Beautiful Player/ Pt.1 of 4
L is for your love that you gave and took away
Synopsis: Satoru Gojo is a world champion, one of the best —if not the best —formula one racer. He has it all. But he can't sleep for the life of him, plagued by nightmare like visions that seemingly grow more and more intense with each passing day. He hates them, almost as much as he hates the pesky journalists that are out to destroy his remaining sense of peace.
You’re a recent grad, working as a tabloid journalist, and struggling to survive in a city hellbent on eating you alive. You’re looped into working as a reporter on the F1 tracks by your boss. You meet Satoru, Satoru meets you. You think he's a certified asshole. Satoru thinks all journalists should burn and die anyway. You two definitely don't like each other. Not at all.
Disclaimer: MDNI. F1 AU. Enemies to lovers, future sexual content, out of character Gojo (him if he didn’t get his reformation arc), past lives, reincarnation, casual drug use, depression, suicidal ideation, angst/hurt, casual sexism, mild descriptions of gore in later chapters in relations to dreams, dubious relationships, somewhat asshole!gojo & player!gojo. Dejected!reader, familial issues galore. Please only continue reading with all this in mind, thank u!!
🏎️ ───────────────────────
Satoru Gojo’s life was one long line of fine white coke, and the clear brown of rum. It was parties and vacations, it was Ibiza, it was New York. It was the flash of cameras, shining teeth freshly whitened, skin freshly tanned. It was splayed open and dissected on tabloids, on posters that girls half his age hung up on their walls, and dreamed, and dreamed – dreamed of him. Of having him, of him desiring them – as if. The thought made him want to roll his eyes and gag.
Satoru. F1 Racer. Beautiful player. King of the land. As a general consensus, he had it all. A never ending line of women desperate and deluded, enough drugs to kill a horse, and a track record of never losing a race. Satoru thought he was happy, content in the way anyone of his standing and rank could hope to be, whether it was happiness or escapism was a thought that never kept him up for long.
He had long nightmares he passed as dreams, shaking off their grasp in daylight had gotten harder and harder, but fuck as if that bothered him. He couldn’t let it bother him. Even if he had found his eyes growing hazy on the course, causing him to swerve and narrowly avoid a premature death.
So what, he thought. So fucking what. He’d gotten out of his half destroyed car, wheel still whirring around in the cockpit. Inhaling that familiar stench of exhaust. He was fine, perfectly fine — really. It sounded more and more like a lie the longer he lingered on it.
His hands had shook the entire time during the Monaco grand prix, they kept shaking when he received the trophy, plastic smile decidedly in place, cameras going off – temporarily blinding him. Yeah, he was fine. If he said it enough times, maybe he could convince himself.
His poor Ferrari SF24, completely totaled. He’d rather think of his baby AKA his car, than the fact the camera flashes unearthed long vanquished memories that were definitely not his.
That night, he lay awake in his hotel room, so close to the harbor, he could hear the waves crashing. Some brunette reporter he’d met on the tracks lay to his right. He’d stared into the dark ceiling, willing sleep to come crashing over him. Squeezing his eyes shut, imagining going full throttle into traffic, imagining the shining blue of fresh paint, fingers tapping at his chest. He imagined how many seconds he could cut back on time, he imagined winning another world championship. Then, against his will, his mind’s pulled back to the black haired boy. “Sat-oru,” the ghastly apparition whispers, eyes still concealed in the half dark of his memory, lips curving familiarly – but it wasn’t familiar, it shouldn’t be — no fucking way. He'd popped his eyes open, sleep becoming a far gone dream as his heart thudded against his ribs, like he'd taken too much powder.
He really needed to sleep, he had to meet his sponsors soon, and somehow act like he didn’t want the very room to combust whenever he was around them. As much as Satoru wishes for sleep, it successfully evades him. His blood burns hot in his ears, jaw clenched — this was getting ridiculous. He’d need to see a shrink if this got any worse. His father would never let him live it down if the Satoru Gojo was seen seeking help from one. The mere thought was embarrassing enough.
Satoru sighs, yeah he was happy. He really was.
🏎️ ───────────────────────
You were the first to graduate out of the gaggle that was your family. Even if it was in journalism and not in something pertaining medicine like your father would’ve wanted. Nonetheless, your dad was the happiest at your graduation. He wasn’t as happy when your first job – fresh faced, and oh so naive – was at a tabloid rag in some hovel in the city. Medicine wasn’t your calling, and being inspired by journalists you’d read growing up made you passionate enough to splurge on an arts degree. The debt was not something you’d signed up for - decidedly. But, at least you were doing something somewhat related to your field, even if it was completely off shot.
You’d wanted to do investigative journalism, uncovering corruption, whistleblowing, highlighting injustices, something with meaning. Not writing slop for dejected readers who hated their lives enough to indulge in all things celebrity.
Anyway, you’d moved to the city, grown out your hair, lost too much weight thanks to overpriced groceries. When you’d gone back to your small little town to visit, only questions awaited you.
“Y/N, are you sure about that job of yours?”
“Y/N, did you meet someone, did you hear about the Kato boy, got a nice job, big payche—”
You dejectedly stay away from overstaying your welcome at your parents house, after all it had taken much convincing for them to let you go all by yourself to the city in the first place. You were strong and level headed, the bedrock of your large family, you knew you were expected to sacrifice, your mother nagged you about being a lone woman in such a large city, of the dangers. Of finding a husband. That word alone made you physically recoil. Marriage wasn’t the end all be all of everything, but your family sure made it seem like it. You couldn’t stop the wisps of panic from gripping you every time the words marriage or husband were mentioned in conversation. The world should learn to leave you be. Did your family even bother to ask you if you even liked men in the first place? You guess you did, but considering your choices, it was slim pickings all around. What was a man good for anyways, you’d mused angrily in your head, dish water up to your elbows. Absolutely nothing, you had concluded, vexed.
Reminders of your piling expectations were thrown your way without warning. You’d be having a nice meal, sitting on the patio overlooking the garden, when your mother would come barging in.
“Sweetie, I went to the shaman.” she’d start, causing anxiety to seep into your bones.
Your mother would make it a whole scene, hands flailing and all.
“She saw you marrying someone within the year, a tall fellow.”
You’d wave her off, regretting stopping by in the first place.
Whatever, let bygones be bygones.
You’re doling up your newest article — ‘Top 10 celebrity wardrobe malfunctions’, your boss had you writing straight garbage this past month, it got the most engagement sadly, when your co-worker, Nanako, lets you know the boss is asking for you.
“Any good?” you ask her, rubbing your puffy under eyes.
She shrugs, taking a seat at her desk, eyes trained on her acrylics. What-ever, you think, brushing your work pants as you make your way to the clear glass panelled office, the shades were closed, obscuring anything inside from view.
You knock. Waiting, bouncing on your heels slightly.
“Come in.” The muffled voice is loud enough to make out. You pushes the door open. Kenjaku is sitting placidly at his desk, hands interlocked in front of him, his usual eerie smile in place. He was the perfect candidate to run the nation’s favorite trash column, somehow passed off as journalism. He had that slightly sociopathic way of behaving that made him an impeccable department head. You shiver, even though the heat caused by poor air conditioning had you sweating in your work chair moments earlier.
“How are you?” You hope your eyes aren’t glaring at him the way you thinks they are. You really weren’t in the mood to hear your boss bitch and moan for an hour straight, fingers already itching to reach for the door – a quick escape.
“Fine.” Kenjaku says, not bothering with manners. When you worked here long enough, nothing seemed to matter anymore, it was pure anarchy in the office on a good day.
“You look a mess.” He breathes, laughing lightly. And you look like a fucking serial killer who belongs on channel six, but you don’t let your polite smile waver.
You were so not in the mood for Kenjaku’s usual bullshit. Can’t he just buy a hamster and torture it instead?
You watch your boss shift through some papers in a red file. You move an inch closer to the mahogany table, not daring to take a seat on the loveseat lining the front.
You clears your throat, your work shirt collar suddenly too tight around your neck. “You needed to see me,”
“Sir.” You add on quickly, like throwing a dog a bone.
“Oh yeah, about that.” Kenjaku murmurs, You’re somehow able to catch onto his words.
You pacify the fury boiling up inside you before it can spill over, instead balling up your hands, knuckles whitening.
“You’re getting transferred, sports, F1.” Kenjaku says, not bothering to look up at you.
You take in a sharp inhale, you exhale. Trying to find any semblance of calm within you.
“That’s not my jurisdiction.”
“Well, no shit.” Kenjaku shoots you an incredulous look. You grit your teeth, jaw tensing.
“Miss.Lucia is on maternity leave, and we’re stretched thin as it is already.”
“As you very much know.” Kenjaku continues, eyes holding yours. He goes back to flipping through his papers, gaze dropping away from you.
“But..I’m..” you start, mind racing, trying to find the right words. I don’t know shit about formula one was probably a good place to start.
Kenjaku’s smile is anything but warm, eyes steely as his gaze is trained back on you.
“Don’t worry, Lucia left her notes, and I’m not asking for Watergate, it’s men going around in circles in cars.” Kenjaku’s voice is several notes too condescending for your liking, he’s talking like you’re a full blown dumbass – exactly how Kenjaku’s been treating you since you started the job.
“I don’t think I’m qualified, sir.” You retort.
“Believe me, I know.” Kenjaku sighs, going back to inspecting his papers. You’re going to kill him, one of these days. You contemplate strangling Kenjaku right then and there with your lanyard when the pot bellied man speaks again.
“If you don’t think you can do it Y/N-chan, resigning is always an option.” Eyes still on the papers.
“There’s plenty of desperate talent who’d do anything to get their foot in the door.” Kenjaku’s voice is controlled, but you can hear the tinge of annoyance in it.
Damn it, you think. You smile politely. “No, I’ll do it, thanks.”
“Good.” Kenjaku’s mouth splits into a grin. Eyes swimming with mirth as they meet yours.
“I knew I could count on you.”
Kick rocks fucker, you’re thinking, smile still in place.
🏎️───────────────────────
thank you for reading pt2 coming soon 💗
vaporwave
kaledo-art
pixelskylines
yousharknotpass
blakekathryn
snowghoul
janainaart
germansingergirl
