In theory, the Eridian children have come to Grace and Simon's biodome to participate in a hands-on (clawtip-on?) physics experiment that doesn't translate well through a xenonite wall. In practice, its field trip day for the pebbles, and they are having an absolute blast exploring Grace and Simon's habitat in their teeny little xenonite envirosuits. They're picking up rocks, poking at the waves, and climbing every surface they can find. It's absolute chaos, and Grace is loving every second of it, but he's also a little bit anxious that some of the pebbles might hurt themselves. Thankfully he's not the only one keeping an eye on them. A couple of Eridian educators are there as well.
More importantly, however, Simon has apparently assigned himself as the pebbles' caretaker. He's following them around like a mother hen constantly watching over her chicks, nudging them out of the water before they can go too deep and helping them pick out the best rocks from the beach. Grace is enjoying watching Simon interact with his class; it's giving Simon a chance to unknowingly show off his gentler and more caring side.
He is surprisingly very good with the kids.
And then, one of the pebbles manages to climb too far up one of the cliff sides and starts to fall. Before anyone can panic, however, Simon rushes over and manages to catch them before they hit the ground, despite the fact that the pebble has to weigh well over a couple hundred pounds and Simon only has one arm. It's awkward and the pebble crashing against him knocks him on his ass, but Simon still sets them down gently, and makes sure the pebble is okay.
Suddenly Simon is swarmed by all of the pebbles, eager to climb all over him instead. He only has a moment to squeak in surprise, and then he's buried by a gaggle of overeager Eridian kids. Grace starts to rush over in concern, but then he hears something that completely stops him in his tracks.
Laughter.
Full-bellied laughter. Simon is lying there, laughing so hard he's got tears in the corners of his eyes, as the pebbles crawl all over him. Even though they're getting way up in his face, Simon is still being so, so gentle with them. He's letting them pet his hair and poke at his scars and the stump of his arm, their curious questions coming so quickly that there's no way that Simon is keeping up. But even still, he's smiling, and he's careful of their little bodies as he tries to sit up.
And seeing Simon sitting there, surrounded by his class, his kids, Grace just has a moment of growing awe...and dread.
Dread, because he knows those butterflies that just burst to life in his stomach. He knows these sweaty palms and dry mouth and shaky knees. His heart must have just done something weird because every Eridian within five feet of him just turned to him in alarm. Grace's face is feeling flushed, his head is spinning, and he kind of wants to throw up a little bit.
I feel like if Chujin was still alive during the events of Undertale Yellow, his and Clover's relationship would be incredibly rocky. Pacifist!Clover could bring him around to tolerating them (after all, they have that sort of effect on everyone), but it would be more in a "this human is the only 'good' human" manner than a "maybe I should reevaluate my opinions on humans overall because you can't judge an entire group based off (very biased) stories and one bad experience." Even then, that opinion would be subject to change should Clover ever get frustrated or behave "too aggressively" or act in any manner that isn't perfectly docile. If Clover ends up attacking a monster then it's "humans are just as horrible as they were in the war stories, I should've known better" regardless of the circumstances that could've pushed Clover to fight. Suffocating expectations and endless demands for patience when he wouldn't ask the same of a fellow monster.
And heaven forbid he ever meet Clover on a No Mercy Run...
would love to write some plot or smut as initially intended, instead of yet another chapter yapping incessantly on the dynamics of homosexual desire and the vastly varying, personal but tempered by cultural, outlooks on it expressed by different characters in the silly 15th century bohemian fanfic.
you’d once come across an article about the pavlov effect in a magazine, and the idea never quite left you. the notion that simple stimuli could rewire the brain fascinated you—so much so that you decided to conduct your own little experiment.
the test subject: your husband satoru.
the stimulus: a perfume of your choosing. you’d dabbed it along the expanse of your inner thighs before spreading them open for your husband, admiring the way his pretty lashes fluttered as his mouth descended. breathing you in between greedy laps of his tongue, as though the very air had turned narcotic. afterwards, as toru slumped against your stomach, blissed out and thoroughly pussydrunk, you combed your fingers through his snowy locks and asked softly if he liked it. his reply was little more than a muffled sound. hell, you weren’t even sure if he knew what you were talking about, but you took it as a yes.
as any diligent researcher would, you took your experiment very seriously.
luckily, your very active (one might even say robust) sex life with your husband provided ample opportunity for trial and observation. beforehand, you’d apply the perfume in varying locations: the nape of your neck, where he’d inhale as he rutted against you through his clothes; in the dip of your clavicle, where the scent would rise to where satoru liked to rest his chin between your breasts; on your ankles, for when he’d hook them over his shoulders and fuck you nice ‘n deep from that angle.
bit by bit, it completed the feedback loop of arousal until the scent itself became synonymous with pleasure and pleasure became synonymous with you. now, one whiff of your perfume is enough: his blood rushes south, his mind wiped clean of everything except one very persistent thought—to fuck his pretty wife on whatever surface happens to be nearby.
the problem arose during a dinner outing with your parents. you’d spritzed the perfume on. force of habit, really. at first, satoru was impeccable: charming and attentive, the model son-in-law. the cocky, immature edge you knew so well was carefully muted as he laughed at your father’s jokes and responded thoughtfully to your mother’s anecdotes. for the first hour, he sold it pretty convincingly. by dessert, however, he looked slightly off, poking at his tiramisu with uncharacteristic restraint—a fact, in itself, quite alarming. as you hugged your parents goodbye, satoru held your bag for you, ostensibly polite, conveniently shielding the telltale strain in his slacks.
parked alongside a darkened side street, the car rocks faintly in its idle and thank god for tinted windows.
hips stuttering with stubborn persistence, the muscles of his abdomen hardens with every slow but deep thrust. you stopped worrying about cum stains on the leather seats long ago… small price to pay for the euphoria you’re experiencing now. there’s something almost desperate in the way he’s holding you whilst fucking into you; his cock twitching with residual spasms, pushing back in each time just to avoid the inevitable parting.
you’ve lost count of how many (five, maybe six?) orgasms he’s wrung out of you, but judging by the vein pulsing at his temple as he exhales through gritted teeth, that even the strongest have their limits, though you doubt satoru would ever admit to having any. passing headlights flare through the windows, flooding the car’s interior with fractured gold and white, throwing his face into sharp relief: love, lust, focus and desperation all written in his bright blue gaze.
your skin buzzes where he presses against you, warmth pooling, as he spills inside of you once again.
maybe pavlov was onto something after all.
note: sorry for being an absent father lately.. midterm exams my beloathed </3
AITA for divorcing my vampire husband because he lied to me about his human job?
I (542 vampire) and my husband (260 vampire) have been together for a little over two centuries. There’s a saying in the vampiric community that it takes a century for a tryst to become an enduring partnership and another century to become soulmates. I thought that was true and that Matthew (using his real name because fuck you, Matthew) and I would be together forever…until this week.
First, let me explain a few things to the mortals here. I don’t mean that negatively – I came here specifically to get the opinion of those with a finite lifespan. However, I want to be fair to Matthew as much as possible and some of his decisions are very immortal-minded.
Both Matthew and I are vampires who have chosen to forsake some of our powers in exchange for the ability to daywalk. We made the transition together on our 100th anniversary almost 115 years ago. It wasn’t an easy transition for me. I was very dependent on human blood and I spent the first twenty years in almost constant sleep as my body adjusted to running off of less lunar magic and more solar magic.
It really felt like I was losing everything. My body got physically weaker and my powers began to disappear one by one. It felt like every time I woke, another part of me was missing. One day I could turn into a wolf, the next I could barely turn into a vapor. I could command a legion of undying servants, and then I could barely convince the mailman he didn’t see me levitate down from the second floor.
Matthew, however, took to daywalking like a werewolf to a sheep farm. He barely seemed to feel the pain of losing his power, maybe because he was so much younger than me. Whatever the case, he was out all the time once he stabilized. He would be gone for days sometimes and when he came back it was with fantastic stories about the humans’ new inventions or the new structures being built in whatever town we were in.
I’m not saying I regret transitioning. Just that Matthew and I had very different experiences. It felt like he barely changed at all while my entire being got rewritten. Being immortal makes you comfortable in your own skin. I never doubted myself or my power after I turned 100. But becoming a daywalker made me feel like I was being born as a human again. It was humiliating and vulnerable. I have to admit there were times I resented how easily Matthew did it. I blamed him for not supporting me like I thought he should. I would daydream about draining a human in front of him, showing him what I thought of his fascination with them. I had all sorts of vile and vengeful thoughts. I’m not proud of the person I was and now I’m grateful Matthew wasn’t there to see the lows I sunk to.
Despite all my awful thoughts, I didn’t quit. I don’t know why, but I didn’t. I stuck with it and, day by day, things got easier.
After 26 years I began to stabilize. The benefits of being a daywalker slowly blossomed before me. Now I can say that I am completely happy with my daywalker status and all the changes it’s brought.
I am the most mentally stable I have been since my Turning in 1482. It’s like I’m awake. The fits of rage that used to consume me for months at a time have completely disappeared. I don’t experience the same level of obsession I used to which has freed up a lot of my time that I used to spend stalking my victims.
However, that drastic of a change would be challenging in any relationship. Matthew and I ended up together because of my obsessive nature. Our relationship became strained when that part of me went dormant. He expected me to follow his immersion into the human world just as I had followed him in his revenge quest against his Master. He expected me to support him wholeheartedly and with everything I was. He wanted sacrifices from me that I used to not even flinch at before making. But something was just…different. We wanted different things. I wanted different things.
Matthew was obsessed with being the perfect human. He craved full immersion. He still makes it a point to get a human job every twenty years or so. Me? I’m happy to live off our investments and some mild mind control while enjoying the art and theater community the humans have evolved.
It got bad. Some years, we spent like ghosts in our own house, drifting by each other without a glance. Other years, it was like we were spies behind enemy lines. He would do whatever he could to thwart me and I would go out of my way to ridicule him. Our vitriol poisoned the earth. Matthew didn’t speak to me for a full decade when that poison killed off an entire town.
About twenty years ago, it all came to a head. We had a serious sit-down talk about our relationship. It wasn’t easy. What they say about teaching an old dog new tricks is sometimes true. Matthew wanted me to be as involved with the humans as he was. He wanted me to care about them like he did. I wanted him to travel with me like we used to and not just hop from town to neighboring town (which he did to maintain a human identity with references so he could keep working). When it became clear that we were at an impasse, I brought up the idea of separation.
Separating in the vampiric world isn’t easy. There are a lot of alliances and blood oaths to be considered. Over the two centuries we spent together, we became known as a unit to a number of supernatural entities that we maintain an uneasy truce with. Separating would mean creating new oaths and alliances with the same individuals. And there was no guarantee that those individuals would make new pacts with both of you. A LOT of vampire couples end up in blood feuds while separating. Neither of us wanted that.
There was also, of course, the emotional side of things. While a lot of immortals tend to only feel muted emotions (especially vampires as old as me), Daywalking had made both of us more sensitive than we’d been before. We were both attached to the memories we shared and neither of us could imagine life without the other. After 200 years together, it felt like Matthew was my right arm, and I his. When I brought up separation, we both felt it like we were discussing an amputation.
After about a year of talking, we finally reached an agreement. We didn’t want to separate, and so we would compromise. I wouldn’t interfere with any of Matthew’s human jobs for the 15-17 years if he could hold them without arousing suspicion. In exchange, he would take a year off to go traveling with me before finding another town for us to live in. In between my trips, he would go to plays and galas with me to enjoy human artistry at least once a month.
Maybe our deal was in his favor. At the time, it felt practical and fair. A year of traveling wouldn’t undo Matthew’s string of connections. We would still see each other frequently by going on dates that I liked. Matthew would get to stay immersed in the human world at the level he wanted, and I could stay within my comfort zone.
Which brings me to my current problem.
We are currently at the start of one of Matthew’s work cycles. He’s been everything from a fireman to a politician to a subway worker to a barista. He craves knowledge and connection to a terrifying degree. If it weren’t for how we move every 20 years and he goes without protest, I’d call it obsession.
This cycle, Matthew told me he was going to be a teacher. I was hesitant. While the humans have become more tolerant and less violent over the years, that doesn’t mean they will tolerate us near their young. Enough humans know about vampires that staking in the modern era is a real possibility. Matthew could incite an angry mob against us or, heaven forbid, get a vampire hunter on our tail. I have yet to be shot, but I hear that they have silver bullets that hurt like Hell.
When I voiced my protests, Matthew reminded me about our agreement. He said that I wouldn’t interfere with his jobs and he’d go to all the plays I liked. He even pointed out that, as a teacher, he could get us into high school plays and expositions. I was uneasy, but agreements are penultimate to immortals. I silenced my objections and let him get a job as a science teacher at a local high school.
When Michael has had jobs in the past, I’ve never really paid attention. One time he was a state senator for ten years and I never even heard him speak. I didn’t consider it worth my time to hear whatever his facsimile of a human would say. Real humanity is in the art they create, not in the parody Michael enacts.
But this one…I couldn’t ignore this one. Maybe it was because I was still uneasy about his proximity to human young or maybe I could sense his lies even at the beginning. Whatever the case, I watched him.
The first thing I noticed was the hours. He would go to work early and would often come home when it was time for us to sleep. When I asked him about it, he said that he wasn’t used to grading and that he had underestimated what it took to put a good lesson plan together. I visited some online forums and that’s apparently reasonable for first year teachers.
He would also sometimes go in on the weekends. He missed one of our dates because there was a “grading emergency” that needed his immediate attention. Something about a student’s test getting lost and then found and he needed to input their grade before the deadline which was on Saturday. Humans like silly rules like that so I didn’t even look that one up. I just reminded him that he couldn’t miss our dates again or else he was breaking our deal. He apologized and said it wouldn’t happen again.
Then about three months into his new job, the phone calls started. We have a private room in our house for when we need to talk without any visitors overhearing. Michael moved all his school supplies in there, saying that he needed a silent space to concentrate on his grading. Whenever he got a call, he would never answer it in front of me. Instead, he’d say “Sorry, work” and just go into his office.
I also noticed that he didn’t dress very professionally. Human fashion changes quickly so it didn’t register at first. A sweatshirt here and there slipped past me, and also the Gucci slides. When he started wearing baggy jeans and jerseys to work, I noticed. I may not be up to date on all the newest fashions, but I do go to classy events. I know what a slob looks like and it didn’t sit right with me that he was wearing that to school. When I asked him about it, he always had an excuse. “This is what everyone wears” and “It’s a theme day” or, bafflingly, “It’s spirit week!”
I tried to leave it alone. The reason we have stayed together for so long is because of our agreement to not interfere in each other’s lives. But between his hours, the phone calls, and his appearance, something didn’t add up.
Then, last Thursday, he missed another one of our dates. We were supposed to go to the Nutcracker together. Even though I prefer matinees (when the cast is fresh), I agreed to get us tickets for the evening show so that he wouldn’t have to leave work early. When he wasn’t there at 7pm, I called him and he didn’t answer. Then, when I called him again, his phone was switched off.
I was furious. I spend nearly two decades in these tiny towns so he can live his human fantasy and he can’t even show up for one two hour show? It was the first time since becoming a daywalker that I felt that angry. I was scared about what I might do, so I made myself go home to wait for him.
Only, he never came home that night. At 3am, he sent me a text apologizing and promising to make up our date on Saturday. But the Nutcracker was only playing until Friday and that would be too little, too late. To be honest, it already was. I texted him that and he never responded.
He never ended up coming home last weekend. I texted and called him probably a dozen times and he never responded. I got angrier and angrier as the days dragged by. Did he think I was someone to be taken lightly? Did he not realize that the fragile agreement between us was all that was keeping us from separation?
Yesterday (Monday), I couldn’t take it anymore. If he wasn’t going to come home or respond to my messages, then I would go to him. If he was so obsessed with this new job that he would ignore me for it, then I knew exactly where to find him.
I arrived at his school at 10am. I researched enough to know how to go to the office and sign myself in. I asked the office assistant which room Mr. Duetto was in.
The lovely young woman looked confused. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give that information out to anyone but family,” she said.
“I am his only family,” I said.
She clicked a few more keys and looked more confused. “His paperwork only shows his mother, Delilah Duetto.”
That’s right. His mother. But I still didn’t understand then.
“That’s me,” I said.
“You are not the mother of 17-year-old.”
“I’m his wife,” I said.
She was upset by that. I won’t bore you with every detail, but I had to alter her memories so she wouldn’t call the police. I may not look like someone who has a teenager, but I also don’t look like a teenager. I ended up having to alter her memories so she wouldn’t call human CPS on an apparent adult swearing she was married to a minor.
I went home and broke into his office. There weren’t any lesson plans. There were no graded papers. There were syllabus from different classes, homework with his name on it, and a few polaroids taped to the bottom of his desk of him at a party with children.
Human children. I don’t honestly know which is worse.
(EDIT: I know the child part is the worst part. I misspoke because of my anger. It’s not the humans’ fault that my husband is a pervert.)
I broke into his laptop and used that to check his text messages. He’s been texting like a high schooler. He’s been to parties with them, listened to their problems and even fabricated a few of his own. He’s caught in some sort of weird love triangle where a freshman girl likes him but his “best friend” likes her. He has texted both of them about it, promising his “bro” that nothing is happening and then turning around and leading this girl-child on.
Some choice quotes: I should know better than to get close with you. You and I come from very different worlds
To which she replied, lol maybe we should let our worlds collide
!!!!
I find the entire situation disgusting. Matthew is several centuries older than them and he definitely knows better. He’s literally wearing the sheep’s fleece amongst the flock. He has no business forming relationships with human children and even less pretending to be one of them. He’s not a baby. He is over two centuries old!
What is he doing flirting with a child? It’s vile and disgusting and I was set to kill him for it.
I confronted him about it when he came home last night. I told him that he was sick and dangerous and if he loved humans then he needed to stop immediately. I told him we either left town today or I would make sure he never set foot back in that school in a way he really wouldn’t like.
He threw a huge tantrum over my invading his privacy. He shouted at me that I had broken my promise to never interfere in his job. He called me controlling and crazy.
I told him he was the crazy one for chatting up a child. He told me he wasn’t, she was just his friend. I asked him to read their texts out loud if he was being so friendly. I also pointed out that there was no way a 260-year-old vampire is a child’s friend.
He told me I was a hypocrite because I basically cradle robbed him (we’re almost 300 years apart.) He said if anyone was disgusting, it was me for taking advantage of him.
I pointed out that he wasn’t a child, he was over 60 and had already been a vampire for four decades. He argued that that was basically being a child in vampire terms.
I was so angry at that point that the house was shaking. I told him if he felt that way, then we could get divorced right then and there. That that was what I wanted to do anyway because I couldn’t be married to a pedophile.
He asked me if I was seriously going to start a blood feud over him immersing himself in human society. I said no, I’m starting a blood feud because he’s become every predatory stereotype humans have of vampires.
He called me a hypocrite again and told me he was leaving. He said not to call him unless I was ready to apologize. I told him that the next time he sees me, he’d better run before I showed him the real difference between us. And it wasn’t just 300 years.
When I calmed down, doubt started creeping in. From an immortal perspective, what he’s doing isn’t really wrong. I hate to say it, but most immortals don’t view human lives as significant. I know a few vampires who would say that divorcing because he’s playing with his food is idiotic.
Plus, there’s the agreement to consider. During our fight, Matthew pointed out that being a student is a job to humans. So therefore I didn’t have the right to interfere. A big part of me thinks that’s bullshit, but a small part of me wonders if he’s maybe right about that?
I also have to ask myself why this even bothers me. I’m the one in the relationship that is aloof from humans. I’m the one that’s always saying we are from different worlds (Yeah, he stole that from me) and for good reason.
But over the years, I’ve become fond of humans. No immortal makes art like them. I may not remember my time as a mortal, but there are works that give me a sense of nostalgia. Sometimes I think I can remember being a child myself, standing in a field like in Monet painting, staring at the wheatstacks and waiting for the miller to come.
The thought of Matthew playing with them makes me sick. It’s like even after all the years of him living amongst them, he thinks of them as props in his twisted play. It’s even worse that he’s doing this to children.
I can’t help but think something went really wrong with my husband when I wasn’t looking. At the very least, I’m planning on divorcing him. But would I be the asshole if I killed him too?
Separating from him will be violent and messy. There will likely be human casualties. But I don’t see any other way. So, I ask.
AITA for divorcing my husband for lying to me about his human job?
----
Thanks for reading! I loved answering some of the responses I got when I first posted this over on my Patreon (X)!
These collaborative story telling pieces are the highlight of my week. Next week's story is about a witch who wants to know if she should attend her high school reunion even though she's responsible for stripping two former classmates of their magic...
Please check that out here (X) if you''d like early access! Otherwise I'll see y'all next week :)
off the record ⌢ ⟡﹒ interviewer!daniela x f1driver!reader
✦ syn. daniela got a chance to interview y/n Vettel, the daughter of a 4-time world champion, now following in her father’s footsteps.
✦ cw. suggestive, reader is sebastian vettel’s daughter and a carbon copy of Sebastian Vettel, use of y/n, based on that one seb interview that I vaguely remember. not proofread
✦ wc. 3.5k
requests open!! :))
Ever since Daniela heard about Formula One through TikTok, she had been completely sucked into the sport. While scrolling late one night, she came across a clip of Sebastian Vettel— the retired four-time World Drivers’ Champion— talking proudly about his daughter, Y/N, who was busy taking over the world of Formula 1.
Having such a famous name was never easy. When Y/N joined the grid as a teenager, the media pressure was intense. People often said she was only there because of her last name. Y/N tried to act unbothered, but sometimes, when the criticism got harsh or she saw her reflection before a race, doubt crept in. She wondered if people would ever recognize her own talent. Her father had faced the same tough media, hostile crowds, and critics who doubted his titles. He taught her how to block out the noise, even when it was hard.
In fact, when the official announcement dropped that Y/N had signed a massive multi-year contract extension as Ferrari’s driver, Sebastian had sent her a simple text.
Dad
Remember what we practiced. Eyes forward.
Fascinated by the story, Daniela pitched an exclusive, season-long profile on Sebastian Vettel’s daughter. Daniela was intrigued not only by Y/N’s legacy and the associated drama, but also by the striking parallels between her subject’s experience and her own. Y/N embodied both ambition and effortless confidence yet remained undaunted by immense expectations— a quality Daniela deeply admired.
Y/n’s defiance against the pressures of her famous surname became, for Daniela, a mirror reflecting her own struggle to assert her individuality and credibility as a journalist in a media landscape that often dismissed her voice.
Daniela had pitched her idea to he magazine editors loved the idea and approved it immediately.
A few weeks later, Daniela was walking through the productive paddock of her very first race weekend. She was completely awestruck by the hospitality homes, the roaring sounds of impact wrenches, and the massive scale of the event. Because she was looking around instead of watching her step, she walked straight into a solid shoulder.
oof
“Sorry, miss, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Daniela said. She looked up to see who she had collided with, only to find herself staring into a pair of striking hazel eyes filled with genuine concern.
“Whoa,” a voice cut through the brief silence. Daniela realized she had been staring just a second too long.
“Y/N?” Daniela blurted out. She immediately felt stupid.
Of course it was Y/N.
They were standing right outside the Scuderia Ferrari hospitality building.
Y/N straightened up at the mention of her name, a sudden, familiar smirk playing on her lips. “You know my name? Didn’t take you for a Formula One fan.”
Y/N extended a hand, tilting her head confidently. “Y/N Vettel. And you are?”
Daniela quickly smoothed down her shirt, trying to regain her professional composure. She hadn’t expected to meet the driver this early, let alone crash into her. “Daniela Avanzini. I’m a writer for Blabla Magazine.”
“Ah. So… not a fan, then.” Y/N’s smirk faltered slightly. She slowly brought her hand down, scratching the back of her neck and internally cursing herself for assuming Daniela knew her from a race broadcast.
“A bit of a fan, actually, I just—”
“Y/N! Garage, now!” her manager’s voice boomed from down the path, cutting Daniela off.
Y/N sighed playfully and glanced back at Daniela, trying to mask her mild disappointment at having to leave so abruptly. "Sorry, duty calls. It was really nice meeting you, though… Daniela."
Leaving Daniela standing there completely stunned, Y/N jogged away to catch up with her team.
“A magazine writer is here; did you know that?” Y/N asked her manager as they walked.
“Ah, yes. Apparently, management cleared an all-access pass for them to interview you throughout the season.”
“Is that so?” Y/N glanced over her shoulder, but Daniela had already disappeared into the crowd.
Interesting.
From then on, the paddock felt a lot smaller. Over the next twenty-four hours, Daniela kept catching Y/N stealing glances at her from across the pit lane, a silent, playful game developing between them.
Right before Qualifying on Friday, a sharp knock echoed through Y/N’s private driver room. She opened it to find her manager standing there with a serious look on his face, gesturing for her to follow.
Stepping out into the corridor, clad in her full, vibrant red Ferrari race suit, Y/N spotted a familiar face sitting on the bench near her helmet shelf.
“Y/N, this is Miss Daniela,” her manager introduced, gesturing toward her. “She writes for the magazine and will be shadowing your media blocks for the rest of the season.”
Y/N offered a polite smile and walked over to greet her properly. “Nice to meet you, Daniela. Again.”
“Nice to meet you again as well, Y/N,” Daniela replied, her tone professional but light.
They shook hands, and Y/N immediately settled into a classic driver stance—hands resting firmly on her hips. It was a total NPC posture that the drivers always did, but after a few years in the sport, Y/N had unconsciously adopted it too.
“I’ll be conducting a few one-on-one interviews and recording them for our digital features, if that’s alright with you?” Daniela asked, holding up a sleek digital voice recorder.
“So… just me?” Y/N teased.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re just interviewing me? Singular?”
Daniela rolled her eyes subtly, a small grin tugging at her lips. “Yes, Y/N. The public is highly interested in your trajectory. You debuted with Ferrari at just eighteen, you’ve already broken records as one of the youngest world champions in history, and the list goes on.”
Y/N leaned back slightly, her smirk returning full force. “If I didn’t know you were a journalist, Miss Daniela, I would’ve mistaken you for a fan.”
Her manager’s eyes widened. He quickly nudged Y/N’s elbow as a silent warning to stay professional. Y/N’s smirk dropped for a fraction of a second as she glanced at her, clearly amused.
“And if I didn’t know you were a Formula One driver,” Daniela countered smoothly, keeping her voice completely calm, “I would’ve mistaken you for an asshole.” Daniela let out a quick laugh, her eyes sparkling to show she was teasing.
There was no real bite to the insult, and Y/N couldn’t help but let out a genuine chuckle. “Ah… good one.”
Her manager looked between the two of them, completely bewildered by the sudden banter. Realizing he was entirely third-wheeling his own driver’s media meeting, he gave a quick nod and pulled an Irish goodbye, slipping out of the room without another word.
“Just like her father,” the manager mutters under his breath while shaking his head.
The atmosphere on Sunday afternoon was electric, charged by the thunderous roar of engines and the persistent hum of anticipation that saturated the pre-race grid walk.
The air was dense with layered sounds: the screech of impact wrenches, hurried shouts from mechanics, bursts of laughter and conversation from celebrities, and the pointed questions of media personnel weaving between the chaos. Vibrant team colors and the flash of camera bulbs filled Daniela’s peripheral vision.
She navigated the narrow pathways as if she had committed every turn and marking to memory the night before; she probably had, her camera crew closely trailing as they sought the unmistakable flash of red that marked Ferrari’s presence, the car standing out vividly in the shifting sea of people and machinery.
She spotted Y/N standing by the nose of her car, casually sipping from her driver’s bottle while her engineers conducted final vehicle status checks. Y/n noticed Daniela approaching through the crowd, and that unmistakable, cheeky Vettel grin spread across her face.
Daniela stepped up, raising her microphone as she fought to be heard over the hum of the tire warmers. “Live from the grid with Ferrari’s star driver, Y/N. You’re starting P2 today right behind your championship rival. What’s your strategy going into Turn 1?”
Y/N dropped her drink tube. Instead of looking through the camera lens, she shifted her gaze entirely to Daniela, ignoring the millions of viewers watching at home.
“Well, Daniela, the strategy was to get a clean start,” Y/N said smoothly into the microphone. “But honestly? I’ve been completely distracted for the last five minutes.”
Daniela blinked, trying to maintain her professional composure despite the sudden warmth in her cheeks. “Distracted? By the track conditions? The car’s adjustments?”
Y/N stepped slightly closer to the microphone, tilting her head toward Daniela. “No, by a very stunning journalist walking down the grid in a red media lanyard. It’s a massive hazard for my concentration, really. I might have to lodge a complaint with the FIA.”
A small, surprised chuckle escaped Daniela’s lips before she quickly caught herself, bringing the mic back to her mouth. “I’m sure the stewards will tell you to keep your eyes on the track, Vettel. But seriously— your father won on this track three times. Are we going to see the famous Vettel index finger pose on the top step of the podium today?”
Y/N raised her right hand, playfully holding up her index finger right in front of the camera, perfectly mimicking her dad’s iconic post-race celebration.
“If I win,” Y/n murmured, her hazel eyes locking onto Daniela’s, “you have to agree to an exclusive post-race interview. No manager, no PR team, no cameras. Just you, me, and a quiet dinner. Deal?”
Daniela managed a knowing, amused smile and gracefully turned the microphone back to herself to wrap up the segment. “A bold strategy, Vettel. Let’s see if you can execute it on the track.”
As Daniela stepped back to let the mechanics wheel away the tire blankets, Y/N gave her a quick, confident wink before pulling her fireproof balaclava over her face.
“Wish me luck, Miss Daniela!” she called out as she pulled down the balaclava.
Daniela shook her head, a smile lingering on her lips. The unbothered, relentless charm of a Vettel— she really shouldn’t have expected anything less.
The grid cleared, the engines roared to life, and twenty minutes later, Daniela was huddled in the media center, her eyes glued to the monitors. Y/n hadn’t just executed her strategy— she had dominated the grid.
Although she faced some complications at Turn 1, making Daniela hold her breath for the entire lap, she quickly made up for it.
The monitors flashed a radio message from Y/n,
Ferrari
“Made you panic, did I?”
Vettel
Daniela could hear the smirk in Y/n’s tone; she wasn’t sure if it was directed at her or her race engineer, but either way, she nodded in response.
Though she hadn’t officially agreed to Y/n’s deal, she found herself rooting for the Ferrari driver to win. Deep down, she knew not to worry about that.
By lap forty, the red Ferrari was leading by a staggering seven seconds. Y/n was driving smoothly. When the checkered flag finally waved, the broadcast immediately cut to Y/n climbing out of her car in parc fermé, holding up a single index finger. Her cheeky smile and wink directed right at the main camera tracking her.
She knew exactly who was watching.
Daniela smiled at that.
While making her way through the media pen for a quick debriefing, one of the reporters asked Y/N, “Y/N! You're looking extra happy today; is it because of the win?”
Y/N paused from sipping her drink, smirking as she turned to the reporter. “Yeah, let’s say that.”
“Ah,” the interviewer responded, puzzled by Y/N’s answer, but continued the interview anyway.
Back in the quiet of the media lounge, while the other journalists were frantically typing out their race recaps, Daniela’s phone buzzed on the desk. It was an unknown number, but the text message left no doubt about who it belonged to.
Unknown
P1
There’s a quiet Italian place twenty minutes outside the circuit. Pick you up at 8?
Daniela looked down at the screen, a slow smile spreading across her face as she typed back,
Daniela
Didn’t know I agreed on the deal?
Y/n
no?
the look on ur face says otherwise, miss daniela
Daniela’s brows scrunched up at that, and she immediately looked up from her phone, only to see Y/n already looking at her, with a stupid smile on her face.
Daniela shook her head with a smile and immediately texted Yn.
Daniela
What should I wear?
Twenty minutes past eight, Daniela stood just outside the paddock gates, the cool evening air a sharp contrast to the blistering heat of the afternoon track. A low hum broke the silence as a dark car pulled up to the curb, the passenger window rolling down to reveal hazel eyes and a familiar, crooked smirk.
"Get in, Miss Daniela," Y/N said, unlocking the door.
Daniela didn’t need to be told twice. She slipped into the passenger seat, the heavy thud of the car door instantly shutting out the ambient noise of the lingering circuit crowds. The interior smelled faintly of expensive leather and the crisp, clean scent of Y/N’s cologne.
Y/N didn't waste a second. She slotted the car into gear and pulled away from the curb with a smooth, effortless acceleration that reminded Daniela exactly what this woman did for a living.
"No Ferrari race kit?" Daniela teased, glancing over. Y/N had swapped the vibrant Ferrari red for a relaxed, simple white shirt and slacks, her hair still slightly damp from a post-race shower.
"As much as I love Ferrari, it doesn’t really scream 'private post race interview' attire," Y/N replied, keeping her eyes on the winding Italian road. The dashboard lights cast a soft, sharp glow over her profile, highlighting the lingering traces of adrenaline still buzzing in her veins. "Besides, I promised a quiet dinner. If I showed up in full Scuderia gear, we'd have a line of Tifosi blocking the restaurant entrance in five minutes."
"So, you can be sensible when you want to be," Daniela noted, shifting in her seat to face her. "I thought a Vettel's default setting was to incite chaos?"
Y/N let out a low chuckle, a rich sound that filled the quiet car. "Hey, that’s strategic genius you're talking about. My dad always said, "If you can't convince them, confuse them." Works like a charm in press conferences."
"And on journalists on the grid?"
Y/N briefly took her eyes off the road, flashing a quick, lethal wink. With playful emphasis, she added, "Especially on journalists with red lanyards."
The car navigated a sharp bend with effortless precision, the headlights cutting through the darkening countryside as they moved farther from the track and closer to the hidden place.
Daniela leaned her head back against the headrest, a slow smile pulling at her lips. For someone who had only known the sport through a phone screen a month ago, she was starting to realize that the view from the inside was infinitely better.
The car slowed to a halt in a gravel lot surrounded by overgrown olive trees, completely hidden from the main road. The place was tiny—just a warm glow spilling from a single window and the rich scent of garlic, rosemary, and slow-simmered tomatoes drifting through the cool night air.
Y/N killed the engine, but neither of them moved to get out immediately. The sudden silence inside the cabin made the space between them feel instantly smaller.
"The owner is an old friend of my dad's," Y/N explained, turning in her seat to look at Daniela, her arm resting casually over the steering wheel. "No cameras, no press, no autograph seekers. Just real food."
"Sounds like heaven for someone who lives their life at three hundred kilometers an hour," Daniela said softly, turning to face her.
"It is," Y/N admitted. The cocky, media-trained smirk was entirely gone, replaced by something much more genuine. "Usually, after a win, my schedule is planned down to the minute. PR debriefs, sponsor dinners, media pens... It’s exhausting." She paused, the weight of it all flickering across her face.
"Honestly, sometimes I come home so late that I collapse on the couch, helmet still in hand, and realize I haven’t spoken to anyone outside of racing in days. There are moments when the silence feels deeper than winning ever did."
She hesitated, searching for words. "After Abu Dhabi last year, I sat alone in my hotel room, surrounded by trophies, and just stared at the walls, trying to remember the last time I’d shared a meal without the presence of cameras or PR people. In that room, I felt the weight of isolation more intensely than any pressure from a race. It’s not just physical fatigue—it’s that sense of disconnection that creeps in after the adrenaline fades."
A small, tired laugh escaped her. "It can get lonely, despite all the noise around me. But tonight, I just wanted a normal conversation. With someone who doesn’t want to talk about my plans for winning the championship— just to be seen for a moment as myself, and not as a driver."
Daniela smiled, the professional barrier she had been trying to maintain all weekend slipping away completely. "I think I can manage that. Though I might still have a few questions about your driving."
"Is that so?" Y/N leaned in just a fraction closer, a playful glint returning to her hazel eyes. "What do you want to know, Miss Daniela?"
"Just wondering if you're always this relentless when you want something," Daniela countered smoothly.
Y/N’s gaze dropped to Daniela's lips for a lingering second before rising back to meet her eyes. The atmosphere in the car shifted instantly, the casual warmth evaporating into a heavy, thick tension.
"Always," Y/N murmured, her voice dropping an octave, losing all its public facade. She reached out, her fingers trailing slowly over the console until her knuckles brushed against Daniela’s knee.
As they got closer to each other, someone knocked at the car's window, interrupting them,
“Y/n, is that you?”
“W-we should go, I'm sorry.”
Daniela straightened up and snapped out of it and chuckled at Y/n's embarrassed look.
“Yes, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” Y/n says to the stranger.
Y/n steps out and opens Daniela's door for her.
As they made their way toward the small restaurant, the stranger accompanied them, her animated voice carrying a stream of rapid Italian that Daniela could not decipher. Despite the language barrier, the tone and cadence suggested a firm, but affectionate reprimand directed at Y/n, the lively exchange adding a distinctly authentic energy to their approach and situating Daniela within the vibrant, familial atmosphere that characterized the restaurant’s arrival.
As they sit at the small restaurant, Y/n apologizes again.
“Daniela, I'm so sorry about that.”
“It's fine, Y/n.” Daniela doesn't ask who that is right away, not wanting to intrude.
“That's Giulia, my dad's friend,” Y/N explained, the fondness returning to her tone as she spoke about her almost like family. “She recognized the car and came over to check on us.” From the way Giulia had fussed over them and gave Y/N a half-serious lecture, it was clear she had looked out for her since she was a kid.
The restaurant was empty save for the two of them, tucked away in a quiet corner booth that smelled of old wood and fresh basil. Giulia set down a bottle of house red and two plates of steaming, homemade pasta before disappearing back into the kitchen with a knowing wink, leaving them in absolute privacy.
For the next hour, the conversation flowed with a dangerous kind of ease. Away from the flashing cameras, Y/N was captivating. She shared ridiculous stories of her dad trying to teach her how to drive a manual road car as a kid, and in turn, listened intently as Daniela talked about the world of magazine publishing.
But as the plates were cleared and the wine bottle emptied, the easy banter began to stretch into heavy, lingering silences.
Daniela traced the rim of her wine glass, her eyes dropping to the way Y/N’s strong, veiny hands— hands that controlled an absolute rocket of a car at unbelievable speeds— were casually resting on the dark wood of the table. When she looked up, she found Y/n already watching her, her hazel eyes dark and intensely focused under the dim, warm amber lighting.
"You're not asking any more questions, Miss Daniela," Y/n murmured, her voice dropping to a low, quiet register that seemed to vibrate straight through the space between them.
"I'm off the clock," Daniela replied softly, her heart hammering against her ribs at the sudden shift in the air.
"Good." Y/N slid her hand across the table, her long fingers slowly wrapping around Daniela's wrist, her thumb pressing right over the racing pulse point there.
"Because I've spent the last hour trying to focus on dinner, when all I really wanted was to have you to myself. No more waiting?"
Daniela's heart hammered against her ribs, but there was no hesitation as she leaned forward, closing the remaining distance between them. "No more waiting."
