any words to defend himself.

Then again, had you actually been there, maybe the whole situation wouldn’t have happened.

A wave of unbearable warmth suddenly ran through his body, making him jump out off the couch while taking his gloves and jacket off. He huffed at the tidiness around him, not as satisfying as before anymore.

This particular living room wasn’t commonly used unless foreign guests were invited to the castle. Abandoned by everyone else, he sent the little D’s on cleaning duty on occasion, but this time he had decided to do it himself. Why? Perfectionism, of course. No speck of dust in sight, no armchair or chest out of place; red, gold and black, the colours of the crown, present across the furniture without being overbearing.

You had invited him to the House of Lamentation to spend the rest of the evening together, but he had declined, just like many times before. He’d learnt to know over time that you’d grown to expect his rejection, but still asked out of courtesy and perhaps a little bit of hope. How much would it pass until you decided you had enough of asking and stopped?

You were doomed to suffer his rejection, it seemed: in other timelines and your existent relationship with him. His stomach churned at the realization.

Sighing deeply, he waited until his heart settled again into a steady rhythm. He grabbed his discarded jacket and his gloves, faintly smelling the cleaning products’ residue, and grimaced while getting out of the isolated room. The time he’d take to reach the main areas of the castle would be enough for him to send a message to the Young Lord asking for a much-needed break.

Normally, the very few times he did it, he would ask in person and in advance, but the concept of time was filling his mind with anguish. He had already given too much of it to Lord Diavolo and, as much as he loved serving him, giving an approximate amount to you should be almost as important.

His job didn’t allow him to expand the limits, but for you, he’d go as far as he could.

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Taglist: @ilovecandys2010  @ollieoven @kingofspadesdelusion @whimsybloom

[reidmarieprentiss]

Unauthorized Documentary 0.5

Summary: Matthew Gray Gubler is filming his untitled documentary, you hate it (not really).

Pairing: Matthew Gray Gubler x fem!reader

Category: fluff

Warnings/Includes: fake arguing, fake fighting, mean reader (it's fake)

Word count: 1.6k

a/n: i am rewatching the documentaries right now and i need this man so bad

main masterlist 1.0

“I am not Matthew’s girlfriend,” you sighed heavily, rolling your eyes in exasperation. “I have no idea why he keeps telling people that.”

The camera panned slightly, focusing on your expression as the cameraman shrugged nonchalantly. His lack of input only seemed to fuel your irritation.

Turning sharply to face the lens, you stared directly into it with a deadly serious expression. With an intense tone, you declared, “Let me make this absolutely clear for anyone dumb enough to be watching anything about Matthew Garbler — I have never, and will never, date that pathetic freak.”

The silence that followed hung in the air, your words ringing with unapologetic finality.

The camera pulled back slightly, catching more of the chaotic surroundings: a cluttered dressing room filled with mismatched furniture, half-empty coffee cups, and a life-size cardboard cutout of Matthew Gray Gubler in a pirate hat.

From behind the camera, a voice asked, dripping with sarcasm, “So you’re saying there’s no chance for a romantic subplot?”

You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Romantic subplot? This isn’t some trashy rom-com. This is real life! And in real life, I wouldn’t date Matthew if he was the last human being on this planet. I’d rather marry the cardboard cutout.” You gestured dramatically at the pirate Matthew, who seemed to smirk mockingly at you.

The cameraman snorted. “Right. But you’re still his assistant?”

“I’m his manager,” you snapped, your eyes narrowing. “And don’t you dare forget it. I keep that lunatic’s life from imploding every single day. And what do I get in return? A stupid title on this dumb documentary and people thinking I’m his girlfriend? Unbelievable.”

—

Later, the camera turns on Matthew, his brow furrowed and his expression caught somewhere between confusion and mild panic. “She said what?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

From behind the camera, a voice awkwardly clarified, “Uh, she said she’s not your girlfriend.”

Matthew’s eyes widened for a moment before narrowing slightly. He made a quick hand motion, his tone turning sharp. “Show me the footage.”

The screen jumps back to Matthew as he watches the clip. He forces an uncomfortable laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “She’s so funny,” he says, his voice cracking slightly. “That’s just how Y/N is… she likes to joke around like that.”

The camera slowly pans away, catching you in the background, deep in conversation with one of the producers. Your body language is animated, your irritation still evident as you gestured emphatically.

“Fuck,” Matthew mutters under his breath, the nervousness in his voice escalating. He whirls around, shouting over his shoulder, “Cut that, cut all that!”

Before anyone can respond, he bolts from the set, his hurried footsteps fading as the shot lingers awkwardly on the empty doorway he’s just fled through.

—

While you were giving another uncomfortable interview for the cameraman, the door burst open, and Matthew himself waltzed in, juggling three cups of coffee. “Guess what, everyone! I’ve decided to legally change my name to ‘Gublé,’ like the singer, but with pizzazz. Thoughts? Be honest but supportive.”

You turned to the camera, your mouth slightly agape as if asking the audience for strength. “This is my life.”

“Wait,” Matthew cut in, setting the coffee cups precariously on a stack of scripts. “Did you tell them about us?” His eyes sparkled mischievously.

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of your head. “For the hundredth time, there is no ‘us.’ There never was and never will be!”

“Ah, denial,” Matthew said wistfully, draping himself across the nearest chair like a Victorian maiden. “It’s the first stage of acceptance, you know.”

The cameraman’s voice chimed in again, amused. “That’s grief.”

“Well, I’m grieving her lack of enthusiasm for our undeniable chemistry!” Matthew quipped, pointing dramatically at you before turning to the camera. “Did you catch that? That’s good TV, folks. Make sure you zoom in on her frustration—it’s practically Shakespearean.”

You threw up your hands in defeat. “I’m quitting,” you declared, marching toward the door. “I’m leaving, and I’m never coming back.”

“Wait!” Matthew leaped up, his tin foil cape trailing behind him. “Before you go, do you want one of these coffees? I got your favorite!”

You stopped, turning slowly. “No.”

—

You stormed into Matthew’s trailer, not bothering to knock. He was sitting on the edge of a couch, exaggeratedly flipping through a script as he was recorded, but the moment he saw your expression, his face fell.

“Stop,” you said sharply, pointing a finger at him. “Stop telling people I’m your girlfriend. It’s weird as fuck, Matthew.”

He blinked, momentarily stunned, before awkwardly laughing and setting the script aside. “Oh, come on, Y/N. It’s just for the bit—it makes the show more, you know, engaging.”

You crossed your arms, glaring at him. “Engaging for who? Because I don’t think the fake audience gives a shit about your fake relationship narrative. And I’m certainly not here for it.”

Matthew shifted uncomfortably, avoiding your gaze. “I mean, technically, it’s not really fake—”

Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“Well,” he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck, “we’ve spent a lot of time together. People see that and, you know, assume things. I just… lean into it.”

“You lean into it?” you repeated incredulously. “Matthew, no one is assuming anything. You’re making it up and then selling it like a damn tabloid story!”

He held up his hands defensively. “Okay, okay, you’re right. I’ll stop. I swear. I’ll—” He paused, his eyes darting to the camera peeking through the crack in the door. “Is this… are we filming right now?”

You turned your head sharply to catch the lens disappearing behind the door frame. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Matthew grimaced. “It’s for the show?”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Matthew. Fix it. Now.”

“I will!” he promised, scrambling to his feet. “I’ll tell them it was all a misunderstanding. Like, tomorrow. Maybe.”

“Today,” you snapped, pointing at him one last time before turning on your heel to leave. “Or I’m moving to another continent, got it?”

Matthew sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop. I promise. No more telling people we’re together.”

You stared at him for a long moment, your arms still crossed. “You’d better,” you said firmly. “Because if I hear one more person ask me what our anniversary is or how you proposed, I’m going to lose it.”

“Got it,” he said quickly, nodding like a chastised child. “No more fake girlfriend stories. Swear on my vintage ghost-hunting equipment.”

“Good,” you said, heading for the door. But just as you reached for the handle, you turned back one last time. “And for the record? If you ever pull this stunt again, I’ll leak the footage of you crying at craft services over them being out of grape soda.”

Matthew gasped, clutching his chest in mock horror. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me,” you deadpanned before slamming the door behind you.

Inside the trailer, Matthew let out a long, defeated sigh before muttering under his breath, “She totally loves me.”

—

After the cameras had been packed up for the day and the set was finally quiet, you made your way to Matthew’s trailer. The door was slightly ajar, and you knocked softly before stepping inside. He was mid-way through changing out of his Spencer Reid clothes, tugging off the familiar cardigan with his back turned to you.

“Hey,” you greeted, a playful grin tugging at your lips.

Matthew spun around quickly, his face lighting up with a matching smile the moment he saw you. “Hi, love,” he said warmly, walking over to you without hesitation. His hands found your waist as he pulled you closer. His expression softened as he asked, “Are we okay?” There was a hint of hesitation in his voice, like he was bracing for a blow.

You tilted your head, confusion flickering across your face. “Of course, baby,” you replied, your hand instinctively reaching up to cup his cheek. Your thumb brushed against the slight stubble there as you searched his eyes. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

Matthew let out an awkward laugh, his grip tightening slightly as if to ground himself. “You were just... really convincing today,” he admitted, his words tumbling out with a sheepish smile.

“Oh, that?” you chuckled softly, rolling your eyes. “Matthew, you know I have to sell it, or the bit doesn’t land. That’s the whole point, right? It’s supposed to be funny.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, though the nervous edge in his laugh hadn’t quite disappeared. “But for a second there, I thought you actually hated me.”

Your expression softened at his words, and you leaned in to press a quick kiss to his lips. “I could never hate you,” you murmured against his mouth. “You’re ridiculous, sure. Annoying sometimes? Definitely. But I love you, even when you make up insane fake-girlfriend narratives.”

A relieved grin spread across his face as he leaned his forehead against yours. “Good,” he said softly. “Because I really don’t want to get in trouble with my real girlfriend.”

You laughed, your fingers threading through his hair. “Well, you’re not off the hook just yet,” you teased, a mischievous glint in your eye. “You owe me dinner for all the grief you caused today.”

“Done,” Matthew replied instantly, his smile turning playful. “But only if you promise not to leak that grape soda footage. My reputation depends on it.”

“Depends on how good the dinner is,” you shot back with a smirk.

“Challenge accepted,” he said, his lips capturing yours again in a kiss that promised he’d make it up to you.

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[halfvalid]

nobody but you

ABOUT

alternate title: the jealous character trope is actually kinda fun to write

rating: teen+

characters: live action!roronoa zoro | fem!reader | live action!vinsmoke sanji | live action!straw hats ensemble

pairing: live action!roronoa zoro x fem!reader

word count: 3.5k

description: sanji flirts endlessly with you while dining at the baratie. zoro is displeased.

tags: strawhat!reader, female reader, fluff, kissing, no use of 'y/n', establishment of relationship, flirting, alcohol consumption, pda

author’s note: i got like ~5 requests to write this so here you guys go! this was a popular one lmao. the story is a vague spinoff to my other fic pretty in that, but it doesn't have to be read to understand this one.

You’d volunteered to deal with the docking fees for the Going Merry, locking up the pirate ship as the rest of the crew entered Baratie. You were just five or so minutes late entering after the restaurant the rest of the Straw Hats had gone into. You’d never seen anything like it before—an eatery right in the middle of the ocean, in the shape of a giant fish. 

You stepped into the building cautiously, glancing around the wide expanse of the main room to try and catch a glimpse of your friends. The restaurant was big, with a mezzanine that you’d entered in and stairs leading down to the first floor. The host, a fishman who was standing at the reservation desk, glanced up to take a look at you. 

“Ah, you must be with the pirates,” he said pleasantly. “Right this way, miss.” 

You nodded, wondering how Luffy was intending on paying for the bill of such a place as you scoped out the area. It was far nicer than anything you would’ve expected—but then again, he’d somehow managed to score the Going Merry from Kaya back in Syrup Village, so you figured he’d work something out. 

Finally, you caught a glimpse of the rest of your crew, tucked away in a circular side booth that the fishman led you to. Luffy brightened upon seeing you, waving you over with a hand so excitedly you feared it was about to flop around like rubber. Considering his powers, that was a more than likely situation, actually. 

“Thank you,” you told the host, then turned towards your friends. “No food yet?” 

“You didn’t miss much,” Usopp said, a little snicker in his voice. “Just the waiter getting our drink orders. He was flirting the heck outta Nami.”

“Oh?” you asked, a smile flickering up your lips. The only open space in the table was between Zoro and Nami—you gave Zoro a confused look, and he gestured down to his swords, which were caught in the ledge between the chair and the wall. You snickered. “Ro. You’re such a loser.” 

“Shut up,” Zoro muttered, hand on your waist as you climbed over him to get to the empty seat. It stayed there for a moment longer, even after you’d arranged yourself in the seat, before he finally dropped his hand. Usopp made a face that you pointedly ignored. 

“What’d you guys order?” you asked instead. If there’d been a menu available, the waiter had probably taken it away; still, there wasn’t much variety in the East Blue, so you could expect there’d be a lot of seafood and not much else. 

“One of everything,” Luffy responded brightly. “So we’ll be able to try the whole menu!” 

“You sure that’s a good idea, Cap?” you asked, brows raised. Luffy shrugged. 

“I don’t see why not.”

“Quit it with the nickname,” Zoro muttered. Neither him or Nami had gotten any more receptive to it since you’d first started calling Luffy it. Usopp didn’t seem so keen on it either—if only because he fancied himself Captain Usopp. Luffy liked it, though, and that pleased you enough to keep using it.

“I’ll get you to start saying it eventually,” you teased, nudging Zoro in the arm. He shook his head, but there was a suggestion of a smile on his lips as he glanced away. “Just you wait.” You turned to Nami, eyes sparkling. “What about the waiter, though? Was he cute?” 

Usopp laughed at that, and Nami gave you a disparaging look. “Come on,” she started. “Not you too. Zoro was all—” 

The sound of footsteps cut off her speech, and you glanced up to find a lean, blond man pausing by the lip of your table. He held a silver plate, upon which perched a variety of different drinks—beers, milk, water. “Here are your drinks,” he said, voice lifting with an accent you couldn’t quite place. “And appetizers.” 

He had just finished placing the last of the drinks balancing on his forearm on the table when the waiter glanced up and registered you sitting there. His expression instantly changed, the crease of his mouth softening into a pleasant smile, his previously-dull blue eyes bright and sparkling. “Well, hello there. An addition?” 

“Yeah, sorry I’m late,” you said. The waiter flashed a grin, white ivories shining under the fluorescents.  

“Oh, absolutely no problem. They say those who are late are fashionable, and you, madam, certainly fit the bill,” the waiter said. Your eyes widened, glancing over to Nami to find her shaking her head, but the waiter didn’t stop there. “I’m Sanji. What can I get for you to drink? We’ve got a wide selection of fine wines that might suit your taste.” 

“Oh, um—” you started, glancing at the rest of your crew again. Usopp was hiding his snicker, and Nami was giving you a tired look. Assumedly this had been the man who’d tried it on her, too—to unfortunate ends, probably, considering how Nami was. Not that this would be any more effective on you. Your eye was already captured by a particular green-haired swordsman, after all. “I don’t really have anything in mind.”

Sanji looked pleased about that, clasping his hands together around his platter. “Ah, let me guess, then. A bayberry or red currant wine, perhaps? Fruity, tart, full of flavor.” he winked. “A feisty drink for a feisty girl.” 

“Can’t say I’ve tried it, but sure,” you said, the faintest smile on your lips. “I’ll let you know how I like it.” 

Sanji grinned, looking rather satisfied with that, a delighted little smile on his lips. “One red currant wine, then. I’ll have it right out. And would you also like to order a meal, or…” He glanced over at Luffy, presumably referencing your captain’s more-than-outrageous order. “Are you all set?” 

“I think we’re set, thanks,” you assured, and Sanji nodded. He flashed you another bright smile before turning on his heel back off to the kitchen. 

Usopp finally let out the laughter he’d been keeping in, choked sounds emitting from his throat as he thudded his chest with a fist. You rolled your eyes, but it was good-natured, letting Usopp laugh. 

“Well, at least I’m not being singled out,” Nami said with a sigh, and you exchanged a sympathetic glance with her. She patted your hand comfortingly, then scrutinized the water Sanji had gotten her. “At least he didn’t put it in a flute.” 

“Zoro, you’ve got competition!” Usopp called, still laughing from the entire ordeal. You glanced to your side, to where the swordsman sat. Zoro had stiffened sometime during the conversation, jaw clenched and arms wound tightly across his chest. He hadn’t even touched the beer that Sanji had set in front of him, eyes fixed carefully to a spot beside Luffy’s head and refusing to look over at you. 

“He’s a waiter,” Zoro said crisply. “He buses tables for a living.” With that, he grabbed his bottle, popping the tab and taking a swig. 

“I don’t know, man, did you see the way he took down those pirates?” Usopp turned to you, all excited again. “Oh, you missed this whole thing! Two pirates were fighting over a seat or something, and Sanji just demolished both of them! You would’ve loved it.” 

“He is a really good fighter,” Luffy agreed. Their words did nothing but seem to annoy Zoro further. 

“Can we not talk about the restaurant personnel? Surely you can think of more interesting topics of conversation.” His tone was sharp, and all icy, and you inched your hand closer to his leg to tap his thigh in question. He glanced down at your touch, but didn’t deign to say anything else. He just picked up his beer again, nursing it while the rest of the crew continued on with their conversation. 

Despite Luffy changing the subject, Zoro didn’t speak, and you kept peeking glances over at him in concern. Your feelings for him had just continued developing ever since Syrup Village, although neither of you had reasonably talked about the closet incident since it’d happened. What with the reveal of Kuro and the escape from the marines and all, there hadn’t exactly been time to. But you’d been on good terms, and the actions he made around you—pressing a hand to your waist as you moved past him, turning towards you first mid-conversation, shoving you down when the marines had fired their first cannon at the Going Merry. 

Before you could whisper to him and question what his silence was about, though, Sanji reappeared, carrying two platters filled to the brim with plates. They were laden with different types of meat and vegetables, sauces glinting under the light and hot steam still billowing. 

He set the dishes on the table, somehow managing to arrange them so they all fit on the countertop. Sanji set down the last plate then turned to you, placing a glass and a bottle of dark crimson wine on the table in front of you. He had to lean over Zoro to reach, and Zoro flinched, but still didn’t say anything as Sanji uncorked the bottle and poured you a glass. 

“Tell me what you think,” he said, all smiles again. “I’ll be embarrassed if it isn’t to your liking.”

You picked the glass up, swirling it carefully inside the glass before leaning down into the cup to take in a full sniff. You tilted your head back to take a small sip, moving the liquid around your mouth to fully savor the flavor before finally swallowing. The wine was sweet, light rather than rich with a delicate tartness that burst on your tongue. You glanced up just to see a giant grin had stretched up Sanji’s mouth, brightening his face up considerably. 

“What?” you asked. 

“Not often do I see a patron who knows how to taste wine properly,” Sanji answered with a little duck of his head. “A lady of class, I see. How do you like it?” 

“Not too strong. I like the tartness,” you answered. “A good recommendation. Thank you.” 

Sanji gave you a little bow, hand flourishing to the side as he dipped his head. “I live to serve.” 

“Yeah, well, why don’t you serve me another beer?” Zoro said abruptly. Usopp coughed, and you could see Nami elbow him out of your peripheral vision. Luffy just looked confused. 

Sanji’s face fell almost immediately after Zoro had spoken, his eyes flickering away from yours. “Of course. I’ll be right back,” he said, a tight smile at his lips. He ducked out of the booth, and Zoro let out an irritated noise, tongue flicking against from the roof of his mouth. 

Usopp snorted, fully this time, and you turned to glance over at him—he and Nami were both hiding their gazes, though you could see smiles cracked along their lips. 

Zoro glared at them. “Shut it.” 

“Not saying anything!” Usopp said, though he half-hid behind Luffy like Zoro was going to lunge over the table to get to him. That didn’t seem… entirely unlikely, actually; Zoro’s right hand rested firmly on the handle of one of his swords, fingers ready to pull the blade at any second. You watched him out of the corner of your eye, wanting to say something. But not in front of everyone else. It wouldn’t be appropriate, you decided. 

Eventually your meal wound down to an end. Zoro got less and less tense throughout it, though you were fairly certain that was due to the drinks he was having rather than any actual reassurance. Sanji, thankfully, came back with the bill in the middle of a conversation you really didn’t want to think about—Luffy and his marine grandfather was not something your mind wanted to dwell on—only for him to disappear again. 

Just moments later, a man with a braided mustache came storming out of the kitchen. Luffy did some more of his Luffy nonsense, and, honestly—you were getting too tired about all of this to pay any close attention. You spared a glance over at Zoro again. His face was as blank as ever.  

“Okay,” Usopp said slowly, a few delayed seconds after who’d undoubtedly been the head chef yanked Luffy out of his seat. “I’m ready to check out whatever’s outside. Let’s go.” 

“What about Luffy?” you asked, perplexed. 

“He’ll find his way out of that,” Nami said with a sigh. She stood up, knocking back the rest of her drink. Since she wasn’t exactly wrong, you got up, glancing over your shoulder at the last of the group that remained seated. “Zoro?” 

Zoro was staring into his now-empty bottle of beer. He still seemed off, the line of his mouth creased downwards, jaw set tight. “Yeah,” he said finally, standing to his full height and slipping out of the booth. He offered you a hand, helping you down from your seat, but said nothing more. 

The four of you headed out to the mouth of the Baratie fish, which boasted a bar decorated with neon lights. You found a place to sit by the fish’s bottom lip, and you turned in your seat, staring out at the sea. The water was dark with the night, peaceful ripples moving across the water that sent shimmering waves across the blue. 

“I’m gonna get a drink,” Usopp said. “Come, Nami?” 

“Huh?” Nami glanced up, and you turned to watch the exchange. “Oh, I’m okay, Usopp. Thanks, though.” 

“No,” Usopp insisted, a smile still pasted on his face as he jerked his head, not very discreetly, in your and Zoro’s direction. Nami seemed to realize, then, eyes going wide before she got up from her seat. 

“Actually, on second thought, I’ll join you,” she said, far smoother than Usopp had been. “God knows you don’t have any money to pay for a drink.”

She breezed past him, ignoring the offended gape Usopp left in her wake before he was scrambling to follow her. You turned your attention towards Zoro—he was lounging in the seat across from you, one hand on his swords with his legs crossed. “Hi,” you said carefully. 

He stiffened. “Hey.” 

You pursed your lips, mulling over the ways to go about the conversation before ultimately deciding to spit it out. “What’s wrong?” At his raised brow, you were prompted to continue— “During dinner. You were acting weird.”

Zoro shook his head, dropping his gaze from yours. You could see the faintest trace of freckles spattered along his cheeks, the yellow glow from the lanterns reflecting off his skin. “Nothing’s wrong. Just… the waiter.”

“The waiter,” you repeated. Zoro shifted, legs uncrossing and hand tightening around his swords again. His voice was low the next time he spoke, and you could barely hear him, having to lean forward to catch all of his words.

“He was flirting with you.” 

Your breath hitched, but you tried to keep your tone casual. “He was flirting with Nami too,” you said, glancing up to meet his eyes. Zoro still wouldn’t meet your gaze, staring out into the East Blue behind you. 

“That’s different.” Zoro’s eyes finally lifted, long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks as you met eyes. You shivered, gooseflesh suddenly prickling up everywhere on your skin—the back of your neck, up your spine, down your arms and legs. “I don’t like Nami.” 

You tilted your head to the side, meeting his gaze. The words sent a little rush through you; a rush you got practically every time Zoro looked in your direction, actually, which was only a little bit annoying. The amount of influence a man you’d known for, comparatively, not that long had over you had you rolling your eyes all the time, but… you trusted Zoro at this point, as uncooperative as he and Nami had been throughout your entire journey. 

“You’re jealous of a waiter.” 

“Don’t—” Zoro sighed. “Don’t put it like that.” 

“But it’s true. You’re jealous of a waiter,” you said, unblinking. Zoro rolled his eyes, teeth resting along his lower lip in an almost-bite. You snickered, tone sloping upwards to become more teasing, almost sarcastic. “How the mighty have fallen. From me practically begging you to say I looked nice in a dress to this.” 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Zoro said, uncrossing his legs to lean over and press his hand over your mouth. You laughed, surprised, as he leaned over you, eyes sparkling at the reaction. “Not another word.” 

He removed his hand, giving you a look. You betrayed his trust almost immediately. “Of a waiter.” 

“Do you want me to put the hand back?” Zoro threatened, but you were full-on laughing by now, and he couldn’t do anything but watch. The sounds escaped from your mouth, ringing out in soft, lively hiccups. He shook his head, hand falling to his side as he watched you, a ghost of a smile tugging up the side of his mouth. 

“Sorry, Ro,” you said, unable to suppress your grin even as your laughter died off. “It’s a little funny, you have to admit.” 

“I’d like to hear you talk if someone was flirting with me,” Zoro muttered, so quiet you could barely hear. You had to stifle another laugh. 

“Okay, well, unlike you, I don’t get territorial over people I haven’t even talked about my relationship with, but I appreciate it.” You nudged him. “It’s kinda cute.”

Zoro seemed lost in the first half of your sentence, and you could practically see the cogs whirring in his head. For a moment, you were worried that the closet had been a one-time thing—but no, he’d mentioned just earlier that he liked you, so clearly something else was the matter. 

Your worries were answered in just another moment. “...We’re supposed to talk about our relationship?”

“Zoro.” You gave him a look of disbelief, forced to suppress another laugh, though this time it was out of incredulity. “Yes. Have you ever dated anyone before?” 

Zoro made a face at that. “Keeping that to myself, thanks.” He dropped his chin, glancing down at where you were, still leaning over you so you were forced to crane your neck to stare up at him. He tilted his head to the side. “So what kind of talking are we supposed to be doing?” 

“You know, the establishment of being exclusive; a cementation of our feelings; what the relationship entails; where we want it to go…” You paused, watching as his eyes flickered down your face. Your words were going in one ear and out the other. “You’re not listening at all, huh.” 

“Not really,” Zoro said, not sounding very apologetic about it. His free hand came to cup the underside of your jaw, tilting your head up just so. “Is the talking really that necessary?” 

You shrugged, trying to keep your cool. “Eventually.” 

“Eventually,” he repeated, stretching out the syllables of the word as he quoted you. “So we can do it another day.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to hide your smile. “What were you thinking?”

Zoro was slotting his lips over yours before you could say another word, his fingers digging into the hinge of your jaw to allow him better access. You smiled into the kiss, lips curling upwards and open to let him lick into your mouth. 

It wasn’t too risqué, but Zoro took your breath away all the same, an appreciative murmur low in his throat as he kissed you. One of your hands wrapped around his wrist, tugging him insistently downwards so you could get a better angle at his mouth, sucking gently at his lower lip. He nearly stumbled, losing his center of gravity before steadying himself, one hand coming to rest on your ribcage as the kiss deepened. 

“Guys!” Usopp’s voice came somewhere from the right, high-pitched and excessively scandalized. You felt Zoro scoff into your mouth.

“You realize you’re in public, right?” Nami deadpanned, plopping down in the seat next to you. You nudged Zoro’s head away, his hand still on your jaw, half-craned over your figure. Nami looked unimpressed, eyes flickering from Zoro to you and back again. “Get a room. Go back to the Going Merry for all I care.” She extended a hand, placing a mug of beer on the table before you before handing you a matching one. “I got you drinks. You’re welcome.” 

“Thanks,” you said, leaning up to press one final kiss on Zoro’s lips before turning to take the glass Nami had outstretched. Usopp groaned, covering his eyes with one hand and lifting a giant cup of something with the other. It was so big you wondered how he’d even been able to carry it. You eyed him. “You’re going to pass out drinking that.” 

Usopp made a face at you. You just laughed. 

“Sorted out your issues with the waiter, then?” Nami asked, turning to fix a knowing look on Zoro. He rolled his eyes, effortless as ever as he settled back down into his seat. 

“Still don’t like the waiter.” 

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, and Zoro scoffed, picking up the mug Nami had gotten him. You could see the smile behind the glass rim, though, even as he clearly tried to hide it, and matched it with one of your own. 

Zoro ducked his head to smile into his beer. Usopp made a gagging sound. “God,” Nami muttered, but their criticisms might as well have been deaf to your ears by then. 

All you could see was Zoro. 

© halfvalid 2023

[sleepyeepyp3rson]

wwe/pro fighters!141 x announcer!reader

John Price, former two-time Wold Champion, the Bear of the Ring, back from retirement. Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, a newcomer, moving on up to the big leagues. The Golden Boy of London. John "Soap" MacTavish, the Street Fight Champion, the half of the most menacing duo in WWE history. And "Ghost," the Shadow of the Ring, who won last seasons duo Championship with Soap.

an: i JUST got into wwe, so sorry for any inaccuracies! correct me, it's always fun to learn more :3 also also! my first full fic 😭😭 got SO SCARED posting this so sorry if it low key sucks, if it doesn't, i have plans for a second one + shoutout to my awsome beta reader (my best friend)

(masterlist, 2)

Recently, one of the announcers retired after a long career, and WWE scrambled to find a suitable replacement that wouldn't cause an uproar in the dedicated fanbase.

They chose you. A person with an impressive resume and a quick wit, willing to be accidentally trampled if need be. And the best part for the company? The fans love you, some even making compilations and edits of you. Of the few moments you get shown on camera at least. (The wrestlers are the main event.) And the wrestlers seem to like you just fine. Better than the refs and each other, at least. The 141 seem to like you the most, though.

Price, just coming back from a short retirement, was the first match you narrated. You loved him growing up, the finishing moves, the walkout song (Thunderstruck AC/DC,) everything. He put the attitude in the Attitude Era, the main event, the headliner. Then he retired.

You cried during his final show. Being one of the live announcers for his comeback now is huge for you.

He walked out on the ring, fought like hell, and at one point he slung his opponent over the net and the guy crashed into your table. Admittedly it was a little frightening, but seeing John Price drag the guy kicking and screaming back into the ring by his hair was enough of a reward. And the gruff "Sorry, dove," he said to you certainly didn't make anything worse.

But you thought that was it for the nicknames.

Until Gaz. Every match he has, whenever he has the mic, he's referencing you at least once, with an added "Love" or "Sunshine" to it. That alone gave you a thousand more followers on your Instagram, but the post he made on Twitter? At least ten thousand. And it wasn't anything major, but being the "Golden Boy" comes with certain privileges, and he uses them well. You start researching him after that, and he hasn't done that for any other announcer.

Soap and Ghost’s first team-up of the season has them against the men they stole the Duo Champions titles from. Graves and Makarov. Match made in Hell, the two of them. They can't stand each other, but they hate the 141 boys enough to justify a team-up.

During the match, Soap broke Makarov's arm. Maybe he just forgot it wasn't his usual rules, or maybe it was the reference he made to you during the pre-fight trash-talk session. Either way, Ghost had his back, as always, and covered for him by throwing the rest of the match as the script told them to. Either way, they were disqualified.

And you? You're having the time of your life. The fights are right up by your face, the adrenaline rush right there, and this time you actually get to chase it.

Maybe you're egging them on a bit. Grinning like mad during Price's first match, responding to Gaz's tweet and comments with nothing short of glowing praise, giving colorful commentary during Soap and Ghost’s fight. But who can blame you, really? For liking your job, for entertaining people.

Maybe that's why this match, the grand match between Task Force 141 and The Shadows is packed. You entertain people just as much as the wrestlers.

The lights flash, Thunderstruck plays, the 141 boys walk out. Then here comes Graves for a rematch against the ones who broke his arm, complete with his entourage behind him. Surprisingly the whole broken arm thing fits the storyline well, after some panicking from the writers and producers.

"Your boy broke my arm." Graves starts, grin sharp, canines poking out. Grinning despite the red-hot pain in his arm.

"We do what we have to. Keep your mouth shut next time, aye?" It's a measured response from Price, but the headbutt Soap does as soon as the sentence settles is definitely not.

"Grab your popcorn people, the world's Street Fight Champion Soap is jumping right into the fight!" And there's your voice, over the speakers. Sounding thrilled.

The fans both cheer and jeer and Ghost’s chant is started up, a steady thump, thump, of boots on the floor of the stadium.

The fight starts without much else, men thrown and chairs cracked over heads. With the disadvantage Graves has, it's clear who will win, but the play-by-play is still fun to give.

"Oh! And Graves has got Soap on the ropes, can he break his hold- and Ghost runs up behind him, always on his six, yanking Graves away! This is the Champion duo ladies and gentlemen."

And maybe it's distracting the boys a little. Maybe Johnny puffs up a little when you point out his title, maybe Ghost looks over at the booth for a little too long. Just maybe. And just maybe that gives the Shadows an opening for a takedown move or two. And just maybe, the 141 loses twice in a row.

[oh-obrien]

GRID ACE 0.1

GAMER READER X Lestappen SMAU

Summary: Reader is a Red Bull e-sports athlete who happens to catch the attention of two particular drivers with her streams

I am new-ish to the F1 fandom so hopefully I didn't mess this up too bad! I used to be an AVID fic writer on wattpad and I dabbled here in imagines and what not but a full time job (and a boyfriend who got me more into gaming RUDE) really shits on my desire to write sometimes and i found that SMAU's seem to be super popular in this fandom and they felt perfect 😊!

And my requests for these are open!!

All pictures are from Pinterest!!!

Reader has various face claims!

Masterlist / Next Part

Xx.y/n.xX just posted

Liked by yourbestfriend, maxverstappen1, and 6,756 others

Xx.y/n.xX the only appropriate way to spend a Friday night pre-stream

Yourbestfriend val really????

-> Xx.y/n.xX it’s almost like I’m a professional or something 🥸

-> yourteammate1 professional bottom frag maybe

-> Xx.y/n.xX SIT DOWN YOU INSTALOCK REYNA

User1 I fear the girlies claws are out today

-> Xx.y/n.xX I did do my nails today 😌

-> User1 THE QUEEN RESPONDED

-> Xx.y/n.xX rainy Friday nail day video coming to you soon!

Redbullgaming we love to see our number 1 girl on the grind

liked by maxverstappen1

-> Xx.y/n.xX awww admin you’re gonna make me blush

->yourteammate2 STOP STROKING HER EGO SHE ALREDY TOP FRAGS

-> Xx.y/n.xX get better then???

User2 is no one going to talk about THE Max Verstappen being in the likes?????

-> Xx.y/n.xX @ maxverstappen1 goes vroom vroom for RB 🤝 I go pew pew for RB

-> maxverstappen1 🫡

-> Xx.y/n.xX see he gets it!!

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Xx.y/n.xX just posted

liked by maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc, and 12,568 others

Xx.y/n.xX join me, a Redbull vroom vroom driver and some other vroom vroom guy (his team is the red one apparently) on a stream!

Redbullgaming hope @ maxverstappen1 didn’t embarrass the name too bad

-> Xx.y/n.xX he went 4/22/2 his first game @ redbullracing please take him back!!! 😵‍💫

-> charles_leclerc I went 6/18/4! 😌

-> Xx.y/n.xX I’ve been informed this one belongs to you @ scuderiaferrari please tell him to stick to cars!!

-> Scuderiaferrari it’s not a race weekend he isn’t our problem

-> Xx.y/n.xX this is why I’m a @ redbullracing fan

-> Redbullgaming your contract also helps

Maxverstappen1 I’d like to see you behind the wheel of my car then

-> Xx.y/n.xX @ Redbullracing am I ‘on the grid’ (I was told those are the appropriate terms) next weekend?

-> Redbullracing y/n reserve driver when???

-> Xx.y/n.xX @ Redbullgaming you’re going to need to find a new Neon main 🫣

-> Redbullgaming @ redbullracing I’m afraid we need to keep this one, you don’t want her anyways (she bites)

-> Charles_leclerc I won’t complain about biting

liked by @ Maxverstappen1

User3 I’m sorry Max AND Charles streaming with her??

-> User4 like exactly????

-> User5 she doesn’t realize how lucky she is?

-> Xx.y/n.xX they were actually horrible teammates so…

-> User4 WAIT DID YOU NOT SEE THE COMMENT CHARLES DELETED????

-> User3 WHAT???

-> Xx.y/n.xX I plead the fifth, I’m American I can do that.

Landonorris where was my invite?

-> Xx.y/n.xX @ maxverstappen1 @ charles_leclerc does this one vroom vroom too?

-> Maxverstappen1 yes.

-> charles_leclerc yes.

-> Xx.y/n.xX ☠️

Teammate3 you traded us in?

-> Xx.y/n.xX more like downgraded

-> User6 PLEASE. I am living for Y/N absolutely roasting Max and Charles any chance she gets.

-> Xx.y/n.xX I mean @ charles_leclerc roasted himself with Brim’s molly so…. Not really my fault?

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Charles_leclerc just posted

tagged @ maxverstappen1 @ Xx.y/n.xX

Liked by Xx.y/n.xX, maxverstappen1, and 24,568 others

Charles_leclerc when the groupchat finally meets up

Xx.y/n.xX vroom vroom 🏎️

-> User7 I love how unserious she is like she didn’t just spend the weekend with Max and Charles

-> Xx.y/n.xX I actually spent the weekend with bottom frag and almost bottom frag, who holds which title is interchangeable they haven’t earned names yet.

-> Scuderiaferrari TECHNICALLY they were first and second frag on the podium

-> Xx.y/n.xX excuse me admin, I didn't say you could speak

-> Charles_leclerc excuse me y/n, I didn't say you could be in my comments

-> Landonorris @ Xx.y/n.xX you're allowed in my comments

-> Maxverstappen1 no.

-> Charles_leclerc no.

-> Xx.y/n.xX I KNOW THIS ONE HE'S AN ORANGE VROOM VROOM @ landonorris

User7 are we not going to talk about how fast she managed to get to a GP?

-> User8 are we not going to talk about how fast it feels like this friendship developed

-> User7 or how she already has other drivers joking with her too?

-> Xx.y/n.xX I'm a big kid I can get myself to a GP

Danielricciardo Y/N showed the entire gird up at the after party

-> User9 DETAILS????

-> Xx.y/n.xX a lady never shares her secrets 🤫

-> Maxverstappen1 a lady does share her shots though

Liked by @ Charles_leclerc

-> Xx.y/n.xX SILENCE BOTTOM FRAG NUMBER ONE

Teammate1 We need her back soon thxxxxxx

-> Xx.y/n.xX I fear they have discovered they can't win games without me

-> Landonorris y/n carry!!

Liked by @ Maxverstappen1 and @ Charles_leclerc

-> Xx.y/n.xX nevermind the orange vroom vroom man can stay, I like him.

-> Maxverstappen1 no.

-> Charles_leclerc no.

Redbullgaming we hope you had a great time y/n (you better have spent time in the @ redbullracing garage also)!!!

-> Xx.y/n.xX this feels like a threat admin?

-> Maxverstappen1 sadly she was in the garage, she knocked over some tires and just said oops

->Xx.y/n.xX you love me

Liked by @ Maxverstappen1

-> User10 umm guys????? CAN WE TALK ABOUT THIS???

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Tweet 1

User13 The trio we didn't know we needed but we can't live without 🫡

-> User14 Did you see the tweet someone posted where they were apparently FLIRTING at dinner?

-> User13 NO?!?!?!

-> User14 @ User12 posted it go look at the thread

User15 I fear we have lost another one of the girlies chat

->User14 Y/N will always be a girls girl

User16 what is she doing in Monaco?

->User17 hanging out with vroom vroom boys apparently

->User16 hopefully we get a stream while she's there then!

-> Xx.y/n.xX I'm already on it, I'm trying to make sure they don't embarrass me though, they're not allowed to stream until they can go even

-> User14 She sees everything.

-> Xx.y/n.xX Yes, yes I do (so do bottom frag number one and two)

Tweet 2

User12 they were all sitting super close together and y/n kept touching both their arms, lots of shoulders bumping and giggling. They were also all totally sharing food which was kind of cute.

-> User18 sharing food??? I need DETAILS.

-> User12 they all kept just shoving their forks on to each others plates no asking or anything just stealing each others food.

-> Xx.y/n.xX to be fair we all got stuck super close together at the table so like no choice there (ick), and on the sharing we were all indecisive so sharing is caring ❤️

->User20 SHE REALLY SAID ICK.

->Xx.y/n.xX my mama always taught me boys have cooties sooooo...

User19 HELLO? Did you ask for a picture or anything like that?

-> User12 NO they literally looked like they were having the time of their lives? They kept swapping drinks and stuff too, the boys were LIVING for y/n’s fruity cocktails

-> Xx.y/n.xX I don’t drink wine, only mixed drinks or hard liquor, they were just mooching off my drinks because Mr. World Champion wouldn't order a little fruity drink himself.

-> User12 NOT THE WOMAN IN QUESTION IN MY REPLIES

-> Xx.y/n.xX I’m everywhere 👀

[helvegen-s]

step by step

an Oscar Piastri one-shot

Summary: After a devastating crash, Oscar Piastri’s road back to F1 is anything but smooth. Stuck with Mandy, his stubborn physiotherapist, he’s forced to face pain, fear, and emotions he never expected. Racing was always his dream—but now, she’s part of it too.

Word count: 12k (wtf)

TW: graphic depictions of injuries, medical procedures, strong language, emotional distress and trauma, disability, sex (not explicit)

A/N: god, I love oscar (even tho i make him suffer like a bitch in this one...) again, i promise it has a good ending, just bear with me

masterlist

Oscar Piastri was living the best moment of his career.

McLaren had made an incredible leap in performance, and though he wasn’t the main title contender, he was constantly fighting for podiums and key points. The season was a dream come true—strategies were working, his confidence in the car was absolute, and the team supported him every step of the way. There was nothing better than feeling that rush of adrenaline when lowering the visor, hearing the countdown on the radio before the start. Everything in his life revolved around Formula 1, and at that moment, nothing seemed capable of stopping him.

It was a race weekend at Spa-Francorchamps. The track, legendary and imposing, always demanded the absolute maximum. Rain had been a constant threat, and the race had started under mixed conditions, with the asphalt in that tricky in-between state—neither fully wet nor fully dry—that tested a driver’s instincts to the limit. Oscar felt in control, managing the tires with surgical precision, confident in every move.

Until he wasn’t.

The crash happened in an instant, a blink that changed everything. An unexpected touch, the car losing control, the barrier approaching at impossible speed.

The impact shook him like a rag doll. The crunch of twisted metal, the deafening crack of carbon shattering, the sheer violence of hitting the barriers—all of it collapsed into a single second of absolute terror.

And then, silence.

He didn’t lose consciousness. He wished he had.

The world slowed down, as if time itself refused to move forward. The pain didn’t come immediately, as if his body hadn’t yet figured out how to process what had just happened. But when it did, it was a burning wave that consumed him entirely.

His leg.

He tried to move, but he couldn’t. Something was wrong—very wrong. With difficulty, he turned his head and saw it. His right leg… bent at an impossible angle. His stomach lurched. He felt bile rising in his throat but could barely breathe. The blood darkened the bright orange of his suit, sticky, hot. His mind screamed, but his body didn’t respond.

“Oscar! Oscar, say something!” His engineer’s voice came through the radio, sharp and desperate.

He tried to answer. Tried to tell them he was there, that it hurt like hell, that he couldn’t move… but his throat made no sound. He could only gasp, feeling the pain expand, the panic grow with every beat of his heart.

“Oscar, respond! Can you hear me?” this time, he heard Zak’s voice.

Every second of silence only made the desperation on the radio worse. He knew they were all watching from the pit wall, that the cameras were on him, that the entire world was waiting for a sign.

But he couldn’t give them one.

Fear hit him harder than the impact against the barriers. His career, his life, everything he knew… was it over?

A violent spasm of pain made him clench his teeth so hard he thought they would break. His vision blurred. He heard noises around him—the screech of the safety cars, the hurried footsteps of the marshals running toward him, the sharp ringing in his ears.

“Oscar! We’re on our way! Don’t move!”

The emergency team arrived in seconds, though to him, it felt like an eternity. Firm hands touched his helmet.

“Oscar, breathe. We’re here.”

Breathe.

He tried, but the air came in ragged, shaky gasps. His chest rose and fell too quickly, like he was hyperventilating, but he couldn’t control it. Everything around him was a whirlwind of noise, flashing lights, faces he couldn’t focus on.

They pulled him from the car with the utmost care, but every movement sent unbearable pain through him. A strangled cry escaped his throat, and the voices around him became even more urgent.

Then the helicopter.

He felt it before he saw it. The pounding of the rotors in the air, the deafening roar that made his skull vibrate. He shut his eyes tightly. His body was shaking—he wasn’t sure if it was from the pain, the adrenaline, or pure terror.

Someone placed a mask over his face.

“Oscar, count to ten for me.”

One.

He thought of his wrecked car.

Two.

Of the leg he might never use again.

Three.

Of everything that was at stake.

Four.

Of the fear—the real fear—that maybe, just maybe, he would never be a driver again.

Five.

Darkness.

The days blurred into one another, indistinguishable, trapped in an endless cycle of pain and emptiness.

Surgeries followed one after another. Some days passed without intervention; on others, he woke up to the news that another operation had been scheduled—another attempt to save what was left of his leg.

It was absurd.

He didn’t need anyone to tell him how severe the injury was. He had known from the moment he saw the way his leg had been left in the car, from the instant he felt the indescribable pain as they pulled him out, from the way the doctors spoke in urgent terms, as if every second mattered.

Each surgery was a battle he had never asked to fight.

They administered anesthesia, his body sank into unconsciousness, and when he woke up… everything was still the same.

The same pain, the same feeling of being trapped in a body that no longer responded as it once had.

The same damn certainty that maybe, no matter how many operations they performed, he would never be the same again.

Sometimes, he woke up from the anesthesia feeling confused, disoriented, his mouth dry and his stomach churning. They tried to make him eat, but everything tasted like nothing. The food remained untouched on the tray as he simply turned his head away, unable to even attempt it.

The pain was a constant, a searing presence that settled deep in his bones and refused to let him breathe. The painkillers barely helped, and when they did, they left him in a lethargic state where reality and dreams blurred together in an unpleasant haze.

The only certainty was the passing of the days, marked by the doctors’ visits, by the sound of his own pulse in his ears, by the way night fell without him feeling like he had moved forward in any way.

Nothing.

That was the word that defined his existence now.

Nothing to think about, nothing to do, nothing to look forward to.

Only pain. Only uncertainty. Only the echo of a future that, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure still belonged to him.

The hospital clock marked time with cruel precision, each second dragging by like a silent sentence. Light filtered through the window at different times of the day, casting shadows on the white walls, but he never looked away from it.

Looking at anything else meant facing reality.

And he wasn’t ready for that.

His world had shrunk to that sterile room, to the machines beeping around him, to the soft murmurs of doctors coming and going, to the sound of doors opening when someone came to visit.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t look.

He didn’t have the strength to.

His mother had tried to talk to him at first. So had Lando. His childhood friends, the McLaren mechanics, Zak Brown… they all came in with the same worried expressions, with the same look of someone who wanted to say something but didn’t dare to.

He never looked at them.

He couldn’t do it without feeling a raw, burning anger in his chest. He couldn’t listen to them without the frustration building up like a knot in his throat. He couldn’t bear the weight of their concern, their pity.

Because if he did, it meant this was real.

It meant his career was in danger.

That his life was no longer his own.

That he was trapped in a bed, unable to move his own leg without feeling such unbearable pain that sometimes he wished they would put him to sleep and not wake him up until it was all over.

He clenched his jaw every time sharp, stabbing pain shot through his body, every time his leg—or what was left of it—reminded him of his own fragility. The doctors spoke of progress, of successful surgeries, of rehabilitation plans, but it all felt distant, irrelevant.

He knew that at some point, he would have to face it. That eventually, someone would force him to move, to try, to do something other than just lie there, feeling himself wither away.

But not today.

Today, he only stared out the window, lost in thoughts that ate away at him from the inside.

He replayed every second of the accident, like a broken film looping in his mind over and over again.

Could he have avoided it? Could he have turned sooner? Braked differently?

His brain tortured him with every possibility, every alternative, every little thing he could have done to not end up here.

To not be… this.

To not feel like a useless, broken piece of flesh.

And then she arrived.

The first time he saw her, Oscar barely lifted his gaze.

He heard her voice before he saw her—clear, firm, with not a hint of hesitation.

"Oscar, I’m Amanda, your physiotherapist. From now on, we’ll be working together."

He didn’t respond. He had no intention of doing so.

But then she stepped closer, placed a few papers on the table next to his bed, and waited. Not with endless patience, not with the forced sweetness he had noticed in other visitors. She simply waited.

And when he didn’t react, she continued.

"I know you probably hate me. Everyone does at first."

That, at least, made him look at her.

She wasn’t what he expected.

She wasn’t the image of an older therapist, hardened by years of experience. She wasn’t someone who radiated the wisdom of decades in the profession. She was young. Incredibly young to be standing there, to be the one McLaren had hired to fix him.

But she didn’t seem uncertain. Not even for a second.

She didn’t smile, didn’t try to soften her words. She simply looked at him with an impenetrable professionalism.

Oscar didn’t know what he had expected from the person who was supposed to give him his life back, but whatever it was, it wasn’t this.

It wasn’t someone who introduced herself with that much confidence, who spoke with that much honesty.

It wasn’t someone who, with complete calmness, made it clear that the worst was still ahead.

The sessions started the next day.

And within hours, she became the embodiment of his worst nightmare.

The pain was unbearable.

Oscar thought he knew physical suffering. He had felt it after minor accidents, after grueling races, after brutal training sessions. But this… this was different.

This had no purpose. No satisfying end. It wasn’t the consequence of something great, but of something that had taken everything from him.

“Move it.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I. Can’t.”

“Oscar.”

He hated the way she said his name. As if she had absolute certainty that he would succeed. As if she knew more about him than he did himself.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he tried, unsuccessfully, to move his leg. A single centimeter felt like a monumental task, and every time he tried, the pain blurred his vision.

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t offer empty words of comfort. She didn’t try to minimize his suffering.

She just waited.

Waited for him to try again.

And when he did—when he managed even the slightest progress—she nodded ever so slightly, as if she had expected nothing less.

She never praised him. Never told him he was doing a good job.

As if, to her, getting better wasn’t an option, but an inevitable fact.

Oscar hated that. He hated the certainty with which she believed in his recovery, because he didn’t believe in it himself.

But more than anything, he hated how, despite it all, every morning when he woke up, she was still there.

Always there.

Always with that same determined look.

Always with that same certainty.

Oscar didn’t know what was worse—the pain or the feeling that, somehow, she had no intention of letting him fall, when all he wanted was to let go.

When Oscar left the hospital, he didn’t feel relief.

He had expected that being back to his home in England, near the McLaren headquarters,would make everything easier. That the air wouldn’t smell of antiseptic, that his days wouldn’t be dictated by visiting hours and surgeries, that he could find some peace in the familiarity of his home.

But reality was different.

Being home meant facing life outside the hospital, and that terrified him.

His mother was there with him, helping with everything he needed. She never complained, never made him feel like a burden, but that only made things worse.

This place had once been his sanctuary. Now, every corner felt like a reminder of what he had lost.

Especially the garage.

He had turned that space into his personal gym back when he would spend hours training relentlessly. Now, that same space had been transformed into his rehabilitation room. The weights and machines were covered in dust, replaced by support bars, resistance bands, and a therapy table.

And Amanda—Mandy, as his mother insisted on calling her—was there every day.

She entered with the same energy she had at the hospital, unfazed by his silence or his bad mood. She greeted his mother with a smile before dragging Oscar’s chair to the garage, waiting for him to start the session.

And he did, because he had no choice.

The exercises were unbearable.

The pain burned.

Every time he tried to move, his leg felt like someone was driving a red-hot iron through it.

And Mandy showed no mercy.

“Up,” she ordered, arms crossed. “One more time.”

Oscar gritted his teeth and glared at her.

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Mandy, for fuck’s sake…”

“Oscar, for fuck’s sake.”

He let out a sarcastic laugh, incredulous.

She didn’t budge. She never did.

At night, when he dragged himself back to bed, exhausted and aching, he swore he hated her.

But no matter what he did or said, the next morning, she was always there.

Waiting.

But without a doubt, what he hated most about rehab were the days when Mandy helped him lie down on the therapy table, his right leg lifted, pink scars in plain sight.

Oscar hated these moments.

Not because they were the most painful—he reserved that for the rehab sessions where Mandy made him sweat until his muscles trembled—but because they left him completely exposed.

The massage sessions were necessary. He knew that. His leg had been through too many surgeries, too many stitches, too many hours of immobility. The skin was tight over the scars, the muscles stiff, and every movement reminded him that he wasn’t the same as before. Mandy said they needed to work on elasticity, circulation, pain relief. He listened to her say it in that neutral, almost dispassionate voice, as if she were talking about any other patient.

But that didn’t change the fact that it hurt like hell.

At first, he tried to endure it in silence. He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and held on. But the longer the session went on, the more unbearable it became. Mandy wasn’t exactly gentle, and even though she used oils and her hands were firm and skilled, she didn’t hold back when she needed to press on the tension points.

So, without thinking too much about it, Oscar started talking.

“You know Eau Rouge has a 17% incline?” he blurted out, his jaw tight.

Mandy didn’t stop but responded calmly. “Doesn’t surprise me. Spa is a brutal circuit.”

Oscar winced as her fingers ran over an especially sensitive scar.

“Technically, the corner isn’t just Eau Rouge. It’s part of Raidillon, but people say it wrong.”

“Mmm. Fascinating.” The lack of emotion in her voice told him she didn’t care at all.

But that didn’t stop him.

“Did you know Formula 1 had its first season in 1950? And that the world championship only had seven races?”

“Oscar.”

“Did you know Niki Lauda won the title in ‘84 without taking a single pole position all season?”

“Oscar.”

“Did you know—”

“Oscar.” This time, Mandy stopped, pressing his leg a little harder than necessary. She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re trying to distract yourself, aren’t you?”

He frowned but couldn’t deny it.

Mandy smirked and went back to work, massaging his leg with precision.

“It’s fine. Keep going. Surprise me.”

Oscar eyed her warily. “You don’t mind me talking?”

“I’d rather you talk than start yelling at me. Besides, I’m learning a lot. Like, what was that Spa incline again?”

“Seventeen.”

“Uh-huh. Good to know.”

The irony in her voice made him click his tongue, but for some reason, his initial frustration faded a little.

The conversation continued in a disjointed rhythm. Sometimes, Oscar complained about the pain; other times, he got distracted enough to forget why he was even talking so much. When Mandy pressed on an especially tight spot, he let out a grunt and muttered,

“I hate you.”

She didn’t even blink.

“You’re not the first to tell me that.”

That response, so unexpected and casual, made a laugh slip past his lips. Almost immediately, Oscar regretted it. He didn’t want to laugh with her. He didn’t want to like her.

But the truth was that, for the first time in a long while, the session hadn’t been just pain and frustration. And deep down, that terrified him.

The months passed, and though Oscar hated to admit it, he was starting to see results.

They weren’t huge, not yet. He wasn’t running, not even walking, but every day, there was something new. A little more mobility, a little less pain, a small victory that Mandy celebrated as if he’d just won a Grand Prix.

And the worst part was… he appreciated it.

The anger was gone. He no longer spent his days hating his leg or cursing his luck. Now, all that remained was frustration. The unbearable, slow, agonizing frustration of not being able to do what his body had been programmed to do for as long as he could remember.

But Mandy was there. Always.

And somehow, she had become the most constant thing in his life.

“Well, Piastri, today we’ve got a new set of exercises.” Mandy flipped through her notebook with a nonchalant air. “And by ‘new set,’ I mean you’re going to suffer.”

Oscar let his head fall back against the wheelchair and groaned.

“Why do you enjoy torturing me?”

“Why do you enjoy complaining?”

“Because you give me reasons.”

Mandy laughed and patted his good leg. “Come on, up.”

The sessions were exhausting. But Oscar had learned to tolerate them, partly because Mandy had stopped worrying about keeping up a strictly professional façade. Now she messed with him, made jokes at his expense, gave him ridiculous nicknames.

“That’s it, champ. You’re an inspiration.”

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously. Netflix probably wants to make a documentary about you. The Rebirth of Oscar Piastri.”

“Mandy.”

“One man, one mission. To reclaim his leg. But first, he must survive his physiotherapist.”

He scowled at her, but the amused glint in his eyes gave him away.

That was the other part of the equation: Mandy knew when to push him and when to let him breathe. There were days when, instead of doing the scheduled exercises, she simply pushed his wheelchair to the park behind his house.

She was sitting on a bench beside Oscar’s chair, the cool breeze on his face, and he took a deep breath.

"You know I want to come back, right?"

Mandy stared ahead, arms crossed over her chest, enjoying the warming sun.

"I know."

"You know I will come back."

She took a moment to respond.

"I know you want it with everything you have."

"That’s not the same."

Mandy turned to him, her expression serious.

"Oscar, if anyone can do it, it’s you. But I won’t lie to you. I don’t know how this is going to end. No one does."

It was the conversation he dreaded most. But it was also the one he needed the most.

"And if I can’t?" he asked quietly.

Mandy was silent for a moment. Then she sighed and nudged him lightly.

"Then you’d find another way to be happy."

Oscar glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

"Easy for you to say."

"No, it’s not. But it’s the truth."

They fell into silence.

Oscar thought about everything that had changed in the past few months. About the person he had been before the accident and the person he was now. He thought about Mandy, her laughter, her persistence, how she had become one of the few people he could truly be honest with.

And for the first time, he allowed himself to consider that maybe he wasn’t so alone in all of this.

The moment came without warning.

One day, after months of grueling exercises, of falls, of frustration, of pain, Oscar stood up.

It wasn’t heroic or cinematic. His legs trembled, his breathing was ragged, and every muscle in his body screamed in protest. But he did it.

With a crutch in one hand and his heart pounding in his ears, he took his first step without completely relying on someone else.

When he looked up, Mandy was watching him with a smile that held no trace of mockery.

"You’re a damn beast, Piastri."

He let out a shaky laugh, dropping his head forward as he tried to catch his breath.

But the victory was short-lived.

Because as soon as the news reached McLaren, so did the calls.

"How long do you think it’ll take for him to get back in a car?"

"What does his physiotherapist say?"

"Next season is already on the horizon. The sponsors are asking."

Oscar had lost count of how many times he had heard the word "normal" in the past few days, but every time he did, his stomach twisted.

He convinced himself that all of this was helping. Pressure had always been his fuel. If he worked harder, if he gave everything, if he pushed his body to the limit, maybe he could come back faster.

Maybe he could be himself again.

But what he refused to acknowledge was that, when left alone with his thoughts, the idea of coming back terrified him.

It wasn’t just the physical recovery. It was the uncertainty, the insecurity of not knowing if his body would hold up. If he would hold up.

And that was when the invitation arrived: an event at McLaren’s headquarters, with sponsors, staff, executives… Oscar had the sinking feeling they had invited him to reassure people. To put him on display, to let everyone see. "Look at him, he’s fine. He’s still alive. He has both legs."

The last rehab session before the event started like any other.

Mandy had set up a series of stability and mobility exercises. Nothing new. Nothing he hadn’t done before.

But at some point, everything started to fall apart.

The attack came without warning.

Oscar was standing, one hand gripping the crutch, the other pressed against the wall for balance. He had done this before, hundreds of times over the past months. One step, then another. Control the breath. Keep the posture.

But this time, something felt different.

First, a slight dizziness, a sharp pang of weakness in his injured leg. Then, his heart started pounding too hard, too fast. His skin felt hot and cold at the same time, a cold sweat running down his back.

He tried to take a deep breath, but the air wouldn’t fill his lungs.

No. Not now.

He couldn't breathe.

Panic hit him like a clenched fist to the chest. His heart pounded so hard it hurt, his hands trembled, his muscles tensed as if his entire body were in high alert.

Oscar staggered, and Mandy saw it before he could even get a word out.

"Oscar." Her tone changed in an instant. Firm, but concerned.

He tried to lift his gaze, but the room tilted around him. Everything was moving too fast and too slow at the same time.

"Oscar, sit down."

He didn’t know if she helped him or if his legs gave out on their own, but in the next instant, he was sitting on the bench against the wall, his head in his hands.

Everything was spinning.

He couldn’t breathe.

Each gasp of air got stuck in his throat.

“No… I can’t…”

His voice sounded strange, broken, like it didn’t belong to him.

Mandy knelt in front of him, hands on his shoulders, trying to ground him.

"Oscar, look at me."

He tried, but his vision was blurred, his chest so tight it felt like he was suffocating.

“Breathe with me, okay?” she said, taking his hand without hesitation. Her fingers were warm and steady around his. “Inhale. One, two, three. Exhale.”

Oscar trembled, his whole body shaking with chills, with the unbearable tension making him feel like he was about to fall apart at any moment.

“No… I can’t…”

“Yes, you can.” Mandy didn’t budge an inch. Her voice, though calm, held a note of urgency. “Listen to me, Oscar. You’re safe. You’re here with me. You’re not alone.”

You’re not alone.

Those words shattered him.

Oscar squeezed his eyes shut, but the tears came anyway, burning as they slid down his cheeks.

Months.

Months of holding everything in.

All the pain, all the frustration, all the anger, all the fear.

Months of pretending he was fine. Of smiling at the doctors, of enduring the pressure, of telling himself he had to be strong, that he had to keep going, that he had no other choice.

But there, in that moment, with Mandy holding onto him, with his ragged breathing and trembling body, everything broke.

Oscar gripped her with both hands, without even thinking, burying his face in her shoulder.

And he cried.

He cried like he hadn’t since the accident.

His body shook with every sob, every uneven breath. Mandy didn’t say anything, didn’t try to stop him or brush it off. She just wrapped both arms around his back and let him fall apart.

“I’m here,” she whispered, her fingers brushing the nape of his neck in an instinctive gesture of comfort. “I’m here, Oscar.”

He could only nod against her shoulder, because words wouldn’t come.

Everything he had buried crashed over him like an unstoppable wave.

The fear of never being the same.

The pressure of the entire world waiting for his return.

The terrifying possibility that, even if he came back, maybe he’d never be enough.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that. Only that, eventually, his breathing evened out, his grip on Mandy loosened a little, his head no longer felt like it was about to explode.

And she was still there.

She didn’t tell him to be strong.

She didn’t say everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t.

She just stayed with him.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes were still wet, but the storm inside him had quieted, at least a little.

Mandy handed him a tissue without a word.

Oscar took it, wiping his face with a tired, embarrassed laugh.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a list of clients who’ve cried in your arms.”

Mandy smiled, but her eyes still held concern.

“No, but you’re officially my most dramatic case.”

He let out a shaky chuckle.

She sighed, studying him with a sharp, assessing gaze.

“You don’t have to go tomorrow.”

Oscar looked down, twisting the tissue between his fingers.

“Yes, I do.”

Mandy didn’t argue.

She just placed a hand on his injured knee, steady as always.

“Then we do it your way. Not theirs.”

He didn’t answer right away.

But this time, when he looked at her, he felt like he could breathe.

The morning of the event arrived too fast.

Oscar looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, adjusting the collar of his shirt with trembling hands. He had spent months preparing for this moment. To prove to the world—and to himself—that he was ready, that he could come back.

But now, with the weight of expectations pressing on his shoulders, the fabric of his shirt felt too tight against his chest, like an invisible noose.

A soft knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts.

"Ready to dazzle the media?" Mandy peeked her head in with a half-smile.

Oscar exhaled sharply, letting his shoulders drop.

"If by ‘dazzle’ you mean not falling flat on my face in front of everyone, then yeah, I guess I’m ready."

Mandy stepped inside, crossing her arms as she looked him over.

"That’s not going to happen. You’ve worked too hard for this." She moved closer, automatically straightening his tie. "Besides, I’ll be there."

Oscar blinked.

"What?"

"I’m going with you."

He frowned, confused.

"Mandy, you don’t have to—"

"I’m not here because I have to," she cut him off, her tone firm, the one she used when she wasn’t taking no for an answer. "I’m here because I want to be."

Oscar didn’t know what to say.

There was something different in the way she looked at him now, something softer, warmer. It wasn’t just the professional watching over her patient. It was Mandy, his Mandy, the person who had seen him at his worst and never once backed away.

So instead of arguing, he just nodded.

"Thank you."

And this time, he didn’t just mean for the event.

The McLaren conference center was packed. Journalists, executives, sponsors—everyone was waiting for Oscar Piastri’s return.

Camera flashes flickered through the air, and voices blended into a constant hum. For a second, Oscar felt dizzy, the grip on his crutch making his knuckles turn white. Then, he felt a hand on his back.

Mandy.

"Breathe," she murmured next to him, so quietly only he could hear.

He did.

Every step he took was deliberate, measured, the cane clicking against the floor. He knew every eye in the room was on him, assessing him.

But he wasn’t alone.

Mandy walked beside him—his shadow, his anchor. Not in an obvious or overprotective way, but just enough for him to feel steady.

They approached the small stage where Zak Brown and Andrea Stella were waiting. The McLaren executives smiled at him, and though their words were encouraging, Oscar could feel the pressure behind every question.

"When will we see you back in the car?"

"How are you feeling physically?"

"Are you ready to compete again?"

Each question was a reminder of everything expected of him.

He smiled. Answered calmly.

"I’m working really hard on my recovery. I’m focused on coming back as soon as possible, but I want to do it right."

It was the right answer. The answer everyone wanted to hear.

But deep down, his chest tightened again.

The press conference went on, and while Oscar kept his composure, Mandy knew him well enough to notice the stiffness in his posture, the subtle clench of his jaw every time someone mentioned his return to normal.

When it was all over—when the cameras were lowered and the executives drifted into side conversations—Mandy stepped closer, leaning in just enough so no one else could hear.

"How do you feel?"

Oscar didn’t answer right away.

He looked around at all the faces expecting something from him. Then, he glanced down at his crutch—the constant reminder that he wasn’t where he wanted to be yet.

But when he lifted his gaze again, the first thing he saw was Mandy.

She wasn’t looking at him with pity, but with confidence.

And something in his chest, something that had been too tight all day, loosened just a little.

"Good," he finally said, with a half-smile. "A lot better because you’re here."

Mandy smirked.

"Of course I am."

And though Oscar knew he still had a long road ahead, for the first time in a while, he felt like he didn’t have to walk it alone.

The afternoon of the event passed in a blur.

After the press conference, Oscar endured the conversations with executives, the unwavering smile on his face, the pats on the back, and the promises of a bright future. He handled every question with the patience of a saint, but when he finally stepped outside, with Mandy beside him, he felt like he could breathe again.

They stood on the sidewalk for a moment, neither in a rush to leave.

"Alright," Mandy said, crossing her arms. "On a scale of one to ten, how unbearable was that?"

Oscar huffed.

"A fourteen."

She laughed—that soft sound that always did something to his chest—and shook her head.

"You survived."

"So did you," he replied with a slight shrug. "You had to sit through all of it with me."

"I always do," she said, looking at him with an expression he couldn’t quite decipher.

Oscar felt a tingling at the back of his neck. Not discomfort, but… awareness.

Suddenly, he was more aware of her than ever before. Of her presence, the way the breeze lifted a strand of her hair, the ease with which they talked, as if there was no longer any barrier between them.

Oscar cleared his throat and looked away.

"Are you hungry?" he asked suddenly.

Mandy raised an eyebrow.

“Are you asking me out to dinner, Piastri?”

“No,” he replied immediately. “I mean, yes. But… as a thank you, you know? For being here.”

Mandy looked at him with amusement.

“A thank you, sure.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

Dinner started with the same relaxed energy as always.

Mandy didn’t sit across from him but beside him, in the corner of a small Italian restaurant that smelled of basil, garlic, and freshly baked bread. It was a cozy place, unpretentious, the kind of spot where people talked loudly and steaming plates of homemade food kept arriving at the tables.

“You do realize this is technically a date?” Mandy commented lightly, flipping through the menu without looking at him.

Oscar scoffed, taking a sip of his water.

“No, it’s not. It’s a thank-you dinner.”

“So you’re thanking me with food?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t that sound exactly like what someone does on a date?”

Oscar slowly turned his head to her, narrowing his eyes.

“Do you want it to be a date?”

Mandy shrugged, but the amused smile on her lips threw him off.

“That depends. Are you paying?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes, it’s a date.”

Oscar huffed but couldn’t stop the smile that twitched at his lips. Mandy had this way of turning any conversation into something light, of pushing him just a little outside his comfort zone without him realizing it until he was already laughing.

When the food arrived, Oscar leaned over his plate of pasta with the hunger of someone who had spent too much energy pretending to be fine all day. Mandy, on the other hand, picked up her pizza with a calmness that could only be described as irritating.

“You know,” she said, chewing thoughtfully, “if you were as fast on track as you are when you eat, you’d be unstoppable.”

Oscar froze, fork halfway to his mouth, staring at her in disbelief.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’re always complaining about recovery being too slow, but at this speed, you should be running marathons.”

Oscar set his fork down with an exaggerated thud on the table and turned to her, feigning outrage.

“Are you challenging me, Mandy?”

“I’m just saying what I see, Piastri.”

“Fine.” Oscar picked up his glass and took a slow sip, not breaking eye contact. “Then I say your pizza choice is terrible.”

Mandy placed a hand over her chest as if she had just been stabbed.

“What?”

“Pineapple, seriously?”

“Oh, please, we’re not starting this debate.”

“There is no debate,” Oscar said with a shrug. “Just facts. And the fact is, you’ve committed a crime against Italian cuisine.”

Mandy shook her head, laughing.

“You know what’s worse? I’m helping rehabilitate someone with a child’s palate.”

Oscar rolled his eyes.

“Says the one eating pineapple pizza.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Of course, it is.”

“No, it’s not. But that’s okay, Piastri. Not everyone can have good taste.”

Oscar shot her a look of disbelief before shaking his head, a reluctant smile breaking through.

It was strange. Unexpected. But it felt good.

Easy.

For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel the weight of recovery on his shoulders. He didn’t feel the pressure to become the driver everyone expected him to be again. He was just there, with Mandy, eating at a small restaurant, joking about nonsense.

And for the first time in months, he allowed himself to enjoy it.

The weeks passed, and their dynamic only continued to evolve.

Mandy was no longer just his physiotherapist.

She was the person who showed up at his door with extra coffee when she saw he’d had a rough night.

She was the one who sat on the floor with him when he got frustrated in sessions, saying nothing, just staying there until he was ready to talk.

She was the one who called him an idiot with the sweetest smile when he tried to push himself harder than he should.

She was the one who made him laugh when he thought he couldn’t anymore.

And without realizing it, Oscar started looking forward to seeing her more than he wanted to admit.

He started noticing the way her eyes lit up when she talked about something she was passionate about. He started remembering little details about her without meaning to—how she liked her coffee, how she scrunched her nose when she was focused, how she had a particular way of tilting her head when she was about to give him advice.

And worst of all… he started realizing she was looking at him differently too.

There was something in the way she watched him now, a softness in her gestures, a tenderness in the way she touched his arm to support him, in the way she whispered, “You’re doing amazing” after every small progress.

One night, after a particularly exhausting session, Oscar collapsed onto his couch while Mandy packed up her things.

“I hate you,” he muttered without conviction.

Mandy smiled, not even looking at him.

“I know.”

There was a moment of silence before Oscar spoke again.

“Would you stay a little longer?”

Mandy turned to him, surprised.

"What?"

"You don't have to. But… I don’t want to be alone tonight."

She looked at him for a moment, evaluating him. Then, without a word, she set her bag on the floor and dropped onto the couch beside him.

Oscar didn’t know what that meant.

But he didn’t feel the need to ask.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was something else, something deeper, as if a silent understanding had settled in that brief moment.

Mandy didn’t ask why Oscar didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t need to. She didn’t tell him everything would be okay because she knew that wouldn’t help. Instead, she just stayed.

Oscar turned his head toward her, noticing how relaxed she looked on his couch, as if she somehow belonged there. It was strange how Mandy, who had once been just his physiotherapist, had now become a part of his life in more ways than he could fully grasp.

"Do you want to watch something?" she asked suddenly, pulling out her phone.

"If it’s another video of cats trying to jump and failing, I’ve already seen them all."

Mandy scoffed.

"Don’t underestimate my ability to find quality content."

Oscar let his head fall back against the couch and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Prove it."

Mandy wasted no time playing a video. It was a compilation of funny falls—people slipping on ice, dogs miscalculating their jumps, kids getting scared by their own reflection.

And against his will, Oscar ended up laughing.

At first, just a small smile. Then, a quiet chuckle. Until finally, he let out a real laugh—the kind that rumbled in his chest and left him breathless.

Mandy glanced at him from the corner of her eye, smirking.

"Well, looks like you do have a soul after all."

Oscar wiped away a tear from laughing, his eyes still shining.

"And what about you? Are you going to admit you have a heart?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Who says I don’t?"

"You hide it well."

Mandy smiled but didn’t reply. She simply leaned back against the couch, crossing her arms over her chest.

The silence returned, but this time, it felt different.

Oscar felt the urge to speak, to say something important, something he had been trying to understand for weeks. But instead, he just exhaled slowly and said,

"Thanks for staying."

Mandy didn’t look at him, but her voice was soft when she replied,

"Always."

After a while on the couch, Mandy stretched her arms and stood up.

"Alright, I think it’s time I eat something. And you too."

Oscar groaned from his spot.

"I'm not hungry."

"I don’t care. You’re eating."

Oscar shot her a look of feigned exasperation as Mandy walked toward the kitchen like she owned the place. He had seen her move around his space so many times over the past few months that it didn’t even feel strange anymore.

"You do know this is my house, right?" he said, dragging himself off the couch with the help of his crutch.

"I know," Mandy replied without turning around, rummaging through the pantry. "But someone has to make sure you don’t starve to death."

Oscar huffed but didn’t argue further. He followed with unsteady steps, still slow, but more confident than he had been weeks ago.

"What are we making?"

"Something simple. I don’t want you collapsing halfway through the recipe."

Oscar rolled his eyes but leaned against the counter as Mandy pulled out ingredients. They ended up cooking together, at their own pace. Mandy did most of the work, but she let Oscar help where he could—stirring the sauce, chopping a few things with effort.

It was a ridiculously domestic scene.

After everything they had been through, after months of rehab and pain, cooking together in his house felt like a line he hadn’t expected to cross.

When they finished, they sat at the table with steaming plates of pasta in front of them. The dim kitchen light cast an unexpected intimacy over the moment. Oscar watched as Mandy took the first bite and nodded approvingly.

"Not bad, Piastri. Maybe you’ve got a future in cooking if this F1 thing doesn’t work out."

Oscar smiled, tired but genuinely warm.

"Maybe I’ll open a restaurant. ‘The Cripple’s Pasta.’"

Mandy burst out laughing, and he was surprised by how much he liked the sound.

After a while, Mandy set down her fork and looked at him.

"How do you feel?"

Oscar lowered his gaze to his plate, idly stirring the leftover pasta with his fork.

"Tired. Sore."

Mandy said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

He lifted his eyes.

"But… good."

She tilted her head slightly, intrigued.

"Good, huh?"

Oscar swallowed.

"Yeah. Because I’m here. With you."

There was a moment of silence. Mandy looked at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. Something soft, something that made his throat tighten.

"You’re an idiot," she said finally, but there was more fondness than anything else in her tone.

Oscar smiled.

"I know."

Mandy sighed and stood to clear the dishes, but Oscar stopped her, his hand gently wrapping around her wrist.

She froze, surprised by the gesture.

Oscar wasn’t sure what he was doing either—only that he didn’t want this moment to end just yet.

"Mandy…"

She waited, her gaze locked on his.

He could feel her pulse beneath his fingers.

He could feel the line between them blurring more and more.

Mandy didn’t move. She didn’t pull her hand away, didn’t make any gesture to tell him to let go of her wrist. She just looked at him, expectant, as if she knew he had something to say but wouldn’t pressure him to say it.

Oscar swallowed. His mouth was dry.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Mandy smiled, but there was something in her expression—something softer, more intimate.

“You won’t find out,” she said quietly.

Oscar stared at her. Something tightened in his chest.

That was when he realized how close they were.

How close they had been for months.

Only now, for the first time, he truly felt it.

The warmth of her skin, the way his breathing matched hers. The way his thumb, without thinking, traced the lightest touch against the skin of her wrist.

Mandy noticed.

And she didn’t pull away.

“Mandy…” he whispered.

He didn’t know what he was going to say next. He wasn’t sure of anything in that moment, except that he wanted to stay there. That he wanted her to stay there.

Mandy exhaled softly. Her fingers moved against his in the slightest motion—a touch so faint it barely registered, yet enough to make something inside Oscar go taut.

“Let’s watch a movie,” she said suddenly, cutting through the tension like a blade.

Oscar blinked, disoriented.

“What?”

Mandy gently pulled her hand away and started gathering the dishes, as if nothing had happened.

“A movie. You need it. And I don’t want to see you overthinking anything else tonight.”

Oscar watched her move around the kitchen, trying to process what had just happened.

But, for some reason, he didn’t feel disappointed.

Because Mandy hadn’t run.

Because he didn’t want to force anything.

Because this—whatever this was—made sense.

So he let out a soft laugh, shook his head, and got up to follow her to the couch.

The movie played on the screen, but neither of them was really watching.

Oscar tried to focus, tried to follow the plot, but his mind was elsewhere. On the way Mandy sat beside him, on how their bodies seemed to drift closer without either of them making a deliberate move.

Under the shared blanket, their legs brushed every now and then, and each fleeting touch sent a shiver down his spine. The first time, Oscar thought it had been accidental. The second, he wondered if he’d imagined it. But by the third, the fourth, the fifth—he wasn’t so sure anymore.

He took a deep breath, trying to ignore it.

And then he felt her hand.

Just a touch, the lightest brush of fingers, but it was enough to make the air between them feel heavier, charged. Mandy didn’t move away, and neither did he. Somehow, their hands remained still under the blanket, their pinkies barely touching, neither of them daring to be the first to move.

But Oscar felt every heartbeat like a drum, each passing second unbearably slow.

The tension was almost tangible.

Mandy swallowed.

“This movie is kind of boring, isn’t it?” she murmured.

Oscar let out a quiet laugh.

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been paying attention.”

Mandy turned her head to look at him, and Oscar felt the exact moment the air shifted between them.

She felt it too.

Her gaze flickered down to his lips for the briefest second, barely noticeable.

But Oscar noticed.

And that was all he needed.

His hand slid under the blanket until his fingers intertwined with hers, and Mandy didn’t pull away. On the contrary, her grip tightened slightly, her thumb tracing a small circle against his skin—a gesture so intimate and silent that Oscar instinctively leaned toward her.

Their faces were only inches apart.

He could feel her breath, her perfume, the warmth of her skin so close to his.

The moment stretched.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Three.

Oscar wouldn’t be able to say who closed the final distance. Maybe him, maybe her. Maybe it had simply been inevitable.

But when their lips finally met, when the kiss sealed with the sweetness of something held back for too long, Oscar knew there was no turning back.

The kiss started soft, hesitant, as if neither of them wanted to break the fragile bubble they had enclosed themselves in. Mandy was the first to react, tilting her head just slightly, parting her lips, giving Oscar the answer he hadn’t dared to ask for out loud.

And then, there was no more hesitation.

Oscar cradled the back of her neck with one hand, pulling her closer, losing himself in the warmth of her mouth. Mandy moved without doubt, her fingers tracing his cheek, his jaw, before tangling into his hair.

It was everything he had wanted, everything he had ignored for weeks.

The brush of their lips deepened, grew more intense. Oscar felt his chest expand with a sensation he didn’t quite recognize, something intoxicating that left him insatiable. She was fire and calm all at once—a refuge and a storm.

Mandy pulled back for a moment, breathless, her nose brushing against his.

“Oscar…”

There was no doubt in her voice, but there was something else—something that felt like a warning. As if she were giving him the chance to stop.

Oscar met her gaze, darkened by something he could feel echoing in his own body.

He didn’t want to stop.

So instead of answering with words, he kissed her again.

Mandy smiled against his lips before matching his urgency, her fingers tracing a slow, torturous path over the fabric of his shirt. Oscar shivered when she pressed her palm against his chest, feeling him beneath her fingertips, sliding her hand lower toward his abdomen with a boldness that made his pulse race.

The blanket slipped from their bodies as Mandy shifted onto his lap—carefully, with a near-imperceptible gentleness, as if she knew exactly how far she could push his limits without causing him pain.

Oscar buried his face in her neck, breathing in her scent, whispering her name against her skin. Mandy let out a shuddering sigh, and he felt satisfaction ripple through him.

For the first time in months, Oscar didn’t think about his injury.

He didn’t think about his rehabilitation, the pressure, the fear.

He only thought about her. About the way her body fit against his as if it had always been meant to be there.

And how, for the first time in a long time, he wanted more.

The atmosphere had shifted. Desire still burned between them, the electricity was undeniable, but amidst the urgency, the hungry kisses, the clumsy touches, there was something else. Something much deeper, much more intimate.

Oscar barely registered how they got here, how their clothes started to disappear. He only knew that at some point, Mandy slipped off the couch, kneeling in front of him with effortless ease, helping him remove his pants with the same delicacy she always treated him with.

And then, everything stopped.

Oscar felt the cold air against his skin, against the scarred skin of his leg. He tensed, the instinct to hide, to pull away, flaring inside him like a reflex. He felt ridiculous for thinking about it—Mandy had seen his scars countless times, had touched them, had studied them.

But Mandy didn’t look away.

She didn’t flinch, didn’t make any expression of pity.

Instead, she placed her hands on his leg with a tenderness that completely disarmed him.

Her lips, warm and soft, traced over every scar, every mark that told a story of pain and struggle. She didn’t skip any, didn’t avoid a single one. She took her time, as if she wanted to memorize each line, each ridge, each imperfection.

Oscar didn’t know when his throat started to burn, when the pressure in his chest became unbearable. He only knew that before he could stop it, a tear slipped down his cheek.

He didn’t understand why.

It was affection, it was tenderness, it was sorrow. It was everything at once.

Mandy lifted her gaze, and their eyes met. She didn’t say anything, but her look spoke volumes. Of acceptance, of devotion, of a love without cracks.

Without moving her hand from his leg, she reached up to his face, brushing the tear away with her thumb, unhurried.

Oscar leaned toward her and kissed her.

It was a slow kiss, deep, filled with everything they couldn’t put into words.

When they pulled apart, Mandy rested her forehead against his, closing her eyes for a moment.

“You’re incredible,” she whispered. And Oscar didn’t know if she meant his body, his recovery, his strength—or just him.

But it didn’t matter.

Because, for the first time since the accident, Oscar Piastri didn’t feel ashamed of what he was.

The night continued with an unexpected tenderness. There was no rush, no urgency. It was just the two of them, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and whispers, tangled in kisses and caresses that seemed endless.

Oscar had never felt so vulnerable, so exposed—and yet, so safe. Mandy touched him as if every part of him deserved to be cherished, as if his scars were testaments to his strength, not reminders of what he had lost.

When they finally rested, their bodies intertwined beneath the blanket, Oscar felt something new settle in his chest. Something that had nothing to do with passion or desire, but with peace.

Mandy traced lazy circles on his arm, her breathing slow, steady.

“What are you thinking about?” she murmured, her voice still drowsy.

Oscar took a moment to answer.

“That I don’t know how we got here.”

Mandy let out a soft laugh.

“If you need me to explain it in more detail…”

He rolled his eyes, laughing against her hair.

“That’s not what I meant.”

He fell silent for a moment, searching for the right words.

“When I first met you, I hated you.”

“I know,” Mandy replied with amusement.

“No.” Oscar propped himself up on one elbow to look at her better. “I mean it. I thought I’d never be able to stand you. You were too stubborn, too optimistic.”

“Guilty.”

“But then…” Oscar exhaled, running a hand down his face. “Then you became the only thing keeping me sane.”

Mandy looked at him in the dim light, her expression softening.

“Oscar…”

“No.” He cut her off, feeling that if he didn’t say it now, he never would. “I just want you to know. That without you, I…”

He stopped, swallowing hard. Mandy reached up and placed a hand on his cheek, making him hold her gaze.

“I know,” she whispered.

And Oscar knew, with a certainty that scared him a little, that she really did.

That Mandy understood him better than anyone.

That if there was a way to truly heal, it was with her by his side.

Oscar remained silent after that, his mind caught in a whirlwind of thoughts. Mandy was resting against his chest, her breathing steady, but he couldn’t fully relax.

“Mandy…” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper in the dark.

“Mhm?”

“Is this okay?”

She lifted her head slightly to look at him.

“What do you mean?”

Oscar hesitated.

“Us. What just happened. The fact that you… you’re my physiotherapist. Or at least, you were. And that we’re crossing a line.”

Mandy watched him in silence for a moment before sighing with a small smile.

“Are you worried I’ll get you in trouble?”

“No, I’m worried you’ll get fired,” he answered honestly. “That this isn’t allowed in your contract or that—”

Mandy interrupted him with a soft touch to his cheek.

“Oscar, my contract ended weeks ago.”

He blinked, surprised.

“What?”

“McLaren only asked me to get you to take your first step. That was my goal as your physiotherapist,” she explained calmly. “After that, your physical trainer was supposed to take over.”

Oscar was speechless.

“So…?”

“So I stayed because I wanted to. Because I wanted to keep helping you. Because this was never just a job for me.”

Oscar felt something inside him crumble. All the doubts, all the insecurities, the nagging thought that maybe she was only there because she had to be… vanished in an instant.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Mandy smiled, that infuriatingly calm smile of hers.

“Because I know you. If you had known, you would’ve pushed me away. You would’ve said you were fine just so I wouldn’t feel like I had to stay.”

Oscar couldn’t deny it. Because it was true.

“So…” he said slowly, intertwining his fingers with hers. “This whole time…”

“This whole time, I’ve been here because I wanted to be.”

Oscar swallowed.

“And now what?”

Mandy rested her head on his chest again, tracing light circles on his arm.

“Now, you sleep. And tomorrow… we’ll see.”

But Oscar knew that, no matter what happened, she was already a part of his life.

And he didn’t want that to change.

The air in the garage feels heavy. No one talks much. The team of engineers and mechanics works around him with meticulous precision, preparing him for the private test. It’s just a test—no media, no spectators. But for Oscar, it’s much more than that. It’s his ultimate test.

Mandy stands to the side, arms crossed, watching him closely. She’s not supposed to be here—officially, her job ended months ago—but that hasn’t stopped her. And Oscar hasn’t tried to stop her, either.

When he finally sits in the car, when he feels the pressure of the molded seat against his back, when the cockpit surrounds him, when the steering wheel is in his hands and the tires are ready to hit the track… it happens.

The memory strikes like thunder.

A flash of light. The impact. The raw, metallic sound. The pain.

He can’t breathe.

He’s not here, in this garage. He’s back on that day, in that moment. He’s trapped in the wreckage of the car, the smell of fuel filling his nose, his leg crushed under the destroyed chassis.

He feels the same sharp pain in his leg. Almost two months without feeling it, and suddenly, it’s as if the injury is fresh. As if it just happened.

Someone says his name, but he doesn’t hear them. His breathing quickens. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel. His eyes lock onto the halo, the carbon fiber, the chassis that isn’t broken, the helmet protecting him. Everything is fine. Everything is fine.

But it’s not.

Sweat beads on his forehead. A ringing starts in his ears. He wants to move, wants to get out, but his muscles won’t respond.

A hand touches his arm.

Oscar blinks, as if snapping back to reality.

Mandy is there. She’s reaching for him from.above the car, her hand firm on his forearm. Her eyes, dark and steady, find his.

“Oscar.”

Her voice is low, calm, but not condescending. She doesn’t treat him like he’s fragile, like he’s going to break.

“I’m here,” she says, and those two words cut straight through him.

He doesn’t respond. He can’t. His breathing is still uneven, his heart still racing.

Mandy watches him for another second before moving her hand to his. Her fingers slide over his, carefully loosening his grip on the wheel.

“Look at me.”

Oscar lifts his gaze.

“You’re here. Not there. You’re in 2025, in this garage, in this car. And you’re okay. That was a year ago. You are okay”

He swallows hard. His jaw is clenched, his mind still filled with ghostly images.

“I don’t have to do this.”

It’s the first time he’s said it out loud.

Mandy nods.

“No, you don’t have to. But you want to. And that’s different.”

The team is still waiting. The mechanics pretend not to look, but Oscar feels their eyes. He knows they expect him to start the engine, to go out on track, to do what he does best.

But it’s not that simple. Not when fear is eating him alive.

Mandy squeezes his hand once more.

“You can step out right now, and no one will say a thing. It’s okay. But if you want to try, just try. Don’t think about anything else.”

Oscar closes his eyes for a moment. Takes a deep breath. Tries to find the ground beneath him, even though he’s in the car.

When he opens them, he sees her. She’s holding his hand, but she’s not keeping him there. She’s just there.

And that’s enough.

Oscar nods, slowly.

His fingers wrap around the steering wheel again, but this time, with control. Mandy releases his hand and steps back.

The mechanics get ready. The engineers check the data.

The garage fills with the roar of the engine as he starts it.

The fear is still there, like a weight in his chest. But now, there’s something else, too.

Oscar focuses on that.

And he drives.

The roar of the car echoes in his chest, a familiar vibration running down his spine and seeping into his blood. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly, and for a moment, doubt whispers in his mind.

What if he's not the same? What if he never will be?

But then he presses the throttle.

The tires bite into the asphalt, and suddenly, the world makes sense again. The wind slams against his helmet, the colors of the circuit blur around him, and adrenaline surges through his veins like an unstoppable force. The first corner comes faster than expected, but his body reacts before his mind does—steady hands, precise turn, clean acceleration on exit.

It’s like breathing. Like remembering who he is.

Every lap is an affirmation. Every brake, every change of direction, every fraction of a second shaved off the clock.

He is where he belongs. He is home.

When he finally returns to the pits, the echo of the engine still thrumming in his chest, Oscar allows himself to close his eyes for a moment.

He feels no fear. No doubt.

Only relief.

Lando is the first to reach him, landing a hard smack on his helmet before ruffling his hair once he takes it off.

"Seriously? After almost a year out, and you set a faster lap than me on your first run?"

Oscar smiles, taking a deep breath.

"I try."

Lando scoffs, but there's pride in his expression.

Zak, Stella, and the rest of the team surround him in seconds, congratulating him. Even a few drivers from the grid have come to see him, asking McLaren for permission just to be there. George pats his back, Alex and Charles can’t help but pull him into a hug. Even Colapinto is there, planting a loud, wet kiss on his cheek.

But there’s one person Oscar searches for among them all.

Mandy stands at the back of the garage, not intruding, but with a small smile on her lips. Her dark eyes scan him up and down, as if making sure he’s truly okay.

And he is.

Later, as the sun begins to set, the two of them sit on the empty grandstands of the circuit. The roar of the engine is gone, but the day’s echoes still vibrate in the air. Mandy rests her elbows on her knees, gaze lost on the track.

"I saw you at Turn Five," she says suddenly. "There was a moment when you hesitated."

Oscar lowers his head, smirking.

"Yeah. But it passed quickly."

She nods. A long silence stretches between them, but it’s not uncomfortable.

Until Mandy sighs and says, "McLaren offered me a contract."

Oscar blinks, turning to her.

"What?"

"As the team's physiotherapist. They were impressed with my work with you and thought I could be useful."

Oscar stays silent, waiting for her to continue. Something in her tone tells him there’s more.

"I turned it down."

He frowns.

"Why?"

Mandy wets her lips, as if searching for the right words.

"I didn’t want my work to mix with… this. With you."

Oscar feels something warm in his chest. He can’t quite name it—gratitude, relief, something else—but it’s strong.

"So… you turned down McLaren?" he repeats slowly. "The team that treated you so well, gave you access to the best facilities, let you work with the most prized gem of their lineup?"

Mandy blinks.

"You?"

"Obviously."

Mandy laughs, shaking her head.

"You’re insufferable."

"And you clearly made a terrible decision."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. Because tell me, which team signed you now?"

Mandy stretches with satisfaction before answering.

"Ferrari."

Oscar frowns, his brain processing the information.

"Ferrari?"

"Ferrari."

"Maranello’s Ferrari?"

"Unless there’s another one."

Oscar blinks.

"So now you’re going to be one of those people who speak Italian all the time and say ‘Forza Ferrari’ every five minutes?"

Mandy smiles, almost wickedly.

"Forza Ferrari."

Oscar looks at her with feigned disappointment.

"Mandy, for God’s sake, you haven’t even started yet and you’re already lost."

She laughs, giving him a gentle shove on the shoulder.

"Come on, it can’t surprise you that much. After all, someone has to be in the paddock to make sure you don’t do anything stupid."

Oscar watches her with a half-smile, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

"Oh, I see how it is. You didn’t stay because you like red—you just can’t live without me."

"Definitely not for the red. It’s hard to match."

"You’re not denying you can’t live without me."

Mandy rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile on her lips.

"I’m going to request to be assigned to Charles just to spite you."

Oscar places a hand on his heart, feigning a stab wound.

"Betrayal!"

Mandy bursts out laughing, and before she can reply, Oscar turns to her with a sly grin.

"You know what? It doesn’t matter. Everyone in the paddock knows you love me more."

Mandy raises an eyebrow, amused.

"Oh, really?"

"Of course. And if they don’t know yet, they will as soon as they see us together."

Before Mandy can throw back another sarcastic remark, Oscar leans in and kisses her. It’s warm, with the night breeze around them and the thrill of the day still running through his veins.

When they pull apart, Mandy exhales softly.

"You know what? Maybe red does suit me after all."

Oscar smiles, resting his forehead against hers.

"Forza Ferrari, I guess."

And Mandy laughs, kissing him again.

Throughout the season, Oscar and Mandy’s relationship had become an open secret in the paddock. Not because they had been careless—on the contrary, they had done everything possible to keep it private—but in a world where every gesture was scrutinized, some things were hard to hide.

Photographers had never caught them together outside the circuits, and in the paddock, they always maintained a professional distance. Mandy was disciplined about it, ensuring she never gave him special treatment in front of others, making sure no one could accuse her of favoritism at Ferrari for being with a McLaren driver. But inside the garages, in the hallways, in the small interactions away from the cameras, something was building between them—something any keen observer could notice.

Those closest to them—Lando, Zak, the McLaren team, Ferrari—knew. Lando had thoroughly enjoyed teasing them in private, dropping hints whenever he could, like when he caught Oscar glancing sideways at Mandy on the grid or when she walked past the McLaren mechanics and Oscar pretended to be engrossed in telemetry.

Their dynamic was simple: Mandy didn’t treat Oscar like a driver but as himself. She didn’t care about his lap times, his points, or championship statistics. She cared about whether he was sleeping well, whether the pain in his leg returned after grueling races, whether his mind was calm before he put on his helmet.

For Oscar, that was invaluable. In a world revolving around competition, having someone who saw him beyond the driver was a breath of fresh air.

Sometimes, when race weekends became too intense, they found themselves in the quieter corners of the paddock—a back hallway, the furthest spot in the Ferrari or McLaren hospitality, anywhere they could share a few minutes without cameras surrounding them. Mandy always had a sarcastic comment ready, and Oscar would respond with his dry humor, their back-and-forth banter momentarily making them forget the pressure.

And on tough days, when things didn’t go well on track, she was there. Not with empty words, not with forced motivational speeches, but with a hand on his back when no one was looking, with a quick message after a disappointing race: “I’m waiting at the hotel with ice cream. Don’t argue.”

That’s how it had been all season—care, attention, and a love woven in the margins of F1, in moments beyond the reach of headlines.

On the other hand, Oscar’s comeback season was exceeding expectations. He had returned stronger, more consistent, racking up podiums nearly every weekend. But the long-awaited first victory since the accident still eluded him. Despite it all, he didn’t feel frustrated. He knew it was only a matter of time.

But now, they were in Spa-Francorchamps. And with that came the second anniversary of the day everything changed.

Before practice sessions, interviews, and the inevitable noise of a Grand Prix weekend began, Oscar made a decision. He wanted to go to the crash site. To the exact corner where his life took an irreversible turn.

The rain was relentless as he set off. It was nearly nightfall, and the paddock was slowly emptying. People were retreating to their hotels, seeking rest before the intense day ahead. Mandy, however, stayed.

“You can still go back to the hotel. It’s cold, it’s raining, and I don’t want you to get sick because of one of my whims,” Oscar murmured, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the wet ground.

“And miss a dramatic moment of personal development like this? Not a chance. I’m about to witness a canon event,” Mandy teased, giving him a light shoulder bump.

Oscar let out a quiet chuckle, but his steps slowed as they neared the corner. It was strange how, after two years, his body still reacted to the sight of it. The memory of the impact, the pain, the fear—it all returned with chilling clarity.

He stopped a few meters from the exact spot, a tingling sensation running through his bad leg. Almost unconsciously, he tapped his thigh as if trying to shake off the feeling. Mandy glanced at him from the corner of her eye before intertwining her fingers with his, squeezing firmly.

“What are you feeling?” she asked softly.

Oscar swallowed hard.

“I don’t know. It’s weird. Like I can still feel it. Like I can see everything again.”

Mandy nodded, waiting to see if he needed to say more. But he just stood there, eyes locked on the track, the sound of rain filling the silence.

Finally, Mandy spoke, her tone light yet sincere.

“You know… in a way, we should be grateful to this corner.”

Oscar turned his head, frowning.

“What?”

“Well,” she shrugged, “if you hadn’t crashed here, McLaren wouldn’t have hired me, we wouldn’t have spent so much time together, and we wouldn’t have fallen madly in love with each other. So technically, if you think about it, Eau Rouge is the real matchmaker in this story.”

Oscar let out a genuine, warm laugh that cut through the cold night air.

“That is, without a doubt, the most twisted and optimistic way to look at it.”

“Better than being stuck in a pit of trauma and existential despair? Absolutely.”

Oscar shook his head, but the smile didn’t fade. He turned to look at Mandy, watching how the rain made her skin glisten under the dim glow of distant floodlights. He had no words to describe how much he loved her in that moment.

So he didn’t use any.

He simply leaned in and kissed her, with the rain falling around them, with memories losing their sharp edges little by little. Because Mandy was right. Eau Rouge had changed his life. But not just because of the accident. Somehow, it had also led him to her.

On Sunday, Oscar rounded the final straight for the penultimate time, each lap bringing him closer to something he had dreamed of but never imagined quite like this. The rain had eased, the track still damp but stable under his tires, and the McLaren was responding with surgical precision. From the first corner, he had dominated. He knew this day was his. No one could touch him.

His engineer’s voice came over the radio, filled with barely contained excitement.

“Last lap, Oscar. Last lap.”

Oscar took a deep breath. The roar of the engine, the vibration of the steering wheel beneath his hands, the feeling of the car as an extension of himself. It was him, fully. No doubts, no fear. Just speed, precision, victory drawing closer with every meter.

In Ferrari’s garage, the atmosphere was electric. With Leclerc securing second place, mechanics had their arms raised, team members were jumping, and in the middle of it all—Mandy. Her nails dug into Alex’s jacket, Charles’s girlfriend, both of them on the verge of losing their voices from screaming so much. Her faith in Oscar was absolute. She knew how this was going to end—she had known since the first lap.

When Oscar crossed the finish line, something inside him shattered and rebuilt itself at the same time. The radio exploded with the team’s cheers, his engineer repeating his name over and over, but he could barely hear it. Laughter escaped him uncontrollably, mixed with tears and a relief so deep it made him feel breathless.

He had won. He had won in Spa.

His hands trembled on the steering wheel as he slowed down for the cool-down lap. He looked around—the grandstands on their feet, flags waving under a gray sky that threatened more rain. It was poetic, perfect, as if the circuit itself was giving something back to him.

“Yes, Oscar! Yes, yes, yes!” Zak Brown shouted over the radio, and in the background, he could hear the McLaren garage erupting like they had won a championship.

Oscar let go of the wheel for a second, running his hands over his face, still in disbelief. He had dreamed of this moment, visualized it a thousand times, but now that it was real, it was overwhelming.

When he finally parked the car in parc fermé, his body moved before his mind could catch up. He unbuckled his harness clumsily, climbed out of the car, and jumped into the sea of McLaren mechanics. He let them hug him, shake him, pat his back—but his eyes scanned the crowd, searching.

Mandy.

And there she was.

In her red Ferrari polo, still wearing the team’s headset around her neck, eyes shining and lips trembling with a smile.

He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate.

He pushed through the McLaren crew, dodged the drivers climbing out of their own cars to congratulate him, and reached her where she stood with the Ferrari team. It didn’t matter who was watching, it didn’t matter if there were cameras, the press, or social media.

He grabbed her by the Ferrari polo, stretched over the barrier, and kissed her.

With the raw emotion of someone who had fought against the worst version of himself—and won.

With the certainty that, in the end, she had always been there.

As the world roared around them, Oscar leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, both of them breathless, both of them smiling like idiots.

"You know," Mandy whispered, her fingers still curled around the collar of his suit, "if you wanted to kiss me that badly, you could've just asked."

Oscar huffed a laugh, his hands firm on her waist. "Figured winning was a more dramatic way to earn it."

Mandy tilted her head, pretending to think. "Mm… I don’t know. Might need a few more wins before I’m fully convinced."

His smile widened. "Challenge accepted."

She kissed him again, softer this time. "Good. Now go collect your damn trophy, Piastri."

@smoooothoperator

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[bushwskq]

Father Charlie Mayhew x witch!reader

cw: 18+

PART 1

PART 2

AUTHOR'S NOTE: So what should I say? Well this is my first fanfic on Tumblr and English is not my first language. Thanks Google Translate. This one-shot came from a girl in great need of Nicholas Chavez, I kindly ask that you please forgive the mistakes. As soon as I can I will write the second part with more about Father Charlie, this is just the introduction...

I wrote it listening to Tear You Apart and Seven Wonders

Thank you for your attention!

You thought you had everything under control when you moved to this small town. Away from family or acquaintances that you had no desire to see again with a comfortable home decorated in your own special way. You were given the title of exotic by the residents of the place, they didn't seem like they would throw you into the fire like the witches of Salem but you knew that some were afraid of you even if you didn't show magic in public.

Your always black clothes didn't go unnoticed although no one ever said anything directly to you, you wore extravagant necklaces from time to time but what you kept around your neck was often a pentagram and a cross that reflected every movement you made. Walking calmly with a lit cigarette between your fingers, you observed the crowd of people entering the city's main church. You weren't able to determine which audience that place attracted because they ranged from children to old women marked by time.

For a moment you considered going into the crowd, it had been so long since you stepped foot in a Catholic place and memories of your childhood flashed through your mind. You weren't going home anytime soon, there was nothing stopping you from getting in other than your mind. You knew that sermons about sin wouldn't make you change your beliefs, you found help by practicing witchcraft (or what people called the practices you practiced) your relationship with magic was something different from anything you knew and you felt welcomed worshiping their own gods.

You remembered your first mentor, she taught you the basis of everything you know, helping you deal with your complicated feelings during this process. Respect although resentment about the religions that condemned your existence was always present in you. Taking a deep breath while looking around, you crossed the street towards the church without thinking. You stubbed out your cigarette on the sidewalk then took a deep breath until you walked up the stairs.

The church was big, the first thing you thought of was the large tithe they earned on the faithful. You looked for a pew, sitting down at the end then a few minutes later the mass started, it was everything the way you remembered it. Except for one thing.

The priest was too handsome to be a priest, you thought, the man must have been a few years older than you. His hair was perfectly combed back to highlight his chiseled face, his jaw clenched as he waited to speak. You quickly realized that the young women didn't come just because of the Lord's word. The mass continued while the pentagram on your chest weighed as if saying you were in the wrong place, the priest's firm voice walked through the church with its hoarse timbre. You would definitely be lying if you said you weren't attracted to the man.

“What’s his name?” You shyly asked a nun sitting in the front seat. “Fa-father Charlie Mayhew.” The woman responded with a small smile before turning her attention to the lectern. You thanked him politely as you stared at the man, you knew his name now. Father Charlie Mayhew You recited in your mind as the mass continued.

You couldn't take your eyes off that pretty face, in disbelief that someone so young had chosen this vocation. You didn't hear anything until he spoke then it stopped again like a cycle, even with the clothes on you could tell that his body was defined as the outline of his muscles could still be seen. Then he looked at you, you thought about avoiding it but it was too late. Caught like a naughty child doing something he shouldn't, you kept looking until he looked away. You smiled internally.

The hours passed towards the end of the celebration, many people headed towards the exit but not you. Never going with the flow of things you began to explore the church, observing the colorful stained glass windows and the pattern of lit candles. In your peripheral vision you saw Father Charlie talking to a couple, his voice was relaxed although he still maintained his posture.

You stopped at another stained glass window, your eyes attentive to the details. “You’re new here, aren’t you?” Father Charlie asked standing next to you, you could smell him and it almost made you fall over. “The church is not used to a new face.” He said, his clear voice leaving you quiet for a moment before he began “I recently moved to the city, Father. In fact, this is the first church I’ve been to in a long time.” His voice doesn't show shame like other people do when they talk to Charlie.

Sometimes intimidated by the man's posture or beauty.“I'm glad to hear that.” you could see the sincerity in his words although he tried to hide something. “Know that the church is open to welcome you, dear.” Charlie approached, turning his face to him: “God has ways of rescuing his lost children to salvation. No matter what circumstance.”

His gaze dropped to your chest where the pentagram rested somewhat hidden by your clothes. His heavy hand touched the necklace with a little force. “The confessional is open on Wednesdays. If you are interested, I will be waiting for you.” He left without looking back, leaving you uneasy as you watched him.

[pennyellee]

𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐗𝐈𝐑 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰

title: ELIXIR pairings: mafia hoseok x female reader genre: dark romance, smut, porn with plot, 90s, arranged marriage, childhood friends to lovers word count: 22K/tba release date: 02.18.25 beta read by one and only @chaoticpuff17

prompt 1: "And I won't be satisfied till we're taking those vows" prompt 2: you were apparently promised to the heir of Jung's criminal empire since birth, not that you ever took that ongoing inside joke seriously. You grew up alongside the said man, yet your mind is conflicted about upholding your part and saying I do until one drunken night reveals a lot more than you'd like.

warnings: minors dni 18+ | explicit language, hurt men's ego, mild yandere behaviour (warnings were reduced to avoid spoilers)

author's note: ionoiafhoianfoaif, yalllll, I was writing this like foreveeeeerrrrr. So this is where it all basically started in my head when I created the retelling of what happened around the year 1996. Still, somehow Champagne Confetti and Anubis got out first, mainly because I will continue them, but this is one shot exclusively (I'm open to filler tho). Why? The story of Princess and Hoseok never dies throughout both the fics that are already out and those that will only come. Mainly with Anubis' chapters, you'll get to see them. I'm just as nervous to put this out as I am with every fic but very excited to throw Elixir in the world. I'm simultaneously working on my MA diploma thesis so bear with me when I'm radio silent, but I love you all! I appreciate you reading my stuff my good little fairies ♥ I'll see ya at Hobi's birthday! ♥ Enjoy!

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain depictions of violence, bloodshed, death, mentions of abuse, smoking, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, and old social norms and traditions, which we do not condone.

main masterlist 𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐗𝐈𝐑

Winter 1995 You spotted Hoseok seated at the table, a serene picture of composure, his fingers curled around a steaming cup of coffee he enjoys in the mornings.

He looked up at your approach, his eyes locking onto yours. There was no trace of anger on his face, no sharp edge to his expression. If anything, he seemed calm, almost disarming.

"Hobi—" you started before he quickly interrupted you.

"Sit down," he said a bit more firmer than he'd want to, gesturing to the seat across from him.

You hesitated for a moment before lowering yourself into the chair, acutely aware of the weight of the moment. A plate of food sat before you, untouched. Your stomach churned, but the thought of eating felt impossible.

"Are you?—"

"I'm not mad, no," he cut you off gently, surprising you, as if he knew what you were suggesting before you even managed to let those words roll on your tongue.

"So?—" you echoed hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper. You didn't know what to expect now. Maybe it would be better if he'd be mad and you knew that you have to make it better just like it used to be, instead he is not showing any kind of position in this situation and that was making you uneasy beyond comparison.

Hoseok leaned back in his chair, exhaling deeply.

"You're still here. That's what matters to me for now." He began, his tone measured. For now. Hoseok was always skilled at this—at saying something that sounded kind but felt like a command.

"I panicked," you admitted softly, the honesty slipping out before you could stop it.

"I know, baby, you chose wrong—" he replied, his gaze unwavering.

"—twice," he added fuel to the fire, salt to the wound. But you knew why. He wanted you to submit to him, and he needed to work overtime to do so.

"You need to show me you're willing to make this right, love," you swallowed hard, the tightness in your throat making it nearly impossible to respond. His aura and magnitude of how he could move you however he liked now was overwhelming. You cannot run away, not when he dragged you back to this place instead of his brownstone at 57th street. You're not only under his surveillance here, but the Kkangpae and the rest of the family.

“What’s it gonna be? Cuz’ I can’t fucking pretend anymore–” 

His gaze dropped to the table for a moment before he reached into his pocket. You stiffened instinctively, already guessing what he was about to do. Sure enough, his hand emerged clutching the familiar black velvet box. The sight of it made your chest tighten.

"Hoseok," you said softly, your voice trembling with unease. "Please—"

"I don't think I will be so forgiving if you'll choose wrong for a third time, Princess." He ignored your plea, opening the box to reveal the ring again. The one you'd angrily thrown at him that fateful night when he tried to force it down your finger after you explicitly said no to him.

The one that symbolised everything you were not ready to accept, but you had to. It glimmered in the soft light of the room, deceptively beautiful.

"I'm done asking," he said firmly, his eyes locking onto yours. Your breath hitched, but before you could speak, Hoseok reached across the table and took your hand in his. His touch was warm, grounding, yet the weight of his action was suffocating.

You tried to pull your hand back, but his grip tightened—not painfully, but enough to make it clear you weren't going anywhere. With deliberate precision, he slid the emerald ring onto your finger.

"There," he said, his voice softening just enough to send a shiver down your spine. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

You stared at the emerald ring, your mind racing. It looked almost serene on your finger, as if it had always belonged there. Hoseok sat back, satisfied, his lips curling into a faint smile.

Before you could respond, the soft thuds of certain leather shoes announced another arrival.

"Joon-ah!" Hoseok greeted, leaning back in his chair. "I assume there's news?"

Namjoon glanced at you briefly, then back to Hoseok. "Yes. We've made progress with the Anubis situation. The distilleries have been secured, but the reports of interference need attention."

"Anubis situation?" You echoed Namjoon's words. Hoseok's smile didn't falter, but there was a subtle shift in his demeanour. His gaze flicked to you, and for a moment, you thought he might dismiss your question. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his fingers interlacing.

"Nothing for you to worry about," he said smoothly, his voice laced with a quiet finality that suggested the topic was closed.

Namjoon, however, wasn't as careful with his expression. His brow furrowed ever so slightly, a crack in the façade of calm efficiency he usually wore. It was gone as quickly as it came, but you caught it, and it only fuelled your curiosity.

"Anubis is my responsibility, Hoseok, you cannot—" you pressed, your tone sharper now. You'd learned long ago that brushing things under the rug only meant tripping over them later.

"Not anymore."

Hoseok's words cut through the room with an authority that left no room for argument. He leaned back in his chair, exuding an air of complete control, his eyes locked on yours with a quiet intensity.

"What?!" You breathed out rather loudly now.

"Not anymore," he repeated, slower this time as if daring you to challenge him. And challenge him you did.

"Hoseok," you tried again, your voice quieter this time, laced with both frustration and fear. "This isn't—"

"I gotta punish you somehow, Princess," his one was calm, almost casual, but the weight behind his words was anything but. Your stomach churned as his lips curved into a faint, disarming smile—a predator's smile hidden beneath a veil of warmth.

"Punish me?" you repeated, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to steady it. "Exactly for what you gotta punish me, Hoseok?

"For running," he said, the amusement in his voice doing little to soften the hurt he felt inside. "For throwing the ring. For abandoning me this morning after we made love last night—"

You opened your mouth to argue, but he cut you off with a raised hand. "Don't misunderstand me, Princess. I'm not angry. But actions have consequences."

Your heart pounded against your ribs, the rhythm chaotic and uneven. His calm demeanour made it worse. It took one wide-eyed glance for Namjoon to excuse himself and quickly retreat to Kkangpae's office to leave you two alone.

The sound of the door clicking shut behind Namjoon seemed louder in the heavy silence that followed. Your eyes darted to it, half-hoping for an interruption, but it was futile. Hoseok's gaze was fixed on you, unrelenting and unreadable, trapping you in this moment.

"Hoseok," you began, your voice trembling. "This isn't fair. You can't just—"

"I can," he interrupted his tone steady but brooking no argument. "And I will. You know I don't take betrayal lightly."

"Betrayal?" you repeated, the word stinging as it left your lips. "Is that what you think this is? Hoseok, I—"

"You ran," he said simply, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table. His fingers interlocked, creating a casual posture that only heightened your unease. "You left me, you threw the ring at me, you abandoned what we're building. Call it whatever you want, Princess, but to me? That's betrayal."

Your breath caught, the weight of his words pressing down on your chest. "I needed time," you whispered. "Time to think, to—"

No, you needed Mark. But you also needed your best friend.

"Think?" Hoseok's laughter was soft, almost amused, but it didn't reach his eyes. "What is there to think about? You're mine. You've always been mine. And this?" He gestured to the ring now firmly on your finger. "This makes it only official."

"You can't force me to—" you said, the defiance in your voice surprising even you. This was never a discourse you or Hobi ever had. Everything was thought to be just platonic. Not for him.

"To what?" he asked, cutting you off again. His tone was low, dangerously calm. "To wear a ring? To stay by my side? To stop running every time things don't go the way you want?"

You flinched, the truth in his words hitting too close to home. Hoseok sighed, his expression softening just enough to make your heart ache. You were running each time you did not feel like the family was doing you justice. And each time it was Hoseok who came to talk sense into you. But this is different. You are not kids anymore, or teenagers. This is serious. Hoseok is serious this time.

"You know what Anubis means to me—"

"And you still thought it was something you could just walk away from?"

You clenched your fists, your nails biting into your palms as the urge to argue warred with the fear.

"I didn't walk away from Anubis," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I just... I needed space, Hoseok."

"You said you were tired, love."

"You misunderstood—" Hoseok shook his head slowly, cutting you off once again, his gaze hardening.

"I never wanted it to come to this," Hoseok said, his voice softening as he reached across the table, his hand brushing against yours. "But you forced my hand, Princess. And now, you don't get to run anymore. Not from me. Not from us."

"But Anubis—"

"It's still yours. But until you learn your place, Namjoon will suffice."

You bit your lip, caught between the suffocating desire to fight back but all you could do is shut your mouth and obey, telling yourself that this is only temporary.

He was, indeed, not mad.

.

.

.

.

𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟎𝟐.𝟏𝟖.𝟐𝟓

©pennyellee. please do not repost

tag list: if you want to be notified once the full story is up for reading, you can write in the comments and I'll create a tag list!

Don't be a silent reader, let's be friends chummers! ♥

lots of love, p.

[unholyhelbig]

Hi,

I love the fics and honestly think you’re one of the amazing writers in here.

I was wondering about the Wandanat x reader fic the beast you’ve made of me, I was wondering if there will be more parts ? As I read the last part there is on there and I wanna know what happens next

Center picture Cred: Jadiakallisti

Title: The Beast You've Made of Me [Part 5/7]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff

Wordcount: 4,212

Summary: When reader wakes up in her own grave, she's suddenly aware of a past that spans lifetimes, but she's not the only one. Two Avengers are tasked with keeping readers past a secret, or at the very least, controlled.

Warnings: Blood, cannon-typical violence, mentions of pain, sweating, general mentions of pain, gun use, horrible grammar I don't proof read we know this

[a/n: hi! God, it's been months. I had a bit of writers block when it came to this one but I'm back on my Wandanat bullshit, so thank you all for your patience. Not sure how I'm feeling about this one.]

[ Part one | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven ]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

The Avengers compound had an extensive library that was settled with a thin layer of dust. Most of the editions were well past your time this go around. Not the dozens of other lives you had suffered through. The spines were bound in genuine leather and the pages crackled when you pulled them apart. You would wager that no one had been here for a long time, at least, not in the last decade.

Wanda’s hazel eyes tracked you from left to right, and then left again, as you paced the carpeted floor. Large stretches of golden sunlight were interrupted by her shadow, her silhouette suffering your constant movement. It was warm in here, much too warm for your liking. Your skin felt damp.

“Okay, you’re making me nauseous.”

Wanda had stood up during your last lap and you ran directly into her. Every spot where her skin touched yours burned viciously and you were thankful for the already present heat masking your blush. The Witch gently closed the book and you reluctantly let her take it from you.

“I fear that Grimms Fairytales are not going to be of much assistance here, darling girl.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but snapped your jaw audibly shut. Darling girl was bold. Sure, she’d sprinkled a few leg-weakening pet names in there, but this nearly seemed deliberate. Your mind was swimming too much to hold onto that life raft at the moment, so you let out an indignant huff.

Wanda had been tasked with watching you. Steve didn’t say it outright, but you knew that Thor’s visit had him shaken, figuring that if the woman in front of you could deliver some tilting blows to Thanos himself, she could probably handle you.

Natasha was buzzing with anger, nearly vibrating out of her skin. Her wife didn’t’ make a move to comfort her, explaining to you that when Natasha got like this, it was better not to poke the bear with a stick unless she wanted to lose a hand, or both.

It left the two of you in the library that had considerably less answers than you were anticipating. The mythology section of the collection was empty save for the book that Wanda had just pried from your hands. The only wolf had gobbled up a poor, defenseless grandmother before stealing her nightgown.

She watched you carefully for a few moments before she adjusted the pillow on a window seat and sat until she looked relatively comfortable. She’d taken your only distraction from the pain that still ebbed against your side from broken glass. You started to fidget.

“Come here.”

“What?”

She sighed and patted her lap, like the answer should have clicked in your head right away. It certainly didn’t. Not only were you searching her face, but your own mind for what she wanted you to do.

“When was the last time you slept?”

“This morning. I almost took you and Natasha out in the non-date kind of way.”

She scoffed again, murmuring a simple ‘come here, then.’ That left no room for argument. Your body seemed to give in when you sat next to her on the cushion, shoulders slumping with exhaustion. God- maybe you were tired.

Wanda guided you gently until your head was laying on her lap. You breathed in her scent, like fresh rain over lilacs. She carried the same floral shampoo that Natasha did, but somehow, it hung sweeter on her skin. You were tense, relaxing under her nimble fingers as she started to glide them in a steady rhythm through your hair.

A content sigh, laced with the smallest bit of a growl, escaped you as you finally gave in and curled closer to her. You could feel your eyes grow heavy, the comfort of her simple touch settling over you like a blanket.  

“Go ahead and sleep, baby.”

“m’don’t want to hurt you,”

“You won’t.” Wanda assured, “I’ll protect you.”

Affection bloomed from the center of your chest. You turned your head, looked up at her. There was so much care in her gaze. She smiled softly down at you, moved her fingers across the small scar under your right eye, a constant reminder of crumbled ice on a fateful day.

“Don’t give me that look. I mean it. Close your eyes, sweetheart. I’ll keep the memories at bay.”

Her reassurance seemed to be enough for you to give in to the remaining exhaustion, your cheek back against the soft fabric of her pants, breathing in that intoxicating scent. Wanda’s fingers continued to trace patters at the small of your neck, through your hair. You swore, you heard her release a hum in a melody you couldn’t place, before you allowed yourself to sleep.

Wanda Maximoff had known pain before. It attracted like a magnet, dutifully dragging the metal of unwanted memories back to the surface each time she got too close. She’d been good, she’d been bad, and most of the time, she conceded to being both. There was a thin line that she threaded, and Natasha Romanoff loved her immensely on either side.

There was anguish radiating off you in waves. She felt the emotion in her fingertips where they met your skin, so soft and pale with exhaustion. This was the first time in the last two weeks that she had seen an expression of peace across your features, and she quite liked the image.

The witch could feel your curse pulsing through your veins, just as much as she could feel your warm weight against her lap. You let out the softest bit of a whimpered breath and snuggled closer, as if she were your liferaft on a choppy sea.

She was growing exhausted herself. While she’d had a certain fondness for her godly teammate, his sneering display in the conference room had left her rattled. The sun that flowed through the room was warming her, but not to an uncomfortable degree. She leaned back on the window and closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of your steady breathing.

“You need to wake up, miss.” Wanda was leaden with sleep, eyes heavy and taking in lungful’s of grassy scent. The ground beneath her was damp, but soft, so she pressed her cheek closer to the moisture and tried to bat away the presence pestering her.

“Please, I’ll take no pleasure in leaving you. Not with it out here.”

It. Such a simple, yet vague word that ebbed away at the last of the tiredness that plagued her. Since she was a girl, even before the poking and prodding of Hydra’s sadistic minds, she could tell the difference between a dream, and reality.

Life had a haze to it, a softness around the edges that her dreams rivaled. They felt all the more real than her daily endeavors, and at first, that sent a steel rod of fear through Wanda. But, she’d grown to love the control she held over her dreams. They all meant something, perhaps more than her waking hours.

When she sat up, her head rushed with blood with a comfortable and familiar whoosh. The person kneeling next to her was a stranger. A slight thing with dark skin and cornflower eyes. They blinked curiously at Wanda. A long and scruffy beard hung from their chin, full of small flowers, embedded in the curls. They had a feminine figure, a masculine expanse of shoulders.  

They smirked at her. “You do not have to stare, miss. I am well aware of what I look like.”

“No, that’s not… I didn’t. You’re lovely.”

Blush had found its way to Wanda’s cheeks, and she allowed herself to be pulled to her shaky feet by the stranger. They smelled of sugar, and the slightest hint of cinnamon that reminded Wanda of a kitchen after a meal had been cooked. They smiled more genuinely this time, and the tension seemed to exit the conversation as soon as it had entered.

“What’s your name?” Wanda asked.

They frowned. “I don’t think I have one anymore. Now, we really do need to get a move on. Do you hear the thunder?”

She didn’t hear a thing past the bubbling stream and the desperate squawks of birds’ way up in the trees. These woods were lovely, but she had no time to ponder them. The nameless stranger took long strides towards their destination, and while Wanda hadn’t a clue what they were running from, she didn’t want to stick around and find out.

The stranger seemed to know where they were going, hopping easily over logs, and letting their bare toes curl into the dampness of the stream. Wanda’s fingers brushed across leaves, and rough tree bark. Though the compound was surrounded by forest, it was much too manufactured. This was wild, this made her want to howl into it’s silence.

“The beast has been pulling against us lately,” they explained, reaching a hand out and helping Wanda over a large, smooth boulder that had been warmed expertly by the sun. “For decades, we’ve known peace in our own right. As peaceful as one can be against their will. As far as prisons go, this is a beautiful one.”

Snowcapped mountains stretched far into the sky, into the endlessness of nature. She’d been imprisoned and this did not seem like one. There was room to roam, there were crops, and animals that stalked through the same trees they did. She had no right to judge-however- dreaming or not, their struggle was not her own.

“Come, I am not alone.”

Wanda was lulled with kindness, and well aware that nothing could hurt her here. She followed the Stranger to a small cabin that cut through the clearing in the forest. A stone well was nearby, as was the looming skeletal structure of a barn, slanted and rotten through.

The Stranger knocked and did not wait for an answer before pushing her way into the home. The same scent they carried bombarded Wanda with warmth. Oil lamps, and books were strewn about. It was cluttered, but comfortable. A fire crackled in a stone hearth, and a large-bearish man turned towards them, a book dwarfed within his paws.

A woman was at the stove, slowly turning a stews content around. She flicked glowing green eyes in their direction, lilting her head like a curious feline. Her movements were catlike and calculated, teeth pointed into little knives.

“They do not have names either.” The Stranger nodded solemnly.

“How long have you been here?” Wanda asked.

The bear man responded in his deep, jaded voice “Forever.”

“The dwarves, they tricked us. All of us.” The cat woman scooped broth, potatoes and carrots into separate bowls, the yellow steam curling around the oil lamp and it’s flickering flame. She frowned. “Something from each stolen in order to prevent Ragnarök.”

Wanda had heard that before. Thor said it; the second coming, an apocalypse of Asgard. It was the catalyst for your imprisonment in the first place. She was having trouble grasping the purpose of the stranger, of the cat woman and the bear man, and the place her conscious was lingering in now.

“Their chains were not strong enough. They needed elements from nature to make binds that would hold a Beast as large and dangerous as the one that they feared.”

Bear man hoisted himself from the sofa in front of the fire. He wedged a crutch under his arm that Wanda had not noticed at first. He walked with a limp and loomed above her, covered in hair, claws as long as her fingers. She gazed up at him, suddenly surrounded.

“The sound of a cat’s footfall, the beard of a woman, the roots of a mountain, the sinews of a bear, the breath of a fish, and the spittle of birds.” The Stranger explained. They plopped down in a creaky kitchen chair, reached for the stew before the Cat woman batted their hand away.

“All of that… for chains?”

The Stranger sneered, plucking a flower from their beard and plopping the color in the middle of the bland stew. “It’s worked, hasn’t it?”

When she stirred, the sun had lowered significantly from its point in the sky. A sorbet glow moved across the discarded book of mythology and a blanket had been draped over her shoulders. She woke gently, as she always did, with a certain degree of elegance that evaded most of the avengers.

Natasha was at the one table in the room, her chin resting on her folded arms. She’d been watching Wanda for some time now; the slow rise and fall of her chest, the comfortable expression on her face while she held you. She still held you now, her grip tightening in her own sleep.

Adoration had replaced the anger in Natasha’s eyes from earlier in the day. Though, her knuckles were wrapped in a thin layer of gauze, a clear sign that she had taken most of her frustrations out on a punching bag in the gym without the proper precautions. Wanda fought the urge to press her lips against them, to soothe the pulsing pain.

 “She’s really taken a liking to you,” Natasha whispered. Her voice held no malice, no jealousy. It was like a soothing balm, despite the small frown that formed against her features. “I put myself between her and a literal God today. A friend.”

“It’s naive of us to think of her as helpless.”

You were curled so easily into Wandas side, soft snores escaping you. Your fingers had found purchase in the fabric of the blanket, pulling it close, wrapping yourself up. It was the most peaceful she had seen you since you’d met. She ached to hold you in the same way, but swallowed the feeling in exchange for letting you rest.  

“In the atrium the other day, she couldn’t take a punch. I think this version of her is helpless. If what Thor is saying is true, then she could bring about the apocalypse.”

“Yes, in Asgard.”

Natasha breathed out, traced her fingers over the soiled gauze. She couldn’t look Wanda in the eye when she used this pleading tone. She would fold for her wife, and fold for the girl that she held in her arms. They were much too persuasive.

“Do you blame her? She was prosecuted simply because of her lineage. The whole family was. I don’t think Loki is a good guy, especially after what he did. But when you’re born into a world that thinks you’re a bastard, a mistake, and treats you like one, it’s easy to fall into the projected legends, don’t you think?”

The spy let the statement linger. Her entire life she was trained to be a killer to the point where her own thoughts were blurred into nothing but a red ledger. It had taken Clint Barton to pull her out, one single person to rip her from a life of killing. Maybe you just needed someone to care.

A small, content whimper escaped you, and Natasha looked at the way the golden sunset highlighted your features. You’d pressed yourself even closer to Wanda, if that was possible. The Witch stared at you with a soft gaze.

“What do you suggest we do, darling?” Natasha asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“They are going to bring the fight to us, stop at nothing until they have her back in chains.” Wanda frowned, a small crinkle of frustration smoothing against her nose. “We bring the fight to them. We fell Asgard before they can fell us.”

Natasha’s warmth was inevitable as she adjusted your stance. Her amber scent filled your lungs stronger than it ever had before. All of your senses were on fire. Every inch of her lean figure was pressed against your back. She gently corrected your hips, aligning them with the target.

She was taller than you by a few inches, her breath hot on your cheek and smelling oaky. You struggled not to sigh into her.  That would be wrong. She was Wanda’s wife, and they were in a committed and happy relationship.

They both flustered you beyond comprehension. Wanda had her soft touches and her commanding tone. Natasha with her assured guidance and rumbling voice. The pet names, and the lingering hands had you reeling.

“Okay, kitten, it’s important to keep your arms slightly bent.” Her hands trailed down your arm, sending shivers that you couldn’t suppress up your spine. You could feel her grin, whole body flushing with soft pink color. “Good girl. Now you’re going to aim slightly left of your target and gently squeeze the trigger. You’re going to get some kickback, so watch your nose.”

You pulled in a steadying breath. Natasha’s hands wandered around your waist and to your stomach. Again, she corrected your stance. It was ever-so-subtle. You closed your eyes for a short moment, trying to focus before pulling the trigger.

It was loud, making your ears ring. The kickback was rough against your wrist, but Natasha held you steadily. The fact that she was holding you at all made you dizzy. You’d blown a few holes through the target at the far end of the range, all just south of the belt.

“Well,” She chuckled, leaning her chin against your shoulder. “That’s one way to do it. Not necessarily fatal, but I’m sure they’ll wish it was.”

You crinkled your nose and set the gun safely down as she had instructed. Everything about it felt unnatural but you wished for her to keep holding you close as she was. You knew that she was trying her best. Both she and Wanda were. But guns weren’t your thing. Neither was hand to hand combat or the blood tests, or the stretching days of sleep deprivation.

You were aching for your routines with Jennifer in the legal offices and the shitty lifetime movies and the sodium-filled takeout that the two of you would indulge in over box wine. All things that you took for granted. All things that you ached so heavily for you could cry. It was a pit in your stomach so dense you could almost feel it.

In fact, you could feel something. A cold sweat that you attributed to the proximity of Natasha started to collect in the palms of your hands and the small of your neck. But it was quickly spreading.

Natasha seemed to notice, moving her hands to your hips and frowning at you. “You alright, volchitsa?”

“I don’t like guns,” You swallowed the muted nausea, leaning your back against the nearest wall, reveling in the coolness. “Is it hot in here?”

“No, but you’re burning up.”

She was a spy. You don’t know how you thought you could get one over on her or ignore the sudden turn of your stomach, not when a sharp pain ripped through your middle and dropped you to a knee with an indignant huff. Sweat dripped off the tip of your nose. She stabilized you with a swiftness that only she could.

“I can’t quite seem to stop embarrassing myself in front of you, can I?” You whimpered out.

“No, you really can’t.” Natasha carded her fingers through damp hair, the motion soothing. “You going to knock out on me? Go to another time period?”

You grit your teeth, tucked your head “Don’t think so, this is different.”

It was different. Something was clawing deep within you, wanting to get out. The arm that wasn’t holding you up found purchase around your midsection as if it were trying to keep your insides in. She saw the desperation in your eyes. Must have, because you were moved back to the safety of your room.

You were not delusional. It was a prison cell, a fancier version of the holding container that they’d kept you in before. It was meant to keep you in just as much as it was meant to keep everyone else out. Natasha had tucked the gun in the back of her pants before leading you back here. Carrying you, perhaps. You’d been too disoriented to know.

“It’s… hot” You said again, curled in on yourself at the edge of the bed “You don’t think it’s hot?”

Before she could answer you were pulling your shirt off, pleased by the temporary relief that it granted you. Then the jeans and the socks. This left you in a pair of tight boxer shorts and a sports bra. The lights were too bright and your skin felt like it was crawling.

“FRIDAY.” Natasha called out, tracking you carefully “Can I get a reading on vitals, please?”

A mechanical voice recalled. “Body temperature: 232 Fahrenheit, Heart Rate: 325 BPM.”

“Perfect. Please send Wanda down right away.” Natasha dragged her gaze up and down your mostly nude body. “I believe I’ll need my wife’s assistance.”

“Right away, Mrs. Romanoff.” FRIDAY responded. “Temperature is now reading 245 Fahrenheit.”

Stupid fucking robot.

You’d turned on your side now, the sheets beneath you saturated in sweat. Your breaths had changed from soft pants to deep growls of discomfort. All you could feel was heat and sharp pains. This is what you had imagined death to feel like. These horrible waves of discomfort that were never ending.

“I think,” You turned your face into the mattress fully, snarling something deep and wild. Natasha’s hand was on your back as a grounding force. “fuck.”

“What is it baby?” She was pleading with you. A brokenness in her voice that you’d never heard from her before. One that you wanted to stop. You wanted everything to stop. “How can I help you?”

“You need to… leave… don’t want to hurt you.”

You repeated the same sentiment that you had with her wife just hours before. Natasha wanted to deny you. Of course, you wouldn’t hurt her. But then your spine shifted under her palm. Each vertebrae seemed to quake and clack together as if a handler had moved the handle of a whip at the base. You groaned and clenched your fingers into the fluff of the mattress at the motion. You were in insurmountable pain, and she could do nothing to stop it except obey.

“Okay,” Natasha whispered, not sure of herself. “Okay. I’ll be right outside that door. FRIDAY will monitor. Helen is on her way.”

She got a choked groan in response. Willing herself to leave was difficult. Closing the door behind her was worse. She found herself in the same observation room that was mute to your screams. Deep in her gut, she knew what was happening. It was logical. It was in all the horror movies. It would be impossible to witness much less go through.

Wanda burst through the corridor, her socks skidding on the linoleum. Natasha softened her crash landing with her shoulder, didn’t try to push her back but kept her from going further. She’d learned long ago that telling Wanda not to do something would get her nowhere. It would set her back ten paces, perhaps even twenty.

“What’s happening? propustite menya, ya khochu yeye uvidet'.”

Natasha shook her head, resolute. “It’s better if you don’t. She’s in pain.”

“And you’re out here?” a raw type of accusation surged through Wanda’s words, she moved to pushed past Natasha again, was stopped once more. She could overpower her wife, but knew better not to. Instead, nailing her with an exasperated glare. “Why?”

“She asked me not to, begged me. Y/n just figured out what she is and now it’s coming to the surface. She wants to lick her wounds in peace. We should grant her that at the very least, even if we want to storm in there and nurse her through it.” Natasha’s voice cracked, she blinked, looked away dejectedly. “She knows we’re here. Right here.”

Wanda crossed her arms over her chest, clearly unhappy, but conceding. She stalked over to the viewing window guiltily. Natasha felt as if you were more of an animal than ever, trapped within these four walls.

“Natasha?”

“Yeah, baby?” She couldn’t peel herself from the door, had her eyes clenched shut. There was a pounding headache.

“Where the fuck is she?”

That got her away from the wall, pressing her fingers up against the window, breath fogging the glass. Wanda was true to her word. The bed was empty. The containment unit was empty. The entire room was visible from where the two of them stood.

“FRIDAY I need a location on y/n?” She was met with silence, tepid green eyes meeting Wanda’s with nothing short of fear. “FRIDAY?”

With a fizzled snap, the lights flickered out, plunging the two of them into darkness. Natasha felt her heart in her throat for a single moment. A fearful and tense moment that instantly dried her throat in the pitch black. Her forehead thumped against the glass in annoyance. In defeat.

Behind the glass, something that suddenly seemed as thin as paper, two glowing eyes stared unblinkingly at her. Tracking her in ways that she could not track back. Warm breath fogged up the divider. She could feel it, touch it

“Shit” Natasha drew out the word. “Do you think she’s pissed I keep calling her kitten?”

Taglist💕: @dannipotatoo, @non-binary-frogking, @mysticalmoonlight7, @metanoiablxxm, @coxlong, @b3nzzzzz, @simpforlizzie, @delulu-bayolet-era, @dorabledewdroop, @crescentcrush, @roselockwood, @ellieromanov, @leenasayeed, @theowlappears, @pitifulbinx, @pepemyfantasy, @tekanparadiae, @skittlebum, @mariabeloskivismyoc, @natsbiggestfan1, @marvelwomen-simp, @cinffy23, @kyky-maximoff, @natalierushmansstuff, @bstvst, @lezzylover, @404-almostdone, @mishimrno, @maxidentbby, @shayarshucky, @merlinsouls, @neothepotato, @aliherreraaa, @olicity-boo, @tarathia, @thinking1bee, @shayarshucky, @bstvst, alowint, jono723, kaosrsing, gemz5, inarayofmoonlight, just4natasha, woow-ies,

[flwrstqr]

— HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN 10 DAYS (LHS - 이희승)

SYNOPSIS ! an advice writer, you, starts on a bold new project for an article aiming to explain how to drive a man away in just 10 days. your editor is supports, so you set out to find a suitable man for her experiment. meanwhile, executive heeseung is equally confident in his ability to make any woman fall in love with him within 10 days. when you and heeseung cross paths, things slightly go off plan.

THE CAST heeseung x writer! fem reader

GENRE s2l, fluff, comedy, romance

WORD COUNT 5k+

WARNINGS parties, kissing, small grammar errors, yn kind of playing with heeseung at first, swearing, angst, crying

DANi NOTEZ hii this is for my liz's new event!!! this i based the rom com, how to lose a guy in 10 days. i kind of changed up scenes but the main idea and plot is based on the iconic 2000s movie. i've been writing this for abt 2-3 days? i thought it was good enough for liz' event so here i am. anyways i hope u enjoy it ><

BEING A WRITER HAS BEEN YOUR NUMBER ONE GOAL EVER SINCE HIGH SCHOOL. Now, at age 23, you were finally standing at the gates of the biggest magazine company ever. The sight alone sent chills down your spine, filling you with exhilaration.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed open the doors and stepped inside. The bustling activity, the hum of the printer, and the aroma of bitter coffee greeted you. You made your way to the elevator and anxiously pressed the button for the 17th floor.

Upon arrival, you awkwardly walked into the office. Your heart was pounding, and your knees were slightly shaking. You approached the manager's office and opened the door, finding yourself sitting in front of your section's main manager.

"YN LN?" the woman asked.

"Yes, ma'am," you replied stiffly, nerves evident in your voice.

"Welcome to our magazine company," she greeted, shaking your sweaty hand.

"Thank you," you responded with your usual sweet smile.

"Well, why don't you get to work?" she laughed. Your eyes widened, and you quickly stammered an apology, rushing to find your new desk and start brainstorming ideas.

For nearly two hours, you gazed out the window, feeling empty. No ideas were coming to you. It always seemed that the best ideas came at the worst times, and now, when you needed them most, your mind was blank.

"YN, just think…" you whispered to yourself, running your fingers through your hair. You glanced around the office, hoping for inspiration. Your eyes settled on a young man and woman engaged in a flirtatious conversation. Watching them smile and laugh together made you wonder if they were a couple or just interested in each other. (happy couples really did give you an ick.)

Then, it happened. The perfect idea. An idea that could possibly get you promoted and shake the whole world.

Quickly scribbling on your paper, the title snapped into your mind: "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days."

YOU MIGHT BE WONDERING, how do you even lose a guy in 10 days? Easy—just find a guy and drive him away by doing stereotypical “girl things.” Sounds like a piece of cake, right?

“YN, that is one of the BEST ideas I’ve ever heard!” your editor, Yeseo, exclaims.

“Really?” you ask, eagerly smiling.

“It’s perfect! It would catch everyone’s attention!” Yeseo explains, her eyes lighting up as she imagines the situation.

“So, how are you going to write this?” Yeseo raises an eyebrow.

“I’ll try it out myself and document my experiences. That way, it’s more authentic,” you shrug.

“That sounds great. Just journal your experiences each day,” Yeseo nods, agreeing with your plan. “I’m so excited to see the final product, YN. Email me once you’re finished, and we’ll get it published within weeks.”

You give her a quick smile before leaving her office, ready to start your new adventure.

PARTIES. USUALLY ONE OF THE THINGS YOU ABSOLUTELY HATED. The noise of couples kissing, people screaming, and music blasting through the speakers was just not your thing. The way sweaty bodies brush against each other as they chug alcohol. Parties are truly the thing you hate the most.

“So you’re telling me your new article for the magazine is about how to get a boy to dump you in 10 days?” Karina raised her eyebrow.

“In other words, yes,” you smiled. “I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?”

“Possibly it not working,” Giselle interjected.

“Well, it will. I’ve planned the whole thing,” you grinned with a hint of pride. “My editor was impressed. I’m sure it’ll work.”

“If you say so,” Karina laughed at your confidence.

“So basically, YN will get a boyfriend before me?” Ningning asked, shocked.

“Well, he’s not gonna be my boyfriend. He’s more like a test,” you replied uncertainty. As you continued to explain your plan, you felt a gaze fixed on you from across the room.

A FEW MINUTES BEFORE

“I bet you can’t get a girlfriend,” Jake joked.

“I can,” Heeseung rolled his eyes.

“Wanna bet on it, then?” Jake's eyes glinted with playfulness.

“Deal,” Heeseung confirmed.

“If you get that girl over there as your girlfriend, then I’ll give you a thousand dollars.” Jake smirked, pointing at you across the room.

“Her?” Heeseung raised his eyebrow as he checked you out. You were pretty to his eyes, though he wasn’t sure if he had the courage to approach you.

“Yup, her,” Jake grinned.

“Deal, I’ll have her in my arms within a day,” Heeseung winked before walking over to ask for your number.

NOW

“No way my plan will fail–” your voice stopped as Heeseung approached, tapping your shoulder lightly.

“Hi,” he greeted you with a welcoming smile.

“Uh, hi?” you replied, confused.

“You’re kind of cute. Can I get your number?” Heeseung asked, the words not quite rolling off his tongue as he had never done this before.

Your cheeks burned slightly as you stared. “Sure?” He was quite cute, with his sweet smile and perfectly styled hair. You gave him your number, and he mentioned he would text you later before walking off.

“YN, you know what that means?” Giselle raised her eyebrow.

“Huh?” you looked confused.

“You can use him as your test,” Winter recalled. Your eyes then widened. Perfect! He would be the perfect subject for your new article. Now, how were you going to make him yours?

YOU SIT ON YOUR BED, staring at your phone, debating whether to text Heeseung first. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, a mixture of nervousness and excitement bubbling inside you. Finally, you take a deep breath and type out a message.

YN: Hi, it’s YN. We met at the party earlier, you asked for my number. :)

You hit send and immediately feel a rush of anxiety. What if he doesn’t respond? What if he thinks you’re weird? You try to distract yourself by scrolling through social media, but the minutes feel like hours. Suddenly, your phone buzzes.

Heeseung: Hey, of course I remember. How's your night going? 

YN: It’s going good, just relaxing now. How about you?

Heeseung: Same here. Just got home. That party was a bit too much for me, tbh

You smile, feeling a little more at ease.

YN: Agreed, not rlly a party person lmao

Heeseung: Really? Me neither. I actually prefer a quiet night with some good music.

YN: Same, what kind of music do you like?

Heeseung: I listen to a lot like R&B and indie ig

YN: oh rlly? Same w me 

Heeseung: oh that’s cool

Heeseung: also wanna meet up one day?

YN: That would be amazing. I’m totally up for it.

Heeseung: Cool, it’s a date then. :)

You can’t help but smile at his message, feeling a flutter of excitement.

YN: Sounds like a plan.

Heeseung: It’s getting late. I should probably get some sleep. But I’m glad we got to talk tonight.

YN: Me too. Sleep well, Heeseung. Talk to you tomorrow?

Heeseung: Definitely. Goodnight, YN. :)

You set your phone down, a smile still on your face. This might just be the start of something interesting.

YOU TAKE A DEEP BREATH, smoothing out your outfit one last time before stepping into the restaurant. Heeseung is already there, waiting at a table near the window. He spots you and waves, a warm smile spreading across his face. You give a small smile back. 

“Hi,” you greet him as you sit down.

“Hey,” he replies, “You look great.”

“Thanks, you too.”

The waiter comes over to take your orders, and there’s a moment of awkward silence as you both look at the menus.

“So, uh, do you come here often?” Heeseung asks, attempting to break the ice.

“Actually, it’s my first time,” you admit.

“I see,” Heeseung awkwardly laughs. 

AFTER DINNER, you both step outside into the cool evening air, feeling more comfortable in each other’s presence.

“That was really nice,” Heeseung says, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Yeah, it was,” you agree, feeling a sense of relief that the awkwardness from earlier has faded.

You walk side by side down the quiet street, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere.

“Do you live far from here?” Heeseung asks, breaking the silence.

“Not too far. Just a few blocks away,” you reply, glancing at him.

“Oh I see,” he says, smiling.

As you continued walking, the two of you began to chatter off. The conversation flows effortlessly, and you find yourself laughing at his jokes and sharing your own stories.

“Did you see the sunset earlier?” Heeseung asks, pointing to the sky, which is now painted with shades of orange and pink.

“Yeah, it was beautiful,” you say, smiling at the sight.

“I had a really good time tonight,” Heeseung says, looking at you with a soft smile.

“Me too,” you reply, feeling a warmth spread through you.

As you reach your street, you both come to a stop.

“Well, I guess this is where we part ways,” Heeseung says, looking a little reluctant to leave.

“Yeah,” you say, feeling a twinge of disappointment.

“Thanks for tonight, YN. I had a great time,” he says, stepping closer to you, “Maybe another time we can hang out again.” 

“Thank you too, Heeseung. That sounds great,” you reply, feeling a rush of happiness.

 YOU DECIDE IT'S TIME TO PUT YOUR PLAN INTO ACTION. You’ve thought through every detail, determined to see if your article concept works in real life. Step one: find an ugly dog and some hideous clothes. You’ve got the perfect ideas in mind.

You meet Heeseung outside his apartment, holding a small, scruffy dog with a face only its owner could love. You flash him a bright smile as he opens the door.

“Surprise!” you exclaim. “I got us a dog!”

Heeseung’s eyes widen as he takes in the sight of the dog. “Uh, wow, YN. That’s…unexpected.”

“Isn’t he adorable?” you gush, ignoring the bewilderment on Heeseung’s face. “I named him Snuggles.”

“Snuggles, huh?” Heeseung says, trying to muster enthusiasm. “Yeah, he’s…something.”

You place Snuggles in Heeseung’s arms, watching as the dog licks his face with an enthusiastic, slobbery tongue. Heeseung grimaces slightly but manages a strained smile.

“Let’s take him for a walk,” you suggest brightly, grabbing a garishly colored leash from your bag.

Later that evening, you bring out the next part of your plan: an outfit so hideous that it should be impossible for Heeseung to bear. You hand him a neon green tracksuit with orange polka dots and a pair of mismatched shoes.

“I thought we could match!” you say, revealing your identical outfit. “Isn’t it fun?”

Heeseung looks at the clothes, then back at you, clearly unsure how to respond. “Wow, YN. This is…unique.”

“You don’t like it?” you ask, pouting slightly.

“No, no, it’s great,” he says quickly. “I’ll just, uh, go change.”

When he returns, you both look like you’ve stepped out of a bad 80s workout video. You can’t help but laugh at the absurdity, but Heeseung seems to be struggling to keep a straight face.

“Let’s go grab dinner,” you say, linking your arm with his. “I made reservations at that fancy restaurant downtown.”

At the restaurant, the two of you turn heads as you walk in, dressed in your eye-searing outfits. The hostess tries to maintain her professionalism as she leads you to your table, but you can see the corners of her mouth twitching.

Throughout dinner, you do your best to be as irritating as possible. You chew with your mouth open, talk loudly, and insist on ordering the strangest items on the menu.

“Are you sure you want the pizza?” Heeseung asks, a note of disbelief in his voice.

“Absolutely,” you reply, grinning. “And I think you should try it too!”

Heeseung hesitates but eventually nods. “Sure, why not?” 

Here you were, sitting on your bed as you write your story. Typing away and zoning out, it had to be working right? He obviously would be over you by next week. All you needed was one more shove to drive him away soon as possible. Just 5 more days..

YOU PUSH YOUR CART THROUGH the aisles of the grocery store, scanning the shelves for the items on your list. As you reach for a box of cereal, you hear a familiar voice behind you.

“YN?”

You turn to see Heeseung approaching, a smile lighting up his face. “Oh, hi Heeseung,” you say with a smile.

“Nice to see you here,” he says, falling into step beside you.

“Yeah, I just needed to grab a few things,” you reply, feeling a bit flustered by his presence.

Heeseung nods, and for a moment, there’s an awkward silence as you both continue browsing. Suddenly, you realize you can’t reach the item you need on the top shelf.

“Um, Heeseung, do you think you could help me with something?” you ask, feeling a bit embarrassed.

“Of course, what do you need?” he replies, stepping closer.

“I just need to grab that box up there,” you say, pointing to the top shelf.

“Sure thing,” Heeseung says, reaching up to grab the box.

But as he stretches, you accidentally bump into him, causing him to lose his balance. In a split second, you reach out to steady him, but instead, you end up stumbling backward, crashing to the ground on top of him. Your face merely inches from each other. 

“I’m sorry about that!” you exclaim, your face burning with embarrassment.

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” he says, his cheeks also flushed as he helps you up.

“Um, we should probably get up,” you say, feeling flustered.

“Yeah, definitely,” Heeseung agrees, scrambling to his feet.

You both straighten your clothes and try to regain your composure, but the awkwardness lingers in the air.

“Well, um, thanks for trying to help,” you say, feeling a bit embarrassed.

“Anytime,” Heeseung replies with a sheepish smile. You exchange a quick awkward glance before awkwardly walking back to do your own things.

YOU AND HEESEUNG STEP INTO THE DIMLY LIT MOVIE THEATER, the smell of popcorn filling the air. You’ve been looking forward to this night out, hoping it will help end your plan to drive him away. As you settle into your seats, the lights dim, and the movie begins.

The film is a romantic comedy, and as the story unfolds, you find yourself getting lost in the plot. But when the characters share a kiss on screen, you feel a sudden tension between you and Heeseung.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, and you can see that he’s watching you, his expression unreadable. You both look away awkwardly, feeling a flush of embarrassment.

As the movie progresses, the tension between you only grows. You can feel Heeseung’s eyes on you, and you struggle to focus on the screen, your heart pounding in your chest.

Suddenly, as another kiss happens, Heeseung leans in closer to you. You freeze, unsure of what to do. Is he going to kiss you? But then, almost as if on cue, Heeseung leans in closer, his lips hovering just inches from yours. His breath mingles with yours, his warm exhales tickling your skin as he leans in, his lips drawing closer to yours. You can feel the gentle brush of his breath against your mouth, sending shivers down your spine. 

Your heart pounds in your chest as you feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. And then, in a heartbeat, he closes the gap between you, his lips pressing softly against yours. It’s a gentle kiss, but hesitant at first, but soon it deepens. You can’t help but respond, your hands finding their way to his shoulders.

You melt into the kiss, losing yourself in the sensation of his lips against yours.  When you finally pull away, your heart is racing, and your mind is buzzing with emotions. You meet Heeseung’s gaze, and you can see the same uncertainty reflected in his eyes.

“Wow,” he whispers, his voice barely audible over the sound of the movie.

“Yeah,” you murmur, at a loss for words.

As the movie comes to an end, you both sit in silence, the weight of what just happened hanging in the air. But despite the awkwardness, you can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted between you.

As you leave the theater, you can’t help but replay the kiss in your mind, feeling a sense of warmth and longing that you can’t ignore. And as you walk hand in hand with Heeseung, you realize with a start that maybe, just maybe, you’re falling in love.

AS YOU LIE IN BED THAT NIGHT, the events of the evening replay in your mind. The gentle touch of Heeseung's lips against yours, the warmth of his embrace—it all stuck in your head. 

You stare up at the ceiling, think to yourself.  Love? It's a word you're not ready to utter, a feeling too intense to comprehend. You try to push the thought aside. 

You roll onto your side, pulling the covers tighter around you. You couldn’t be in love? All that effort you put in to get rid of him. It was your 8th day, just two more days. You couldn’t do it anymore. As you drift off to sleep, the question echoes in your mind. Are you falling in love with Heeseung? 

THE REALIZATION HITS YOU like a ton of bricks, leaving you feeling breathless. Could it be true? Are you actually falling in love with Heeseung?

The thought consumes you as you go about your day. By the time evening arrives, you can't shake the feeling that you needed to end it.

Summoning every ounce of courage, you pick up your phone and dial your editor's number. When she answers, you get yourself together for the conversation ahead.

"Hey, it's me," you begin, "I need to talk to you about the article."

There's a pause on the other end of the line, and you can almost hear the curiosity in her voice as she responds. "Sure, what's up?"

"I… I can't write it," you admit, the words feeling like a confession. "I just don't feel right about it anymore."

There's a moment of silence before your editor speaks again, her tone firm."No, you're writing it," she says, leaving no room for argument.

"But—" you start to protest, but she cuts you off before you can continue.

"No buts," she insists. "We've already agreed on the topic, and you're the best person for the job. I expect to see the first draft on my desk by the end of the week."

You sigh, feeling defeated. It's clear that your editor isn't going to budge on this issue, and you know that arguing further would be a waste.

"Okay," you say reluctantly, resigning yourself to the task at hand. "I'll get it done."

AS YOU SIT ON YOUR COUCH, trying to make sense of everything that's happened, until you hear Heeseung pick up a call. 

“ Heeseung!" Jake's voice crackles through the phone, filled with excitement. "So, have you sealed the deal yet? Win YN over?"

Your heart skips a beat at the mention of your name and you instinctively lean in closer, eager to hear his response. But as you listen, the color drains from your face, and a cold dread settles in the pit of your stomach.

"The bet that I could get YN in 10 days?," Heeseung's voice comes through the phone, his words cutting through the air, "I thought I could, but…" 

Your heart shatters. Your knees started to shake. How could you have been so blind? How could you have let yourself fall for someone who was playing a game with your feelings?

Before you can hear the rest of his sentence, you leave the room silently. "I thought I could, but…" The words replay in your head.As the reality sinks in, you realize that you may have just broken your own heart, listening in on a conversation that was never meant for your ears.  He played with you. He was using you. You feel like a fool, blindsided by the truth that's been staring you in the face all along. 

You walk yourself to the nearest taxi before coming back to your empty apartment. You lie on bed, your palms on your eyes, sobbing quietly. Why should you care? I mean he was just an experiment — right? 

THE MORNING SUNLIGHT FILTERS through the curtains as you sit on your bed, thoughts rushing through your mind. The wounds from last night were still raw, as you feel tired and sick. You kew what you have to do. You began to type your last paragraph of the article before submitting it to your editor. 

With the article sent, you feel a mix of anxiety and relief. You know the revised piece is honest and raw, reflecting your own experience. But there’s one more thing you need to do to truly move forward.

To: Editor Yeseo

Subject: Resignation Letter

Dear Yeseo,

I am writing to formally resign from my position as a writer, effective immediately. I appreciate the opportunities I have had here and the support from the team, but I must prioritize my well-being at this time.

Thank you for your understanding.

Sincerely, YN

You hit send, feeling an overwhelming amount of pain. Being a writer had been your dream job, but now, it feels like a chapter you need to close. As you sit in your now-quiet apartment, you feel a pang of sadness. The memories of the past few weeks with Heeseung linger, but you push them aside. 

You start with your closet, pulling out clothes and sorting them into piles: keep, donate, and toss. You take down the photos and posters from the walls, each one a reminder of the life you’re leaving behind.

Next, you move to the kitchen, packing up dishes, utensils, and small appliances. You wrap everything carefully, methodically, as if each item represents a piece of your heart that you’re trying to protect. 

Your phone buzzes with messages from Heeseung, but you ignore them. Making them be left on delivered. You move to the living room, packing up books, DVDs, and mementos. You’re not just packing up your belongings; you’re packing up your old life, preparing to move on and start new.

IN HIS DIMLY LIT APARTMENT, Heeseung sits on the edge of his bed, the glow of his laptop screen casting shadows across his face. His heart pounds in his chest as he opens the email attachment—a document titled "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days—And Fall in Love in the Process" by [Your Name].

As the page loads, he takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what he's about to read. The cursor hovers over the first paragraph, and with a trembling hand, he begins to scroll down. 

Heeseung sits at his desk, his heart pounding in his chest as he reads the article that has just landed in his inbox. With each word, his emotions spiral into a whirlwind of confusion and disbelief.

"When I set out to write this article..."

He reads the opening sentence, his brow furrowing in confusion. What article is this? And why does it sound so familiar?

As he continues to read, the pieces start to fall into place. The description of the article, the unexpected turn of events—it's all too familiar, too painful to ignore.

"I met someone who was supposed to be just a test subject..."

Heeseung's breath catches in his throat as he realizes what he's reading. This is about him. About the bet, about the article he overheard, about everything.

He reads on, his heart pounding louder with each passing sentence:

When I set out to write this article, the plan was simple: follow a set of steps to make a guy dump me in ten days. It was supposed to be a fun, light-hearted challenge—a piece to entertain our readers. But life, as it often does, had other plans.

I met someone who was supposed to be just a test subject. But as the days went by, something unexpected happened. The more I tried to push him away, the closer we became. Every awkward moment, every forced argument, every silly plan to drive him away only brought us closer together.

I found myself laughing at his jokes, looking forward to our time together, and, against all odds, feeling a connection I hadn't anticipated. What started as a challenge turned into a journey of discovery—not just about him, but about myself.

I realized that love isn't something you can plan or control. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it, breaking down the walls you've carefully built around your heart. And sometimes, the person you're trying to lose ends up being the one you can't imagine living without.

So, dear readers, this isn't the article I set out to write. It's not about foolproof ways to make a guy dump you. Instead, it's a story about how, in the process of trying to push someone away, I found myself falling in love. It's messy, it's unexpected, and it's beautiful.

Life has a funny way of turning our plans upside down. And sometimes, the best stories are the ones we never meant to write.

He closes the magazine, his mind spinning with thoughts of you. He knows he needs to find you, to talk to you, to tell you how he feels. He can't let this opportunity slip away, can't let the chance to be with you slip through his fingers.

With a sense of determination, Heeseung rises from his seat, his heart pounding in his chest. He knows he has to find you, to tell you how he feels, to see if maybe, just maybe, you feel the same way too.

HEESEUNG'S HEART RACES AS HE RUSHES THROUGH THE STREETS, his mind consumed with thoughts of you. He knows he needs to find you, to talk to you, to tell you everything.

As he rounds the corner, he sees your apartment building looming ahead. His steps quicken, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He's so close now, so close to finally telling you how he feels.

But as he reaches your building, his heart sinks at the sight before him. He sees movers loading boxes into a truck parked outside, and he realizes with a sinking feeling that you're moving away.

Heeseung's chest tightens with panic, his mind racing as he searches for a solution. He can't let you slip away, can't let this chance to be with you slip through his fingers. He rushes toward the building, his thoughts jumbled all up. 

As he bursts through the door, he sees you standing in the hallway, a suitcase at your feet, tears streaming down your face. His heart breaks at the sight of your sadness, and he knows he needs to act fast.

"Y/N!" he calls out, his voice echoing through the empty hallway. You turn to face him, your eyes widening in surprise at the sight of him standing there.

"Heeseung?" you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion. "What are you doing here?"

Heeseung takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what he's about to say. "I need to talk to you," he says, his voice filled with urgency. "There's something I need to tell you, something I should have told you a long time ago."

He steps closer to you, his eyes never leaving yours. "I was part of the bet," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "But it was never about winning a thousand dollars or proving anything to Jake. It was about proving something to myself—to prove that I could be the kind of guy who deserves someone like you."

Tears well up in your eyes as you listen to his confession, your heart aching with a mix of sadness and hope. "Heeseung…" you whisper, reaching out to touch his hand.

But Heeseung doesn't wait for you to say anything more. With a surge of courage, he leans in and presses his lips to yours, pouring all of his love and longing into the kiss. 

As Heeseung's lips meet yours in that soft, tender kiss, his hands gently find their way to your waist, pulling you closer to him.

You feel the heat of his body against yours, the closeness intensifying the sensation of his lips moving against yours. His touch is gentle yet possessive, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin as if memorizing every curve of your body.

You pull away, staring and laughing for a moment. 

"I love you," you whisper softly. 

"I love you more," he smiles back, quietly leaning his forehead against yours to quickly catch his lips on yours again. Maybe writing that article wasn't so bad after all.

[huhmiya]

CHEF KISS | chris sturniolo

pairing: bf!chris x f!reader

summary: he cooks a meal as a small gesture of gratitude for all that you do for him. this way, both of you can enjoy a meal together tonight, even though that won’t be the only thing he’s eating night.

warnings: smut, oral female receiving, swearing, use of y/n, ass grabbing, pet names (baby, darling, love).

a/n: not my photos, on pinterest. I didn’t know what to name the title..

WORDS: 1.5k

huhmiya on wattpad

you - pink | chris - orange

-

You have been doing everything for Chris ever since you started dating, and even before that, it seemed like you had put your own life on hold to help him with his, and you were perfectly content with that.

He was grateful for all you did for him, as he didn't believe he deserved it, but the main reason was that he always felt he wasn't doing enough for you.

Although he wasn't the best cook, he had an idea to prepare a meal and made an effort to learn by reading instructions to make it perfect for you.

He was wearing headphones as he was home alone since his brothers had gone out and offered him to join them, but he preferred to stay in and focus on cooking without any distractions.

He took longer than expected to prepare the meal because he wanted it to be flawless, even though he wasn't used to cooking or doing such tasks.

While you were out all day with your friends, you decided to stay a bit longer, which would make you arrive at your boyfriend's house late.

He was aware that you would be coming around 10pm, as you had mentioned staying with your friends earlier. The loud music blared through his headphones again as he prepared your favorite food, hoping that his subpar cooking wouldn't spoil it for you.

"Shit," he muttered upon noticing a call coming in. He hesitated for a moment, uncertain of the caller as he accepted it through his headphones. However, upon hearing your voice, his face lit up with joy.

"Are you okay, baby?" he inquired, a gentle smile playing on his lips as he continued cooking. You reassured him, "Yes, I'm just ten minutes away, then I'll be at yours."

He responded with a sweet remark, acknowledging your imminent arrival. With ten minutes to spare, he focused on completing the cooking.

As you ended the call after a minute, the music resumed playing on his headphones. He didn't mind, instead smiling as he savored the sound of your voice, which warmed his heart, knowing you were the perfect girl for him.

He had just finished the meal when you arrived, creating a pleasant atmosphere after setting the dinner table. As you entered through the front door with your key, you called out loudly, “It's only me!”

However, the house's unique layout made it seem quiet to him, as he was upstairs.

You made your way upstairs to find Chris with a wide grin on his face. He greeted you with a hug, which you reciprocated, prompting him to plant a kiss on your head.

Stepping back, he proudly showed you his handiwork. Your eyes widened as you observed his efforts, then you glanced at him. Without a word, he understood your unspoken thoughts.

“I did everything, even cooked the meal. I hope my cooking skills aren't too shabby,” Chris said with a smile, brushing your hair away from your face.

“This is so thoughtful, Chris,” you murmured, to which he simply chuckled, pleased that you appreciated it. After a moment of silence, he embraced you once more, lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. To him, you were light as a feather, and it was no exaggeration.

He quickly place you down and pulled out a chair for you to sit on while taking a seat himself. His gaze alternated between you and the food in front of him.

“If you don’t like it, you don’t have to eat it y/n,” he said, observing both the dish he had prepared and your reaction. He didn’t want to force you to eat something you didn’t enjoy.

As you began to eat, you found it delicious. It was possibly the best version of your favorite dish you had ever tasted.

He held back from eating first, wanting to gauge your response. When he saw that you liked it, a smile spread across his face.

“It’s amazing,” you exclaimed, prompting his eyes to light up as he nodded in appreciation. He then began to enjoy his own meal, pleasantly surprised by his culinary skills.

While you both ate and conversed, he listened attentively as you recounted your day. Occasionally, he interjected with questions about your activities, eager to hear more.

Throughout the encounter, his gaze remained fixed on you. Your hair was tousled by the wind outside, adding a carefree charm to your outfit that caught his attention. He couldn't help but notice the fresh love shirt you wore underneath, a detail he had glimpsed earlier while you were changing in his room.

"Checking me out, huh?" you teased, prompting him to roll his eyes and chuckle softly as he continued eating.

"Shut your pretty mouth, will you darling?" he retorted, meeting your gaze and playfully silencing you with a finger on your lips, causing your cheeks to flush.

After ensuring you were quiet, he bit his lip and glanced at you one more time before leaning back in his seat.

Soon, he rose from his seat to clear his plate, prompting you to watch him as you finished your last few bites and followed suit.

With a grin, he reached out to tousle your hair as you rinsed the white plate. "Are you sure it was okay? You weren't just saying that because I made it, were you?"

"I assure you, everything was fine. Why didn't you enjoy it?" you ask, tilting your head in confusion. He just laughs and stops stroking your hair.

"I did like it, but you know what I would like even more?" he whispers, his voice deepening as he moves your hair to the side, exposing your neck.

"What would that be?" you inquire. He simply looks at you before gently kissing your neck and then speaks.

"Well, I'm still hungry, but this time I'm hungry for you," he says before giggling. "I didn't expect it to sound so cringy," he whispers.

He then kisses your lips and pins you against the kitchen counter, grabbing your wrists and making you wrap your arms around him. You respond by kissing him back.

His hands soon move to your backside, squeezing it before lifting you up onto the clean kitchen counter.

He maintains eye contact as he slowly removes your jeans, admiring your naked thighs before placing your jeans on the floor.

Your eyes widen, but he hadn't noticed. He traces patterns on your thigh before moving his hands up to your waist and then glancing at your shirt.

"Can I keep your shirt on? I find it so fucking hot when you wear my merchandise," he says, his voice filled with desire.

You nod, indicating that you are okay with it. He lifts your shirt and kisses your stomach, removing your bra in the process so you are left only in your shirt and thong.

"I'll be fair and make it a bit more comfortable for you to keep your shirt on," he says, aware that you may find it uncomfortable wearing a bra as he has heard you complain about it before.

You push his hair back as he raises an eyebrow in confusion, but doesn't say anything. He removes your underwear and notices how aroused you are.

“You are so beautiful, love," he whispered, gently holding your legs before leaning in to kiss you. His stubbled beard grazed between your legs, eliciting a soft moan from you as your eyes closed in pleasure.

He then kissed your intimate area and flicked his tongue over your folds, teasing you with each sensual touch. His nose brushed against your clitoris as his tongue circled around your entrance, causing you to bite your lip and whimper with delight.

His whispered words, “you like that, huh?” preceded the moment he sensually explored you with his tongue, causing your eyes to widen and your back to arch as he held you in place by sitting on the kitchen counter.

He savored the taste of you, wishing he could always have you. Your moans grew louder, and he didn't attempt to silence you since it was just the two of you in his house.

He intensified his movements, expertly pleasuring you with his tongue, causing your legs to tremble. His thumb deftly teased your clitoral hood, eliciting moans as your orgasm approached.

"I'm close, Chris," you warned, to which he simply nodded. He spread your legs wider, continuing to pleasure you until you released all over his tongue.

Your orgasm dripped onto his chin and the kitchen counter, but he paid it no mind, proceeding to clean you up and lick you thoroughly.

"You taste so delicious, darling," he murmured as he pulled away, licking his lips and gazing at you. As you moved to wipe your essence from his lips, he stopped you, using his thumb to clean them before sensually licking it off.

Your eyes widen as he chuckles before lifting you up gently and taking you to the bathroom to freshen up.

MIYAS MASTERLIST & INFO

[formulakracing]

xvii. facing reality - t.w.

pairing: female driver!reader x toto wolff

word count: 2.9k

warnings: cursing, age gap relationships, (slight) sexism, unfair treatment of drivers, toto being down bad per usual, mentions of divorce, allegations of infidelity, james being a dick, yadayadayada

a/n: i am aware that it is solely up to the drivers in terms of contract talks, negotiations, etc. however, let's just pretend that we do not see it and that there are some restrictions when it comes to our golden girl. okay? okay cool :p

prev. | next.

the only noise was the dull roar of the engine, and well, the occasional shuffle of papers as he flips through his notebook, careful not to produce much movement in his shoulder.

nestled on his right shoulder was your head, your breathing rhythmic, both arms cuddling his bicep. 

turning his head, his mouth places a kiss on your temple, “i love you, sweet girl.”

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

the ease in which the words flowed from his lips sent a ripple of bliss throughout his chest. the warm, cozy feeling only intensifies tenfold as you wrinkle your nose, nuzzling into the fabric of his button-up. although you’re deep in slumber, you respond, voice thickened with exhaustion.

“i love you, toto.”

“get some rest,” he murmurs, “i’ll wake you when we make it to montreal.”

sometimes the bustling season schedule had its perks. since drivers were not required to fly in with their teams to races, typically everyone flew separately from their respective locations. so, toto had you accompany him on his jet to canada, where the two of you could be alone for just a little while longer.

approximately twelve hours longer, where you would have to go your separate ways once landing. it was arranged that theodore would be driving you to the track, where you would be able to reunite with alex and the rest of the williams crew.

meanwhile, mr. wolff had a few business obligations to attend. one was a meeting with a few potential investors for the 2025 season, while the other obligation was a little more personal.

someone had to recognize your accomplishments over the last few weeks. 

and he was going to be that person.

to add to your bracelet, toto arranged a meeting with a private jeweler where he would pick out four more charms to add to your bracelet. 

one for sazuka. one for miami. one for emilia romagna. and finally, one for monaco. 

the initial plan was to gift you the new charms before qualifying, so that you could have a few more additions to your bracelet. in toto’s mind, he liked to imagine that the bracelet was your good luck charm. 

after all, it seemed to be working. 

with the current driver standings, you were at the top of the board. max was behind you, trailing by a decent amount of points. at his tail was charles leclerc, lando norris in fourth. although your name was a hot topic in the world of formula one, rumors flying that you were the main contender for the title, it was still too early to make any definitive judgments. 

formula one was ever-changing. a single race could shift the leaderboard, as many drivers were close in points. a single weekend could also shift the team standings, as williams was now thrust in the mix for the second or third spot, fighting tooth and nail with red bull, ferrari and mclaren. 

it was all thanks to you. your reflexes, your critical thinking, your ability to remain level-headed under pressure, and your exceptional knowledge of the cars and the sport were the reason why williams was in their position.

it was the sole reason why you were the leader of the pack. sure, the car helped, but a majority of the credit was due to the american driver. 

the first american female driver to ever win points. the first to ever win a grand prix. the first woman to win five consecutive grand prixes.

the only woman to ever win a grand prix. 

you were one of one. 

additionally, you were the second woman in the history of the sport to ever score points, decades after lella lombardi paved the way. 

there was so much at stake, so much weight to be carried on your shoulders. 

yet, here you were, lightly snoring, your lips parted as your brows twitched, lashes fluttering. 

it seemed the closer the two you got, there was always something that tried to pry you further apart. 

hours ago, toto received an email in his inbox from the mercedes public relations team, formally asking the team principal if he could maintain his distance from the williams driver. this was mainly for the sake of the image of the team as a whole. 

to manage this, he needed to refrain from speaking to the driver in either one of the garages, in the paddock, in any area of the track or designated team areas. this was to be during press conferences, and well throughout any public interaction with the driver before, during, or between racing events. 

of course, mercedes supported the decisions he made in his personal life wholeheartedly and wanted nothing but the best for him when it came to his romantic and personal endeavors. however, with the current public perception of his romantic relationship with the williams driver, it was best that he focused solely on the team and their potential accomplishments for the time-being. the team was his top priority for the weekend. 

oh, and the most crucial aspect of the entire email. 

we hope that you abide by our advice and take the necessary precautions. we are hoping for a great weekend in canada!

some fucking email that was.

although there was no formal threat of repercussions, the team principal was not going to take any risks. 

even if it slightly killed him inside to do so.

it appeared that in order to have access to you, toto was going to have to tread carefully. there would have to be thoroughly coordinated meetings, where he would have to sneak away just to even catch a glimpse of your gorgeous face. he would have to slip into your motorhome in the late hours of the night, just as he used to in jeddah, suzuka, and miami. 

however, since that kiss in monaco, things were a little more intense. 

there were eyes now. on both of you. 

eyes that would follow his every move, watching as he departed from the paddock or garage. eyes that were trained by pr teams to ensure that the delicate mercedes reputation remained intact. eyes that were determined to keep the two of you separated, no matter his frustration or protest. 

you were going to be so close, yet so far. 

he would be able to look, but not touch. 

and fuck, was that shit was going to drive him absolutely insane. 

on a similar note, you had gotten the notification from the williams public relation team just as you were boarding the jet. 

although you received the same sort of message within the email, you also happened to get a text from james. 

that one was far more threatening, laced with a sour bitterness that had toto’s blood boiling, his fists tightening on the armrests, knuckles tinged white. 

i do not want to see you look in the direction of the mercedes paddock while we’re in montreal. and if i catch you talking to him between practices or the race…

as much as toto prompted you to get into contact with the human resources department to report the text, you protested. mostly due to the fact that you were already in hot water with williams. despite their reassurances that you were not to face consequences for monaco, there was still that anxiety gnawing away at you, an ever-looming thought in the back of your mind. 

even if you weren’t in trouble for your romantic pursuits, williams had made it very clear that they did not approve of the relationship. 

at least, their public relations department, some members of the board, and james, your team principal, had made it very clear. 

and to you, that was enough to keep you on your best behavior. 

however, there were approximately eleven more hours of the flight before you made it to your destination. 

for the mercedes team principal, that meant he had to savor your presence for eleven more hours before the two of were forced to go your separate ways. 

fuck the mercedes pr team for suggesting those pitiful rules. fuck the williams pr team for reminding you of their disapproval. 

and most importantly, fuck james vowles for speaking to you that way. 

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

“there she is!” 

“hi,” you wave, suppressing a giggle as he waggles his brows, pointing finger guns in your direction.

“how’d it gooo? did you two lay under the starlight and give one another googly eyes until the sun rose over the beautiful mountains of monte carlo?”

alex is peering at you, his gaze honed in as you shrug, “it was fine.” 

he scoffs, rolling his eyes, “you guys spent days together and you can’t tell me a single detail?” 

carefully, you scan the room, taking in your surroundings. currently, you were in the williams paddock, situated next to alex in one of the many debrief rooms. james was going to arrive any minute, ben in tow, along with members of the core crew. 

keeping your voice low, you fidget with the sleeves your hoodie, grateful for the traces of citrus and spice that lingered, “james texted me before i boarded my flight here.” 

alex straightens in his seat, leaning forward so that your voice didn’t have to carry, “no shot. what did he say?” 

“he said that he didn’t want me to even look in the direction of the mercedes paddock,” the words are shaky, brimmed with apprehension, “the text had a really off-putting tone to it. toto wanted me to report it but i’m not sure if i should. i’m already in an awkward position with williams and i don’t want to complicate things further.” 

alex’s tongue runs along his lower lip, the driver’s brows scrunched together. there’s concern glittering in his gaze, his fingers resting on his chin. 

“that’s really shitty of james considering i was there at that meeting following monaco. everyone seemed to be in good standing with one another. i remember patrick reminding you over and over again that you weren’t in any sort of trouble. maybe he said that so you could focus on the race this weekend?” 

“probably,” you mutter, slumping into the chair, “it just fucking sucks, you know? all of this back and forth. it’s like having fucking vertigo. one minute i feel like i’m on cloud nine, and the world loves me. james is over the moon, and the crew is hoisting me up into the air. within seconds, everyone is avoiding me. they’re shooting me dirty looks or spreading shit about me on social media. they’ll murmur under their breath that i’m a homewrecker or a slut.”

before you know it, alex has several tissues is his grasp, gently laying them on your thigh. raising your read, you feel the slickness of tears on your heated cheeks, your palms clammy as you wipe them on your sweats.

“i cannot imagine how fucking hard this must be for you.” 

“it is,” your lower lip trembles as you dab the tissue on your lids, “why do you think i flew out to monte carlo? why do you think i’ve been avoiding wantage? ignoring the emails? i just don’t feel like my relationship with williams is genuine anymore. sometimes i regret that race in monaco–”

“hey,” a thumb massages your shoulder, his voice light, “don’t ever feel guilty about that race.”

you shake your head, the words spilling out of gritted teeth, “if i would have let charles overtale me, he would have won. i would have never left that podium. i would have never kissed–”

“everything okay in here?” 

a voice rings through the room, your head swiveling to the doorway.

james enters the room, the williams crew following in suit. using your sleeve, you brush away the tears, exhaling as alex tosses the tissues in the nearest trash bin. he scrunches his nose, nudging you with his knee.

“you’re welcome for that.”

“what would i do without you?” a laugh bubbles up in your throat as he wraps his arm around your shoulder, bringing you in for an affectionate embrace. 

his mouth hovers by your ear, eyes darting to james before shifting back to you, “we can talk more later. i promise. i want to know how you and your pookie bear are doing!”

“okay you two,” james clicks his tongue, “i hate to interrupt gossip hour, but it’s time to discuss racing strategies for the weekend. unfortunately spilling secrets about a certain team principal does not get us anywhere in terms of winning.”

at his snide remark, you feel a twinge of frustration brew in your stomach, churning it into a knot as james’ attention falls on you, his arms folded across his chest, brow arched ever so slightly. 

“can you promise us that you’ll be one hundred percent focused on the race this weekend? one hundred percent dedicated to williams and only williams?”

your jaw clenches, brows knitting together, “isn’t that what i’ve been – yes. i can promise you that.i’ll be dedicated to the team this weekend, just as i’ve always been.”

“good,” james’ expression is unreadable as he tuts, “okay! let’s get started. ben, would you like to begin with the latest upgrades to the cars?”

mirroring the others, you slide the headphones over your ears, ben’s voice drowning in your ears as dives into the subject at hand. 

as much as your mind wanted you to pay attention, to listen closely, you were not present. 

not one bit.

your thoughts were elsewhere, wandering back to that one individual.

toto. 

fuck, did your heart absolutely ache. 

how were you supposed to maintain your distance for an entire weekend if you could barely keep it together after merely hours apart? 

you could sense your knee bouncing, your teeth gnashing into your cheek, chewing away at the flesh. 

fuck, this was going to suck.  

your thumbs itch, urging you to fish your phone out of your pocket. yet, you know that shouldn’t, as there were numerous eyes right along with you in the room. there were a few times in which you did glance at your phone in the past during debriefings, but that was to simply check notifications, pull up footage, or type a quick response to send back to toto. 

if james happened to catch you peeking at your phone? oh god, he would probably treat you like some sort of child and have you sit right next to him. just so that he could observe your every move and ensure that you were honed in on the tasks at hand. fuck, if he was frustrated enough, he would probably snatch that phone right out of your hand, keeping it until you all were finished. 

the treatment you were receiving since monaco was becoming more and more insulting. almost degrading, really. 

sure, you were at the top of the leaderboard. sure, you were one of the best drivers that the team had signed in a years. sure, you were writing history with every record you shattered. 

but when you were involved with the team principal of mercedes, those things didn’t really matter. you were treated like a petulant child, disciplined for something that was beyond your control. 

there was no reason to punish you over the man you were in love with. 

yet, that was just the reality of the situation. 

as harsh as it was, it was probably wise to keep the two of you separated. although the pr teams were working overtime, busting their asses to squash the rumors, to silence those whispers, there were still the ever-looming truths.

one, you were engaging in a romantic relationship with a man thirty years older than you. 

two, toto was recently divorced. that was not a good look for each party involved. it raised the questions of how long the two of you were really talking, how long you had been tiptoeing around. the heated debates if you actually knew about the divorce or if you were a homewrecker.

and of course, the third and final truth.

the mercedes amg petronas was searching to sign their second driver for the 2025 season. toto especially, as he was their main scout, announcing numerous times that he had spoken with a menagerie of drivers, even beyond formula one. 

the hot gossip was that you were to be that second driver. you were the prized pick, a valuable asset to any team on the grid. the apple of toto’s eye. the object of his every desire. the final piece to his puzzle. 

although the entire world was under the impression that they were just speculations, they were blissfully unaware that it was indeed the truth. 

toto was going to approach james after the canadian grand prix with his proposal. 

all he needed was that blessing, the nod of approval to begin the contract talks.

however, there was that one uncertainty. the one thing that both of you were unsure of, waves of anxiety pumping through your veins each time your mind wandered. 

there was that possibility that james could say no. that there would be no contract talks.

even though it ultimately was up to the driver, the fia had made it very clear there were to be no private meetings, nothing left in the dark. especially if you were to depart ways from williams and sign with mercedes. 

so if james said no, you would be fucked. 

majorly, utterly, completely fucked. 

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

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as always, thank you guys for the endless support on this series! let me know if you would like to be tagged! we have about three chapters left! i love you all!! <33

[webslingingslasher]

hi j! what are cherry and peter doing right now??

comfortable silence.

peter's studying for an upcoming test and you're honed in on your current romance read. the main lead is cute, but nothing can top your peter parker fantasies.

'cherry?'

you finish your paragraph before looking at him, he's smiling a little too hard. 'you're so pretty.' you softly grin, feeling your lips curve up. 'and so is your handwriting.'

your eyebrows furrow at the odd compliment, you'll still accept it. 'thank you, lover.' peter clicks his pen a few times before finally coming clean. 'can you do me a favor? a really giant favor?'

you look down at your book and count the pages until the next chapter, you inwardly sigh and mentally commit before you bargain with him. peter's taught you there's give and take with love.

'can it wait three pages?' peter nods once, 'it can wait.' you give him a thumbs up and read a little faster for him, shutting the book with a satisfied smile once you reach chapter sixteen.

'what's the favor?'

peter turns back around, he looks guilty. he feels bad for asking. he holds up a blank piece of paper, you look at him for more context. 'we're allowed to use a cheat sheet for the test, one page only, front and back. i was wondering if you could do it for me?'

you pull a face, 'i don't know anything about what you're studying.' peter smiles and scrambles to pick up his notebook. 'no, no, i have it all highlighted. i just want you to copy it, i can't write that small and have it be legible.'

the task seems much more daunting than you expected. 'how much is there?' peter flips through the pages and lets out a deep breath, 'um, not much. just... basically everything?'

'oh boy.' peter took your boyfriend virginity and your real virginity, you can make a cheat sheet for him. it seems equal. 'pass it over, let me look at it.' once you have it in your hands you skim the highlighted areas, it would take some time and a dedication to splitting the sections to make it easier to read. you're already thinking of layouts.

'can i use my glitter pens?'

'absolutely.' the job just got easier. you nod confidently and agree to the ask. 'i can do that for you, petey. can i take it with me or do you need your book?'

peter rubs his lips together, he's staring at the holy grail that is super advanced something chemistry. he doesn't want you to take it but he's asking you for a favor so he's not sure how or if he can form the word no.

you do it for him. you're winning all the girlfriend awards today.

'nevermind, we'll keep it here.' peter visibly relaxes. 'but i need some markers, we're about to get real arts and crafty up in this bitch.' peter starts digging in his desk drawers, a box of markers tossed on the bed and a random textbook to follow as a makeshift table.

'i bet no one else's girlfriend is making their boyfriend's cheat sheet.' you start at the beginning and ask for more supplies. 'i need a ruler and a pencil. and the same color highlighters you used. oh, and that pen i like.'

peter's already collecting the tools, looking around his room for your bag. 'are your glitter pens in your bag?' you forgot you had them with you, the entire pencil case would be a savor right now. 'yes, but i left it downstairs.'

to peter, you're doing the biggest favor he's ever asked. he's willing to hunt and gather the supplies you need to make his life easier. 'on it. stay here and look pretty.' he's moving quick, you call out to him as he passes through the door. 'can you bring the whole thing, please?'

he doesn't respond but he comes right back up, pink bag in hand. 'where they at?' you point at the big pocket, your cherry printed pencil bag is handed over. (a gift from peter.)

'anything else? you want a coke, or a snack, or something?' you shake your head and start a header title for the first section, you're locked in. 'i'm okay.'

you highlight the title, there's another want brewing in your mind. 'actually...' peter perks right up, 'yes?' you pucker and tap your lips, your boyfriend is at your side and leaning down in seconds. three soft pecks, each one feels like an 'i love you.'

'you're sure there's nothing else you need?' he feels bad, it's a big ask. you've caught on and you're pushing him away gently. 'do you want me to do this or not?' peter nods quick and takes a large step back. 'i do, i just feel bad.'

'well, don't. and while i'm working on this you better keep revising, because you're going to bed at a decent time tonight, mister. and because you know how much i love the sound of your keyboard when you type.'

it's true, you've fallen asleep to the quiet clicking more than a few times.

peter bites back a smile. 'yes, ma'am.' you blow a kiss, 'good boy.'

peter revised, went to bed on time, and smugly showed off your work the following tuesday in class. 'see how organized this is, isn't my girl the best?'

peter passed with flying colors, he swears it's because of your cheat sheet and color coding. you tell him not to discredit his brain, he tells you not to discredit your work.

you compromise and accept the passing score with him because he swears it was built on teamwork. you think it's so you'll make him another the next time he asks.

and next time you'll be prepared with glitter glue.