𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬/𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: racer gojo/f1 gojo x racer reader/f1 reader. nsfw content. rivals to lovers. toxicity. misogynistic/sexist themes. jealousy. suggestive themes. explicit language. alcohol usage. possessiveness. mentions of restrictive eating. mentions of death. themes of child neglect/child exploitation.
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: a twenty-one year old american rookie in ferrari red was never supposed to exist. especially not beside satoru gojo, the team’s beloved golden boy. one brutal race and one mistake later, their rivalry turns intoxicating and impossible to ignore.
f1-jjk parallels are so good: you need to be insane to be a sorcerer, and you definitely need to be a little crazy to sit in an alive machine that bargains your life
i fear gojo has the slightly unhinged craziness needed to be strapped in the cockpit, and he wouldn’t dilute his own image into something bigger. ferrari is historically traditional (they were so stubborn on focusing on horsepower for engines for a while but thats the scuderia for you). i’d like to think in parallel with jjk, gojo is above tradition and wouldn’t let a team shape him
geto is brushed by melancholy and a follower in ferrari religion (until he isn’t, but his devotion to morals is a nice parallel.) gojo in red is a nice thought though!
Geto Suguru is open to leaving Time Vessel Association to join Gojo Racing for the 2026 F1 season, with talks intensifying ahead of this weekend's Shibuya Grand Prix, according to Sky in Shibuya 👀🚨
Want to catch all the JJK x F1 drama? Snag a bundle of Racing Line today! 🔗⬇️
Racing Line a JJK x F1 fan zine
Tags: @zinefeed @anizines @all-zine-apps Reblogs are appreciated! ♥️
wc: ~10k | cw: smut, formula 1 au! f1 gojo/racer gojo x f1/racer reader! sexist/misogynistic themes, rough sex, biting, unprotected sex, public sex, creampie, rivals to lovers, slow burn.
summary: you’re the young american rookie driver on ferrari who is constantly overshadowed by your biggest rival and teammate—the golden boy, satoru gojo.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
THE WORLD CALLS you a miracle.
Not the soft, flattering kind of miracle people print on magazine covers or the kind that gets written into inspirational children's books.
More like an anomaly.
A statistical glitch.
A name that shouldn't even exist beside Scuderia Ferrari's legacy but somehow does.
You're the young, twenty-one year old, American girl who clawed her way up through the ranks.
From tiny karting circuits to junior formulas filled with boys who were already being groomed by academies to the razor-thin margin where most dreams die before they ever touch Formula 1.
And yet, by miracle or pure talent alone, you made it.
You stand in the most exclusive paddock in the world, surrounded by the roar of engines worth millions, the scent of burning rubber, the glitter of cameras waiting to dissect your every breath, wearing Ferrari red.
The most prestigious team in Motorsport. The one children grow up drawing in crayon and old men defend over espresso as if it were religion. The team that wins hearts even in its losing seasons simply by existing.
Ferrari doesn't take risks on outsiders.
Ferrari doesn't gamble.
Which is why some people still look at you like you don't belong in your own uniform.
They hide behind polite smiles and thin professionalism, but you hear every whispered doubt.
“She's too young.”
“She's emotional.”
“She's a diversity hire.”
“An American, seriously?”
“Ferrari should've chosen someone safer.”
“Why her when there are men waiting in line?”
And sometimes, when no one's trying to pretend, they don't even bother lowering their voices.
Being the only female driver on the grid makes you a novelty, being the only female driver on Ferrari makes you a target.
Half the paddock stares like you're a disruption, while the other half stares like you're a mistake waiting to happen.
And then there's him.
Satoru Gojo.
Ferrari's golden boy.
The crown jewel of the team, the main reason half the fanbase buys tickets.
Japanese and twenty-four years old with experience. Unreasonably tall with face sculpted by some combination of genetics and God's sense of humor; white hair, pale blue eyes, a grin that looks expensive.
He is the man both broadcasters and fans treat like destiny incarnate.
If Ferrari were a monarchy, he'd be the prince everyone bows to.
He has talent that doesn't just look effortless—it is effortless.
Lap times that seem to materialize out of thin air; the kind of racecraft commentators replay for weeks, but talent alone isn't why they love him.
It's the way he carries himself. Chin tilted at the right angle to look confident but not arrogant, shoulders relaxed, voice smooth and amused; the aura of someone who never had to fight for his place because the world was already holding the door open.
He is adored by men, by women, by media, by sponsors, by Ferrari upper management who speak about him like he's the second coming of Michael Schumacher.
When he enters a room, the energy shifts. When you enter, the energy scrutinizes.
And he treats you like you're in the way. Not overtly or cruel enough for headlines, but just enough to piss you off.
The subtle glances at your car when he walks into the garage, the almost imperceptible smirk when you debrief a mistake, the way he jokingly comments about you around the engineers.
"If she bins it this weekend, I'm not taking responsibility."
"Try not to embarrass us out there, yeah?"
"Don't let the pressure eat you alive."
They laugh with him, because when Satoru Gojo says something condescending, they call it banter, but your skin burns with the knowledge that he means every word.
You're teammates at the end of the day, yet everyone acts like you're the extra piece in his puzzle.
You sit in strategy meetings, listening to plans built around his win potential. You watch new upgrades roll onto his chassis first and hear race simulations prioritize his clean air over your overtaking chances.
You've tried to tell yourself it's because of seniority. He's been with the team for years whereas you're in your freshman season, and most teams insist they don't have a number one driver, but Ferrari doesn't bother pretending.
He’s the main act, you’re the footnote, and he knows you hate him, matter of fact, he revels in it.
There's a certainty in the way he looks at you. A quiet confidence that he will always outrank you, always overshadow you, always win the battles you're both too proud to admit you're fighting.
However, buried beneath that there's the smallest flicker of something dangerous.
He doesn't underestimate you, he just wants to break you first.
And this season you haven't podiumed once although you want to more than anything, but the golden boy is dead set on making sure you don't, that’s the real story.
That's the tension threading through every qualifying session, every team meeting, every media conference, every accidental brush of shoulders in the garage.
Two drivers on one team with one throne, and only one of you is welcome to sit on it.
You don't want to coexist; you want to destroy him and he wants to watch you fall.
Yet, despite everything—the scrutiny, the favoritism, the suffocating hierarchy, you've managed to survive half a season in scarlet.
Thirteen races down, eleven to go, and the standings look exactly how Ferrari wants them to.
Gojo sits first in the World Drivers' Championship with four wins, six podiums, and all the media worship on earth.
And you're seventh.
Always seventh.
Always a few places behind him, not because you lack speed, but because something always interferes.
A poorly timed pit call. A "hold position" order when you were faster. A late-race strategy shuffle that magically benefits him every time.
Or worse, the subtler infuriating way he'll compromise your laps in qualifying without ever doing anything blatant enough to punish.
Everyone sees the points gap, yet no one sees the reasons. They only see the narrative they want to believe.
"She's not consistent."
"She doesn't have Gojo's composure."
"Maybe the Ferrari is too much car for her."
"She's a good midfield driver, but she's no Gojo."
Then there's the comments they don't bother hiding, the ones that sting more because they sound familiar.
"Maybe women just don't belong in Formula 1.”
"She got the seat because she's pretty, not because she's fast."
"Ferrari hired her for marketing, not racing."
"She's better off modeling instead of driving."
Online, the hate is worse.
Your name trends after every race weekend and for all the wrong reasons.
@F1Bro_99: bro she's like...mid. put her in F2 pls
@PitLanePatrol: imagine never placing and still having a job lol
@F1Pundit: unpopular opinion: women don't have the neck strength for 300km/h corners sorry not sorry
@SatorusWife: daddy gojo carrying the whole team AGAIN she should be grateful
And the inevitable, every time you out-qualify someone who isn't him.
@FerrariFanboy: must've been a fluke
@GridGirls4Life: nah the car did the work
Most of them forget you're a rookie and that he's a five year veteran. All of them forget that you've matched his raw pace more times than anyone wants to admit.
And now, with the Austrian Grand Prix approaching, a track you know you can conquer—the pressure is tightening like a noose around your neck.
Ferrari wants another win for the golden boy. You want the season to turn in your favor.
And Gojo? He wants to make sure you stay exactly where you are.
Not ahead or equal. Behind.
And the weekend does not wait for you.
Morning breaks over the Austrian paddock while Free Practice 1 looms, unavoidable.
By the time you step into the garage, the world has already moved to the next narrative, the next headline, the next comparison between you and him, and all you can do is walk straight into the fire.
The Ferrari garage hums with its usual morning electricity—air guns whining, tire blankets humming, engineers speaking in fast clipped Italian, screens flickering with telemetry even though the session hasn't started.
Mid-season pressure is a living thing. Expectations choke the air like exhaust and Gojo's championship lead hovers over the garage like a storm cloud only you can feel.
You've been here long enough to know exactly where you fit in the chaos.
Far left in the second car as the second driver and second priority.
Your race engineer, Luca, hands you a tablet with overnight data, "You will like this," He says, grinning, "Your long-run pace improved. Very strong."
You nod, tapping through the corners you nailed, the ones you need to tidy up and you're focused, until the atmosphere shifts, it always does when he enters.
Satoru Gojo walks into the garage like he's walking onto a red carpet—Ferrari suit unzipped to his waist, gloves tucked in his belt, hair annoyingly perfect for someone who's never touched a comb.
He smiles at one of the engineers and they laugh too hard. Someone pats his back like he cured cancer overnight, his race engineer hands him a coffee like it's a ritual offering.
The whole garage bends toward him without meaning to.
You don't look up, you refuse to, but he notices you anyway because he always does.
"Morning," He calls out loudly, stretching it like a taunt, "Didn't think you'd make it this early. Big day for you, isn't it?”
He's talking to you, obviously, but not directly. More like talking at you just to remind the room you're here.
"And why wouldn't I be early?" You ask, finally lifting your gaze from the tablet.
He smirks slowly, amused and condescending, "Ah, you know. Pressure. Expectations. Mistakes waiting to happen."
He tilts his head innocently, "I figured you'd want a full night's sleep before...you know," There's a tiny shrug, "Trying to keep up."
You don't flinch, "I'm not the one who missed apex three times in turn nine last race," You point evenly.
A few mechanics freeze. Someone coughs. Luca's eyes widen with a silent here we go.
Gojo stops mid-step and for a heartbeat, that perfect smile flickers.
Then he laughs, sharp and bright, "Oh? Keeping tabs on me now?" He walks closer, the space between you shrinking to something dangerous, "Careful. People might think you're obsessed."
Your jaw tightens and he sees it—the irritation and restraint, his grin widens in victory.
You look past him, addressing no one in particular, "If I was obsessed with mediocrity, I would've joined Haas."
A couple mechanics stifle laughs they shouldn't let escape and Gojo hears them, smile dropping half a millimeter.
Luca clears his throat nervously, "We should...go over strategy, sí?"
You don’t move, neither does he. Instead, he steps into your space, the scent of faint cologne and engine oil filling your olfactory senses.
This is something he does often and purposely so, to assert dominance and show exactly why the garage worships him.
"You know," He murmurs, voice lower, "You talk a big game for someone who's still proving she belongs."
You lift your chin, "And you talk a big game for someone terrified I'll take your place."
His breath catches, and you notice it—the insecurity he hides behind theatrics.
He covers it quickly with a smirk, "Try not to spin in turn five today. Wouldn't want to interrupt my long run."
"And you try not to rely on the team saving your ass again."
He steps away at last, but not before leaning in to whisper, "You'll never beat me."
You don't give him the satisfaction of reacting, "You're scared I will."
He turns his back on you, but you see the tension in his shoulders. The flicker of annoyance in the set of his jaw, the way he pulls on his gloves too sharply.
Your own crew surrounds you again, but the entire garage still feels like it's vibrating from the collision of you and him.
The rivalry isn't just starting.
It's been here.
Simmering, growing, sharpening its teeth, and practice hasn't even begun.
Luca eventually pulls you toward your car, trying to steer the tension out of your orbit.
Mechanics zip your suit while someone hands you your balaclava, telemetry screens flip from green to yellow as Free Practice 1 nears start.
You don't look at Gojo again. You refuse to give him more space in your head than he already occupies, but you feel him and the weight of his gaze, amusement buzzing beneath his calm, the unspoken challenge hanging in the air like static waiting for a spark.
And as soon as Luca nods, as soon as your crew waves you forward you climb into the cockpit, sinking into the molded seat that knows your shape better than anyone else in this building.
Whatever came before doesn't matter.
Because the moment your visor drops, shutting out the world—for one suspended heart beat, there's nothing. No garage noise or engineers shouting across the bay, none of Gojo’s antics. All that exists is the hollow, steady drum of your pulse.
Then the engine fires behind you, the sound violent and beautiful, a roar that floods your chest and wipes every lingering doubt from your mind.
Whatever the media thinks, whatever Ferrari thinks, whatever Gojo thinks—none of it exists once you enter that car.
"Track is clear, (Y/N)," Luca advises, voice steady in your ear, "You're green to push."
You ease out of the garage, tires humming across the pit lane, the car twitching beneath you with the restless energy of something alive and impatient.
The sun lights off the halo; wind skims across your helmet.
The first laps are routine—warming the tires, feeling for balance, testing how the car wants to move under you.
You learn the grip through your fingertips, the rear through your ribcage, and the airflow through the subtle resistance of the wheel.
You're finding the rhythm when Luca's tone tightens, "Car 17 approaching at high speed on a lap."
Car 17. Satoru Gojo. Of course.
A quick glance in the mirrors confirms it. Red helmet, red chassis, the silhouette of someone who believes the track belongs to him and he’s closing the gap fast.
You're on a cool-down lap, technically entitled to hold the racing line. Courtesy, however, says you should move aside.
You don't, at least not right away.
You wait long enough that he has to wonder if you're being difficult. Long enough to remind him he's not the only one who can bend etiquette, making your heart spike with a hint of satisfaction.
He flashes his lights at you impatiently and you smirk inside your helmet. Then you move aside, an attempt to be as inconvenient as possible to the point of irritation.
He flies past, the air shoving your front wing sideways and under the roar, you can practically hear him seething.
"Don't play games," Luca warns, though gently, "Not now."
"Wasn't playing," You lie, but your pulse tells the truth.
When you're pushing again on your next flyer, karma arrives just as you lift onto full throttle.
Gojo exits the pit lane, right as you reach turn twelve.
He sees you coming, there's no way he doesn't. The timing is too perfect, the trajectory too deliberate, and he stays exactly where he is.
You brake early, the tires protesting, the lap bleeding away in a smear of red deltas, "Is he serious?"
Luca hesitates, which means he's choosing his words, "Car 17 is...also on a prep lap."
"Bullshit."
You don't need to see his face to know Gojo is laughing inside his helmet.
Your ruined lap shows on the garage screens, P11 and dropping.
He glances at you in his mirrors—long enough to make sure you saw. A small, infuriating tilt of his head. A silent, try harder.
The session winds down, and he slices across the final corner like he owns the asphalt, throwing his car into the racing line the way men do when they've never been told no.
He finishes P3. You finish P11.
Commentators will say he looks strong.
They'll say you're struggling with consistency. They'll talk about pressure and mistakes and your future at Ferrari.
But the only person who knows the truth of what happened out there and the only one who will savor it, is Satoru Gojo.
And he will enjoy every second.
By the time Free Practice 1 ends, the tension hasn't left your blood.
You climb out of the car with adrenaline still buzzing in your fingertips, helmet tucked under your arm, jaw tight from the way Gojo ruined your lap and pretended it was nothing.
Mechanics avoid your eye, Luca gives you a sympathetic look that says everything that he can’t say aloud, and Gojo of course walks past your car without acknowledging you, humming like he didn't just derail your entire session for fun.
You don't say a word as you hand off your gloves and you don’t bother looking at him, you can’t.
Because the moment you do, the cameras will catch it, and they're already watching—waiting for a headline, a crack, a breadcrumb they can twist into narrative.
And when Ferrari ushers you toward the media center, your hair is still damp from the helmet, your mind not ready for words, and your patience hanging by a thread so thin it might snap from a breath.
The session may be over, but the fight isn't.
The lights of the press room glare off every surface—cameras, sponsor boards, the glossy table lined with nameplates, a sterile stage where expression is both magnified and dissected.
You lower yourself into the seat assigned to you, adjusting the microphone you don't want to speak into, and ignore the untouched bottle of water placed in front of you like a prop.
Gojo sits two chairs away and settles in with the ease of someone reclining into a beach lounger rather than taking on the media.
One leg stretches out, one arm drapes casually across the back of the chair, and the relaxed tilt of his body screams confidence.
He always pretends to be bored, though you know he isn’t. Him seeing you scramble is the most entertaining part of his day, and the second you sit, cameras flash.
Not for you, of course, but for him. Always for him.
You keep your expression smooth, carefully neutral, as if the lights can burn straight through your skin.
At the opposite table, a couple of Mercedes and McLaren drivers exchange quiet whispers, half-hidden smirks betraying their interest.
Everyone in this room knows about the rumored tension between the Ferrari teammates. Rumors sell, however truth sells even better.
The moderator clears his throat, "We'll begin with questions."
A hand lifts immediately, "This question is for Satoru."
You’re not surprised whatsoever because they always are.
"You finished P3 in FP1. How's the car feeling? Any concerns for qualifying?"
Gojo's grin is warm, easy, annoyingly photogenic, and stupidly attractive, "Car feels great. The team's doing fantastic work. Just getting into the rhythm."
More questions follow, all for him. One after another.
You sit quietly, chin lifted just enough to avoid looking like background decor. Until a journalist finally glances your way.
"(Y/N), tough session today. P11," His tone is dipped in condescension—the soft, patronizing kind that pretends to be supportive, "Do you think the pace difference between you and your teammate comes down to experience? Or perhaps the pressure of the spotlight?"
The subtext of his question is clear—maybe you're not cut out for this.
Before you can answer, Gojo exhales a dismissive laugh through his nose.
Your eyes flick sharply toward him. You steady your voice, "Well, FP1 is for testing setup changes. We weren't chasing times—"
The reporter cuts you off, "So you're saying the car isn't working for you?"
"No," You say evenly, holding your composure by the throat, "I'm saying it's early. People jump to conclusions."
Another hand rises, a woman with cold eyes and no patience for decorum.
"(Y/N), there were a few moments today where Car 17 appeared held up behind you in the first sector. Was that a mistake on your part? Or...intentional?"
A ripple of interest moves through the room. Gojo raises a brow, entertained.
Every camera shifts toward you, "I followed protocol," You respond coolly, "I moved when appropriate."
Gojo leans into his microphone, the smallest motion, "Mm," He hums lightly, "If you say so."
The whole room pivots toward him. You turn your head slightly, eyes sharp enough to slice carbon fiber, "What's that supposed to mean?"
He shrugs, all lazy innocence, "Nothing. Just saying the telemetry might disagree."
A murmur spreads through the reporters. You inhale slowly but it’s not because you're calm, rather the alternative would be far too honest.
"I lifted," You say into the mic, "Fully. Made room. If he still felt blocked, that's not on me."
Gojo smiles, the kind that hides teeth, "You lifted late."
"I lifted in time.”
"Oh?" He rests his cheek against his palm, feigning boredom, "Because from my onboards, it looked like you waited. Sort of...deliberately."
The implication slithers between you and your jaw clenches, "So is the story you want to tell that I sabotaged your lap?"
He spreads his hands in a lazy display of innocence, "Hey, hey. I didn't say the word sabotage."
The journalists come alive, an entire room leaning forward, "Satoru," One jumps in, "Are you suggesting (Y/N) compromised your run?"
Gojo's smile widens slowly, practiced and devastatingly smug, "Look, I know she's still adjusting. These cars are fast, the pressure is intense...mistakes happen."
No one misses the meaning. She folded under pressure. She's not equipped for this. She's not me.
Your hand curls around your water bottle until the plastic strains.
You remind yourself—millions are watching, sponsors are watching, Ferrari is watching.
You swallow your fury because swallowing is safer than spitting, but Gojo isn't finished.
He taps his mic softly, almost playful, "If anything, I admire her spirit. Fighting hard is good. Just—" His smirk deepens, "—maybe pick better moments to fight."
Something inside you flares hot and violent, but you temper it beautifully, "Funny coming from someone who blocked me into turn twelve," You say, voice honey-sweet and lethal.
A collective gaps shifts the air. Gojo's pale blues narrow a fraction, "Oh? I thought you said I was the one overreacting."
"Not overreacting," You reply smoothly, "Just pointing out that if you're going to imply things, be ready for the full picture."
The silence turns dangerous. A journalist lifts her hand cautiously, "Is there...tension between the two of you?"
Gojo answers before you can, "No tension," He says effortlessly. His gaze shifts to you slowly, "Just reality. I'm faster. That's all."
You don't blink, "That's not reality. That's your ego talking."
Something tightens along his jaw—so small the cameras miss it, however you don’t.
The moderator hurries in, voice flustered, "And that's all for today—thank you, drivers—"
Cameras explode into flashes as you stand. Your heart drums, pulse running too hot and too fast.
Gojo brushes past as he leaves the podium. He doesn't look at you, but his voice catches your ear alone.
"Try not to cry about P11."
You don't give him an inch, "I'll be ahead of you tomorrow."
He chuckles lowly, "I'd like to see you try."
His voice follows you into the night, echoing every time you close your eyes.
Come next morning, the exhaustion of barely sleeping has morphed into something sharper.
The moment you step back into the Ferrari garage, the atmosphere is different—tighter, colder, ready for war.
Today is qualifying and you're done giving him the upper hand.
Qualifying days always feel heavier, like the air itself knows what's at stake. Every sound blends into a restless pressure that sits beneath your ribs.
You stand beside your car while mechanics perform their final touches, tightening bolts with reverence and polishing the floor until the reflection almost blinds you.
Your gloves are already on, molding to your palms like second skin; everything inside you is certain.
You will not be P11 today.
Luca approaches with the tablet, his expression earnest and almost fatherly, "You can do this," He murmurs, "This track suits you. And your long-run pace earlier—truly, it was perfect."
You nod, jaw set, "Let's make it count."
He opens his mouth to say more, but the garage shifts before he can—a subtle tightening.
Gojo has arrived with his helmet in hand, suit zipped, posture loose in that infuriatingly unbothered way that suggests the world always bends for him.
He doesn't look your way, but the slight tug of amusement on his mouth tells you he's thinking about the press conference yesterday, about how easily he painted you as the problem, about P11.
Luca takes a small step between you as if he's learned the dangers of letting you occupy the same space.
The race director's voice reverberates through the speakers, "Drivers to cars."
You lower yourself into the cockpit and it closes around you like a vault. The noise sharpens; your breathing steadies.
You're aware of everything at once—the warmth of the engine behind you, the gentle vibration of steering wheel, the faint scent of fuel.
Then Gojo's engine fires beside yours, the sound rolls over you like a challenge.
You don't look because you don't need to. You know exactly what he's doing.
You get released onto the track, and the early laps slip into that familiar rhythm. In the background, sector times flash across the monitors.
You place yourself easily in the top five. He edges into the top two. Neither of you push yet; the real fight hasn't started.
Qualifying tightens as the minutes pass. Grip improves, wind shifts, each lap matters more than the last.
You hear faint commentary through the garage speakers; his name spoken with admiration, your own with measured skepticism—it barely registers.
The only thing that matters is the car beneath you and the lap you haven't yet unleashed.
By the time the final segment arrives, the tension has settled over Ferrari like fog. Mechanics hover behind their screens, engineers whisper in urgent Italian.
You sit in your car with the visor raised, watching the pit lane clock count down. Luca leans close so only you can hear, "You can take pole," He says, without a hint of doubt, "You just need a perfect exit from the final corner."
You give a small nod. Across the garage, Gojo's engineer taps his halo and says, loud enough for you to hear, "Let's get pole for real this time. None of that charity from these morning runs."
The word charity strikes like a slap. As if your presence on this team is a gift he bestows and beating you is nothing more than routine.
Heat gathers beneath your suit—anger, focus, whatever the hell you want to call it, fueling you more than it should.
The light at the end of the pit lane turns green. You're released first and he follows a breath behind.
Your outlap builds slowly, warming the tires and clearing the traffic. You can feel the track gripping under you, rubber laid down through the day stitching every corner tighter.
Luca's voice crackles through the radio, "All clear. You are good to push. Go."
And you do. You throw the car into turn one with precision, catching the apex perfectly. Turn two flows beneath you, fluid and clean. Turn three catches you in a rhythm that feels like instinct.
The car dances through the middle sector; your hands steady, your focus razor sharp. Luca's voice breaks mid-report, "Purple. (Y/N), you are purple in sector two."
Fastest out of everyone.
For the first time this weekend you feel it—the car responding to you alone. Not to the team's doubt or Gojo's shadow. To you.
And then, a shape in your periphery.
You catch it only for a heartbeat, the flash of red, the red halo, the unmistakable outline of Car 17.
Gojo timed his exit perfectly, slipping onto the circuit just in time to tuck himself behind you. Far too close for coincidence.
Luca's voice spikes, "Car 17 behind—push, push, you have priority!"
He shouldn't interfere, but he's there anyway—breathing down your exhaust, his presence alone threatening to unravel the perfect lap you've built.
You grit your teeth and keep going. Turn fourteen is critical and unforgiving, he doesn't back off.
His slipstream tugs at the rear of your car, dragging you forward just enough to unsettle the balance. You correct the slide with ease, heart punching against your ribs.
"Keep going!" Luca shouts, "Go, go—Go!"
You hit the final corner full throttle and across the line, you’re P1.
The timing tower flashes your number at the top and your breath stutters in your chest. For a moment, just one, you let yourself feel it.
Then the board updates. Car 17. P1. -0.102.
Gojo—a tenth of a second faster. A tenth stolen off the back of your lap.
By the time you turn into the pit lane, he's already out of his car peeling off his gloves, stretching lazily, grin tugging at his mouth.
A smirk that says I let you dream, then I decided to wake you up.
Ferrari crowds around him with cheers and back slaps and congratulations, as if only one car exists in this garage.
No one approaches you. Not until Luca does, quiet and apologetic, "That was incredible," He praises softly, "You were faster in the middle sector. Without...outside influence, that was your pole."
Outside influence. A polite term for theft.
You remove your helmet slowly, hair damp with sweat, breaths still uneven from the lap that should've been yours.
Across the garage, Gojo lifts three fingers in a lazy salute—teasing, mocking. A wordless better luck next time.
Your blood turns to fire. You look right at him, chin high, eyes cold, every inch of you refusing to fold.
You mouth the words, "Fuck you."
His smirk curves wider, devilish and victorious once again. He mouths back, "Make me."
The words lodge under your skin, impossible to shake, burning all the way down.
By the time you storm out of the garage and into the hospitality building, that anger is still simmering; sharp enough to keep you awake, hot enough to follow you down every hallway.
And when you finally walk inside, the screens are already replaying qualifying on a loop.
The slow-motion clip of him tucked behind you during qualifying three, your rear twitching under the slipstream, the commentators quick to assign to blame.
"(Y/N) nearly cost him the lap—look how unstable her exit is!"
"She's been struggling all weekend."
"Gojo establishing himself as Ferrari's unquestionable lead driver."
"The pressure's getting to her."
You sip water because it's the only thing you can do that won't get you fined.
A few tables away, journalists are already composing their articles. You can see the headlines reflected in their screens with big fonts, harsh words, and zero forgiveness.
(Y/N) Impedes Teammate in Critical Lap—Tension Rising?
Ferrari Favorite vs. Ferrari Experiment
Experiment.
The word lands like a weight on your ribs like you're temporary, conditional, replaceable.
As if your seat is something they're trying out before they decide whether to throw you away.
You feel eyes on you—the prickling awareness of cameras turning, of whispered commentary, of people forming opinions faster than you can breathe.
You hold your posture steady, back straight, face cool, but the room feels like it's leaning in, waiting for you to break.
You're scanning for somewhere—anywhere quiet, when you see him. Satoru Gojo.
Radiant under the lights, surrounded by PR personnel and engineers, answering questions like he's being interviewed for sainthood.
He laughs, signs something for a fan, and leans closer to the mic in that charming way that turns every moment into a highlight reel.
He catches you looking. He always does.
He lifts his eyebrows, barely a movement, but one loaded with meaning. A silent question, jealous?
You drop your gaze, he doesn't drop his.
You try to slip away, out the side door, away from the cameras, down the quieter hallway behind the hospitality pavilion.
You just need a moment, a breath, something that belongs to you and not the public.
But he catches you before you make it ten steps outside, "Leaving without saying hello?"
His voice drifts from behind you, smooth and maddeningly amused. You stop, spine stiffening, not surprised he followed.
You turn slowly. He's only a few feet away, hands shoved loosely in his pockets, still in his suit, still looking like nothing touches him, not even you.
You don't bother with formalities, "What do you want?"
He tilts his head slightly, "Just checking in. You seemed a little...tense in there."
You stare at him, incredulous, "That's rich."
He steps closer, tightening the space between you, "You looked like you took the headlines personally," He says lightly, as if the words aren't knives, "You shouldn't. Media loves drama."
"You caused half of it."
He smiles—slow, subtle, unapologetic, "Did I?"
"You implied I sabotaged your lap."
"I didn't use that word."
"You didn't have to."
A breeze passes between you, warm and heavy with the smell of hot asphalt and engine residue. Gojo watches you with that aggravatingly relaxed posture, like he's enjoying this.
Like all of this—your anger, the headlines, the chaos, is fun for him.
"You drove well," He says after a moment, almost thoughtfully, "Better than I expected."
You grit your teeth, "I don't need your approval."
"No," He agrees, "But you want to beat me."
You say nothing. He takes another step, closing the remaining gap.
Not touching—never touching, but close enough that you feel the heat of him.
His eyes drop to your mouth for the briefest second before lifting again, "Pole was mine either way," He says quietly, "You know that."
The frustration burns low in your gut, "You used my lap.”
He shrugs one shoulder, "Slipstream is a strategy.”
"You timed it on purpose."
"You're fast enough to make it worth it."
It's meant as a compliment, yet it sounds like an insult.
You breathe out slowly, trying to smother the spark in your chest, "Move."
He doesn't. He stays right where he is, blocking the narrow walkway, looking down at you with that annoying mix of confidence and curiosity.
"You were good today," He notes softly, almost like he's testing the words on his tongue, "Really good."
There's a short pause before he adds, "But not good enough."
Your breath stutters; rage, pride, humiliation, and something else tangled in it.
"And tomorrow?"
His smile is a slash of white in the dim hallway, "Tomorrow..." He murmurs, "...you'll still be behind me."
The pulse in your neck flips, "Keep dreaming."
"I don't need to dream," He says, "I just need to show up."
You step around him, shoulder nearly brushing his.
He doesn't stop you this time, but as you pass, he leans in, breath ghosting your ear, "Try to keep up."
You don't break stride and you don’t bother looking back, but your hands are shaking, very slightly, with more than just anger.
And you tell yourself, tomorrow can't come fast enough.
You hardly sleep that night. Every time you try, you see Gojo's smirk, you hear the commentators criticism.
You wake with your jaw clenched and pulse already pounding.
Ferrari's paddock is quieter in the early hours. The air holds a strange suspended calm, like the moment before the lights go out on the grid.
Tire blankets hum, engineers whisper. Beyond the garage walls, fans are gathering, but the roar hasn't reached here yet.
You're in your driver room, suit peeled to your waist, going over mental notes. Corner speeds, tire temps, fuel deltas, anything to keep your thoughts from circling the wrong direction.
A soft knock interrupts, two gentle taps.
Luca enters before you answer, closing the door behind him. He looks tired—tired in a way men look when they've been fighting battles no one else sees.
He gives you a small nod, "Morning, ragazza."
You manage one back and he motions for you to sit, but you already are—so you straighten, bracing.
Luca takes the chair across from you and exhales the kind of breath someone only releases when they hate what they're about to say.
"(Y/N)..." He starts, voice low, "...we need to talk about today."
A coil of dread tightens in your stomach, "What about it?"
He hesitates which is rare for him. He's usually direct and clean in his phrasing, but he's searching for words like each one might cut him on the way out.
"There may be team orders."
You don't react at first. You just stare at him, waiting for the part that hurts. He continues, way too gently, "They're going to prioritize Satoru."
There it is.
Your breath leaves in a slow, controlled exhale, "I figured."
"I know you did," Luca says quietly, "But I wanted to tell you before the race director mentions anything over the radio. I didn't want you blindsided."
Your shoulders tense, "What exactly is the order?"
"If you and Gojo are close on track," He says softly, "You're expected to hold position."
Your jaw tightens. This isn't the first time you've been ordered to do so, but it doesn't piss you off any less.
"And if I'm faster?"
Silence.
"And if he's struggling?"
More silence.
"And if I get a real chance to pass him?"
His voice drops, filled with a sadness you don't want to see, "They won't want that."
Your heartbeat becomes a sharp, steady throb behind your ribs, "So they want me to protect him. Again."
"No," Luca tries—then stops. He can't lie, not to you, "They want you to avoid jeopardizing him."
You let out a cold, humorless laugh, "Same thing."
He doesn't deny it. You stare at your hands—hands that hold a steering wheel at 300 km/h like it's part of you, now curling into fists.
"Even if I can win?"
Luca's face softens with something like ache, "You can," He whispers, "You absolutely can."
"Then why won't they let me?"
He swallows hard, "Because Gojo brings more...value."
Not skill or speed. Value.
The fanbase, sponsors, legacy, brand power.
Golden boy currency.
Your stomach twists, "And if I don't listen?"
Fear flashes across Luca's face, real and immediate, "Don't even consider it. You'll risk your seat. Your future. They'll make you the villain. You know that."
You breathe in deeply, fighting the crack in your chest, "Of course they will."
Luca rises slowly. He looks older today, in the way disappointment ages people.
He reaches the door, pauses, one hand on the handle, and looks back, "Between you and me? You were robbed yesterday."
The words hit harder than any insult ever could.
He doesn't wait for your reaction. He slips out quietly, leaving you alone with the hum of the paddock growing by the minute.
You sit for a long moment, staring at the floor, Ferrari red pressing heavy on your shoulders.
Today isn't just a race, it's a war, and deep in your bones, you know something is coming.
Something that won't be clean, fair, or easily forgotten.
Your blood runs hotter than the engines warming in the garages outside.
If Ferrari wants you quiet, obedient, and predictable this time—they've chosen the wrong driver.
You rise from the chair, grab your balaclava and gloves, and push out into the morning paddock.
The world is already shifting into race day routine. The air tastes like heat, fuel, and adrenaline and you move through it with purpose.
By the time you step into the Ferrari garage, everything is alive. The hum of tensions engulfs the team like smoke.
Luca spots you, worry flickering across his face before he schools it into something steadier, almost like faith.
You nod once. A silent agreement passes between you. Race time.
Whatever Ferrari expects, whatever Gojo thinks he has secured, whatever narrative the world is waiting to write—you have other plans.
You approach your car and slide into the cockpit as if stepping into your real skin. The mechanics lower the halo, darkness tightening around your peripherals.
Your breathing evens as your heartbeat aligns with the slow, rising rumble of the engine behind you.
This is where everything quiets, sharpens, and becomes yours again.
And as the garage door rolls open to the pit lane and sunlight floods across your visor—the Austrian Grand Prix begins.
You're P2. Next to him.
Gojo stands ahead of you on pole, the sun catching the red of his suit and turning him almost mythic, Ferrari's chosen son.
His visor is down as well, hiding whatever expression he's wearing, but you don't need to see it.
You can feel it; that smug, unshakable certainty. That belief—expectation, that you will fold.
Luca approaches, standing beside your front left tire, "Deep breaths," He says quietly, trying to reach you through the storm, "You know this track. You know this car. And you know him."
You nod, "Any word yet?"
He shakes his head, "No team orders until they give them," There's a grim pause, "But they will."
You swallow the bitterness, "I won't roll over."
"Just be smart," But your eyes are already locked ahead.
On Gojo. On the red car with the number 17. On the man Ferrari protects like a crown jewel.
Your teammate. Your rival.
Engines fire across the grid, the roar rolling through your chest like thunder.
Five red lights blink to life above the track.
Your grip tightens on the steering wheel. Four lights. Three. Two. One.
And you launch out. A perfect start.
Your tires bite immediately, your acceleration perfectly straight. The McLaren behind you spins its wheels in dirty air. Gojo's launch is quick, but yours is better.
You surge toward turn one side-by-side. For one breathless moment, the world hold its balance—two Ferraris lunging for the same corner, two drivers unwilling to lift.
"(Y/N), careful—" Luca's voice snaps into your ear.
You don't lift, neither does Gojo. You take the inside, he stays on the racing line.
You brake later and the car grips. You slide just ahead, tires screaming, but stable.
You take the lead.
The crowd erupts. The commentators shout your name like they can't quite believe it.
"(Y/N) (L/N) takes the lead into turn one!"
"A brave move against her teammate!"
"She's not here to play support!"
Gojo's voice crackles through your proximity mic—a low, frustrated growl you're not supposed to hear, but do anyway.
"Tch. Reckless."
You don't answer, your driving does it for you.
For the next nine laps, you hold him off—clean, precise, flawless.
Every sector, you're faster.
Every corner, you're sharper.
Every straight, you deny him the slipstream he weaponized yesterday.
Lap 7—he locks up in turn four. His first mistake.
Luca's voice flares with excitement, "You're pulling away! Keep this pace!"
You allow yourself one breath of triumph, one second of knowing you're out driving Ferrari's golden boy.
And then the radio clicks. A different voice. Authority disguised as neutrality.
"(Y/N), hold position. Repeat—hold position. Do not fight Satoru."
Your stomach drops. It's happening.
Luca rushes in, frantic beneath the professionalism, "That's from above. Stay calm."
You grit your teeth, "I'm faster."
There's a beat of silence, "Instructions stand," The voice commands, "Let him through."
"No."
"(Y/N)—" Luca warns.
"He can pass me," You snap, "If he's fast enough."
Behind you, you see the flash of red in your mirrors, hungry and aggressive.
You defend perfectly—legal, tight, immovable.
Lap 11. Lap 12. Lap 15. He can't get past you.
And you know he hates it.
You feel the fury radiating off him, the team panicking in your ear, the commentators losing their minds.
"(Y/N) (L/N) is defending like her life depends on it!—"
"Ferrari will not be thrilled with this—"
"She's faster, she knows it, he knows it. This is incredible—"
But faster comes with a price.
By Lap 17, your tires are blistering, tiny fractures that turn grip into glass.
"(Y/N), careful—rear temps are high. Switch to mode 6—" Luca pleads.
Mode 6 means back off. Mode 6 means give Gojo the chance to pass. Mode 6 means obey.
You ignore it and push.
You push way too hard.
Turn eight bites. Just a twitch at first, a warning.
But then you brake a fraction too late into turn eleven—fighting to stay ahead, fighting the team, fighting Gojo, fighting everyone, fighting everything.
And the rear snaps.
You almost catch it, almost, but almost isn't enough at 250 km/h.
The car spins, once, twice, the world blurring into red, white, and static.
Your front wing hits the barrier with a deadly crunch.
There is only silence, then, Luca's voice, "(Y/N)! (Y/N)! Are you okay? Answer!"
"I'm...fine," You force out, voice wrecked.
Fine is an utter lie.
Marshals wave yellow flags. A Virtual Safety Car is deployed.
Gojo speeds past your wreck on the restart, taking back the race like it was always meant for him.
The commentators praise his composure while the fans cheer.
You sit in the recovery van with your helmet still on, gloved hands shaking, and heart in your throat.
You don't cry or break, but something inside you fractures.
Not from the crash—from everything that led you there.
Ferrari will blame you. The media will blame you. Gojo will enjoy every second.
The van slows as it pulls around the back of the paddock. The world outside is muffled and distant, until the broadcast feed comes crackling through the speakers mounted above the driver.
You hear it before you see it.
"And Satoru Gojo wins the Austrian Grand Prix!"
Your stomach drops. The crowd erupts, roaring, chanting his name like a hymn. The commentators gush over him, stitching the narrative before you even step foot outside the van.
"He kept his cool."
"He managed the race beautifully."
"He proves again why he's Ferrari's number one."
Number one.
Your fingers curl slowly, the gloves creaking.
By the time the van door opens, Gojo is already on the podium platform. The champagne bottle bursts in his hands, spraying into the sunlight, foam catching the light like white fire.
He's laughing; head tipped back, suit soaked, grin wide and electric. Like the crash was inevitable, like the universe was always going to hand him with a win you knew he didn't earn alone.
You step down from the van. The paddock looks different from this height—lower, smaller, like you're seeing it from the bottom of a cliff he just climbed. Screens mounted along the walkway replay his celebration in slow motion.
A team coordinator rushes past with a tablet showing the final standings. A mechanic mutters under his breath without noticing you're near.
"God, thank fuck she didn't take him out with that spin."
You freeze. Another voice—the PR intern with the too-loud opinions, laughs, "She's finished. They'll crucify her for this."
Finished. Crucify.
Your throat tightens, a slow, suffocating vice.
You force your legs to move because if you stand here any longer, you'll drown in the humiliation.
You push through the paddock doors into the Ferrari garage and the second you step inside, everyone goes quiet.
Not because they care, but because they don't know what version of you is walking in.
Broken? Angry? Defeated? Explosive?
You keep your head forward and that’s when you see him.
Satoru Gojo, still half-suited, white hair damp from champagne, leaning against the far wall like he owns the place.
He looks relaxed, radiant, victorious.
His eyes flick up the moment he senses you, the smirk instant. Slow, cruel, and immensely satisfied.
Like he's been waiting for you and this—your crash, his win, is an inside joke only he finds funny.
He doesn't say anything, he doesn't have to.
The room is thick and silent, every mechanic pretending to work, every engineer nervous to look directly at either of you.
Your pulse spikes, your vision narrows, and every breath feels heavy.
Because this is not over, and with the way Gojo pushes off the wall, stepping toward you slowly, like a predator choosing the exact moment to strike, makes it clear.
He knows it too. The collision you avoided on the track? It's about to happen here.
Behind closed garage doors, where no cameras can save you.
He stops in front of you, so close that the heat of him presses against your suit.
"Walk with me."
It leaves him like a lit match dropped between you.
You don't move and he smirks wider, "Unless you want an audience."
Every mechanic pretends not to hear. You scoff and roll your eyes, then you walk. Not because he asked, but because you're done letting him control the narrative.
He leads you down the narrow hallway behind the garage—past racks of tires, past tool crates, past the hum of generators, until he reaches a small, unmarked door.
The storage room.
He opens it, you step inside and he shuts the door.
The air tightens as he turns towards you, "You took your time coming back."
Your hands curl into fists, already deciding you can't entertain him a second longer, "Get out of my way."
He doesn't move. In fact, he pushes off the wall and takes a deliberate step closer, "Rough race?" He asks with a faux innocence dripping in mockery, "You spun pretty hard. Nearly thought you were injured."
"Move."
He tilts his head, "Nah. I think we should talk. After all..." He glances around the cramped room, "Everyone else is pretending you don't exist. Might as well get used to the only person who won't."
Your chest tightens painfully, "Gojo, not now."
He studies you; eyes flicking over your suit, the scuffs from the crash, the way your hands are still trembling.
"You know," He says, almost conversational, "I expected you to ignore team orders, but I didn't think you'd crash trying to prove a point."
"I didn't crash because of you."
His eyebrows rise, "No? Strange. Because from where I was sitting, it looked like you were so desperate to beat me, you forgot how to drive."
Your breath punches out of you like a blade. You step forward, so close your chest brushes his, "Fuck you."
He smiles, slowly, infuriatingly, "There she is. The real you. Been waiting for that."
You shove him hard and he catches himself on the wall, laughing, "Oh, I hit a nerve."
"You humiliated me," You snap, "On the track. In front of the media. You knew what the headlines would say."
"You made it easy," He fires back, "You had P1. You had the race. And you threw it away because you couldn't handle that I was behind you."
"Don't flatter yourself."
His eyes sharpen, "What do you want me to say? That you're good? You are. But you're messy—reckless, emotional. And that's why Ferrari will never choose you over me."
The words slice through you, deeper than you expect, "And you love that, don't you?" You breathe out, "You love that no matter how well I drive, they'll always keep me beneath you."
He steps forward. Now he's close—too close. Your back touches the wall. His chest nearly touches yours.
"I love winning," He says quietly, "And if you get burned trying to chase me...that's on you."
Your breath catches out of pure rage, "You think you're untouchable."
He leans in, voice low and mocking, "I am."
"No, Gojo," Your eyes burn into his, "You're just scared someone might actually challenge you."
His breath hitches—barely, but you feel it, "You think you challenge me?"
"I know I do."
Your faces are inches apart, breaths fusing. The silence turns heavy, charged, explosive.
His jaw flexes, "You crashed. You lost. I won."
"And you're still here," You shoot back, "In my face. Talking. Pushing. Why, Gojo? Why does it matter this much to you if I'm nothing?"
Something dangerous shifts in his expression, "Because you don't know how to stay down."
"Because you don't know how to stay ahead."
His hand slams against the wall beside your head, the sound echoing through the small room. You inhale sharply as his body presses closer, warmth radiating through your half-unzipped suit.
"You disobeyed team orders. Just to beat me," His eyes drops to your lips, "You want to win that badly?"
"Yes."
"Then show me."
The challenge hangs between you—it's not about racing anymore.
It's about power, control, and desire you never knew existed.
Your heart fractures into adrenaline, "You first."
His breath trembles, just slightly, like he's collapsing into something he can't stop.
And then, he's kissing you—hard, violent, desperate.
As if the fight never ended, it just changed shape.
Your back hits the wall, your hands fist his suit; his mouth crashes onto yours with the kind of fury that tastes like champagne, sweat, and pure arrogance.
He groans against your lips, a deep, hungry sound that betrays every ounce of restraint he pretends to have.
He breaks the kiss just enough to murmur against your mouth, "This is why you crashed."
You grab the front of his suit and pull him back in, and this time, you kiss him like he's the only thing you want to destroy.
He bites your bottom lip, and you bite back hard enough to taste metal; he gasps, a broken sound that only makes your blood run hotter.
You shove him, he stumbles back, and you follow, pinning him against the opposite wall with a grunt.
Your hands tear at the zipper of his suit, yanking it down as he does the same to yours. The frigid air hits your skin and it does nothing to cool the fire.
"You want to fight?" He breathes, hands gripping your waist, bruising.
"Always," You snarl, and your hands find the waistband of his fireproofs, pulling him closer.
"Good," He growls, and he spins you both, slamming you back against a shelf of spare parts. A wrench clatters to the floor, the noise echoing your ragged breaths.
He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand, the strength in his grip making your pulse race.
His other hand shoves your suit down your hips, exposing you to the cramped, dim light of the storage room.
"Look at you," His voice is low, rough with a hunger that mirrors yours, "All that fire, and you're still the one who came apart first."
You thrash against his hold, a useless, angry motion that only makes him tighten his grip, "Go to hell."
"I'm already there," His mouth brushes your jaw, his blue eyes dark, pupils blown wide.
Your leg hooks around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. The friction is a shock, a jolt, a promise. He sucks in a sharp breath, and for a second, his control wavers.
His free hand fumbles with his own suit, his fireproofs—the frantic, clumsy movements of a man who's waited too long.
"Tell me you want this," He demands, his breath hot against your neck, his teeth scraping your skin.
"I want to watch you lose," You gasp, arching against him as he finally frees himself.
His laugh is harsh, breathless, "Wrong answer."
He lines his cock up with your entrance, and the tip of him presses against you. There's no preparation, no warning, just the blunt, unyielding pressure of a man about to take what he wants.
"Last chance to say no," He whispers, a final, cruel taunt.
You answer by digging your nails into the back of the hand holding your wrists, a silent, defiant dare.
He thrusts into you in one brutal, punishing stroke.
A strangled cry tears from your throat, it’s pleasure and pain. A sharp, exquisite agony that feels like a win.
"Fuck," He groans, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, body still for a moment as he adjusts.
"That all you got?" You tease, your voice a strained whisper.
He lifts his head, his eyes flashing wickedly, "I'm just getting started."
He begins to move; a hard, unforgiving rhythm that has the shelf digging into your back, the tools rattling with every thrust. His grip on your wrists tightens, an ache that grounds you in the moment.
Every thrust is a challenge, every gasp a surrender.
"Say it," He pants, his hips snapping against yours, "Say you hate me."
"I hate you," You moan, the words torn from you by a deep thrust that sends a thrill of unwanted pleasure through your body.
"Louder," He commands, releasing your wrists to grab your hips, pulling you into him with bruising force.
"I—Hate...You," You gasp, hands flying to his shoulders. Your fingernails dig into the flesh of his back, and he hisses in a mixture of pain and pleasure.
"Is that the best you can do?" He goads, his lips finding the sensitive skin behind your ear.
You answer by sinking your teeth into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, a possessive bite that draws a ragged groan from him. You taste salt, sweat and the lingering sweetness of champagne.
He retaliates by slamming into you harder, faster, a relentless assault that steals the air from your lungs.
The room spins, a blur of gray walls and red Ferrari equipment. The sounds of your struggle are obscene—a symphony of grunts, gasps, and the rhythmic slap of skin on skin.
"Still think you can beat me?" He growls, his voice a low rumble against your ear.
"I'm already beating you," You retort, your hands tangling in his sweat-damp hair, pulling his head back to expose the long, pale line of his throat.
He doesn't give you the satisfaction of a response, instead choosing to silence you with another kiss, all teeth and tongue and desperate need.
You meet him with equal ferocity, your anger and desire a tangled knot in your stomach, tightening with every thrust.
This isn't about your pleasure, it's about his and leaving a mark he'll feel long after this is over. You can feel the tension coiling in him, the desperation in his movements as he chases his release.
His rhythm becomes erratic, his breaths coming in ragged, shallow gasps—he's close. The thought sends a surge of power through you.
"You're pathetic," You whisper, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear, "So desperate for it."
He lets out a strangled laugh, a broken, breathless sound, "Look who's talking."
And then, a sound from outside the room; the click of a lock disengaging, the creak of a door opening down the hallway.
Panic flares in your chest, "Gojo—"
"Stay quiet," He grits out, his pace faltering for a fraction of a second before resuming with renewed urgency.
Then you hear the footsteps, growing much closer.
You bite down on your lip, trying to stifle the moan threatening to escape as he drives into you one last time. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his body shuddering as he finds his release, a hot pulsing flood that fills you with the undeniable evidence of his victory.
The footsteps stop right outside the door. A shadow falls under the crack. You hold your breath, your body a taut wire of tension and unfulfilled need.
The doorknob jiggles.
Gojo's eyes fly open, wide with a mixture of alarm and something that looks suspiciously like triumph, and he doesn't pull out. Instead, he stays inside you, a silent, possessive claim as the person on the other side tries the handle again.
"Locked," A muffled voice says, followed by a frustrated sigh, "Must be jammed again. I'll get maintenance."
The footsteps retreat, fading into the distance.
The room is silent again, except for the sound of your ragged breaths and the frantic beating of your own heart.
Gojo lifts his head, a slow, smug grin spreading across his face. "Well. That was—"
You shove him off before he can finish.
The sudden loss of his body heat is jarring—wrong in a way you refuse to name and the sticky wetness between your thighs only makes the humiliation sharper.
"Don't."
You tuck yourself back into your suit, movements hurried, trying to erase him from your skin, "This never happened."
He doesn't even bother fixing his hair, watching you with that ruinous, satisfied expression, lips bitten raw, pale throat marked where your teeth sunk into him.
"Pretty sure it did," He murmurs.
You glare at him, fury coiling tight under your ribs as you reach for the door.
He speaks before your fingers touch the handle, "You think I'm going to chase you about this?"
You stop and don’t turn, entirely frozen in your tracks.
You feel him step forward, close enough that the air tightens and your pulse trips.
His voice drops, "I don't want you."
The words aren’t cruel, they aren’t kind either, but they’re just true. Even then, your jaw clenches out of pure rage.
"Good," You whisper, "I don't want you either."
He notices the tremble in your hands as you speak, "Then why are you shaking?"
You hate that he's right.
You hate him and you hate this.
"Because you hate me," He echoes, brushing past you, shoulder grazing yours, "Funny—didn't feel like you hated me when you were taking every inch of my c—"
"Fuck you."
"I already did," A dark smile tugs at his mouth, "What—want more?"
Your hand snaps up to hit him, he catches your wrist and leans in, voice dropping, "You should've just let me through, (Y/N)."
"And you should've stayed out of my way."
He looks at you and something unguarded flickers behind his eyes. Then he lets your wrist go and without another word, walks out.
The door shuts and your legs almost buckle.
This cannot happen again, but it will.
You both know it.
Because the season isn't over.
And whatever is burning between you and the golden boy?
wc: ~8.8k | cw: angst, smut, formula 1 au! f1 gojo/racer gojo x f1/racer reader! explicit language, oral sex (female receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, suggestive themes, obsessed/toxic gojo, jealousy, rivals to lovers, slow burn.
summary: once the race of monaco is over, you attend a celebratory ferrari event where things get heated in a way you wish you could take back.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
THE PADDOCK IS too bright on race day.
It’s also far too alive for the way your stomach twists the second you step inside Ferrari hospitality.
You barely cross the threshold before Luca intercepts you with his clipboard in hand, headset around his neck, and face pulled tight with the kind of focus that means no bullshit today.
“(Y/N),” He calls, voice low, gentle, urgent, “Walk with me.”
He steers you toward the back hallway, away from cameras and Gojo or anything that might tilt the already unstable axis of your world.
His tone shifts the moment the door closes behind you, “Okay. Listen carefully.”
Your breath stutters at the seriousness in his eyes, “This,” Luca says, tapping your shoulder once, “Is the most important mental reset of your career.”
Your throat tightens as he continues, “Yesterday is done. All of it. Qualifying. The press room. The—” He hesitates, “—Gojo situation.”
You look away, almost embarrassed, and he taps his clipboard lightly, forcing your gaze back to him.
“(Y/N). Ferrari is proud of you. Yesterday you shut a lot of mouths. Today? You finish the job.”
Your pulse steadies a little, “What exactly does Ferrari expect?”
Luca doesn’t sugarcoat it, “A clean launch. Full composure. No retaliation. No unnecessary risks. Clean drive, clean data, clean race…”
“…and most importantly?” He exhales slowly, “You do not fight him.”
“…Gojo.”
Luca nods once, small and resigned, “He starts P2. They want the team to protect the lockout. If you’re faster, pull away cleanly. If he’s faster…don’t make a spectacle.”
He adds, quieter, “They don’t want another Austria. They don’t want headlines. And they definitely don’t want you two trading paint in front of the world.”
You breathe out through your nose hard, “So basically…race flawlessly but stay out of his way.”
Luca’s mouth twitches out of sympathy, “Basically.”
You exhale and that’s when you hear it. A soft hiss at first, then louder. A steady, insistent, curtain of sound.
You glance toward the tiny fogged window at the end of the hallway, “Is that—?”
Luca follows your gaze. His expression sinks, “Merda,” He mutters, “It’s starting.”
Rain.
Monaco rain.
Not gentle—a cold, slanted sheet that turns the paddock asphalt dark and glassy in seconds, reflections stretching like ghosts under the lights.
“Forecast said the storm was drifting,” You sigh.
“It changed its mind,” Luca rubs his temples, “Of course it did.”
He turns back to you, eyes sharp, “This just raised the stakes. Wet Monaco is hell. No grip. No forgiveness. No room for emotion.”
You don’t even have to ask what emotion he means.
“In the rain,” Luca says carefully, “One wrong move can end both your races. You cannot, cannot—let him get inside your head today.”
Thunder rumbles faint and distant over the bay. Your jaw sets and you nod, “I can handle it.”
“Good,” He murmurs, “Because Ferrari will—”
He stops because the door behind you cracks open again.
Marco steps in; rain-flecked hair curled under his Red Bull cap, jacket damp at the shoulders, hand tucked behind his back.
“Oh—sorry,” He apologizes quickly, “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re fine,” Luca reassures, already stepping toward the exit.
But he gives you one last look, one that says behave, before slipping out and letting the door shut, leaving you with your fellow rookie.
He smiles, gentle and crooked, “So…big day.”
You laugh quietly, “Just a bit.”
He shifts, brown eyes warm, “Look, I know the media’s being weird. And Gojo’s being…Gojo. But I just wanted to say—don’t let any of that get in your head.”
You blink, “You heard the press stuff?”
He grimaces, “Heard? The whole grid heard. Half the paddock thinks you two are getting married, the other half thinks you’re about to fistfight on the track.”
You groan into your hands, “Married? Fuck no. Fistfight? Possibly.”
Marco snorts, shaking his head, “Right—so no wedding invitations…but I’ll keep a safe distance in case punches start flying.”
You let out a helpless breath, half a laugh, half disbelief, and he softens.
“You’re terrifying in the best way,” He adds gently, “But in all seriousness. Tune it out. You’re starting P1. You earned that.”
Your chest warms despite everything, “And I meant what I said yesterday,” His voice lowers, “I hope you destroy him.”
Your stomach flips, “Thanks.”
“See you out there, superstar,” He coos before slipping out.
Then the door swings shut, and almost immediately swings open again. Only this time, it’s him.
Satoru Gojo steps into the hallway like the storm followed him inside.
His white hair is dripping, rain trails down his jaw, sliding into the collar of his fireproofs. His eyelashes are darkened, clumped from the wet, expression cold and furious.
He doesn’t look at Marco’s retreating shadow, instead he just looks at you.
“Your engine run is in five minutes,” He says, voice trembling at the edges like he’s holding something back, “Luca said to bring you.”
You force your breath steady, “Got it.”
You pass him, your shoulder brushes the faint heat of his arm through damp fabric.
He goes still, like the contact was a strike, and doesn’t say another word.
He turns and walks behind you, far enough to be appropriate, yet close to where you feel every ounce of tension trailing you like static from the storm outside.
When you step out into the paddock again, the whole place shimmers—metal, umbrellas, cameras.
You feel eyes on you immediately. You always do, but today it’s different.
Today you’re P1 in a storm in Monaco. Today the world is watching to see if Ferrari’s experiment will fail again.
The commentators’ voices float over the speakers.
“All eyes on (Y/N) (L/N) today—her first time leading the grid in her career, and in a downpour no less.”
“She out-qualified Satoru Gojo yesterday. That alone has shaken the paddock.”
“If she wins today…it changes everything.”
Your stomach knots; your heart is already racing and you’re not even behind the wheel yet.
Someone hustles past, it’s Ferrari PR, clutching an umbrella and muttering, “Dio santo…please don’t let them kill each other on lap one.”
And you ignore it, mostly.
In the Ferrari garage, the storm has pushed everyone inside. Mechanics shout tire strategies, engineers scribble on wet clipboards, data sheets being slapped onto the wall.
Luca spots you instantly and beckons you into the controlled chaos.
“Fire up in two,” He calls over the noise, “We’re switching to full wets on the grid.”
You nod, climbing into the cockpit as the mechanics swarm.
On the TV screens overhead, Marco is climbing into his Red Bull, helmet visor fogged with humidity, jaw set with something young and reckless.
The commentators ramp up.
“Keep your eyes on Marco Rivera starting P6–he makes up places in the wet like he has nothing to lose.”
“We’ve heard rumors of tension between Gojo, (L/N), and Rivera all weekend.”
“Calling it tension is generous.”
You don’t get to hear the rest because your visor drops, sealing you inside your own world.
The engine roars awake beneath you, the pit-light turns green.
“Go,” Luca says.
You pull from the garage, tires slicing through puddles and rain spattering the halo, mechanics diving out of the way as your car snakes down the pit lane toward the grid.
Gojo follows seconds later and even without looking you feel him, a second heartbeat behind you.
On the main straight, the grid is chaos; engineers scrambling, umbrellas everywhere, commentators shouting over each other as the rain thickens.
Fans scream from balconies, marshals direct traffic, rain blinds half the cameras.
You slot cleanly into P1 and mechanics place a canopy over you. Luca leans in, tapping your halo, “Look at me.”
You do, swiftly, “No nonsense in turn one,” He says, calm and firm, “No feelings. No distractions. You get through Sainte Devote clean—then settle.”
He hesitates before speaking again, “And if Rivera and Gojo get stupid behind you? Stay out of it. They’ll take care of each other.”
You exhale hard as Luca squeezes your shoulder through the chassis, “You earned this spot. Now, make them believe it.”
Your pulse thrums like the engine. Mechanics pull the tire warmers and the grid clears, but the rain doesn’t let up.
You flick your visor to clear the droplets and glance sideways, just once.
Gojo is already looking at you, visor dark, posture loose, shoulders coiled like a warning.
The formation lap begins; cars peeling off one by one, tires spraying arcs of water as you lead the field into the wettest and meanest lap of Monaco you’ve ever driven.
Your radio crackles, Luca’s voice sounding through, “Alright, (Y/N). Bring them home. Set the pace. No mistakes.”
You breathe out, misting the inside of your helmet as the grid forms up behind you.
You sit in P1 with your heart beating like it wants out of your ribs.
Because today matters.
Ferrari expects perfection.
And you need to prove to Ferrari, to the media, to him, that Austria didn’t break you.
Three rows back, Marco vibrates with adrenaline; a rookie who wants to show you he’s not afraid of Gojo, someone who wants to impress you so badly it’s bleeding into his driving.
That’s why all three of you have been racing like maniacs.
You’re fighting for reputation. Gojo’s fighting for dominance. Marco’s fighting for you.
And Monaco is too tight for all three of you to survive that kind of hunger.
Five red lights snap on and then it’s lights out.
You launch cleanly—shockingly clean for a wet start. The rear twitches but you’re already ahead by the first kink.
Gojo reacts instantly; hooking your slipstream, filling your mirrors, stalking you like he wants to carve his name into your gearbox.
Luca’s voice slices through the rain, “Don’t let him force the line! Hold your trace! Hold! Hold!”
And behind you, Marco is a demon.
He gains two places before Casino Square, up to P3–hungry, reckless, brilliant.
The commentators lose their minds, “Marco Rivera is flying through the field—this is not caution, this is a statement!”
And it is. All of it is.
Your hands go numb on the wheel as Gojo lunges once into the hairpin, just enough to make your heart stop, but you defend cleanly.
He doesn’t back out until the last millisecond.
Luca practically screams, “He’s overdriving! Don’t let him pull you into it!”
But you can feel what’s happening. Gojo isn’t racing you—he’s racing Marco.
And Marco is racing both of you for you.
In Lap 10, the rain worsens and visibility drops to almost zero.
Marco attacks Gojo up Beau Rivage—a move nobody sane attempts in the dry, let alone weather like this.
You hear Gojo’s radio spike on the merged frequency, “Tell this fuck to back off before I put him in the barrier!”
His engineer yells something unintelligible and Luca shouts in your ear, “Ignore it! Focus! You have pace.”
You try, you really do, but you feel the shift behind you. Two predators circling each other, desperate to be the one who gets to your rear wing first.
Then in Lap 18, Marco sends a dive on Gojo that should be impossible, right as Gojo tries to send a move on you.
Both of them commit, both of them refuse to yield, and spray blinds all three of you.
Luca’s voice breaks, “(Y/N)—Hold—Just hold—!”
Then, impact.
A heavy, brutal sound behind you. Carbon fiber shattering, a sickening skid across wet track.
You don’t look. You can’t. But the commentary explodes.
“Gojo and Rivera collide! They’re both in the wall! Both Ferrari and Red Bull are out!”
Your chest caves and you choke out, “Is—is he—?”
Luca cuts you off, frantic but steady, “Not your problem. Focus. Full safety car. Stay out of trouble.”
Your fingers tremble around the wheel as he advises quietly, “He’s okay. Drive.”
The safety car lasts three agonizing laps. On the restart, you’re alone in front.
Ferrari’s only remaining car. Their only chance, their only option.
And that’s when the second radio voice breaks through, urgent and unmistakably Ferrari management.
“(Y/N), you are cleared to push. You are cleared to use all available pace. No fuel saving. No tire saving. We trust you. Win this race.”
Your breath stops, Luca adds softly, “Go. Show them why you’re here.”
And for the first time all season—Ferrari finally lets you off the leash.
You become something else and Monaco stops being a track, it becomes instinct.
Sector after sector, you pull away. 2 seconds. 4 seconds. 6, 8, purple floods the timing tower.
“This is your race!” Luca shouts, unable to hide the emotion, “Take it! Take all of it!”
Last lap, your chest aches with it. The weight, the relief, the disbelief.
You turn into Rascasse cleanly, smooth and perfect, and when the car straightens onto the home stretch, you see the checkered flag waving through the spray.
You cross the line and the world explodes.
Luca detonates in your ear, voice frayed, almost sobbing, “You did it! You won Monaco! Full redemption!”
You won—you actually won.
The first woman to ever win in Formula 1.
Without Gojo.
Without anyone pulling you back.
Without being overshadowed.
Ferrari’s golden boy crashed.
Ferrari’s “experiment” is their salvation.
You pull into the P1 slot and mechanics swarm you—hands grabbing, lifting, hugging, voices laced with joy you didn’t know they still had for you.
“(Y/N)!”
“You did it!”
“Monaco, ragazza, Monaco!”
Someone yanks your belts loose; somebody else shoves an umbrella above you although the rain has already soaked you through, streaking your face with cold trails that look suspiciously like tears.
Luca reaches you last. He doesn’t speak at first, he just pulls you into him, tight and proud in a way that slices through your chest.
“You were perfect,” He murmurs into your helmet, “Absolutely perfect.”
Yet, through the chaos and the screaming, the cameras, the red smoke, you hear a sound that doesn’t belong.
A crash of medical equipment, a guttural curse, a furious shout—Gojo.
You turn and he’s standing outside the medical tent with a bandaged wrist, scraped cheekbone, rain soaked fireproofs half undone, and he’s shaking with something you’ve never seen on him.
Fear.
Fear of losing and fear of you.
The rival he didn’t plan for and the woman he can’t resist.
Your eyes meet across the distance and for the first time ever, he’s the one falling apart.
You break the eye contact when the marshals guide you toward the narrow staircase leading up the harbor-facing podium.
Your legs feel foreign, your pulse is everywhere at once, and then you climb, one step after another, until the world unfurls beneath you.
Monaco. The flag. The rain turning the crowd into a shimmering sea of umbrellas and Ferrari red. Your name echoing up the walls of luxury apartments.
“(Y/N)! (Y/N)! (Y/N)!”
You remove your helmet; your drenched hair clings to your temples, rain streaming down your cheeks, eyelashes heavy, chest heaving.
The world finally sees you, not as Ferrari’s controversial female rookie or Gojo’s shadow, but as the driver who took Monaco.
The official holds out the P1 cap, your hands quiver as you take it and place it on your head.
The photographers lose their minds; flashes ignite like lighting, fans scream, your heartbeat thunders against your ribs, but nothing compares to the moment the national anthem begins.
Your anthem. The Star Spangled Banner.
You stand tall with your chin up, shoulders square, face wet with rain and emotion you can’t swallow anymore.
Then you lift your trophy with shaking hands. It’s heavier than you imagined it be or maybe you’re weaker than you thought.
But when the champagne erupts, cold and stinging, that’s when your jaw begins to quake. Not from the alcohol, rather the memory that this was stolen from you once.
You were mocked and dismissed for it, nearly losing your seat, your reputation, your career.
Now you’re standing where Gojo always swore you wouldn’t reach.
Your throat tightens and you try your hardest not to break, but winning hurts in a way that losing never did.
The cameras catch the exact moment your smile falters, lip trembling, fingers slipping off the trophy from how bad you’re shaking.
You drop your head under the cap brim, but the damage is done.
They saw, everyone did, and the commentators soften instantly.
“She’s emotional…this means everything.”
“She fought hard for this seat. She earned this one.”
And somewhere in the paddock, Gojo stops dead.
He watches you as you wipe your cheek with the back of your glove, seeing the way your shoulders quiver.
His expression shatters irrevocably, “…shit.”
It leaves him in a whisper he didn’t mean to let slip.
He wasn’t ready for this—to witness you break, not from losing, but from winning.
He starts toward you, but he’s too late, because someone else reaches you first.
They guide you into the interview corridor with lights that are too bright, cameras too close, every voice too loud.
You try to breathe and fake composure, but everything you fought down all season long is boiling over.
A reporter steps forward, “(Y/N), congratulations on your first career win. Can you tell us what this means after Austria? After everything that occurred this week?”
Your mouth opens, then closes. You swallow, “It’s…it’s everything,” You whisper, voice already cracking, “I didn’t think I’d get a chance to—I thought—”
A tiny sob slips out, ugly, fragile, and real. Your hand flies to your mouth as tears spill.
Heartbreaking ones, the kinds that shake your entire body.
The room goes silent, reporters still, and even the cameras soften.
You choke on a breath, “I just…I needed to prove…” You shudder again, “…I’m not what they said I am. I’m not—” Your hand twitches against your lips, “—I’m not a mistake.”
Your shoulders collapse inward. It’s gut wrenchingly human, and that’s when Marco arrives, bandaged and all, practically sprinting.
“Hey—hey,” He breathes, pulling you into a tight, steady hug before you can stop him.
You sag into him, breathing him in, “You were brilliant,” He mutters into your hair, “Truly…you earned every second of this.”
Reporters melt, fans coo, Marco rubs soothing circles on your back.
And then, the air behind you changes; because Gojo stands just outside the camera arc, jaw clenched, eyes burning, chest heaving hard.
Furious, jealous, and beneath all of that—hurt.
He saw you break, saw you cry, saw someone else comfort you, and it fractured a piece of him.
Marco pulls back slightly, brushing your shoulder gently, “You good?”
You nod, “I—yeah. Just overwhelmed.”
Marco smiles at you like you’re sunlight while Gojo glares at him like he’s disposable.
A journalist lifts a mic toward Gojo, “Gojo, since you’re here—any comment on (Y/N)’s win today?”
There’s silence as he steps forward. He looks at you, then Marco’s hand still resting too close to your waist, then back at you.
“She surprised me,” He says quietly, and pauses, a long one. Then, softer for you alone, “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
Your stomach drops as reporters lean forward and someone asks, “Are you two still dealing with tension? Is something unresolved between you?”
Gojo’s eyes lock onto yours, dark and dangerous and unbearably honest, “You have no idea.”
The world explodes, reporters shouting, flashbulbs popping, Marco stiffening beside you.
Gojo turns sharply and shoulder-checks Marco as he passes, hard.
Marco tenses and you flinch, Gojo doesn’t bother looking back, but his fists are shaking and then you hear the last thing he mutters under his breath as he disappears down the corridor.
”Don’t let him fucking touch you again.”
And by the time Ferrari pries you away from the cameras, you still hear Gojo’s voice in your head.
Luca finds you half slumped on a flight case in the back garage, suit peeled down to your waist, and sets a bottle of water beside you and waits until your breathing evens out.
“Hey,” He says quietly, “You still with us?”
“Barely.”
He nods once, like that’s an acceptable answer for someone who just won Monaco, “Good. Because you’ve got one more thing to survive today.”
You groan, “Media again?”
“Worse,” His mouth twitches, “A Ferrari organized celebration.”
You blink and he elaborates, resigned, “Private restaurant. Harbor view. Everyone in suits and dresses pretending we’re not all deeply traumatized. Management, mechanics, sponsors, the whole circus.”
You rub at your eyes, “I have to go, don’t I?”
“It’s your win, ragazza. They’re building the whole thing around you,” He pats your shoulder, “Be there at nine. Try to eat. Try not to get into a fight.”
“With who?” You mumble, “Marco, or the other one?”
He gives you a look. One that says don’t make me answer that, “Go shower. Wear something nice. You earned tonight.”
And you drag yourself back to the hotel on muscle memory alone.
When you close your door, the quiet presses on you like a weight. Your trophy sits on the table where you placed it, heavy and gleaming, mocking you with the reality that this actually happened.
You stare at the adjoining door that’s not connected to him anymore and try to shake the thought of him out of your mind.
So you shower instead; standing under the hot water with shaking hands, skin still buzzing from the race and the interviews and the way you fell apart on live TV.
You towel off and sit on the edge of the bed where Gojo unraveled you twice, hair dripping, looking at your open suitcase.
The dress looks back at you.
You’d packed it because someone told you Monaco always comes with a gala. You just never imagined you’d be wearing it as a winner.
You slip it on, black, hugging your body, leaving your shoulders bare.
The fabric glides when you move, cool and expensive against skin that only really knows fireproofs and harness straps.
You do your makeup with steady hands you absolutely don’t feel inside, and look in the mirror.
Not in a fireproof, not in a polo, not with helmet hair. The reflection staring back at you is just you.
And for a split second, you almost don’t recognize the woman who won Monaco.
You grab your purse before you can think about it too long and head upstairs to the restaurant attached to the hotel, which looks like it was specifically built for Monaco winners.
Large windows open over the harbor, chandeliers scatter light like champagne bubbles across polished marble, the air warm with candle smoke and wealth; a string quartet plays something soft and Italian in the corner.
You step into the private room and the noise hits you all at once.
“Brava!”
“Look at her—our champion!”
Ferrari people stand, clapping with glasses raised, chair legs scraping, and you try to smile without crying again.
Luca is already on his feet, pulling your chair out near the center of the table, “Guarda,” He announces to anyone within earshot, “Our winner decided to show up.”
You sit, cheeks hot, “You threatened me.”
He shrugs, “I motivated you.”
You’re barely settled when a hostess appears at your elbow with a massive bouquet, “Signorina (L/N)? These arrived for you.”
White Lillies. Deep red roses. Little tucked sprigs of tiny flowers that look exactly like the ones your mom used to grow in chipped pots on the back porch.
Your fingers tremble slightly as you reach for the card.
We watched every lap.
We cried.
We’re proud of you beyond words.
— Love, Mom & Dad
Your throat closes so fast it hurts.
Luca glances at the card, then at your face, and his expression softens, “You okay?”
You nod too quickly, “Yeah. I just…miss them.”
You set the card gently back in the flowers and reach for your water glass to drown the burn behind your eyes.
Someone at the far end of the table stands—the team principal. Tie perfectly knotted, smile perfectly practiced.
“Tonight,” He says, raising his wine, “We toast the driver who gave Ferrari a Monaco victory when the world doubted her most. To (Y/N). To resilience. To speed. To proving everyone wrong.”
The whole room echoes your name back at you. You lift your glass, hands shaking only slightly, and drink.
It should feel like enough, but it doesn’t, because the door opens again and everything tilts.
Satoru Gojo walks in like the storm followed him ashore and decided to wear a suit.
Black and tailored to perfection. White dress shirt, top buttons undone just enough to be obscene and no tie, of course.
His hair is still damp from that post-race shower, pushed back carelessly; a few strands fall over his forehead in a way that should be illegal.
He’s bandaged—wrist taped, a faint cut along his cheekbone catching the light, but it doesn’t soften him at all. It only makes him look more dangerous.
The table breaks into applause for him too, it has to. He’s Ferrari’s golden boy even when he bins it.
He nods to the team principal, shakes a sponsor’s hand, then his gaze finds you.
Slow and unavoidable, like he’s been looking for you since the moment he walked in.
His eyes make a deliberate path; your bare shoulders, the line of your gown, the flowers by your plate, your mouth. Then finally, your eyes.
It’s for one second, two, three. Long enough for heat to crawl from your chest up into your throat.
He looks away first, barely.
He takes the empty seat across the table, just off-center from you so that every time you look up he’s in your periphery, yet he’s far enough that nobody can accuse you of sitting together.
Dinner becomes a blur of many courses you hardly taste and conversations you hardly register.
Wine flows, laughter rises and falls, mechanics reenact your overtake with salt shakers and breadsticks; engineers argue about strategy choices with their hands. while sponsors toast you again and again until your face hurts from smiling.
Every time you allow yourself a quick glance, Gojo is there.
Sometimes talking to someone. Sometimes staring at his glass. Sometimes watching you, well, mostly, watching you.
You don’t let your eyes stay on him long enough to know you’re looking.
Halfway through dessert, a waiter appears at your elbow again.
“From the bar,” He says, setting down a smaller bouquet. It’s a little messy, but charming all the same, “The gentleman asked me to say ‘you deserve something that looks like happiness’.”
You frown, confused, until you spot it. A tiny Red Bull pin tucked between the stems.
You snort softly under your breath—Marco.
Luca catches the pin. His mouth lifts, “The kid’s got taste.”
You set that bouquet next to your parents’ flowers, chest feeling unbearably full.
Then management announces the shift, “Alright, ragazzi,” The team principal declares, “Formal torture is over. Bar upstairs is open. Let the rookie drink her victory.”
You stand too, somewhat unsteady, a bit from the wine and partly from the emotional whiplash of the day.
Luca leans in one more time, “Stay close to people who like you tonight,” He says quietly, “There are too many witnesses and not enough fire exits.”
You manage a weak laugh, “That a professional recommendation?”
“Personal one,” He taps your arm, “Go enjoy it, campionessa.”
You follow the flow upstairs and the rooftop bar is every Monaco stereotype in one place.
String lights, low glass railing overlooking the harbor where yachts glow like floating mansions; the air smells like rain, ocean, and expensive perfume.
Ferrari has the entire terrace cordoned off. Someone shoves a flute of champagne into your hand the second you step out, another person clinks their glass against yours. People are talking, shouting, singing your name off-key.
You drift toward the bar just to get a moment where no one’s looking directly into your soul.
And the bartender straightens when he recognizes you, “What can I get the Monaco winner?”
You open your mouth as someone else speaks for you, “I owe her one.”
Marco slides into the space beside you in a navy suit, brown hair combed back, bandage peeking faintly from under his cuff. His smile is softer than the room deserves.
“Monaco Spritz,” He tells the bartender, “Like I mentioned.”
You stare at him. A memory flashes—the garage, his shy offer, and the drink you never accepted because Gojo ambushed you after.
Your lips twitch, “You remembered?”
“Of course,” He shrugs, a little bashful and proud, “I don’t offer girls drinks I don’t plan to make good on.”
The bartender sets the cocktail in front of you. You wrap your finger around the stem, glass cold against your palm, “Thank you.”
“Congratulations,” He counters, “You killed it today.”
You huff, heat creeping up your neck, “I almost killed both Ferraris.”
“Yeah,” He laughs, “But that wasn’t on you.”
He shifts just a little closer, “You know,” He adds, voice lower now, “This is the part where the driver usually says something humble like ‘I got lucky’.”
You roll your eyes, “I didn’t get lucky.”
“Exactly,” He grins, “You didn’t. You were better. And everyone here knows it.”
Your chest does that awful tight, burning thing again. You take a sip of the drink instead of responding and it’s perfect. The taste is sharp, sweet, and dangerous on your tongue.
Marco watches you over the rim of his glass, then clears his throat, nerves flickering through his eyes, “So,” He says, feigning casual, “Now that you’re officially ‘Monaco winner (Y/N) (L/N)’ and not ‘is Ferrari going to fire her’…”
You snort, “…I’m going to be extremely brave,” He continues, “And ask if maybe, when this circus moves on, you’d let me take you out somewhere that doesn’t require a race suit or a hospitality pass.”
The words hit harder than the liquor, “You mean…like an actual date?”
He flushes, “If you want it to be.”
You almost answer before the air behind you changes. You don’t have to turn to know why, but you do anyway.
Satoru Gojo stands a few feet away—no champagne or smile, suit jacket hanging open over his shirt like he forgot to button it. His eyes are pale blue and locked on one thing.
Marco’s hand resting lightly on the bar near your hip.
He doesn’t look at your drink, or your dress, or your mouth. Not at first. He just looks at that hand.
Then slowly, like it costs him something, his gaze drags upward to your face.
“Gojo,” Marco says cautiously, tone polite in the way someone is to a feral animal.
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” He says, but his voice is flat.
Marco lifts his chin, “We were just talking.”
“Were you?” Gojo finally looks at him, like Marco is some pest that decided to speak without permission.
Marco shifts and puts a barely-there inch of space between your hips and his hand.
Gojo’s jaw ticks, “Congratulations on P1, (Y/N),” He says, loud enough for people nearby to hear, “Big night.”
You narrow your eyes, “You could have said that earlier.”
He smirks without smiling, “Didn’t want to disturb your…moment.”
Marco blinks slowly, “We were just celebrating.”
“With my teammate?” Gojo’s brows rise, “That so?”
“Yeah,” Marco answers evenly, “She had a hell of a race.”
Gojo turns his head the way someone turns before they break something, “Is that what you call whatever the hell you two were doing down there?”
Your blood spikes hot, “Back off.”
“No,” He fires back instantly, “Not this time.”
The air thickens as the music begins to sound too loud, alcohol feeling fuzzy under your skin.
Marco steps between you subtly, placing himself at your side like a line of calm in a hurricane, “Look, she just won Monaco. Maybe let her breathe.”
Gojo lets out a small laugh, “Breathe?” He echoes, “That what you think you were helping her do?”
Marco’s eyes narrow, “Watch it.”
“Or what?” Gojo asks softly, “You’ll try another move like the one that put us in the wall?”
Marco’s shoulder tenses, “You turned in on me.”
Gojo’s voice sharpens, “You dived from two car lengths back.”
“I made the corner—”
“You didn’t,” Gojo steps closer, blue eyes blazing, “You were trying to impress her. That’s why you sent it.”
Marco’s expression flickers, exposed for half a second.
Gojo notices, “So transparent. You want to tell her? Or should I?”
Your throat drops open, “Stop it.”
“No,” He repeats, gaze never leaving Marco, “Tell her why you even touched my damn car.”
Marco exhales and says nothing, which in itself is an answer.
Gojo turns to you, countenance jagged enough to cut, “He crashed us both because he was trying to get your attention.”
You shake your head, angry heat crawling up your spine, “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” Gojo answers, calm in a terrifying way, “Because I watched you two all damn weekend.”
You scoff, “You have no right—”
“You’re right,” He interrupts, voice climbing, “I don’t. But that didn’t stop you from throwing yourself at his car on track—”
“I defended—”
“—or letting him put his hands all over you in the interview zone—”
You flush, “You’re unbelievable—”
“And now he’s buying you drinks like he owns the night.”
Marco cuts in sharply, “Okay, that’s enough—”
“No,” Gojo snaps, “It’s not.”
The rooftop goes quiet around you, conversations dipping, attention shifting.
You want to disappear or scream or more preferably, punch him.
“Gojo,” You grit, “Walk away.”
He steps closer, ”No.”
Marco plants a hand on the bar, blocking Gojo’s advance, “Back. Off.”
Gojo’s smile is almost frightening, “Touch me again and see what happens.”
Luca materializes from the shadows like a guardian angel, “Okay,” He mutters tightly, “Party’s over. You—” He points to Gojo, “—Stop being whatever the hell this is. And you—” He points to Marco, “—Don’t get yourself fired before your second season.”
Marco lifts both hands, “Fine.”
You take a step back, ready to follow Luca and finally breathe again, when Gojo grabs your wrist.
The contact isn’t rough or painful, but it’s enough to make your entire body go rigid.
“Come here,” He says under his breath.
“Let go.”
He shakes his head once, “You—” Your voice spikes, “—don’t get to touch me. Not tonight.”
He steps into your space, “And he does?”
You rip your hand away and hiss, “Yes.”
The room freezes and Gojo’s face changes.
Not out of rage or jealousy or possessiveness, rather something in him gets wounded.
He breathes once, twice. Then, “Come. Here.”
It isn’t a request, more so a breaking point.
“No.”
Marco moves subtly in front of you, and Gojo finally loses it.
“(Y/N), we’re talking. Right now.”
“Or what?” You fire back, “You gonna cause another scene?”
His jaw clenches so hard you see the muscle twitch, you turn and he follows.
You walk toward the elevator and he’s right behind you. You stab the button and he stands beside you, chest rising, hands balled.
The elevator doors open, you step in, he steps in. The doors close and silence fills the air, thick and suffocating.
Your hands shake while his jaw works like he’s grinding bones.
You don’t look at him and he doesn’t look away from you.
When the doors open for your floor, you try to leave, but he blocks the exit with his arm.
You whip your head toward him, “Move.”
His voice is rugged, “Come to my room.”
“Absolutely fucking not.”
“We’re not done.”
“You and I were done in the corridor.”
His breath stutters, the emotional equivalent of a flinch. Then, he laughs, “You didn’t mean that.”
“I did.”
He steps closer, you step back, backing into the wall.
Gojo cages you in with an arm braced beside your head, “Say that again,” He whispers, “Say you meant it.”
“I meant it. Every single fucking word.”
He breathes in sharply, “Liar.”
Your voice cracks, “Stop calling me that.”
“Then stop fucking lying.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
“Gojo—”
“Satoru.”
You go still, his gaze flicks from your mouth to your eyes.
“Come with me,” He murmurs.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
His hand curls around yours, warm and infuriatingly intoxicating.
And you don’t know how, but you end up in his room anyway.
All because something between you snaps so violently neither of you can stop it.
The door clicks shut behind you. He looks at you and you look at him.
“What the hell is your problem?”
“My problem?” He repeats, “My problem?” He laughs once, bitter enough to taste iron, “You’re asking me that after tonight?”
You throw your hands up, “I celebrated my win. That’s it.”
“You celebrated,” He says flatly, “With him.”
“Marco is my friend—”
“He wants to fuck you.”
Your stomach twists with anger, “You don’t get to say that.”
“It’s true.”
“No,” You stab a finger toward him, “You don’t get to act like you have any claim on me, any authority, any—”
“Don’t,” He snaps, stepping closer, “Don’t you dare pretend you didn’t see the way he looked at you.”
“Of course I saw it!” You yell, “I’m not blind!”
Gojo’s eyes narrow, blue flashing dangerously, “So why didn’t you shut it down?”
You exhale a disbelieving laugh, “Holy shit. You’re out of your mind.”
“Answer me.”
“No.”
“(Y/N).”
“No!”
His jaw tightens, furious and needy, and he steps into your space again, this time far too close.
“You liked it,” He accuses.
You scoff, “You’re delusional.”
“Then why didn’t you walk away?”
“Because he wasn’t being an asshole.”
“Oh, I see,” He laughs, “So you like men who smile at you like you’re the best thing in the room.”
“Maybe,” You snap, “Because it’s better than the one who ruins my press conferences, crashes out trying to beat me, and then interrogates me for talking to someone at a celebration dinner!”
He goes impossibly still, “That what you think I was doing?”
“That’s what you do,” You spit, “You blow everything up. Everything.”
He steps forward. You step back. Your shoulder blades hit the wall.
“You think I don’t know Marco seriously likes you?” He’s inches away from your face now, “You think I didn’t hear him ask you out?”
Your lips part, your pulse jumps violently, “Yeah,” Gojo murmurs, voice dropping, “I heard that part too.’’
Heat scorches your cheeks, “You had no right to listen.”
“Oh, so now you care about boundaries?”
You shove him hard. He hits the dresser with a grunt, palms slamming against it to steady himself, hair falling over his forehead.
He lifts his head and looks utterly furious, “No more pretending,” He says, coming toward you again, “I’m done with that.”
“Good,” You hiss, “Because I’m tired of pretending too—”
“Pretending what?” He barks, “That you don’t want me?”
“Yes!” You shout, “That!”
You’re chest to chest now, breath to breath; heat rolling off both of you so strong it’s suffocating, “I don’t want you.”
His eyes drop to your mouth, “Lying again.”
“You make me miserable.”
“Good.”
“You drive me insane.”
“Good.”
“I hate you.”
His hand shoots up beside your head, trapping you in place, “Then say it again.”
You freeze. He leans in, lips grazing your cheek, “Say it and mean it.”
Your breath trembles, you swallow the knot in your throat, “I hate you.”
He hums. You don’t know if it’s in approval or pain. But before you can dwell on it, he grabs your waist in both hands and spins you, pushing you back onto the bed so fast you gasp.
He stands over you, breathing hard, watching you like he’s trying to solve you and destroy you at the same time, “Take it back.”
Your eyes widen, “…What?”
He kneels on the bed, slow and deliberate, hands sliding up your thighs until his fingers hook in the lace of your panties.
“What you said in the corridor,” He says, voice low, “Take it back.”
You swallow, “No.”
His fingers tug the fabric down, just halfway, enough to expose heat and skin and humiliation. His mouth hovers above where you need him.
“Say it,” He growls, “Take. It. Back.”
You clench your thighs around him, refusing to give him an inch, “Fuck you.”
He smirks, “No,” He coos, leaning in, “Not unless you take it back.”
Your hips twitch traitorously and he notices.
“Say it,” He breathes against your inner thigh, “Or I’m not fucking you.”
“You’re bluffing.”
He lifts his head. His eyes aren’t playful. They’re dead serious.
“Try me.”
A heartbeat passes. Then two. Then three.
And you cave first, “…Fine.”
His eyebrows lift, “What was that?”
You glare, your pride dies in your throat, “I…take it back.”
He smiles like you just handed him victory, “Good girl.”
Heat slams through your stomach, “And now,” He says, pulling your panties down the rest of the way in one smooth motion, “I’m going to ruin you for letting me hear you say it.”
He drags you down the bed, your knees bend, your breath breaks, and then his mouth is on you—hungry, angry, possessive, desperate, lapping at your juices like a man dehydrated.
You arch instantly, hand flying to his hair; he groans into you, deep, low, starving, and it vibrates straight through your spine.
“Say my name,” He mumbles against you, voice muffled, “Not his.”
“Satoru—”
His fingertips dig into your thighs, “Louder.”
“Satoru—” You repeat, unable to stop yourself due to the pleasure rushing through you.
He laughs breathlessly against your skin, “That’s right.” Then continues to pull you apart with his mouth, his tongue, his hands, his need.
It’s messy and furious and agonizingly addictive; and when he pushes you over the edge so hard you see stars, he doesn’t let you catch your breath.
He crawls up your body, slotting his hips between your legs, lips swollen and slick from you. He fumbles with his belt and trousers as he kisses you hard, dirty and claiming.
“Tell me again,” He whispers against your mouth, “That you hate me.”
You drag him closer by the collar of his shirt, and your lips brush his, “I do.”
He smirks as he lines his flushed tip at your entrance that wordlessly begs for him, “No you don’t.”
And then he pushes into you slowly at first—slow only in the sense that the world narrows to a single point of pressure, a single breath shared between you, a single sound punched out of your lungs when he bottoms out; your pussy taking every single inch he has to give.
Your fingers claw into the sheets. Your legs tighten around his waist. Your head kicks back, “Satoru—”
He inhales sharply like you just stabbed him with the prettiest weapon you own, “Again,” He pants against your neck, “Say it—”
You grip the front of his shirt and pull him even closer, “Satoru.”
His eyes flutter shut, then he moves, and it’s not slow, gentle, or mindful.
He fucks you like he’s trying to erase the space between your bodies entirely, like he’s pissed that he needs you, like he’s owed this.
The headboard cracks against the wall as he sets his relentless rhythm. Your breath gets trapped in your chest, nails digging into his back through the thin fabric of his shirt, enough to make him hiss and thrust harder.
“Look at you,” He mutters against your throat, ragged, “Letting me fuck you senseless.”
You force your eyes closed, “Shut up—”
He smirks as he slams into you impossibly deeper, “You love it.”
You bite your lip so hard you swear you draw blood, “No—”
“You do.”
His hand slides up your ribs, palm flattening over your heartbeat. It’s pounding so violently it nearly jumps into his hand.
“This—” He murmurs, hips snapping rougher, cock filling you up in a way that is unbearably good, “—this is for letting him touch you.”
You gasp when he hits a spot that knocks the air clean out of your lungs, “And this—” Another hard, precise thrust, “—is for making me watch.”
You cry out from the suddenness and how shamefully right it all feels. Your hand shoots up and grabs his jaw harshly, dragging his face above yours, “You don’t own me.”
His eyes darken, pupils blown, breath shuddering against your mouth, “No,” He growls, “But you sure as hell act like you want me to.”
You flip him—or try to, but he meets the motion halfway, rolling with you until you’re straddling him, dress bunched at your waist.
His hands grip your hips so tight your breath catches, “Fuck—” He rasps, head tipping back as you sink down on him again, walls swallowing his cock whole, “(Y/N)—”
The sound of your name hits you hard enough to make you grind down once, involuntarily.
His grip slips downward, fingers spreading over the back of your thighs, “That’s it,” He exhales, “Use me.”
And you do. You brace your palms on his chest and ride him with an anger that feels like victory and something else you can’t decipher.
“You think—” You gasp as you bounce on him, “—this means anything?”
He laughs, wrecked and breathless, as he watches you with an emotion that looks far too close to adoration, “It means…you’re dripping for me—after saying you hate me.”
“Because I do—”
“Yet—you’re still here.”
You slam down on him harder, and he chokes on a groan that sounds like it was dragged from somewhere deep.
His hands slide up your waist, one hand takes the back of your neck, and he pulls you down until your lips brush his.
“Say it.”
You know what he means. You shake your head, “No.”
He thrusts into you so sharply you yelp into his mouth, “Say it,” He demands, voice cracking with how badly he wants to hear.
“Fuck off—”
He grabs your chin, eyes burning into yours, “Say you take it back.”
Your lip trembles from want or anger or both. You don’t even know anymore, “I—take it back.”
He swears under his breath like the admission ruins him, and his cruel pace continues, bucking into you with fervent desire, “Good girl.”
“Don’t…say that—”
But he’s already pulling you closer, mouth at your ear, voice barely there, “You’re gonna cum for me, aren’t you?”
“No—”
“You are,” His fingers slide between your bodies, finding your clit, stroking you with maddening precision and your whole body jolts.
“Satoru—no, I—”
He smirks against your cheek, “You what?”
“I’m close—fuck—”
He keeps the same rhythm with both his fingers and the way he fucks you—rough, deep strokes that have your eyes fluttering back, “Good.”
Your legs shake, your hands slip on his chest, your voice breaks with each breath, “Cum,” He whispers, “Right now.”
Your orgasm hits you harder than anything you’ve experienced; back arching, thighs trembling, head tossed back, his name shattering out of your mouth.
He follows seconds later—thrusting up into you with a sound like he’s been holding it in for weeks, instant warmth flooding your insides, fingers bruising your hips, chest pressed up into yours like he’s trying to disappear within you.
When it’s over and the world stops spinning, you drop onto his chest, forehead pressed into the open collar of his shirt, both of you panting like you just survived something catastrophic.
His hand slides up your spine, slow now. Dangerously soft.
And it scares you more than anything else tonight.
You lift your head. His eyes are already on you, staring for far too long.
A heartbeat of truth, a second of tenderness he tries to kill.
And that is when you know, that whatever this is, is going to ruin the both of you.
The room is dark except for the thin stroke of moonlight cutting across the sheets and your bare shoulder and the line of your spine, the place where Gojo’s hand had been only minutes ago.
Your breathing comes down slowly, his doesn’t.
He lies on his back, one arm thrown over his forehead, chest rising too quick for someone who just fucked the fight out of you. The air still smells like sex and sweat and Monaco rain. His pulse is loud in the quiet.
He should feel satisfied and smug after hearing you reluctantly whisper that you took all of what you said back, but he doesn’t. The only thing he feels is conflicted.
You shift, just a tiny movement, but he feels it like a knife under his ribs. Because you’re already putting distance between you. Already reclaiming the space he just tore open, already putting your armor back on now that the heat is gone.
You sit up, slow and careful, as if your body might betray you by leaning back into him. The moonlight illuminates you, exposing the faint red and purple marks he left along your collarbone.
Your thighs tremble when you shift your weight. There’s a flush spread across your chest, your heartbeat jumping under it and still, you refuse to look at him again.
You keep your gaze fixed on the floor as you reach for your underwear, slipping in one leg, then the other. He watches the entire thing, quiet and tense, eyes half-lidded but sharp.
He doesn’t move or speak. He just looks at you like he’s memorizing the shape of you getting dressed.
You pull your dress back down and straighten out the fabric, your breath stuttering as you do it. Then, under your breath—barely audible, like you’re saying it to convince yourself and not him, you exhale.
”…This really meant nothing.”
His jaw clenches so hard the muscle pops. He wants to correct you and laugh, tell you you’re a God awful liar.
Because he felt you. Every tremor, every gasp, every time you said his name like it burned you on the way out.
But he doesn’t say any of that. He’s too afraid of what will spill out if he opens his mouth.
You walk toward the door, slow and almost cautious, as if touching the handle too hard will admit something you refuse to name.
That you want to stay and that you want him again; that part of you wants to crawl back into the bed that still smells like both of you.
Your fingers curl around the knob. You breathe out, bracing, and that’s when he speaks.
He doesn’t say it mockingingly. It’s just a low, quiet cut through the dark.
”Running already?”
Your hand tightens on the metal. You don’t turn around, “Goodnight, Satoru.”
Not ‘Gojo’. Not ‘asshole’. Not anything biting.
Only his name—soft, dangerous, and intimate in a way that floors him.
He inhales like you just knocked the wind out of him.
You crack the door open, but you hesitate, just one second, long enough to glance back.
The moonlight hits him in fragments—hair mussed from your hands, cheeks still flushed, sheets tangled around his hips, eyes wide and blown as he watches you leave.
He looks undone, like a storm trapped in a body too small to contain it. He looks like he wants to get up and stop you. He looks like he wants to drag you back and fuck you again until neither of you can stand.
But he doesn’t move, he doesn’t say stay, he can only helplessly watch you like you’re taking something from him he didn’t even realize he gave.
Your throat tightens. You step out and close the door. The soft click sounds like a gunshot in the silence.
Inside, Gojo drags both hands over his face and exhales a breath so hard it shakes his entire chest.
He stares at the dent your body left in his sheets.
Stares like it’s taunting him.
Stares like he hates it.
Stares like he wants it back.
And finally, alone in the dark, he whispers to the empty room, ”…fuck.”
