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.
synopsis: satoru gojo was a legend on the grid, a brilliant racer. but satoru had a problem. he had a big mouth.
cw: racerjo, fluff, crack fic, no named teams, second pov, real f1 track mentioned like twice, THIS IS SO NOT ACCURATE (i'm trying to write this in the best way possible for the plot so it's not really 100% like f1), not proof read — wc 1.8k
a/n: race season is right around the corner and i am SO excited !! this one shot is also lowk a test run to see whether or not i actually want to write on here again
When people think of Satoru Gojo, they think of this fast driver who's a monster on the track.
But when the PR team thinks of Satoru Gojo, they think about ripping their hair out and duct taping his mouth shut.
It was undeniable that Satoru was a good driver. In fact, good was an understatement. He had 7 World Driver's Championships to his name and was aiming for a record breaking 8th.
Unfortunately, his team, while blessed with a champion and an amazing, well rounded driver, had been cursed with one who could not keep his mouth shut even if his life depended on it.
Satoru had been pushed out of interviews for slip ups. He'd been forced into long meetings with the PR team about what he could and could not say during press conferences. He never listened. He believed he was his own person and it's not like they could fire him, he's the best they had— is what he told his friends.
For someone who loved bragging about his wins, Satoru didn't favor post race interviews that much. He was tired, dripping in sweat and champagne, and wanted nothing more than to rip his race suit off and take a cold shower. But unfortunately, after a race, especially a podium, he had no choice but to suck it up.
Though one reporter was his favorite to talk to. He was lucky enough to call her his.
The race was exhilarating, more than usual. Satoru was neck to neck with Suguru, his race rival and long time best friend. Suguru was less than a tenth of a second behind Satoru who took the lead in P1. The checkered flag waved and Satoru finished first in his home country race, the Suzuka Circuit.
"We are here with Satoru Gojo who had just finished first on the podium for the Japanese Grand Prix," you started, microphone in hand, standing beside him as the camera focused onto him. "Satoru, congratulations on your win."
"Thank you," his lips curled into a smug smile, the apples of his cheeks flushed pink.
"Upon this race, you are now 60 points ahead of driver Suguru Geto for the World Driver's Championship. How will you hold out for the last 3 races of the season?"
Satoru grinned once more as he adjusted his team's hat that sat atop his white locks, still coated in sticky champagne. "I think as long as I keep P1 or even P2, though it's definitely a risk, I'll be fine. I also have no worries about whether I come in pole or not during qualifying."
"That's a very bold thing to say," you stifled a laugh, "Pole would help you immensely regarding race day."
Satoru shrugged his shoulders, "Yes, but I'm confident in the car and confident in myself. I will break the record for most WDCs."
—
The after party was small and quiet. It was at a small club near the hotel Satoru's team was staying in. Technically he lived in Monaco, like many of the other drivers on the grid, so Japan wasn't exactly his "home race" anymore. But a win was a win and if he wanted to celebrate for representing his birth country, he would.
Suguru sneaked in. He wasn't supposed to hang out with rival teams, but neither him or Satoru cared that much. It's not like they were spilling team secrets. Shoko was also there, she drove the medical car. And of course, Satoru's girlfriend, you, were also there.
There was no rule that flat out said reporters couldn't date drivers. But if anyone (besides the small group of people who already knew) found out, it would be very bad for both yours and Satoru's careers.
"If you keep PDAing like that, someone's bound to catch you." Suguru warned. Satoru's arm was wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you close into his side. "I swear, the FIA will fire you one day."
Satoru laughed heartily. He wasn't worried. The booth you four sat at was tucked in the corner of the VIP lounge. No reporters or nosy bystanders could possibly see. "Nah, they can't fire me. I'm the best."
"With that cocky attitude, they should," Shoko retorted as she took a long drag of her cigarette.
You laughed, reaching to the table to grab your cocktail. "It's not just your job on the line, it's mine too.”
You loved your job, interviewing drivers, writing reports. It was fun to see the behind the scenes firsthand, even if sometimes the questions you had to ask were wild and outright boundary pushing. On the plus side, you were able to hang around Satoru without any suspicion of your true relationship.
"Don't worry," Satoru smacked a cheesy, wet kiss onto your cheek, "If you get fired, I'll get fired too. Hashtag in this together."
"You're so corny, Satoru." Shoko scrunched up her nose, eyes rolling along with Suguru's.
—
"Satoru! I don't care if you date or hookup, but what the hell are you thinking!? Fooling around with a reporter!?" Yaga, Satoru's team principal yelled. Satoru sat in his office, hands in lap, back straight, smile peaking through the corners of his lips.
"That's not me, that's AI."
"Don't even start." Yaga swore that if he rolled his eyes any harder, they would pop out of its sockets. Leave to Satoru to retort something stupid right in the middle of a lecture.
Yaga's phone had a picture on screen. A picture of Satoru and you in the club from the week prior after Suzuka.
There were two questions running through Satoru's mind.
Why was the picture released almost two weeks after it was taken?
Who the fuck??
"C'mon Yaga, can't that be considered a friendly picture?"
Satoru was wrong when he thought no one would ever find out about him and you. You two kept it a secret for years! How could he only screw up now? Though opposite to his claim of a "friendly picture," it was indeed anything but that.
You were pinned up against the wall, one of his hands resting firmly on your waist while the other held your chin steady. His lips were molded against yours as your fingers tangled into his hair. He could still taste the alcohol on your tongue and they sweetness of your lipgloss glossing over his lips.
He was so going to kiss you the moment he sees you again.
"If you get asked any questions on this, do not respond. You're lucky you haven't been fined yet." Yaga pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a heavy sigh. "Go to your press conference, you're going to be late."
So now Satoru sat on the white leather couch, dressed from head to toe in team gear, with a chunky microphone resting on his lap. To his left was Suguru and his right, Nanami.
Suguru leaned over to whisper into Satoru's ear, his hand covering his mouth from any cameras or prying eyes. "I saw the picture, you're so fucked."
"Oh please, heaven forbid a man from openly loving his girlfriend." Satoru whined, pushing Suguru away from him.
Media days were always fun, besides the part where he'd have to answer the same boring questions during a conference. "Question for Geto."
Satoru sat there bored out of his mind as he listened to the other drivers answer questions and answered some of his own. It was always the same. Talk about the WDC, his car, his team, his future. Boring.
"Question for Gojo," Satoru's head perked up, "You have recently been spotted with a reporter and fans are wondering who they are and whether or not it will affect your career."
Intrusive much?
There was a long pause. Satoru knew he couldn't say what he wanted to say.
But come on, it was him. He was going to say it anyway.
His eyes immediately darted to you who stood next to the other reporters. Though unlike the rest of them, it seemed as if the life had drained for your body and you were a walking corpse.
You tried to subtly shake your head 'no.' A small gesture that would only be seen by Satoru and not alert anyone else.
"Well, my lovely girlfriend is not going to do harm to my career," Satoru babbled, his bright blue eyes shielded by dark sunglasses, "Don't really know what the problem is with me dating a reporter though."
Okay, at least he didn't outright say your name. But anyone with the brain capacity to put two and two together can easily tell that the woman in the picture was you just based on your appearance. So really, what's the point of that question in the first place?
He held eye contact with you. Your face went through a multitude of expressions that he couldn't read. He was in for it.
Of course, Satoru came back to the hotel to an irritated you. Which wasn't ideal considering his PR team had just chewed him out. Thankfully there were no major consequences and you both wouldn't lose your jobs. But now the tag of his name on every platform was blowing up.
"Baby, I'm sorry," he said, dragging out his words. You were sitting on the couch, scrolling through social media and reading what the fans had to say about your now public relationship. "It just slipped out!"
You rolled your eyes. Finally turning off your ohone and setting it onto the coffee table, you turned to look at him. "Slipped out my ass. You texted me saying how Yaga lectured you about it before the conference."
Satoru scooted towards you like a sad puppy, blue eyes sparkling with plea. "It takes two to make that picture so am I really the only one to blame?"
"You announced it to the world."
"We both still have our jobs."
"I can't interview you anymore," you sighed. "That's going to set my career back. Especially if you do end up breaking the world record."
"I'll force the FIA to let you interview me."
You almost laughed as your lips threatened to curl into a smile. It was cute, watching Satoru practically beg for forgiveness. "What's done is done."
He was now right in front of you. You studied the way his brows knitted together, lips pursed, hands brushing yours on your lap. "I'm sorry."
Sighing once more, you nodded. "Just for the record, I am not going to be addressed as your 'wag.' I'm my own person with a successful career."
Satoru's eyes lit up with a smile. His bold, intimidating persona fans see on the track was instead replaced with a vulnerable state of being.
He pressed a soft kiss onto your lips, feeling your warmth seep onto him. His calloused hand caressed the slope of your jaw gently, scared you'd slip away. You melted into his touch, tension disappearing into pure bliss.
Maybe this once his habit of speaking his mind was not so much of a bad thing.
I know no one expect my moot follows me but I am not gonna finish or post the racerjo x reader fic. Im doing another fic that still has the f1 jjk au and trust it will be peak.
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.”
wc: ~8.2k | cw: angst, formula 1 au! f1 gojo/racer gojo x f1/racer reader! explicit language, suggestive themes, obsessed/toxic gojo, jealousy, rivals to lovers, slow burn.
summary: racing at monaco starts and its full of drama you can’t escape. following fp1, gojo admits some things maybe he shouldn’t. and after qualifying, tensions escalate.
author’s note: sooo this series started out as a oneshot but i think i’ve decided to turn it into a full on book considering i have so many ideas for it! if this is something you’re interested in please lmk! i’ll also have it posted on ao3. thank you so much for the support <3
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
FERRARI’S HOSPITALITY DOORS slide open, cool air washing over you along with the murmur of engineers, the soft clatter of espresso cups, and the tense weight of expectation you’ve been carrying since Austria.
You barely make it three steps inside before Luca finds you.
Your race engineer looks like he’s already aged ten years today. Tablet under his arm, headset dangling from one hand, expression a mix of exhaustion, pride, and the constant panic that comes with managing you in the same universe as Gojo.
“Buongiorno, (Y/N),” He greets quietly, “You okay?”
You blink and almost laugh, “Define okay.”
He gives you a look that says he’s heard every syllable of Gojo’s stunt outside.
Then he gestures you toward the corner table where he always debriefs with you before a session, away from listening ears, cameras, and Gojo’s gravitational pull.
He lowers his voice, “Listen to me. You have speed this weekend. I can see it already. The car is balanced. The setup is sharp. You slept. You’re focused.”
You swallow, throat tight, and you shift your weight slightly, an involuntary flicker of discomfort you pray he doesn’t catch.
Because you didn’t just sleep last night.
You also got eaten out until you were a shaking, fucked up mess by the man you detest most.
Luca keeps going, unaware, “But FP1 is not about him. Or Marco. Or the media. Or whatever personal hurricane is happening between you and your ‘teammate’.”
Your heart slows and your jaw tightens, you anchor yourself in his voice.
“Today is about one thing,” Luca says, tapping the tablet, “Data. Rhythm. Repetition. Feeling the car. You give me consistent laps, we build from there.”
You nod, “And (Y/N)…” He waits until you meet his eyes, “Whatever he said out there? Prove him and Ferrari wrong in the only language they understand.”
You exhale through your nose, controlled, “And what’s that?”
Luca flashes a sure smile, “Purple sectors.”
You inhale slowly and the world narrows. Your pulse steadies, spine straightening.
Luca rises, resting a hand on your shoulder, “Let’s get to it.”
The garage vibrates with noise—air guns, chatter, the high whine of engines firing in the pit lane, but under it, you hear your heartbeat settle.
You slip into your seat. Red suit zipped to your neck, gloves, balaclava, helmet. The world narrows to dark foam and your breath echoes loud in your ears.
You need this—this track and to make a good first impression.
Luca’s voice crackles through the radio, “Okay, (Y/N). Two installation laps. Then we go push. No heroics yet.”
Your lips twitch; that’s his way of saying don’t hunt the golden boy, for now.
You pull out of the pit box, a smooth launch, gears climbing, the car biting the asphalt.
Monaco unfurls around you; cliffs, barriers, and sunlight strobing off the bay; for the first time since Austria, you feel aligned.
Sainte Devote. Beau Rivage. Casino, the car dances under your hands.
Luca’s voice cracks with disbelief.
“Purple Sector 1. Confirmed purple.”
”Sector 2–purple again.”
”…you are fucking flying.”
You don’t smile, you just keep breathing.
Lap after lap, the rhythm deepens; flow, apex, throttle. The world narrows until it feels like you built this circuit with your own hands.
Then, a new voice fills your ear. His.
The engineers accidentally crossed the frequency during cool-down laps.
“She’s fast today,” He drawls to his race engineer and adds in almost a whisper, “…faster than I expected.”
Your grip tightens on the wheel because he knows you heard it.
You both finish FP1 within a tenth of a second—Gojo P1, and you P2.
It’s closer than Ferrari wants, so close that it makes the whole garage buzz, and as you roll into the pit lane, you know he’s watching in his mirrors.
You’re barely out of the cockpit, helmet off, hair damp, suit hanging halfway down your waist, when you feel the garage shift around you.
You placed second in Monaco, less than a tenth behind Gojo.
Ferrari pretends not to care, but there’s a hum in the air, uneasy, yet impressed.
You don’t get to breathe before someone barrels into your space, Marco.
He jogs the last few steps, practically vibrating, “(Y/N)! Hey—holy shit, that last lap was insane.”
You blink as he keeps going, brown eyes wide, grin bright, absolutely starstruck.
”You were unreal out there. Like—you were threading the needle through the casino section. I was watching your telemetry in the garage and God—you were flying.”
He’s cute when he gushes, almost too cute.
You also hear someone behind you breathing like he’s two seconds from murder.
Marco does not.
“And look, I know it’s a busy day, but if you’re free later…I was thinking maybe we could grab a drink? No pressure. I just—well, I’d like to get to know you outside the helmet.”
You open your mouth, Marco’s eyes flick behind you, and his entire expression dies, “Oh…you again.”
You turn, Gojo stands there like you summoned him by flirting.
Suit unzipped down to his sternum, snowy hair perfect, face blank, blue eyes lethally sharp.
He takes his time looking Marco up and down, “Nice session,” His tone is laced with sarcasm, “P13, right? Must feel real good.”
Marco stiffens as Gojo continues, “Anyway, she’s busy.”
You snap at him, “I can answer for myself.”
Gojo tilts his head, feigning innocence, “Can you? Hm. Didn’t seem like it yesterday.”
Your heart stops. Marco frowns, confused, and you shoot Gojo a glare so hard it could turn him to stone.
But the Red Bull rookie recovers; stepping subtly closer to you, shoulder angled, protective and bold.
“Well,” He says softly, “The offer’s open. If you want it.”
You feel heat crawl up your neck, “I’ll…think about it.”
Marco smiles, it’s soft and genuine, and walks off, leaving your pulse hammering in your throat.
Gojo just watches him as if he’s taking notes on how to destroy him later.
You decide to not stay in the open garage. Not with cameras lurking and Ferrari always listening.
You walk fast straight through the side door that leads behind the hospitality tent and into the narrow service corridor normally used only by mechanics hauling equipment between sessions.
A dim, echoing tunnel with a concrete floor, exposed wiring, and the buzz of generators vibrating through the walls.
There’s no reporters present, no cameras, no team personnel with prying eyes, only space and somewhere you can breathe before Gojo follows.
And within a heartbeat, the door behind you slams—hard.
You don’t have time to turn, but you feel him and the heat and fury he’s barely holding together.
You take one step down the corridor, however Gojo doesn’t give you the second and doesn’t just step in front of you.
He pins you in place with nothing but presence—back nearly to the wall, his body brushing yours without actually touching.
His voice is low enough that anyone ten feet away would think he’s whispering something sweet, anyone closer would know it’s the opposite.
“You’re fucking kidding.”
It doesn’t leave him as a question, rather a verdict, sharp and cruel.
“About what?” You ask, chin up.
He leans in, his breath sweeping your cheek, “About entertaining him.”
You laugh once, defiant, “I don’t know. He’s cute.”
Gojo’s jaw ticks, his pupils blow wide, “Cute?” He repeats, like the word personally offends him.
“Yeah and respectful and doesn’t treat me like I’m something he can bend.”
Gojo moves before you can blink. His hand hits the wall next to your head, loud; your hair shifts from the air.
He’s not touching you, but he’s dangerously close.
“Sweetheart,” He murmurs, nose almost brushing yours, “If you want to be bent—then just fucking say that.”
Your breath catches and he hears it. He smiles, one full of malice, “You think he could handle you?” He asks softly, voice a razor sliding over silk, “You think he could even get you wet?”
Your pulse stutters violently, “Gojo—”
“Satoru,” He corrects, stepping closer until your foreheads nearly touch. You swear your knees weaken.
“Call me what you call me when you can’t breathe.”
Your throat tightens. He watches every micro-reaction with obscene satisfaction, “You want him? Fine. Let him try.”
His voice drops lower, filthier, “But don’t fucking lie to yourself.”
He tilts his head, lips ghosting the corner of your mouth, “You don’t want someone who takes you out for drinks,” He moves even closer, “You want someone who takes you apart.”
Your heart slams beneath your ribs, a smile forms on his face.
“You want someone who makes you lose your goddamn voice,” He whispers, mouth close enough that you feel the shape of every word, “Not someone you have to pretend for.”
“Maybe I don’t want someone who treats me like a possession.”
His grin turns feral, “Oh, princess—what the hell do you think you are right now?”
Your fists clench, his gaze drops to your lips and stays there, “If you walk away with him, you’ll think about me the entire time.”
You shove him hard and he barely flinches, but he steps back half an inch. Enough that you can breathe again.
He just laughs, unhinged and delighted, “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re jealous.”
“Sweetheart,” He murmurs, eyes dragging over your face like he’s memorizing it, “If you want to see me jealous…”
He brushes a single knuckle down your jaw, smirking when you freeze, “…go on. Say his name.”
Silence fills the air as you can’t bring yourself to do it.
And he smirks, “That’s what I fucking thought,” He breathes, “The only name you choke on is mine.”
You stand there, panting hard, chest heaving, pulse drilling into your neck while he takes one slow, controlled step backward.
You should walk away while you can, but you don’t.
Instead, you hear your own voice crack through the heavy silence, “…Why are you acting like this?”
Gojo stops; his smile falters, not much, but enough to see something real slip beneath it.
You swallow, heat and rage tangled in your ribs, “You don’t want me,” You say, voice trembling with anger you can’t force down anymore, “You’ve said that. More than once. So what is this, Satoru? Why act like you own me when you don’t even—”
He’s on you before you finish; his breath hits your cheek again, hot and uneven this time like you caught him off guard, “Careful.”
A warning.
“You don’t get to be jealous,” You push, tone rising, “You don’t get to act like this when you’re the one who said this meant nothing—”
He cuts you off, “And you believed that?”
Your inhale stutters, because there’s something in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Something volatile and possessive enough to burn.
He steps forward, forcing you back a fraction of an inch, “You really think I’d act like this,” He whispers, “If this was nothing?”
“You hate me,” You manage, voice cracking, “You make my life hell. You’re cruel, you’re competitive, you—”
His mouth brushes your cheek, close to a kiss but not quite, “I don’t hate you,” He admits quietly, “I hate that I can’t ignore you.”
You go still. Every nerve, every thought, is frozen.
His jaw flexes. His breath shakes once—hardly audible, “You’re in my fucking head,” His voice breaks raw, “And I don’t want you there.”
Your heart thunders within your chest, but he isn’t done, “You walk into a room and I lose focus. You get near another driver—hell, you smile at someone and I want to break something.”
Your lips part, yet no sound comes out.
“And last night—” His tone drops sinful, “—last night you let me eat you till you cried and then looked me in the fucking eye like it didn’t happen.”
You feel your legs weaken. He’s breathing raggedly now like he hates every word coming out of his mouth but he’s past the point of stopping them.
“So yeah,” He finishes, voice low, “I’m acting crazy…”
He leans in closer, “…because you make me crazy.”
Silence crashes over you. His gaze flicks to your lips again. Slow, hungry, and losing discipline, “Don’t ask me why…if you don’t want to hear the truth.”
You can barely breathe, barely stand, and then he steps back—one step, two.
His face closes off. A mask slamming back into place, beautiful and dangerous.
“You should go,” He suggests quietly, “Before I do something I can’t take back.”
“I don’t know what the hell you think this is,” You say, voice steady ice on steel, “But whatever you’re spiraling about? It’s not mutual.”
His expression falters minutely, but you notice.
“I’m not yours,” You continue, sharper now, “And I don’t want you…I don’t even like you.”
A lie so clean it almost sounds true.
His jaw clenches as you lean in, “Do you know what I actually want, Satoru?”
He waits and you give him the blade, “To drive. To win. That’s it. That’s all I care about. Everything else—including whatever this is…” Your eyes flick down his body, then meet his again, “…is noise.”
The look in his eyes fractures—anger, disbelief, and another flicker of emotion he’d die before naming.
“Whatever’s going on in your head? Fix it. Because I’m not interested.”
Then you step around him, not glancing back once.
Your footsteps echo down the concrete corridor and behind you, there is utter silence.
For once in his life, Satoru Gojo has no line ready.
And that night, your hotel room is quiet in a way that leaves too much room for your mind to go places you’re trying very hard to avoid.
You drop your keycard on the table, peel out of the red Ferrari polo, and sit on the edge of the bed—the same bed Gojo had you trembling in last night.
A shiver crawls up your spine before you can kill it.
The adjoining door is closed now, locked, and beyond it the room empty.
Because like the team coordinator said, the arrangement was for that first night only.
Which means tonight, for the first time in Monaco, Satoru Gojo is not five feet away and you despise that some small, humiliating, furious part of you notices.
You exhale hard, drop your head into your hands, and reach for your phone. You don’t even realize you’re calling your dad until he picks up.
”(Y/N)?”
His voice softens instantly, that fatherly-tone that hits you right under the ribs.
“Hey, kiddo. Long day?”
You swallow thickly, staring at the exact spot on your sheets where Gojo had knelt between your thighs.
“…Yeah,” You breathe, “You could say that.”
He chuckles gently, “Well, I watched FP1. You looked sharp. Confident. Like my girl again.”
Your throat tightens without warning. You wipe at your face, irritated by the sting behind your eyes, “Thanks, dad.”
“You okay?” He asks, because he always hears what you don’t say.
You lie automatically, “Yeah. Just…tired.”
There’s a pause before your father speaks again, “This have anything to do with that teammate of yours?”
Your head snaps up, “Dad—”
“What? He says, all innocence, “I read Twitter.”
You groan into your hands, “Oh my God.”
“I’m not saying anything,” He adds quickly, “But that boy looked like he wanted to throw the Red Bull kid into the Mediterranean.”
You choke on a startled, helpless laugh, then it dissolves into something rougher. He hears it immediately.
“Hey,” His voice softens, “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
You inhale slowly, staring at the ceiling and at the door that isn’t connected to him anymore.
“I’m fine,” You say too fast and far too defensive.
Your dad hums knowingly, “You’re not.”
Your jaw works as you force your voice steady, “It’s just…a lot. Pressure. FP1 went well but Ferrari is all over me. The media. The team. Everyone’s watching every lap. Every move.”
You hesitate, “And Gojo is—” You cut yourself off.
Your dad doesn’t push, not yet.
“…Complicated?” He offers gently.
Your chest caves a little, “Yeah. Complicated.”
“Is he bothering you?”
“No,” You blurt, then softer, “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”
You dig your fingers into the blankets, grounding yourself in the softness Gojo hasn’t touched, “He just—he gets under my skin. And he says things that…”
“Things that what?”
“…that make me feel things I don’t want to feel.”
There’s silence, up until your dad exhales like he suddenly understands everything you didn’t mention.
“Honey,” He says softly, “You don’t have to figure him out. You don’t have to figure anything out tonight.”
You shut your eyes, “Just focus on qualifying tomorrow. On driving. That’s what you’re good at. That’s the one thing nobody can take from you.”
Your throat aches, “Yeah. I know.”
“Get some rest, okay?”
“Yeah,” You murmur, “I’ll try.”
“I love you, kiddo.”
“Love you too.”
You hang up and the room settles into silence again.
You set the phone down, lean back on your hands, and let your gaze drift—slowly, helplessly, toward the locked, now completely empty adjoining door.
For a stupid, fleeting second, you wish it would open.
You wish you heard his voice.
You wish he were still there on the other side of that wall, impossible and infuriating, but there.
You suck in a sharp breath, shaking the thought away like it burns.
You don’t want him.
You don’t need him.
You don’t even like him.
You meant every word you said to him.
You repeat it like a mantra.
But deep down, you know you’re lying to yourself.
You try sleeping, try breathing, try convincing yourself the wall between your rooms doesn’t matter, yet it does.
Because every time you close your eyes, you see him in that corridor, you hear the way his voice broke, you feel the ghost of everything you swore wasn’t mutual.
You toss and turn, you don’t sleep well. Not even close.
And morning comes sharp and merciless.
You drag yourself through a shower, pull on your uniform with hands that won’t stop trembling, and practice neutral expressions in the mirror.
Ferrari needs composure today. Once again, you need to pretend the night before didn’t happen.
But the moment you step into hospitality, the air feels thinner like the universe is holding its breath.
The espresso machine hisses like it’s irritated too and you’re standing in front of it, red polo tucked, hair still damp from a rushed shower, badge lanyard crooked on your chest, when the hospitality doors slide open behind you.
You don’t need to turn because once again, you feel him.
That shift in the air and hush in the room, that subtle realignment of gravity that only happens when Satoru Gojo walks into a space you’re occupying.
You force your hand to stay steady as you reach for a paper cup and remind yourself not to look.
A chair scrapes, silverware clinks, someone murmurs, “Morning, Satoru.”
You pretend your heart isn’t suddenly kicking against your ribs as his footsteps approach the breakfast station, purposeful and closer than they need to be.
You focus on the espresso stream filling your cup, even though your peripheral vision catches him anyway; white hair also damp, sunglasses hanging from his shirt collar, suit tied around his waist like he’s about to shoot some magazine cover.
He doesn’t speak, he actually doesn’t even look at you, which is much worse.
You take your coffee and sidestep, right as he reaches in the same direction. Your fingers brush the same sugar packet.
You snatch your hand back like you touched a live wire and Gojo freezes, only for a millisecond but you feel it—the micro tension in his shoulders, the awareness that ricochets between you like a spark searching for oxygen to ignite.
“Sorry,” You mutter.
A futile attempt to appear neutral, professional, unbothered.
He shifts one inch to the right deliberately, giving you space in a way that feels nothing like kindness and everything like self-preservation.
“It’s fine.”
There’s no bite in how he says it, no lazy arrogance dripping from the consonants. It’s just flat like he sanded all the edges off himself overnight.
Your pulse spikes for reasons you refuse to acknowledge.
You move toward the fruit bowls craving distance, air, and something to do with your hands besides remember where his have been.
You grab a banana you don’t want, he reaches for a protein bar he won’t eat.
Someone across the room whispers to a Ferrari strategist, “Are they fighting?”
“No.”
“They’re not talking.”
“That’s worse.”
You pretend you didn’t hear it.
You also pretend you aren’t hyper aware of him the entire time and that your skin isn’t burning where his breath ghosted over your cheek yesterday.
Luca appears beside you, tablet already open, “Buongiorno,” He greets, oblivious to the fault line running through the room, “We’ll run quali sims first sessions. Mediums, then softs. You good?”
You nod too fast, “Yep. Fine.”
Gojo’s back tenses at your voice, barely, but it’s enough to cause your stomach to flip.
He takes his protein bar and walks away without looking at you.
You stare at your coffee you no longer want. You exhale slowly, forcing your heartbeat steady.
You wanted distance and this is distance.
But for some odd reason it feels like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff you don’t remember climbing.
You’re still staring at your coffee like it personally wronged you when someone taps your shoulder.
You turn and Marco is standing there, all bright eyes and soft curls and the kind of boyish smile that feels like sunlight trying to warm a storm.
“Morning,” He chirps, handing you a fresh espresso, “You looked like you needed this more than that one.”
You blink, caught off guard, “Oh—thank you.”
He scratches the back of his neck, shy, the antithesis of Gojo’s cockiness, “Sorry I didn’t get to talk to you after FP1. You kinda…vanished.”
“Yeah,” You breathe, pressing the hot cup to your palms, “Yesterday was…a lot.”
He nods, sympathetic, “I figured. And uh—about last night,” His smile turns sheepish, “You never answered. The drink?”
You swallow; the drink you nearly took, but didn’t say yes to because Gojo had you against a door ten minutes later.
“I’m sorry,” You say softly, “I should’ve told you. I just…needed space. Everything was a mess.”
Marco’s expression doesn’t fall, it brightens, if anything, “No, no, don’t apologize. Seriously. I get it,” He nudges your shoulder gently, “Just wanted to make sure I didn’t freak you out or anything.”
You find yourself smiling, “No. You didn’t.”
His grin is sweet and immediate, “Good. Because the offer still stands. Whenever. No pressure.”
“Thanks, Marco,” You say, and mean it.
Behind him, across the room, Gojo is sitting at a table with his physiotherapist.
He’s not eating, not talking, he’s not even smiling.
He’s just staring at the wall like he’s imagining breaking through it with his bare hands.
You tear your eyes away before he can catch you looking.
Marco, blissfully unaware of the nuclear tension twelve feet away, gestures toward the exit, “You heading to the drivers’ meeting? We can walk together if you want.”
“Yeah,” You say, grabbing your lanyard, “Let’s go.”
The Monaco paddock is already buzzing—photographers leaning over barricades, VIPs drifting like clouds, interns sprinting with clipboards.
Marco walks beside you, hands tucked in pockets, sunglasses reflecting the chaos around you, “You nervous for quali?”
“Nervous?” You huff, “More like ready.”
He grins, “Good. You looked incredible at practice. Smooth. Aggressive. Clean.”
“Thanks.”
“And, uh…if you ever want someone to look over your telemetry with you—”
You laugh, “Marco, I’m not joining Red Bull.”
He flushes, “No, I didn’t mean—! I just like talking racing with you.”
You shake your head, amused, “Relax. I know.”
You reach the FIA building. He opens the door for you, unnecessary, unexpected, yet soft, and you step inside.
Your pulse is steady and you finally feel good and in control, until you see him.
All twenty drivers sit around the long oval table, half-eaten pastries and water bottles scattered between paperwork and briefing sheets.
And Satoru Gojo is sitting in the one open seat next to yours.
He doesn’t look up when you enter. He doesn’t blink, he only sits there, elbows on the table, hands clasped in front of him like a man disciplining his own thoughts.
Marco leans closer and whispers, “We can switch seats if you want.”
You shake your head once and slide into the seat beside Gojo, spine straight, gaze fixed squarely ahead.
He doesn’t turn, but you can feel the rigid set of his jaw, the restrained energy vibrating just under his skin, and the exact moment he registers Marco sitting on your other side.
The whole table feels like it’s tilted toward him, as if gravity itself is having an identity crisis. The FIA steward starts droning about track limits at Nouvelle Chicane.
You pretend to write notes, whereas Gojo pretends not to watch your pen tapping twice every time Marco whispers a question.
“Hey,” Marco murmurs, leaning slightly into your space, pointing at the page, “What did he say about Turn 15? I didn’t catch the first part.”
You tilt your paper toward him and Gojo’s knee stops bouncing, the air temperature drops three degrees.
You keep your face neutral, but people across the table notice.
The McLaren drivers give each other a look. Someone from Mercedes raises an eyebrow. A driver on Aston Martin smirks like he knows everything.
The steward asks if anyone has questions. You and Gojo both simultaneously answer, “No.”
The room goes silent. You don’t look at him and he doesn’t look at you, but your heart is pounding so loudly you swear the whole FIA can hear it.
The meeting ends, drivers stand, conversations bloom.
You gather your notes and Marco reaches for your elbow, “Want to walk back toget—”
“(Y/N).”
His voice, low and far too controlled.
You turn and Gojo stands there, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable, and barely contained.
He doesn’t look at the Red Bull rookie. He doesn’t look at your mouth. He doesn’t look at anything except your eyes.
“Luca wants you in the garage,” There’s a pause, he lowers his voice a fraction, “Now.”
You swallow hard, “Okay.”
Marco steps back, brows lifting slightly, “I’ll see you later?”
“Yeah.”
Gojo says nothing, but the muscle in his jaw twitches once, and he turns and walks out without waiting for you.
You don’t move for a moment. Then you exhale, slow and shakily, and follow him.
The distance between you is careful and professional. Yet, what’s going on between you is anything but.
He walks just ahead of you—long strides, calculated, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s holding himself together by force.
You keep your pace slower because if you walk next to him, it’ll look like something and if you walk behind him, it’ll feel like something.
So you walk diagonally, out of his orbit, but close enough that you feel every pulse of tension radiating off him.
His jaw is locked, shoulders stiff; his entire body vibrates with the effort of not turning around to look at you.
Mechanics pass you, engineers nod, fans scream from the barriers.
Gojo ignores all of it. Instead, he flicks a quick glance over his shoulder, like he needs to make sure you’re still there.
You pretend you didn’t see while he pretends he didn’t look.
The silence between you grows so tight it becomes its own language.
When you reach the Ferrari garage, he stops abruptly at the entrance and doesn’t face you or speak. He just stands there, chest rising and falling too evenly.
Then he walks inside, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
Ferrari is already buzzing. Mechanics yelling numbers in Italian, tire blankets humming, the red glow of brake pads warming.
Luca stands waiting with your tablet, “(Y/N). Good. Let’s get you ready,”
You nod and he walks you through the plan.
You don’t look at Gojo and he doesn’t look at you either, but every time you move, he shifts subtly, unconsciously, like he’s adjusting to your gravity without meaning to.
When you peel your race suit up over your hips, you feel his attention like a touch.
When a mechanic cracks a joke about you and Marco, Gojo drops a wrench.
No one comments on it, but everyone notices.
Even Luca mutters under his breath, “Jesus Christ…this weekend will kill all of us.”
Which causes him snap his tablet shut and force a deep breath, “Okay,” He says, louder now, addressing you but also somehow the entire garage, “That’s enough drama. Qualifying. Focus. Now.”
You nod, jaw clenched, heart pounding too fast to be comfortable.
Luca moves toward your car with purpose; hands on your shoulders, guiding you into the cockpit like he’s afraid the emotional landmine sitting across the garage might detonate on contact.
“Helmet on,” He states, “Head down. We’re doing this.”
You slide into the seat and let the belts tighten across your chest; your visor lowers and the world shrinks to the engine pulse and your own breath.
The pit light flashes green.
You roll out onto the Monaco circuit with a clean confident line, letting the car settle underneath you, letting the rhythm of the track force everything else—him, the fight, the words you can’t erase, out of your skull.
Your banker lap is smooth, it isn’t spectacular, but it’s enough.
Luca’s voice slices through the radio, calm and approving as the time comes in, “That’s good. Safe. Plenty left in the car.”
You dive back to the garage, switch to fresh mediums, and head out again with the track warming and confidence humming under your skin.
This time you brake later, turn sharper, let the car dance. The delta flashes purple.
You barely hear Luca, but his voice cracks on the radio, “Purple Sector 1. Keep going.”
You exhale and let the car breathe through the tunnel, glide through the chicane, snap the wheel through Tabac.
“Purple Sector 2! Bring it home!”
You take the line with a perfect exit.
“Fastest. You’re fastest.”
The garage ripples with disbelief. For a second—one single, perfect heartbeat, you’re P1.
Then Gojo leaves the pit lane. His purple bars appear on the screen like an omen and he snatches P1 by a tenth.
You breathe through the sting, jaw tight, heart refusing to stutter. Luca’s voice is already moving ahead, “Plenty left. Save it for the last run.”
And then it’s time—softs. Low fuel, everything stripped down to the bare bones of speed and nerve.
You roll out slowly, warm the tires, build heat, find the rhythm.
At the same moment you begin your push lap, Gojo starts his.
And of course, his sector flashes purple instantly.
But you don’t flinch, instead you hit Sainte Devote perfectly, gliding up Beau Rivage with the car balancing beneath you like it’s reading your mind.
The delta flashes purple for you too, “Beautiful,” Luca breathes.
The track narrows around you as Gojo answers with a faster second sector.
You answer his with one of your own, the timing tower pulses purple on both of your lines—two predators hunting the same kill.
You approach the last corner.
You don’t think about him.
You don’t think about last night.
You don’t think about the confession.
You think about one thing.
Winning.
You cross the line and silence swallows the radio.
Then Luca explodes, “P1! P1! You are on provisional pole!”
The relief hits so hard it nearly folds you in half.
The entire garage is fizzing as you cool the car, rolling along the straight, watching the delta next to Gojo’s name shrink.
“Gojo to P2,” Your strategist calls out, “Gap…seventy-six thousandths.”
Luca laughs like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment, “You beat him. You fucking beat him.”
You roll into the garage, engine cooling, your pulse still racing.
Across the bay, Gojo stands frozen beside his car with his helmet in hand, chest heaving and blue eyes locked on you.
He walks toward you slowly and steps close enough that only you can hear, “Good lap.”
His tone is flat and calm in a way that is both terrifying and concerning.
And before you can even think of a response, Ferrari ushers you both into the press room with bright lights, white walls, and rows of journalists sharpening their questions like knives.
You take the seat farthest from Gojo and he, of course, takes the seat right next to you.
He sits with that infuriating looseness, with legs stretched out and relaxed like the room belongs to him. You fold your hands tightly to keep from cracking your knuckles out of pure tension.
The moderator barely finishes his greeting before a journalist lifts his hand and fires the first shot.
“Congratulations to Ferrari on the front row lockout again,” He says, eyes flicking between you and Gojo, “But things looked…tense. Are you two still dealing with the fallout from Austria?”
Gojo answers instantly and smoothly, without even glancing your direction, “Tense? Not at all.”
Under the table, his knee knocks against your chair, just enough to set your pulse off balance.
You don’t look at him, “There’s no tension. We’re focused on tomorrow.”
The journalists exchange skeptical looks, cameras tilt while pens hover.
Another voice rises from the back, sharper this time, “Gojo, you didn’t look pleased when (Y/N) took pole. Today you looked…frustrated. Why was that?”
A slow grin cuts across his face, “I smile when I win.”
Your jaw tightens, heat climbing your chest, “I earned that pole.”
He turns his head toward you, purposefully slow, “…You did,” He murmurs, almost gentle. Almost.
A ripple of whispers spreads across the room. A woman in the front row leans toward her mic, “Is this rivalry affecting teamwork? You two barely acknowledged each other after your laps?”
“I was cooling my tires,” You say, “Not doing a parade.”
A few reporters huff quiet laughter and someone else jumps in, looking straight at Gojo, “Your teammate seems to think your reaction was lacking. Any comment on that?”
Gojo lets out a soft, dangerous laugh, “I don’t need to clap like a seal every time someone’s fast. I adapt. That’s my job.”
You shoot back before you can stop yourself, “And mine is beating you.”
Everyone shifts as cameras zoom in, the whole room inhales like they’re expecting a fist fight.
Gojo’s gaze drops to your mouth for half a second, a muscle ticks in his jaw. Then he says calmly, “You won qualifying, sweetheart. Not the race.”
Several reporters mouth “sweetheart?” Like they’re witnessing a scandal unfolding in real time.
The moderator tries to rein things in, “Okay, let’s um—move to questions about the race. How is your working relationship heading into tomorrow?”
You don’t hesitate, “Professional.”
Gojo speaks over you, “Complicated.”
Your head whips toward him. He doesn’t bother pretending innocence, giving a quiet shrug.
Whispers erupt instantly.
“What does that mean?”
“Are they fighting?”
“No, look at him—something’s going on?”
“This is crazy.”
A reporter raises her voice above the noise, “Complicated how?”
Gojo doesn’t look at you when he answers, but his voice drops cool and sure, “She knows what I mean.”
Every camera in the room goes off at once. You grip the microphone so hard your fingers ache, “No,” You lie through gritted teeth, “I don’t.”
He finally turns toward you, head tilted and eyes low with a devastating half-smirk, “You sure about that?”
The room erupts.
“What does that mean?”
“Is this…romantic tension?”
“Surely Ferrari wouldn’t—”
“Holy hell, this is incredible.”
The moderator is bright red, begging for mercy, “Let’s—please—stick to race strategy—”
But reporters keep firing questions like bullets.
“Are you two fighting?”
“Avoidng each other?”
“Not speaking off-track?”
“Is there something happening between you?”
“Is it affecting the team?”
“Are you rivals or partners?”
You and Gojo keep giving different answers, contradicting each other, fanning the flames until Ferrari PR slams the session closed.
You stand immediately while Gojo stands slowly, stretching like he enjoyed the turmoil.
You turn to leave, trying to escape before he can say something else that sends you into orbit, but he steps close behind you.
You feel the warmth of him at your back, then his voice, low so that only you can hear, “Funny…Everyone sees it but you.”
You don’t turn, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.
You walk out while the flashes chase you, the room buzzing with speculation and the entire paddock begins whispering about Ferrari’s front row and the storm brewing right between them.
They don’t even give you a full six steps out of the press room before a hand clamps around your arm.
Ferrari PR—three of them, descend on you like you committed a felony on live television.
“Inside,” One hisses, ushering you toward a small briefing room.
You barely get a breath in before the door slams shut behind you.
Gojo’s already there. Leaning against a wall, arms crossed, looking like he murdered peace.
The head of PR rubs both hands down her face like she aged ten years in the last ten minutes.
“Do you two want to destroy this team?” She asks, voice trembling between panic and fury, “Because from where we’re standing, that’s exactly what you’re doing!”
You keep your arms crossed, Gojo keeps his jaw tight.
She points wildly between you, “That—whatever this is? It ends. Tonight. Before the race. Before cameras. Before microphones. Before anything that could fuel another headline.”
You stare straight ahead, Gojo stares at the floor.
Another PR rep jumps in, practically shaking, “He called you sweetheart in front of forty journalists!”
Gojo shrugs, quiet, “Wasn’t that deep.”
Three PR reps make three different strangled sounds of pain, “And you,” Another snaps at you, “Told them your job is beating him.”
You lift a shoulder, “Cause it is.”
All three PR reps briefly consider quitting, “This is not a rivalry. Not anymore,” The head of PR says, voice rising, “This is a public relations nightmare. The entire world thinks you two are—are—”
She gestures helplessly between you two, nobody dares to fill in the blank.
“Tomorrow is one of the most important races of the season,” She continues, “We cannot afford distractions or any more drama or…” She pinches the bridge of her nose, “…whatever kind of…volcanic tension you two insist on exuding.”
Another PR member points at Gojo, “That complicated comment? Why would you say that?”
Gojo lifts his eyes, meets theirs with a deadpan calm, “The reporter asked.”
“You said it first!” All three scream in unison.
One slams her notebook shut, “I swear to God—”
Luca slips into the room like he sensed the suffering from miles away. He assesses the scene, sighs deeply, and rubs his forehead.
“Can we not add strokes to our workload? Please?”
Ferrari PR looks seconds away from collapsing, “All we’re asking,” The head rep concludes, exhausted, “Is that you two behave like teammates. Or at least like coworkers who don’t want to kill each other on camera.”
Gojo pushes off the wall. His voice is low, annoyingly even, “We can do that.”
PR narrows their eyes, “Really.”
He glances at you subtly, a quick flicker that feels too much like a spark, “Yeah. We can.”
You don’t trust your voice, so you nod once. PR takes it as victory.
“Good. Wonderful. Fantastic,” One mutters, already scribbling down crisis plans, “Tomorrow you both smile, you both answer cleanly, and neither of you calls the other sweetheart ever again whether jokingly or not.”
Gojo snorts softly, PR flinches like it physically hurts them, “And you,” Another says to you, “No more telling him off on camera.”
You look at the ceiling, “…I’ll try.”
PR groans as Luca steps forward, clapping his hands sharply, “Okay. Enough. They need rest. Race day tomorrow.”
PR rushes out before either of you can breathe the wrong way again. The door shuts behind them.
Silence filters in heavy and charged, a hair away from combusting.
Gojo stands with his arms crossed still, shoulders rigid, chin tilted like he’s daring you to say something. Luca is glued to the wall like he’s praying for divine protection.
You don’t need him to dare you to speak.
“Why the fuck did you do that?”
His eyes flick toward you, “…Do what?”
You laugh out of disbelief, “Oh, don’t start. The sweetheart? The bullshit answers? Undermining everything I said? You did that on purpose.”
Gojo lifts a brow, voice dry enough to burn paper, “Maybe I was making a point.”
Luca silently mouths “nope” to himself. You step forward, fury sizzling under your skin, “A point? You hijacked a press conference because you’re mad about the corridor?”
His jaw ticks, “I’m mad…about a lot of things.”
“Like what?” You spit, “That I didn’t melt for you? That I didn’t let you steamroll me? Or—” You jab a finger toward the door, “—is this about Marco? Because if you’re tweaking over a friendship, then holy shit—”
“It wasn’t about Marco,” He snaps, stepping toward you, “Don’t flatter him.”
“Oh, so it was about me,” You bite back, “About what I said. About the truth you didn’t like hearing.”
His eyes flash, the first crack in his mask, “You mean lies?”
Your breath stutters, but only for a second before anger shoves it aside, “Don’t.”
He steps closer, “Don’t what?” He murmurs, “Don’t point out that you said things you didn’t mean? Don’t react to the way you—”
“—the way I what?” You snap, “Walked away? Put boundaries down? The way I put space between us because you wouldn’t?”
That does it. That line actually hits him.
You can feel it in the way his breath hitches, a muscle in his jaw jumping like you struck bone.
“Space,” He repeats, voice low and incredulous, “That’s what you think that was?”
You fold your arm, “Yes. Space. Distance. Control. Something you don’t seem to understand.”
His laugh is soft, cracked, and so bitter it almost sounds like pain, “That wasn’t space. That was you running the second it felt real.”
Your pulse spikes, “Real?” You scoff, “You think any of that was real?”
His voice drops an octave—dangerous, intimate, unfiltered, “You looked at me like it was.”
Your stomach clenches, Luca inhales sharply, “I looked at you like someone who needed to be told no.”
He closes the distance by one deliberate step, “Then how come you didn’t say no in Austria? Or…the first night here?”
Heat shoots up your spine. Anger, humiliation, desire, something uglier and deeper tangled together, “Careful.”
His eyebrows flick up, “Why? Because I mentioned something you keep pretending never happened? Because I brought up the fact you let me fu—”
“Shut up,” You snap, louder than you meant to.
Luca makes a strangled noise and turns fully to face the wall like he’s about to start praying in Italian.
Gojo steps closer, now you feel his breath skim your cheek and from this distance, you can remember exactly what he tasted like.
He lowers his voice to a razor thin whisper, “You didn’t say no,” He repeats, “Because you didn’t want to.”
Your breath shakes, “I made a mistake.”
He tilts his head, studying you, “No. A mistake is slipping on a wet pit lane. A mistake is a bad downshift. What we did—” His eyes flick down to your mouth before locking onto yours again, “—that wasn’t a mistake.”
“I regret it,” You manage, even though the words scrape coming out.
He laughs once, ugly, “You don’t.”
“Fuck you.”
“I did.”
Heat floods your cheeks as Luca actively starts praying.
You push past Gojo, shoving his shoulder hard, but he steps into the shove instead of away from it—like he wants the contact.
He’s so close it’s almost unbearable, “You can lie to the reporters, you can lie to Marco, hell, you can even lie to yourself…” His eyes drag over your face, slow and hungry, “…but you can’t lie to me. I was there. I felt you.”
Your nails bite into your palms, “Say one more word,” You warn, voice trembling with fury, “And I swear to God—”
“Swear what?” He challenges, leaning in, “You’ll deny it again? You’ll pretend you didn’t come apart on my mouth? You’ll pretend you didn’t—”
“Enough!” It rips out of you so loud Luca flinches.
The sound stops Gojo completely.
His eyes widen just a fraction as if he didn’t expect you to break, not like this.
Your chest heaves and then the words rip out of you for the first time since Austria.
“God…I fucking hate you.”
Gojo doesn’t even blink, he just goes eerily still.
“Hate me?” He echoes, “Can you be honest even once?”
“I am being honest.”
“No,” He says, stepping closer with a calm that feels like it’s hiding something volatile, “You’re being dramatic.”
“You don’t get to decide what I feel.”
“Then prove it.”
You blink, “What—?”
His eyes narrow, pupils blown wide, dark and certain, “Say it again. Look at me and say you hate me.”
You force steel into your spine, “I don’t owe you shit.”
“You owe me honesty,” Gojo says, voice rough, “After everything you threw in my face out there? Yeah—you do.”
“That was honesty.”
“No,” He bites, stepping into your space again, “That was anger. They’re not the same.”
You grit your teeth, “You want me to say I hate you again? Fine. I hate—”
“Look at me.”
He’s close enough that if either of you leaned an inch, your foreheads would brush.
“Look at me,” He repeats, softer this time, “And say it.”
You force yourself to meet his eyes—breathtaking, pale storm blue.
“I hate you,” You say again. Quieter, steadier, but still as sharp.
For a moment, neither of you breathe.
A tiny tremor bobs through his throat, there and gone in a flash.
He holds your gaze like he’s looking for something behind the words, “…No,” He mutters, “You don’t.”
You open your mouth, ready to snap, ready to swing the blade again, but he shakes his head once, almost imperceptibly.
“I don’t believe you. Not for a second.”
He steps back and turns, hand brushing the door, “Try harder next time,” He adds, voice soft, almost tired, “If you want me to buy it.”
The door shuts behind him and silence floods the room. Luca exhales like someone just removed a knife from between his ribs.
“Dio mio…” He whispers, staring at the closed door, “…you and Gojo—did…got—together?”
You close your eyes, only for a moment.
Because the denial is right there, fully formed and ready to fire, but you can find it in yourself to lie anymore.
“…Yeah.”
Luca’s eyebrows climb so high they could hit the ceiling, “Madonna Santa.”
You scrub a hand over your face, an exhausted, almost sick laugh falling out of you, “It was a mistake,” You reiterate quickly, “It wasn’t—God—it wasn’t supposed to be anything.”
Luca looks at you like he’s evaluating the structural integrity of your soul, “Doesn’t seem like nothing to me.”
You glare at the floor, “It is nothing.”
He doesn’t budge or agree, he just watches you with that maddening calm he reserves for when you’re about to do something reckless at 300 km/h.
“(Y/N),” He says softly, “You’re shaking.”
You weren’t aware of it, now you can’t stop feeling it.
“He—he gets in my head.”
“Clearly.”
“He pisses me off. He ruins everything.”
“And yet,” Luca says, “You let him close.”
“…I didn’t mean for it to happen,” You whisper, “Any of it.”
“I know,” Luca assures, the one steady thing in the room, “But you need to understand something.”
You look up, he meets your eyes with seriousness and honesty.
“Whatever this is between you and Gojo?” He asks quietly, “It’s going to follow you onto the track if you don’t get control of it.”
Your throat tightens. He steps slightly closer, tone softening, “And you can’t let him be the thing that costs you tomorrow.”
Your breath shudders. Luca pats your shoulder once, “Come on. Let’s get your head back where it needs to be.”
You nod even though you’re not sure control is something you have anymore, but you follow Luca out of the room anyway.
wc: ~9.8k | cw: smut, formula 1 au! f1 gojo/racer gojo x f1/racer reader! suggestive themes, praising, oral sex (female receiving), jealousy, rivals to lovers, slow burn.
summary: following the devastating wreck at the austrian grand prix and the intimate relations between your teammate and rival, satoru gojo, you prepare for your next race in monaco.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
THE NIGHT AFTER the Austrian Grand Prix doesn't end when you get back to your hotel.
You lie awake long after your room goes quiet, staring at the ceiling while your pulse still thrums with anger, humiliation, and the aftershocks of what happened in that storage room.
The place you can't stop envisioning no matter how hard you try.
Your thighs still ache from where he lifted you, your lips still sting from his teeth, your skin still smells faintly of engine oil, rubber, and him—even after standing under the hotel shower until the water ran cold.
You tell yourself you're furious, but the worst part is that you're also terrified.
Not of him or the fight, or even the way he finished inside you with a mechanic right outside the door.
You're terrified of what it means.
Because not only did you crash, disobey team orders, and hand Gojo the perfect narrative, but you let him touch you like he had every right.
Like he owned you.
The shame of that hits much heavier than the crash did.
Your stolen victory, your seat at Ferrari suddenly uncertain, your future hanging by a thread.
And Gojo, his smirk, the bruises he left on your hips, and the ones you left on his throat, still replay behind your eyelids—it’s too much.
Which is why, when Ferrari summons you at seven a.m sharp to "discuss yesterday", you already know the tone.
It isn't a meeting.
It's a sentencing.
And the morning tastes like metal on your tongue.
Consequences, both heavy and cold.
Ferrari's briefing room is usually a cathedral of control with clean lines, polished floors, and bright screens displaying data you can breathe through.
However, today it feels like a sterile battlefield; fluorescent lights glare down on you like interrogation lamps and every executive in the room looks carved from stone.
You sit alone on one side of the long table. Across from you are three senior managers, the sporting director, two PR heads, and a lawyer.
You've never seen this many suits in one room unless someone had died.
One of them—the operations manager, doesn't even bother sitting before he starts.
"Let me be extremely clear," He says, voice sharp enough to cut, "Yesterday was unacceptable.”
Your jaw tightens as he continues, "You disobeyed team orders. You put both cars at risk. You cost us a guaranteed one-two finish. And you jeopardized sponsors relationships by creating unnecessary drama."
Unnecessary drama.
As if the entire season hasn't been one orchestrated stage play where you were handed the role of sacrificial pawn.
"Understood," You say evenly.
A lie. Nothing about this is understandable.
The sporting director leans forward. Cold eyes, cold smile, "Your telemetry shows aggressive defending bordering on dangerous."
He slides a tablet across the table, your data smeared into accusation.
You don't blink, "My defending was legal."
"Legal," He repeats, as if the word were a foreign concept coming from you, "We're not discussing legality. We're discussing...judgment."
Your stomach twists once, they want you obedient and small, but you refuse to be either.
"We cannot have a driver who thinks they know better than the pit wall," The PR chief adds, "You made Ferrari look divided. That is not acceptable."
You inhale through your nose, "And the crash?" The operations director asks, "Care to explain that?"
The only thing you care to do is ram your helmet into his face.
But instead you say, "My tires were gone."
The room stiffens as if you should apologize for physics.
"And why were they gone?" He presses, "Because you were—what was it? Making a point?"
You force your voice flat, "I was racing."
"No," He snaps, palm slamming on the table, startling even the PR reps, "You were rebelling."
The word hits the air like a verdict—a death sentence.
Another executive clears his throat, "Let's address the reality," He says, tone clinical, "You are on your rookie contract. Review is imminent. If we see another...display like yesterday—"
He folds his hands, "—your seat here is no longer secure."
Your pulse spikes, but you don't look away. You won't give them the satisfaction. Not when every part of you wants to scream that you were faster, better, right.
Instead, you let your voice cool to ice, "Understood."
The sporting director nods like he's already decided your fate, "We expect full compliance going forward."
Full compliance. Meaning—Don't touch Satoru Gojo. Don't challenge him. Don't win where he's meant to.
A final voice joins the chorus, quiet and precise, "And one more thing."
You don't know this man, he must be the lawyer, "Watch your conduct with your teammate."
Your blood runs cold, "You two are...tense," He says carefully, "Physical altercations—"
You freeze at that. Gojo's thumbprint bruise sits on your hip under your suit, your own bite marks bloom along his throat somewhere in this building.
"—and after-race incidents could escalate. Be mindful.”
Mindful. If only they knew.
If only they knew you had their golden boy half-naked against a shelf of spare parts, moaning into your mouth like a man possessed.
If only they knew you'd come apart on his cock like you'd been waiting a lifetime.
But they don't and they won’t, because if they did, your death sentence would become a public execution.
The meeting ends abruptly; chairs scrape, suits shuffle, papers are gathered like the evidence of your sins and you rise slowly, spine straight, head high.
But the moment the door closes behind the last executive, Gojo appears like he'd been waiting in the hallway and knew exactly how long the firing squad would take.
He leans against the wall, arms crossed, expression one of aggravating arrogance, "Wow," He drawls, "You survived."
Your stomach drops. Of course he's here and smug and looks unfazed by the chaos he helped create.
You narrow your eyes, "What do you want?"
He pretends to think about it, "Hm..." He taps his chin, "...well, I was passing by and I thought, 'Hey, I wonder if she got yelled at for trying to kill me yesterday?'"
You swallow fire, "I didn't try to kill you."
"No?" He leans closer, blue eyes flashing, "Then what would you call...all of that?"
You step forward, refusing to back down, "Racing."
"Racing," He repeats with a laugh, "Interesting. Because the bosses called it...what was the word?—rebelling?"
Heat surges under your skin. He saw them march in, he heard at least some of it, and he enjoyed every fucking second.
He tilts his head, eyes dragging lower, your neck, your collarbone, your jaw; you suddenly realize why.
You have a faint bruise near your throat, one of his.
He smirks when he notices your realization, "Oh? Missed a spot?"
Your breath stutters, "I said—what do you want."
He shrugs one shoulder lazily, "Just wanted to see how badly they punished you," He pauses for a heartbeat, "Judging by your face? Pretty badly."
He licks his teeth, smug and slow, "Shame I wasn't invited."
You freeze, "What?"
He steps closer, voice dropping low enough to haunt bone, "You took me so well yesterday," He murmurs, "Figured you could take a little...criticism."
Your lips part, pulse spiking violently, "And," He adds lightly, "I was curious how you'd hide the marks."
Your body goes rigid as his smirk widens, "Don't worry. No one's said anything. They all think you're just stressed."
He leans in, breath ghosting your ear, "Only I knew you were shaking for...other reasons."
Your knees weaken and he straightens, eyes bright with victory, "This season's about to get fun," He says, "You almost cost me the race yesterday—"
You snarl, "You cost me the race."
He ignores it, "—and then you let me fuck you against a toolbox?" A low whistle, "Talk about mixed signals.”
Your face burns with fury, "You're disgusting."
"And you're lying."
You open your mouth to tear him apart, but he beats you to it, "Remember, I don't want you, (Y/N)..."
"...But I do want to fuck you again."
Your breath stops, he smiles slow and wicked, "And you'll let me. Eventually."
You should slap him and walk away. You’re supposed to hate him now more than ever, but your pulse is a traitor.
He sees it, hears it, and thrives on it.
He turns away with a lazy wave of his hand, "See you at media hour, sweetheart."
And leaves you standing in the empty hall—furious, humiliated, shaking with leftover adrenaline and something far more dangerous.
Something that has no business surviving after everything he's taken from you.
The walk from briefing room to the paddock feels longer than any lap you've ever driven, Ferrari's corridors loud with the echo of footsteps and whispered speculation.
Every passing mechanic gives you a glance too cautious to be neutral, like they're looking at a lit fuse and don't want to be close when it finally blows.
Your skin still hums intensely, your jaw aches from clenching, and your heart rate hasn't slowed since Gojo walked away smiling like he'd won something bigger than a Grand Prix.
You reach the media center and the noise hits you like a wall; cameras, voices, flashing lights.
You hear your name everywhere—reporters with predatory smiles, commentators rehearsing lines, content creators whispering into microphones.
"...crashed while disobeying team orders—"
"...Ferrari furious—"
"...future uncertain—"
You straighten your shoulders, because showing weakness is blood in the water.
And the second you step into the press pen, the temperature in the room changes.
Every camera in the space swivels a few degrees, whispers sharpen, lenses recalibrate. Not for you, but for the story wrapped around you like barbed wire.
Gojo stands in front of the Ferrari backdrop like it was built only for him; Ferrari media polo crisp, posture loose, hands folded around a water bottle he’s not actually drinking.
His hair is perfect, his smile prettier than any podium shot, and along the sharp edge of his jaw—your teeth marks.
Barely hidden and barely subtle.
Your own appearance feels harsher by comparison; tailored black blazer, matching trousers, pressed shirt, formal and professional.
The suit you wore to a disciplinary meeting where your career nearly got axed.
His eyes find you almost instantly and they flick to your throat—just once, only to clock the faint shadow of his own fingerprints above your collar.
Then he looks back up and smiles. Slow, self-satisfied, filthy. As if the storage room is playing on loop in his head.
The moderator gestures you forward. A handler nudges you gently toward the step beside him. You move on autopilot, the fabric of your blazer stiff against your shoulders, cameras flashing white heat against your retinas.
You take your place right next to him.
He smells like cologne and expensive shampoo, whereas you smell like stress and the remnants of a meeting that almost killed your contract.
His voice dips for only you to hear, sliding neatly under the loud noise, “Relax,” He murmurs, still smiling for the camera, “They don’t know you were dripping for me yesterday.”
Your body goes hot and cold all at once. You can’t look at him, so you don’t.
The moderator clears his throat into the microphone, “Let’s begin. First question—yes, you there.”
A man in the second row lifts his mic, eyes already bright with anticipation, “This is for Gojo,” He starts, “Congratulations on your fifth win of the season. Can you walk us through what you were thinking when your teammate disobeyed team orders and then crashed?”
The mic is angled toward him and Gojo doesn’t miss a beat.
He leans in a little, public smile flawless, “Well,” He says lightly, “First thought was, ‘please don’t hit me’.”
Laughter ripples through the room, except yours. You stare straight ahead, jaw clenched.
He continues, tone easy and charming, “Honestly? It’s racing. We’re all on the limit. Mistakes happen.”
His hand, resting casually against the edge of the backdrop stand, taps twice.
Your pulse stutters. He doesn’t look your way, but his voice softens for you to hear the edge underneath the PR wash.
“Some people,” He adds, “Just don’t know when to pull out.”
The journalists murmur, pens scratch, headlines writing themselves.
The moderator points to another hand, “Follow up?”
A woman this time. Hard eyes. Zero hesitation, “Did you feel unsafe around (Y/N) in that battle?” She asks, “Some are calling her defending ‘reckless’.”
Gojo gives a little shrug, “I’ve raced worse.”
Then, with a tilt of his head, he lets his gaze slide to you, almost deviously, “But she was…very committed. I’ll give her that.”
His shoulder brushes yours, and you jerk away. He hums under his breath, low enough that it doesn’t touch the microphones, “You cling just as hard off track, you know that?”
Your nails dig into your palm, the moderator finally turning your way.
“(Y/N), there’s been a lot of talk about yesterday,” He says, “Crashing while ignoring team instructions, the near-contact with your teammate. Do you accept responsibility?”
Every camera leans in, you feel Gojo watching you without turning his head.
You draw in a breath that tastes like metal, “I take responsibility for the crash,” You say evenly, “I pushed too hard on worn tires.”
“And disobeying orders?” The woman presses.
You keep your eyes fixed on the middle distance, “I was racing,” You repeat, voice like ice, “I didn’t get into Formula 1 to move out of the way.”
A few reporters exchange looks. In the corner of your vision, Gojo’s mouth curves. He leans in, voice barely a breath against the mic.
“She didn’t move yesterday, either,” He murmurs, for you alone, “Not until I was finished.”
Heat claws up your neck and the journalist doesn’t notice; she’s too busy sharpening the next question.
“Do you regret challenging your teammate?” She asks, “Given Ferrari’s…clear priorities?”
It lands like a slap; you feel the room watching to see if you’ll break, flinch, or swallow the humiliation.
You refuse to do any of the three.
“I regret losing points for the team,” You answer, “I don’t regret defending my position.”
Gojo’s fingers drum idly against his water bottle.
“One might argue,” Another reporter says, “That in fighting Gojo, you cost Ferrari a dominant result. Is that fair?”
Your jaw tightens, “If Ferrari wanted a clear track for him,” You reply, “They could’ve told me that when I signed my contract.”
“(Y/N)—”
“Instead,” You continue, cutting the interruption cleanly, “They hired two drivers. I assumed that meant they wanted two cars racing.”
The room buzzes and Gojo exhales a soft, amused laugh, genuinely entertained.
The moderator jumps on the shift, “All right, let’s talk about the future,” He says, “Monaco is next. High-pressure, unforgiving, no room for error. Gojo, how do you feel going into it?”
“Hungry.” He says easily, “I like walls. They keep things…interesting.”
He glances at you on the word interesting.
“Monaco’s tight,” He goes on, “You need precision. Control. You can’t get emotional there.”
His arm brushes yours this time, slow and deliberate, skin against fabric. You ignore him and the contact.
“(Y/N)?” Another voice calls, “Same question. After Austria and today’s internal talks, how are you approaching Monaco? Will you change your style? Be more…conservative around your teammate?”
You could lie and play obedient, but that just isn’t in your nature.
“Monaco’s the kind of track that rewards commitment,” You say, “If you hesitate, you end up in the wall. So I’ll drive to my limit. Like always.”
“Even if that means risking another incident between the two Ferraris?”
You meet the reporter’s eyes dead on, “I’m not planning to crash and I’m not planning to move over if I’m faster. I plan to win.”
There’s a sharp inhale somewhere in the room. Gojo laughs under his breath, “Brave girl.”
You don’t look at him, but he knows you hear it. Another hand shoots up in the front row.
“Last one,” The moderator announces, “For both of you. Given everything that happened—team orders, a crash, talks of internal tension, can you assure us this won’t spill over into Monaco? That this rivalry is…under control?”
Gojo answers first, “Rivalry?” He echoes, smiling just to look charming, “There’s no rivalry. We’re teammates. We both want what’s best for Ferrari.”
You feel his hand slide along the side of the backdrop stand, pinky intentionally brushing your knuckles where the cameras can’t see.
“And what’s best for Ferrari,” He adds, almost sweet, “Is me in front.”
You turn your head slowly, eyes cutting into his profile.
He keeps facing forward, pale lashes lowered, the picture of composure, and the only thing you can think is that you want to break his teeth.
But, unfortunately the mic swinging toward you drags you away from the thought.
“Funny,” You let the word hang in the air for one dangerous second, “From where I was sitting yesterday, Ferrari looked real close to winning with me in front.”
The room falls silent and Gojo’s smile doesn’t move, but his tongue pushes against his cheek like he’s biting back something sharp—and knowing him, he absolutely is.
The moderator, sensing a cliff edge, steps in fast, “Thank you, drivers. That’s all for today.”
Cameras dip, crews shift, and the press pen dissolves. You take one step left, an attempt to escape before he can say anything else, but you’re too slow.
“Careful,” He murmurs beside you, walking like you’re not enemies, “You’re shaking again.”
You don’t look at him, “Stay out of my way in Monaco.”
He huffs a laugh, “In the car?” He asks, “Or the next time I’ve got you pinned somewhere you shouldn’t be?”
Your breath stutters. He leans in closer, lips barely moving, words slinging straight into your veins, “You’re on thin ice with Ferrari. You can’t afford another mistake.”
You turn your head, finally, fury bright in your chest, “Then stop provoking me.”
“Sweetheart,” He smiles, eyes flicking to the faint mark he left on your neck, “I’m not provoking you.”
His gaze drops, only for a heartbeat, to the Ferrari logo pin on your blazer, “I’m just reminding you,” He finishes quietly, “You break just as pretty as you drive.”
You swallow down the sound in your throat and decide not to give him your anger or fear, you just walk away with your spine straight and face formed of ice.
Although your pulse betrays you. It beats hard enough that you know he hears it and he’s already planning how to make it worse in Monaco—which comes at you sideways.
Not with the roar of engines, but with logistics, schedules, and a six a.m. call time that shows up in your inbox like a threat.
Team travel—Vienna to Nice, wheels up at 09:10.
You barely sleep. Again.
By the time you step out of the team shuttle at the airport, your eyes feel like sandpaper and your stomach is one long, tight knot.
It’s not a commercial terminal, Ferrari doesn’t do that if they can help it. It’s a private side of the airport, all glass and quiet, slick floors and security lines greased for people with money.
The team is already gathered in loose clusters—engineers in soft-shell jackets, mechanics in branded hoodies, PR in blazers and stress.
You in black leggings, a fitted Ferrari zip-up, sunglasses, and the same permanent tension you’ve been carrying since Austria.
Gojo, of course, looks like this is a vacation.
White hoodie under his Ferrari jacket, joggers, expensive sneakers, headphones around his neck instead of on his ears so people can still hear him be charming.
He’s surrounded by laughter and easy banter.
One of the junior mechanics shows him something on his phone and Gojo throws his head back, grin bright, like he’s not the reason your entire season is on the verge of getting torched.
You set your suitcase down, fingers tightening on the handle.
Luca appears at your elbow, dark circles under his eyes, “Long night?”
You huff a humorless sound, “You could say that.”
“Monaco will be better,” He murmurs, “Fresh start.”
You don’t answer, mostly because you don’t trust yourself to not say something like if I still have a seat by the end of it.
The travel coordinator starts calling people through security in groups, “Drivers next, please. Satoru, (Y/N). Let’s go.”
You reluctantly fall into step behind Gojo.
Security here is perfunctory, but still it exists—metal detectors, trays, a bored-looking guard who has no idea he’s watching the most expensive egos in motorsport shuffle through in their socks.
You drop your phone, passport, watch into the gray bin, and shrug out of your jacket.
The air-conditioning hits your arms and your skin prickles.
You’re acutely aware of every hidden mark beneath the fabric—the pressure of his fingers still ghosting under the waistband of your leggings, the phantom arch between your thighs whenever your brain misfires and replays the storage room.
You shove that thought deep enough to choke on it.
Gojo’s ahead of you, shoving his hoodie off one shoulder to drop his watch into a tray. The neck of his t-shirt pulls just enough that you can see the faint smudge of color your teeth left on his throat.
And you’re not the only one who peeps it.
One of the younger photographers, waiting near the cordon, raises an eyebrow, “Rough celebration after the win, Gojo?”
“Something like that,” He says without missing a beat, lips curling, “You should see her though.”
A few mechanics laugh, sharp and surprised, but amused. The same photographer eggs it on, “Yeah? Was she at least hot?”
Gojo doesn’t even pretend to be offended. He just tilts his head, eyes sliding to you and back again, voice smooth enough to cut a throat.
“Hot?” He repeats, like he’s tasting the word, “She was fucking scorching.”
A low ripple of laughter moves through the guys—quick, rough, appreciative, the kind men make when they know they shouldn’t ask for more details but desperately want to.
Gojo keeps going all smooth, unhurried, and intentionally casual, “Left scratches down my back.”
Someone lets out a low whistle, another mutters, “Christ…”
You go still, heat coiling under your skin and every hair on your arms lifts. Gojo shifts his weight, leaning one shoulder against the metal security divider.
His voice drops, dark, private, and absolutely meant for you even if everyone else can technically hear.
“And for the record?” His eyes flick deliberately to your mouth, “I’m the one who had to tell her to keep quiet.”
That lands.
A couple of the older engineers laugh under their breath, quiet and incredulous. The younger ones smirk. Someone murmurs, “You’re unreal,” Like Gojo is performing miracles rather than being obscene at seven a.m. in an airport.
Your breath stutters. Shame, rage, unwanted heat—everything hits at once.
But he’s not finished. He grabs his tray off the belt, and says under the noise, “Anyways. Ten out of ten. Would let her ruin me again.”
Everyone finds it amusing, besides you.
You don’t say a word. You only clench your jaw as you step up to the metal detector, the guard gesturing you through.
And it beeps. Of course it does.
You sigh, now even more aggravated, you step back and try again. It beeps once more.
“Sorry,” The guard says, monotone, “Anything metal on you?”
You do a quick mental inventory, “Just jewelry,” You reach for your necklace clasp, fingers fumbling.
Gojo’s voice drifts over lazily, “Careful,” He calls, “She sets off alarms when she’s tense.”
You shoot him a look deadly enough kill.
He stands at the end of the scanner arch, arms folded, watching openly now, “Try breathing,” He adds just for you, “Did wonders last time I had you pressed up against something.”
Your face twists with a scowl. You rip the necklace off and toss it into the tray with more force than necessary, the guard pretends not to notice.
This time, when you walk through, the arch stays blessedly silent.
“See?” Gojo says as you retrieve your stuff, “You can behave when you really try.”
“Keep talking, asshole,” You snap, “Maybe they’ll arrest you for being fucking insufferable.”
He flashes you a small, wicked grin, “Calling me names again? Keep going. See what it does to me.”
You ignore him and shoulder your backpack, heading toward the glass doors that lead to the tarmac. You can feel him fall into step beside you, like gravity.
Outside, the morning air is sharp and bright. The Ferrari-chartered jet sits on the runway, white and red and sleek, stairs already lowered, engines idling low.
A photographer grabs a few shots of you both walking out—PR loves that shit, images of “their drivers” leaving one race together to hunt the next.
You keep your sunglasses on, your expression neutral, and don’t look at him.
Still, he walks close enough that your hands brush once at your sides, knuckles grazing, and you move away like the contact burned.
He laughs under his breath, you catch it over the whine of the engines, “Jumpier than usual today.”
“Thin ice,” You remind him, “Remember?”
“Mhm,” He hums, “Sure. That’s why.”
You grip the rail as you climb the steps, focusing on the polished metal under your palm, the small bursts of cameras somewhere behind you.
Inside, the jets smells like leather, coffee, and money.
Seats in pairs along both sides, small tables, a cluster of four at the front reserved for upper management. There’s Ferrari logos stitched into the headrests and a tray of drinks already set out.
You make a beeline for a window seat halfway down the cabin.
Luca looks up from his tablet, already buckled into the aisle across, “You okay?”
“Perfect,” You lie as you shove your backpack into the overhead, then drop into the seat and click your belt into place like armor.
For two seconds, you let yourself believe you might get at least the flight without Gojo breathing down your neck.
Then he appears in the aisle like some sleep paralysis demon.
“Excuse me,” He tells a performance engineer already halfway into the seat next to you, his tone all polite PR warmth, “Do you mind swapping? I need to go over some strategy stuff with her.”
The engineer looks surprised, and then flattered, “Sure, sure,” He says quickly, unbuckling, “No problem.”
You glare at him, “We don’t have strategy together.”
Gojo drops into the newly vacated seat beside you, buckles his belt, and reclines like he owns the oxygen, “We have ten races left in the season,” He mentions mildly, “We should talk. Teamwork, right?”
Luca’s eyes flick between you both with the expression of someone watching a lit match roll toward a gas leak.
The door closes and the engines whine louder as the jet starts to taxi.
You turn your head to the window, watching the tarmac blur, the wing flex slightly with movement.
“Relax,” Gojo murmurs, voice low so only you can hear, “You look like you’re about to throw yourself out before takeoff.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
He chuckles, “You’d miss me.”
You tear your gaze off the window to pin him with a look, “The only thing I’d miss is the constant ringing in my ears from your voice.”
He makes a thoughtful noise, “Funny. Didn’t sound like you minded me being loud when you were—”
“If you finish that sentence,” You cut in, “I will open the emergency exit.”
His eyes glitter, “You’d have to unbuckle first,” He notes softly, “We both know you’re terrible at letting go.”
The plane lifts, pressing you back into the seat. You try to focus on your breathing, instead of the storage room, or his hands, or his touch.
“You’re thinking too hard,” He observes.
“Shut the hell up.”
“You’re welcome for the ride, by the way,” He adds, gesturing vaguely around, “If I hadn’t won, this jet would be way less fun right now.”
You bark out a disbelieving half-laugh, “You think this is fun? The only reason this plane isn’t a shitshow is because Ferrari hasn’t had time to print my termination letter yet.”
He turns his head, looks at you, and there’s an odd flicker behind his eyes, “You’re not getting fired.”
“You don’t know that though.”
”I do,” He shifts, knee knocking gently against yours, “They like winning too much and whether they want to admit it or not, you make shit interesting. They’ll milk that before they dump you.”
You stare at him, thrown by the backhanded comfort. “Thanks,” You say flatly, “I’ll add that to my resume. Makes shit interesting.”
He grins, slow and sharp, “You forgot takes Satoru Gojo like a fucking champ in storage rooms.”
Your breath catches. You lunge for the seatbelt latch on instinct, nails scraping metal, “I’m switching seats.”
His hand closes over yours, “Don’t.”
You freeze as he holds your gaze; thumb resting at the base of your fingers, heat seeping through your skin.
From the outside, it probably looks like nothing—two teammates going over something; a light touch, harmless. But you know better.
Everyone else on this jet might be thinking about setups and tire compounds. Whereas he’s remembering the exact angle your back arched when he fucked you.
You rip your hand away, “Stop doing that.”
His smile tilts, “Doing what?”
”Acting like you know what’s best for me.”
“I don’t,” He says simply, “I just know what you’ll do.”
You hate how true that sounds.
The seatbelt sign dings off. People unbuckle, shift, grab drinks, open laptops.
You stay locked in place, staring at the seat in front of you as if it will make time move faster.
Twenty minutes into the flight, the jet hits a pocket of turbulence. The cabin shudders and your hand shoots to the armrest before you can stop it.
His fingers brush the back of yours as he does the same, “Relax,” He murmurs again, tone irritatingly calm, “It’s just air.”
”Didn’t realize you were a pilot now, too.”
“I’m good with control,” He says under his breath, “On the track, in the air. In closets behind garages.”
Your drag your gaze to him, “You’re repulsive.”
“And you’re turned on.”
You almost laugh in his face, “You are genuinely delusional.”
He leans in just an inch closer, you can feel his breath at your temple, “You didn’t say no. Not once.”
You pulse flares, hot and traitorous. You look away, “I didn’t say yes to being treated like shit after.”
His jaw flexes, “Alright. Noted.”
Silence stretches between you—thin, brittle, and for once, he doesn’t fill it.
The rest of the short flight passes in fragments. Luca leaning over to talk tire strategy, PR coming by to remind you of sponsor appearances, one of the engineers cracking a joke about Monaco barriers, laughter buzzing in pockets around the cabin.
You speak when you have to. You don’t look at the man beside you unless you can’t help it.
Every time you forget, though, the plane reminds you you’re trapped together—another bump of turbulence, another brush of knees when someone squeezes past in the aisle, another whiff of his cologne when he stretches.
By the time the captain announces descent into Nice, your shoulders ache from how hard you’ve been clenching them.
Outside the window, the Mediterranean appears in sudden swatches of blinding blue. The shoreline curls like a painted line, small white boats cut through the water like parentheses.
“Welcome to the circus,” Gojo says, glancing past you at the view.
“Thought we were already there.”
He smiles, “Austria was a warm-up.”
The landing is smooth. The jet rolls to a stop beside a row of other private planes, some you recognize from opposing teams, some from sponsors.
As soon as the door opens, you can hear it. Muffled at first, then clearer as people stand and start pulling bags from the overheads. Voices and shouting and cameras.
You’re funneled off the plane in a loose line, management first, then drivers, then staff.
The air outside is different from Austria. Warmer, saltier, heavy with sea and wealth.
There’s a low barrier set up just beyond the edge of the tarmac where fans and photographers have already gathered, telephoto lenses and team caps and phones all pointed in the same direction.
At you.
At him.
At the narrative.
Someone shouts your name, someone else shouts his; a dozen cameras fire at once. You put your sunglasses back on like a shield.
Gojo slips into that effortless public persona like it’s a second skin—smiling, waving, a quick three finger salute to a group of fans holding a banner with his name.
You keep walking, expression calm, posture straight. You give a tight smile to a young girl holding a hand-drawn sign with your number and a shaky GO (Y/N)! under it.
Her face lights up like you made her entire year and it hits you harder than it should.
“(Y/N)! Over here—did Ferrari discipline you after Austria?”
“Are tensions with Gojo affecting your focus?”
“Are you worried about your seat for next year?”
Questions fly at you like stones, but you don’t answer any, you just keep walking.
Gojo falls into step beside you for the cameras. A PR wet dream—two Ferrari drivers framed in the same shot.
He slots just close enough that if someone takes a photo wide, it’ll look like you’re walking together.
He speaks without turning his head, “Smile,” He mumbles, “You’re in Monaco, not your own funeral.”
“You sure?” You ask, “Feels like they’re here to bury me.”
He tilts his head, giving a reporter a photogenic half-grin as he answers some harmless question. Underneath it, he mutters, “You’re not that easy to get rid of.”
You don’t know if it’s an insult or a compliment, and you don’t even bother to ask.
The team shuttle whisks you from the airport to the hotel, a towering glass and marble monument perched above the harbor. Inside, the lobby is cool and quiet, the air scented with something expensive and floral; a massive chandelier hangs overhead, catching light like a thousand stars.
Ferrari has essentially colonized a chunk of the place—red lanyards everywhere, branded gear, a couple of familiar journalists lurking at the bar.
Check in is a controlled mess. Team coordinator at the desk, staff lined up with passports, front desk clerks clicking away at keyboards, a tray of welcome drinks sweating on a side table.
You queue up behind Gojo, arms folded, backpack slung over one shoulder, and can feel the exhaustion starting to crawl up your spine; a dull ache behind your eyes.
The coordinator—Francesca, perpetually frazzled, clutching a clipboard like a lifeline, turns to you.
“Okay,” She breathes, trying to sound calm, “So, small issue with the room block.”
You exhale slowly, “Define small.”
She winces, “They overbooked one of the floors. Someone messed up with the suite allocations. We can fix it for tomorrow, but for tonight…” She glances between you and Gojo like she’s stepped into a minefield, “You two are on the same floor. Adjoining rooms.”
Your stomach drops, “Adjoining?” You repeat.
“As in—connected by a door,” Gojo translates unhelpfully, lips twitching with amusement.
“I know what adjoining means,” You snap.
Francesca rushes on, “Look, it’s just for one night. They’re fully booked for the rest. We already had to move two engineers to a different hotel.”
“Give him a different room,” You say instantly, “Or put me somewhere else. I don’t care if it’s a broom closet.”
Gojo makes a wounded noise, “Rude.”
Francesca looks pained, “I can’t. The other rooms on your floor are singles and too small. You both have media commitments in the lobby at seven, so you need to be accessible. This is the only solution for tonight.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose, “Fantastic.”
Gojo leans one elbow on the check in counter like this is the best news he’s heard all week, “I’m fine with it,” He coos easily, “Team spirit, right?”
You shoot him a look, “You don’t have a problem with anything that gets you attention.”
He smiles, unabashed, “Or proximity.”
Francesca tosses two keycards at you both before this can spiral further in front of the poor receptionist, “Room 1704 and 1706,” She huffs briskly, “Please—just…try not to kill each other. Or, I don’t know, break the connecting door. We’ll fix it tomorrow. Promise.”
You snatch your keycard, mutter a tight “thank you” and head for the elevators.
Gojo falls into step like your shadow, “You don’t have to walk with me.”
”I know,” He says, “I’m choosing to.”
“You’re a masochist.”
“You’re assuming I’m the one who’s going to suffer.”
The elevator is one of those glass kinds, sliding up along the outside of the building. You watch the lobby drop away, the Monaco harbor coming into view in pieces—yachts bobbing gently, cranes on the horizon, the tight cluster of buildings stacked up the hills like bricks in a wall.
Your reflection stands beside his in the glass.
You in black leggings and Ferrari jacket, sunglasses pushed up into your hair now. Him in joggers and hoodie, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed.
If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think you looked like teammates rather than rivals.
The doors slide open on floor seventeen. The hallway is plush carpet and soft lighting, artwork on the walls that probably cost more than your first kart.
The doors to your rooms sit so close the handles could knock.
You stick your keycard in and push the door open, expecting—hoping, he’ll just go into his and leave you the hell alone.
Instead, he pauses in the doorway of his room, half-turned toward you, “Try not to have nightmares. Monaco walls are unforgiving.”
You snort, “Says the man who almost ended up in one last year.”
He grins, “But I didn’t.
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Oh sweetheart,” He murmurs, voice dropping into something warm and wicked, “That’s literally what you were doing when I had you—”
“I’ll strangle you with your lanyard.”
He lifts both hands like he’s surrendering, but his piercing blues glimmer, taunting, “Calm down,” He purrs, leaning against his doorframe, “I was just going to say—”
He pauses, head titling, eyes dragging over your body with unhurried heat, “—you didn’t look so confident when you were shaking under me.”
Your stomach drops straight through the carpet, “That storage room must’ve been colder than I thought,” He muses, “Couldn’t tell if you were trembling from the chill or from the way I kept—”
“Goodnight, Gojo.”
You slam your door shut hard, the echo ringing down the hallway and stand there for a second, heart pounding, breath uneven, palms pressed to the wood like you need it to hold you up.
Eventually, you peel yourself away and step into the room.
It’s gorgeous—soft light, a king bed, floor-to-ceiling windows showing the faint shimmer of the Monaco marina, but you barely see any of it.
You toss your bag onto the chair and flick off your shoes with hands shaking from everything you won’t let yourself feel.
You take a shower, change into a tank top and shorts, brush your teeth, and by the time you crawl into bed, your phone buzzes—Dad.
You hesitate, then swipe to answer, “Hey,” You manage, softer than you’ve spoken in days.
“Hi, Sweetheart,” His voice is warm and grounding, “You made it to Monaco?”
“Yeah,” You say, laying flat on your back, staring into space, “Just getting ready for bed.”
There’s a pause, the type that means he’s choosing his words, “I saw Austria.”
“I know.”
“You raced your heart out,” He says, “Don’t let anyone rewrite that.”
Your jaw trembles, you clench it, “Ferrari isn’t thrilled.”
“No shit,” He chuckles gently, “But listen—you’re there because you earned it. Not because of Gojo. Not because of PR. You. And they’d be idiots to let you go.”
You exhale slowly, blinking hard, “And that teammate of yours? He adds, tone shifting, “He’s a handful, huh?”
Your chest seizes. You look instinctively toward the adjoining door, but don’t hear anything.
You keep your voice steady, “He’s…difficult.”
“I don’t care how pretty his lap times are,” Your father says, “You’re just as good. Better. Don’t let some cocky golden boy shake your confidence.”
A small laugh breaks out of you, “Dad…”
“What?”
“He’s…really cocky.”
“Then beat him,” He delineates simply, “On track. Off track. Wherever he tries you.”
Your breath stutters, you don’t respond.
He softens, “I’m proud of you, (Y/N). Austria didn’t change that. Nothing will.”
Your eyes sting, “Thanks, dad.”
“Call me before quali,” He coos, “I want to hear your voice when you kick his ass.”
You giggle at that, “I will. I love you.”
“Love you more, sweetheart.”
You hang up the phone, wipe your eyes, and breathe.
And then, a knock—the adjoining door.
Your heart stops. You sit up from the bed and stare at it, pulse skittering, and don’t move.
There’s another knock, softer, but somehow smug.
This time you stand, your feet carry you across the carpet even though your brain is screaming don’t do it.
Your fingers hover the lock, and you do exactly what you know you shouldn’t.
You open it.
Gojo fills the doorway on the other side, hoodie off now, just a white t-shirt hanging loose over his joggers, hair slightly mussed like he ran his hands through it once.
His expression is infuriatingly calm, as if he didn’t just hear your entire conversation. He rests one arm on the doorframe, leaning in.
“So,” He murmurs, voice low, “Your dad doesn’t like me.”
Your stomach drops as you come to the realization that he heard every single word.
You clench your jaw, “Gojo—”
“He’s wrong, you know,” That lazy half-smile cuts through you, “I’m much worse than he thinks.”
You suck in a breath, “What the hell do you want?”
He steps in, closing the distance a fraction, “You sounded upset.”
“I wasn’t.”
He hums, “Liar.”
Your throat goes dry, “I didn’t invite you in.”
He drags one knuckle down the doorframe, eyes dropping to your mouth, then lower, slow enough to heat your skin, “You don’t have to,” He says softly, “If I wanted in…”
His eyes lift, “…you’d already be on the bed.”
Your breath hitches and he notices instantly, “Your dad thinks I’m shaking your confidence,” He leans in closer, voice brushing your lips, “I’m not.”
Your pulse kicks so loud you swear he hears it, “I’m just shaking you.”
“Gojo,” You warn—except it doesn’t sound like a warning at all.
He tilts his head, studying you, reading you too easily, “You’re worked up. Stressed. Angry.”
His voice drops to something molten, “Let me fix it.”
“Fuck off,” You curse, weak and breathless.
He smiles like you just agreed, “I heard you,” He notes quietly, stepping inside your room and gently pushing the adjoining door shut behind him, “Talking to him. Trying to sound strong.”
Your breath hitches as he steps closer, “You don’t have to do that with me.”
You swallow hard and whisper, “Get out.”
“Say it like you mean it.”
You can’t, he sees it.
Under the warm gold light of the hotel room, he brings one hand up, tracing his fingertips just barely down your arm, “You want to forget today? Yesterday?
You don’t respond.
“You want your head quiet?”
Your lungs tighten. He leans in, mouth at your ear, voice pure sin, “Then let me taste you.”
A violent shiver rips down your spine. You grab his wrist, not to stop him, but to steady yourself.
His smile curves low and devastating, “I’ll take that as a yes.”
You don’t stop him when he walks you backward toward the bed.
You don’t stop him when he sinks to his knees in front of you.
And then he looks up at you like he’s about to ruin you, “Lie back.”
You do as he says.
He grabs your hips, pulls you forward to the edge of the bed, and murmurs, “Good girl.”
Your breath breaks as he slides his hands up your bare thighs, thumbs brushing the waistband of your shorts, “Lift.”
Once again you listen and he peels the shorts down slowly, watching your face more than your body—the tension, the heat, the way you don’t breathe as your panties come into view.
He presses his cheek to your inner thigh, “Still mad?”
You try to answer, but nothing comes out.
He noses higher, “Still want me to get out?”
You shake your head once, tiny, humiliating, and he smirks against your skin, “I know.”
He hooks his fingers in your panties and drags them down, slow enough to make you tremble. Then he settles between your knees, hands sliding under your thighs to pull them over his shoulders, spreading you open for his mouth.
He peers up at you, blue eyes dark, half-lidded and starved, “Tell me to stop.”
You open your mouth, yet there’s nothing but silence. His smile is pure victory, “That’s what I thought.”
Then, his mouth is on you—hot, slow, deep.
You gasp, loud and helpless, your hand shooting to his hair, gripping before you can stop yourself. He groans into you, signaling that he likes it.
He licks you like he’s savoring something he’s wanted since he’s met you. Long, languid drags of his tongue, then soft sucking at your clit that makes your hips jerk.
“Oh…God—”
He tightens his grip on your thighs, pinning you in place, “Stay still,” He mumbles against you, “Let me.”
But you can’t. You’re shaking. He sucks a little harder and your head drops back onto the mattress with a broken sound, “Gojo—”
He pulls back just enough to speak, mouth wet against your inner thigh, “Satoru.”
Your eyes fly open, “Say it,” He presses.
You swallow, chest heaving, his first name feeling foreign when it leaves you, “S—Satoru…”
He moans—actually moans, and goes back in; tongue working you with devastating precision, slow at first, then faster when your thighs start to tremble around his head.
Your hand fists his hair, “Fuck—” You gasp, hips bucking despite yourself.
He pins you harder, “Let go for me,” He mutters against your clit, “Come on.”
You shake your head, breath shattered, “I—can’t—”
“Yes. You can,” He growls, mouth sealing over you, sucking deep, and then you break.
Everything snaps tight and floods out of you all at once, pleasure ripping through your spine so hard you cry out, thighs clamping instinctively around his head.
He holds you through all of it; licking you slow as your body jerks, kissing you through the aftershocks, breathing heavy against your skin like he’s drunk on it.
When you finally collapse back onto the mattress, shaking, he kisses the inside of your thigh once lazily, pleased.
Then he looks up at you, lips glossy and pupils blown, “Told you. You needed me.”
You can’t breathe. He rests his chin on your thigh, smirking up at you, “And before you say anything…”
He lifts a hand and wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb, “…I’m not done.”
Your stomach drops and he grins like he already knows. Your heartbeat is still stumbling through the aftermath when he finally lifts his head from between your legs.
His hair is messy from your hands, his breathing is uneven in that way he tries and fails to hide.
He looks wrecked by you and somehow that makes the heat pulse even lower.
He drags his palms up your thighs, slow enough to make your breath catch again, then braces his hands on the mattress on either side of your hips and rises to his feet.
“One barely took the edge off.”
Your pulse slams, “Gojo—”
“Satoru,” He corrects, shaking his head once, eyes narrowing with a dangerous kind of pleasure, “You don’t get to fall apart on my tongue and then go back to being formal.”
You swallow, throat dry, “I didn’t—I mean, that wasn’t—”
“That was you,” He says, stepping closer to the bed, “Trying not to scream.”
Your face burns, “And this—” He murmurs, lowering himself onto the mattress beside your legs, “—is you pretending you don’t want more.”
Your breath snags as he climbs onto the bed, prowling and pushing your knees apart with the same casual ownership he used in the garage.
Except here, there’s no threat of someone walking in.
Here it’s just the two of you, a locked door, and the sound of your breath quivering as he crawls along your body.
He stops over you, one knee between your thighs, one hand beside your head.
His face hovers above yours, lips barely grazing your cheekbone, “Let me see you.”
Your fingers curl in the sheets, “I can’t,” You breathe—not because you don’t want to, but because looking him in the eye like this feels like a confession of something you don’t have language for.
He smirks against your skin, “That’s the problem. You think this is about losing control.”
His nose traces along your jaw and your breath hitches. His voice drops lower, filthier, intimate enough to unravel bone.
“You don’t lose control with me—” He places a soft kiss under your ear, “—you just finally stop pretending.”
A shock runs straight through your chest, “Satoru—”
He kisses the underside of your jaw again, slow, reverent, and sinful, “Say it again.”
You grip his shirt, weakly, desperately, “Satoru…”
His breath stutters and that’s when he kisses you hard.
It isn’t frantic like the collision in the storage room. It’s not a rushed, hungry thing born of adrenaline and fury.
This kiss is slow, possessive, and dirty in the way it lingers. His tongue slides against yours, his hand cups the side of your face like he’s been waiting to do this somewhere he could take his time.
You moan into his mouth, unable to stop it.
He smiles into the kiss—greedy, satisfied, and shifts lower, kissing down your throat, across the place where his fingerprints bloomed yesterday.
When he reaches your chest, he pauses, looking up at you from beneath his pale lashes, “Lift your arms.”
You hesitate and he cocks his head, “Don’t make me do it for you.”
The way he says it makes you listen; you lift and he peels your tank top over your head in one thoughtless motion, dropping it somewhere off the edge of the bed.
Now you’re fully naked beneath him and for the first time today, he goes entirely silent.
There’s no smirk or taunts. He just nails his eyes on you; dark, blown wide, pupils swallowing the blue.
His hands slide up your ribs, slow as sin, until his thumbs brush under your breasts. You inhale sharply while he lowers his head.
“Tell me no,” He murmurs, lips hovering over your skin, “Tell me you don’t want me.”
You can’t. Instead, your hips lift, your breath catches, your fingers tangle in his hair, and he smiles—wicked and triumphant.
“You don’t say no to me,” He whispers, “Not when it counts.”
Then he closes his mouth over your nipple, hot and purposeful, tongue circling in a way that makes your back arch off the bed, “Fuck—God…Satoru.”
His grip on your waist tightens. He sucks harder and heat floods you, dizzy and immediate. He shifts lower, kissing your sternum, letting his teeth scrape lightly down the center of your stomach, until he’s exactly where he started.
Between your thighs.
He looks up at you again, “This time,” He says softly,” You’re not going to hold back.”
“Satoru—”
He kisses the inside of your knee, “I want to hear you,” He kisses higher, “I want the whole hotel to know.”
Your breath shatters. He drags you to the edge of the bed again, hands firm, deliberate, and lowers his mouth to you for the second time.
But this time, he doesn’t start slow—he devours you.
Tongue deep, pressure perfect, obscene sounds slipping from his throat as he eats you like he’s ravenous—like he’s competing with the memory of his own mouth from five minutes ago and determined to outdo himself.
Your hands fly to his hair, your hips jolt, your legs tremble violently around his head, “Satoru! I—wait, I can’t—”
He moans against you, low, satisfied, and mutters into your skin, “You’re going to.”
His grip tightens and then another orgasm hits.
Pleasure breaks over you so hard your vision whites out. You’re shaking, crying out, arching so sharply your spine leaves the bed, and he holds you in place.
He lets you fall apart on his mouth a second time, fingers bruising your hips, groaning into you like he can’t get enough, licking you through every convulsion until you collapse backward—limp and gasping.
He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then climbs up your body, chest pressed to yours, breath warm against your cheek, “Good girl.”
You can’t speak because you’re trembling everywhere. He ghosts his lips over your jaw, “You’re welcome.”
He smirks like he can taste the aftershocks still rolling through you, “Cute,” He mumbles, brushing your hair off your cheek with the back of his fingers, “Didn’t even know what to do with yourself.”
You find your voice, barely, “Satoru—get off.”
He chuckles, low and dark, “Sweetheart, I just got you off.”
You shove at his chest, weak, half-hearted, useless. He moves, but only because he chooses to. He pushes up slowly, body dragging over yours, leaving a trail of heat down your skin as he lifts himself off the bed.
He stands beside it, breathing still uneven, snowy hair scuffled, mouth swollen, and shirt wrinkled from where your fists clutched it.
You’ve never seen him look both so ruined and so proud.
He drags a hand through his hair and huffs a breath that might be a laugh, “Well,” He says, glancing down at you sprawled out, wrecked, and panting, “Your dad was half right.”
Your eyes narrow, “Shut up.”
He grins, filthy and victorious, “He thinks I get in your head and I do.”
You glare at him, but your body betrays you, still flushed, chest rising too quick, thighs quivering.
He tilts his head, eyes dropping to your legs like he’s memorizing the sight, “Just didn’t realize I’d also get between your legs this easily.”
“Get. Out.”
He gives a mock salute and steps back toward the adjoining door, but he pauses, hand on the knob, because he can’t resist one more line.
He turns his head just enough for you to meet his eyes, “Next time,” He says, voice low and promising, “Sit on my face properly.”
Your breath stutters and he smiles like he hears it, “Night, princess.”
He slips through the door and closes it behind him with a soft, infuriating click.
The room goes quiet. The only sound is your rapid heartbeat and the faint echo of his smug, ruined voice.
And the next morning arrives quickly.
Your alarm goes off at 5:30 and you jolt awake like someone ripped you out of a nightmare.
Except it wasn’t a nightmare.
It was Satoru Gojo.
Your thighs are sore, your voice feels raw, your brain is a muddied battlefield.
You shower, dress in your Ferrari Friday kit—red polo, fitted black trousers, sunglasses ready.
Today is Free Practice 1.
Your chance to reset, take back the narrative, and prove Austria wasn’t the beginning of your downfall.
You walk through the paddock tunnel, past photographers already buzzing, past VIPs sipping early drinks, past fans pressed up against the barricades screaming your name and Gojo’s in equal measure.
And for the first time since the crash, you feel focused. Then, you hear it.
“(Y/N)!” You turn sharply.
Marco Rivera—Red Bull’s talented rookie, all dimples and sunshine and painfully earnest brown eyes, breaks away from his trainer and jogs toward you, waving like the sweetest idiot alive.
A Spaniard. He’s only twenty-one, but looks younger and he’s always been nice.
Too nice for this world. Too nice for you.
He beams when he reaches you.
“You look ready to kill it today,” He observes, breathless, cheeks flushed from running, “Seriously—you were incredible last weekend. I know everyone’s being dramatic, but you were fighting so hard. It was…I don’t know, inspiring?”
You blink, compliments feel foreign after the last 48 hours.
He rubs the back of his neck, awkward and adorable, “And—uh—I actually, um…I was wondering if maybe I could walk with you? Just to hospitality. If that’s not weird?”
You can’t help it, your mouth twitches toward a smile, but before you can answer, another voice slices through the air like a knife dipped in malice.
“She can’t.”
You don’t have to turn. You feel him behind you—Gojo.
Marco stiffens and you exhale sharply through your nose.
Gojo slides up beside you, sunglasses on, expression lazy and lethal, “Morning,” He says to you, tone dripping with something only the two of you hear.
Marco shifts uncomfortably, “Uh—hey, Gojo. I was just—”
“Trying your luck,” Gojo finishes for him, mouth curving.
Marco flushes, “No, I was just—”
“Shooting your shot?” Gojo adds cheerfully.
“Just saying good luck.”
“Cute.”
Marco’s ears go bright red, “Okay, look—”
Gojo cuts him a sharp, wolfish grin, “Just so you know, Rivera—she screams.”
Your stomach drops, Marco chokes, “Wh—What?”
Gojo taps your lower back lightly—possessive, confident, like he’s daring you to react.
“Practice,” Gojo clarified, cruelly sweet, “When the car bottoms out in the tunnel. Scares her every time. Right, sweetheart?”
Your jaw clenches, “Gojo—”
He ignores you completely, “But don’t worry,” He continues casually, “I helped her work through that last night.”
Marco blinks. Once. Twice, “…work through…what?”
Gojo tilts his head, pretending to think, “Her…tension.”
You elbow him, sharp and warning. He smiles only wider.
Marco’s entire face goes red, eyes wide, all confused and embarrassed, “I should—uh—go. Engineering meeting.”
He almost trips as he backs away, mumbling something that sounds like “good luck today”, before disappearing down the paddock walkway like he’s escaping death.
Gojo watches him leave, satisfied.
You round on him the second Marco is out of earshot, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
He shrugs, “You want the short list or the long one?”
wc: ~11k | cw: angst, smut, formula 1 au! f1 gojo/racer gojo x f1/racer reader! explicit language, use of alcohol, oral sex (female receiving), praising, unprotected sex, creampie, suggestive themes, obsession/toxic relationship, jealousy, rivals to lovers, slow burn.
summary: after winning the las vegas grand prix, the games between you and golden boy, satoru gojo, turn volatile.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
VEGAS DOESN’T SLEEP.
And apparently, neither do you.
The Grand Prix ended hours ago, but the Strip still glows like a pulse in the desert, bright enough to bleed through the windows of your hotel room.
Every casino plays the same highlight reel on repeat; your overtake on the McLaren, your fist in the air, the checkered flag waving above you, your face lit with victory.
Yet, all it feels like background noise to something even bigger—hotter.
Your voice is raw from interviews, shoulders aching from lifting the trophy; your hair still smells faintly of champagne even after the shower you took minutes ago.
You sit on the edge of the bed, towel wrapped around you, staring at the merciless glow outside.
You should feel spent and utterly wrung out, floating somewhere between exhaustion and relief.
But you don’t feel any of that.
You feel restless.
Restless in a way that makes your skin feel unbearably tight; your heart skitters like your body hasn’t realized the race is over, telling you that you have unfinished business.
You drag a hand through your damp hair and try to slow your breathing, it doesn’t work.
Because the race didn’t drain you. It cracked you open and Gojo lodged himself in the space it created.
Every time you blink, you see him again on the podium—hair plastered to his forehead, champagne sliding down the line of his throat, and suit unzipped to his sternum; sapphire eyes fixed on you with a quiet, dangerous intensity that didn’t belong on live television.
He looked at you like he was balancing on the edge of something he couldn’t step away from and didn’t quite want to.
And maybe that’s why your heartbeat hasn’t slowed since.
You stand abruptly, energy shivering through your bones. Staying in the hotel room feels impossible, like if you sit still, you’ll drown in the thoughts that flood your brain.
You cross to your suitcase, fingers hovering for a moment before reaching the only dress that makes sense tonight.
Red, short, a little reckless and dangerous. Exactly the level of trouble you feel brewing under your skin.
You pull it out and step into it before you can talk yourself down.
The fabric slips over your body like a second skin, like it had been waiting for this moment even if you hadn’t.
Heels come next, then jewelry and light makeup, just enough to underline the sharpness in your eyes. You leave your hair loose and wild, fitting for a night out in Sin City.
When you catch your reflection, you look nothing like the exhausted rookie who should be asleep.
You look like someone who won the Las Vegas Grand Prix and isn’t finished winning.
And like clockwork, your phone buzzes on the nightstand. An Instagram DM from the football player who walked up to you like divine intervention.
@jhale10: miracle. we’re downstairs at the casino. come take the table from us
@jhale10: unless you fold early?
You let out a soft laugh and type back.
@(y/n)(l/n): i don’t fold
@(y/n)(l/n): warm up the roulette wheel. i’m coming
You grab your purse and before you can take a step, there’s a knock.
He stares at you. Then at the dress, at your hair, at your heels, and visibly forgets how to blink.
“Oh,” He says finally, “Okay, so tonight is…that kind of night.”
“What kind of night?” You ask, leaning on the doorframe.
“The kind of night where every man in a ten-mile radius loses his mind,” He mutters, “I knew I should’ve gone to bed.”
You brush past him with a faint smile, “Relax. We’re just going to the casino.”
“That’s exactly what worries me,” Luca sighs behind you, sounding like a man defeated, “Should I pretend I don’t know who you’re really dressing up for?”
You step into the elevator without looking back, “Probably.”
The doors slide shut and your reflection stares back at you in the mirrored walls; all precise lines with bright eyes and victory still humming in your veins.
Vegas didn’t let you rest and deep down, you didn’t want to.
Not tonight, when your game still remains incomplete.
You won the race. Now, it’s time to win it all.
The elevator doors open to a wall of heat, noise, and neon.
The Bellagio’s casino floor stretches out before you like a living thing—gold light shimmering across polished marble, slot machines chiming in hypnotic rhythms, the low thrum of bass from the nightclub upstairs sinking into your bones.
People move in waves; tourists with drinks, high-rollers in tailored suits, dealers in crisp vests shuffling cards with muscle memory. It’s the kind of havoc that feels orchestrated, expensive, and inevitable.
Your heels click against the marble as you step forward and it’s ridiculous how the entire casino seems to shift when you enter, like someone adjusted the lighting to find you or maybe it’s just that you feel different, sharper and charged.
You walk through the crowd with a grace you didn’t know you had left after a fifty-lap dogfight.
“Miracle!” Someone shouts from a craps table.
You glance over—men in jerseys and women in cocktail dresses lift champagne glasses toward you.
“P1 in Vegas, baby! Take our luck!”
You laugh, nod, and keep walking. Not because you’re rude, but because you’re on a mission.
And then, a hand lifts from the high-limit roulette room—Jordan Hale.
He’s lounging against a velvet rope like he owns the casino, blue suit fitting him like it was tailored by God himself. His smile appears the moment he sees you; slow, impressed, and dangerous.
He mouths, “there she is.”
Your spine straightens without your permission.
You cross the threshold into the high-limit room and it’s quieter here; carpeted floors absorbing the noise, low chandeliers casting warm pools of light, velvet walls muffling the rest of Vegas.
It’s the type of place where millionaires gamble emotions they can afford to lose and billionaires gamble the ones they can’t.
Jordan steps forward, hands in his pockets, eyes dragging down the red dress and back up, appreciative and absolutely aware.
“Damn…” He murmurs, voice rich enough to pour over ice, “You clean up…beautifully.”
“Thank you,” You smile, ”Did you warm the table like I said?”
“I did,” He says, laughing under his breath, “But then you walked in and messed with the climate.”
Your pulse ticks, only because he’s flirting and doing it far too well.
He gestures toward the roulette table with two seats open—the one beside him and the one directly facing the main walkway of the high-limit room.
You take the forward-facing seat, prime position.
Jordan pulls out your chair with a gentleman’s ease and mutters, “I thought I was gonna have to drag you out of that hotel room. Guess not.”
You smirk as you rest your hands on the felt table, fingers lightly brushing the velvet, pulse synced to the spinning wheel as the dealer sets up the next round.
Jordan leans back, spreading an arm casually along the chair beside yours; easy in his own charming way.
“So,” He says, grin widening, “What’s your number tonight?”
You shoot him a look that’s all teeth and confidence, “Hm, number ten is calling out to me.”
Jordan chuckles softly, surprised and delighted, “My jersey number? I thought your dad was the fan.”
You slide a chip across the table, slow and deliberate, until it reaches the even digit, “Now I’m one too.”
His eyes flick down briefly to your mouth, then back to your eyes. He picks up a chip and twirls it once between his fingers thoughtfully, amused.
“Well,” He says, nudging your wrist gently with his knuckles, “If you’re betting on me…”
He places the chip firmly on the number twenty-three—your number, “…I should return the favor.”
He leans back, hands raised in surrender, “Can’t have you out-flirting me before we even start.”
You feel the smile curve unbidden across your lips. It’s stupid how charismatic he is, how easy he makes it feel, how clean his intentions are.
None of it is complicated—which is exactly why you’re using him.
You settle back in your chair, perfectly composed, “Good choice.”
Jordan smirks, “Pretty sure I just improved my odds.”
You’re about to reply, about to make some effortless comeback and lean into the flirtation just enough to make the room spark, when the air shifts.
Not with sound or motion, but presence.
A pressure across the back of your shoulders, a pull low in your stomach, a hum under your skin like your entire body just remembered a faded memory.
Your breath catches and you don’t need to look to know.
He’s here—somewhere behind you, in the crowd and in your orbit.
The dealer calls, “Final bets, please.”
You lean forward, place one more chip again on ten because you know he’s watching, and the weight behind you grows stronger.
Then, a voice; low and smooth, and all too familiar.
“Blackjack table looks full tonight.” Gojo drawls, tone nearly bored but sharp as a blade hidden in silk.
Jordan raises a brow, entertained and you don’t turn, not yet.
Gojo continues, still unseen, voice pitched to travel across the room and slice through the quiet, “Funny. I walk in and suddenly roulette’s the most popular game in the room.”
Jordan mumbles, “Your teammate?”
“Unfortunately.”
“He walks around like the casino owes him money.”
You exhale through your nose, “He thinks everything owes him something.”
He chuckles, “Good thing I don’t.”
The wheel slows and still, you don’t turn; Gojo’s proximity is like heat licking up your spine.
Jordan watches your face more than the wheel, Gojo watches you without even being in your line of sight, and you—you inhale and finally turn your head.
He’s at the blackjack table across the room, leaned back in a velvet chair like sin manifested; black shirt unbuttoned a little too low, sleeves rolled to his elbows, chips stacked in front of him like a kingdom he barely cares about.
The model from that day sits beside him; crossed legs, glossy lips, nails tracing patterns on his forearm.
Of course he brought her; he’s playing the game just like you and is determined to win.
Although, he doesn’t look at her—not once. His pale blue eyes are glued on you.
Sharp and hungry, possessive in a way that makes heat pool low in your abdomen; like you’re the only real thing in the room and that’s the problem.
You lift your chin, Jordan smirks, “He’s staring like he’s about to intercept.”
And the ball drops onto ten.
Jordan’s grin is immediate and bright, “My number,” He glances at your two chips on ten, “And you won too. Look at that.”
Another beat added to the game.
Gojo’s lips curve dangerously, but not at your win.
At the fact that you bet on another man’s number and he bet on yours; and you did it purposely for him to see everything.
Jordan sits back, smug, “Guess your luck walked in early tonight.”
You don’t look away from Gojo when you answer, “Oh, I think luck’s just getting started.”
Gojo’s jaw tightens hard, because you bet on each other’s numbers like it meant something, and it does.
This is a new battleground, a new provocation.
A new round of the game and you’re already winning.
The dealer sweeps away the chips, calls for new bets, and Jordan is already reaching for another stack when his eyes flick toward the blackjack table.
“Your boy looks twitchy.”
You follow his gaze and catch the exact moment the model leans in close to Gojo’s ear, whispering something soft and breathy.
This time, he lets her.
Worse—he turns toward her.
He angles his body so she can lean in fully, her lips grazing dangerously close to his cheek as she murmurs, giggling.
Gojo chuckles, a low, smooth sound meant for you; your blood flares.
Jordan notices instantly, “He flirting to piss you off?”
“Yes,” You say, voice too even, “And it’s working.”
“Then let’s play dirty.”
You can do dirty.
You lean in closer to Jordan and your knee brushes his, your perfume clinging to his collar.
His smile goes wicked as he whispers, “So we’re playing for keeps?”
“Always.”
He tilts his chin toward the felt, “Then let’s make this round interesting.”
He places three chips on twenty-three, knowing Gojo can see it, and you place two more beside his on ten.
Across the room, Gojo freezes a fraction.
Then the model laughs loud, like bells, drawing every eye back to their table. She touches Gojo’s jaw with manicured fingers; you watch her thumb graze the sharp curve of his face.
He doesn’t pull away. In fact, he leans into the contact.
“Does this table treat you well?” She purrs.
Gojo’s voice warms intentionally, “Not as well as you could.”
You look straight across the room and into Gojo’s blue, razor-edged, daring stare, “No.”
The dealer calls for bets. Gojo speaks first this time, projecting enough to travel, “Hit me.”
He doesn’t even look at his cards, he just looks at you.
The model laughs, trailing her nails up his bicep, “You’re bold tonight. I like that.”
Gojo turns to her and smiles slowly and devastatingly; the kind that once made you dizzy and at times, still does.
“Bold works better around the right people.”
You nearly choke, Jordan whispers, “He’s trying to kill you.”
“No,” You say, forcing your hands steady, “He’s trying to win.”
“So let’s not let him.”
The roulette wheel spins and Jordan’s arm settles behind your chair again, barely brushing your shoulder.
You lean back into the chair and almost into him, but not entirely. The two of you are so close that Gojo notices and you know that because his jaw is clenched, his fingers are flexed, and he shifts in his seat like something under his skin sparked.
Then the model laughs again, this time softer, her hair touching his cheek, “You’re so fun, Satoru.”
Gojo tilts his head toward her, pale eyes warm, “I can be.”
Your pulse spikes—jealousy bitter enough to taste, but Jordan cuts in before it can take over.
“Look at him,” He whispers, “He’s rattled.”
You turn and he is, because the wheel lands on ten. Again.
And Jordan is the first to react, low whistle between his teeth, stunned laughter bubbling out, “Two for two and we stacked it.”
Your winnings multiply, chips sweeping in your direction. Jordan lifts your hand and presses a playful kiss to your knuckles. Not romantic, but purely performative and perfectly timed.
You don’t stop him.
Across the room, Gojo goes still like a predator sniffing blood; like jealousy and rage and desire braided together inside him.
The model touches his thigh, smiling and unaware. Gojo doesn’t even blink.
Jordan laughs and murmurs, “We’re hot tonight.”
You smile sharply, eyes locked on Gojo, “Feels good to win.”
Gojo’s lips curl with challenge and warning. He leans in closer to the model and brushes a piece of her hair behind her ear.
“You’re stunning tonight.”
She beams; your stomach flips with anger, hot and bright. Jordan senses it and leans in too, breath fanning your jaw.
“You okay?”
You nod. Then, louder, so Gojo hears, “More than okay.”
Jordan’s hand slides to the back of your chair again closer this time, just shy of your waist.
The model giggles loudly at something Gojo whispers and he smirks back, but his eyes, they’re locked on you.
The dealer resets the wheel, Jordan glances at you, heat and challenge in his gaze, “You wanna raise the stakes?”
You look at Gojo and he’s already watching, already daring, already losing ground and one hundred percent furious about it.
“Absolutely.”
The next spin starts almost immediately, Jordan’s chips slide onto twenty-three without hesitation.
The corners of your mouth tug upward. He said he’d return the favor and really meant it.
And because you know Gojo is watching—you place your chips on ten again with a slow, thoughtful drag.
You hear a soft exhale, sharp and bitten off, undeniably Gojo.
The dealer spins the wheel and Jordan shifts beside you, draping an arm behind your chair, fingertips brushing between your shoulder blades.
A single point of warmth that is fully intentional and visible, because he knows Gojo is staring a hole through the entire table.
He leans in, voice warm against your ear, “Tell me something.”
You tilt your head slightly, curious, “What?”
“What’s more fun—winning races or winning games?”
You smirk, “Why choose one?”
Jordan laughs, green eyes glowing, “You’re seriously trouble.”
The model suddenly speaks louder, “Satoru,” She coos, leaning against his arm, “You’re being so tense. Relax.”
His answer is smooth, playful and weaponzied, “I’ll relax when I win something worth winning.”
She hums, tracing a polished red nail along his forearm, “Then play with me. I always bring good luck.”
“Do you?” Gojo purrs, eyes never leaving you.
The model smiles like she hit the jackpot; you smile like you didn’t feel that hit your bloodstream.
Jordan’s eyes follow your reaction, “He’s really trying you, huh?”
You drag a finger across the felt, languid and unbothered, “Let him try.”
The ball clatters and lands on twenty-three. Your number that he bet on.
Jordan throws his head back and laughs victoriously, “Look at that! Your luck is insane tonight. ”
You let your smile sharpen, “I told you. I don’t fold.”
Across the room, Gojo mutters something in Japanese under his breath, irritated and low, yet audible to you even from here.
The model laughs again, “It’s just one round. You’ll get the next one.”
Gojo leans toward her slightly closer than before, carefully measured provocation.
“You think so?” He murmurs, letting his eyes drop to her lips for one heartbeat too long, “Guess you better give me more luck then.”
Your pulse thrums, jaw flexing, and barely blink. Jordan catches it, smirking softly, “Is that supposed to mess with you?”
“No.”
Jordan lets out an impressed hum, “Then let’s keep winning.”
You push a chip onto ten again. Jordan matches it, then adds one on twenty-three too.
Double bets with confidence, competence, and a shit ton of chemistry.
The dealer’s hands blur as he spins the wheel again. Gojo sees the double bet and chuckles under his breath, but it’s dark, humorless, and obviously jealous.
The model leans in, trying once more and touching his thigh, voice syrupy-sweet, “Satoru, want me to blow on your chips? It’s good luck.”
“Oh?” He says lightly, making a show of adjusting his seat so she’s pressed closer, “Then maybe you should help me out.”
She preens, thrilled and you don’t flinch. Jordan whispers near your ear, “He’s trying hard.”
“He’s losing harder.”
Jordan grins like he loves that line and the ball spins, clacks, and drops onto ten. He pounds the table softly, “Another one? Goddamn, you’re magic.”
You sit back, calm, smug, and look at Gojo. He’s as stiff as stone with his jaw tight, nostrils flaring, eyes locked on your hand resting near Jordan’s.
The model notices the direction of his gaze. So she presses her chest to his arm, mouth brushing his neck as she says, “Want me to really test your luck?”
Jordan wraps his arm around your shoulders this time, a small touch, but Gojo’s eyes snap to it immediately, “You still with me?”
“Of course.”
He studies you with a quiet hum, then just to twist the knife, brushes a lock of hair behind your ear.
The same gesture Gojo did to his model and his expression fractures.
“Intersting,” Jordan notes, “Looks like we’re winning in more ways than one.”
“Next bets,” The dealer announces.
You slide three chips onto ten, Jordan whistles, “Confident.”
You smirk, “Strategic.”
Jordan doubles your stack on twenty-three, “Then I’m all in for you.”
Gojo inhales sharply—an aggravated, barely controlled breath. The model notices instantly, giggling, “Why don’t you go all in, Satoru?”
Gojo’s eyes flick from your bets, to Jordan’s hand near your knee, to your smirk, and back to the table.
He raises a tower of chips with one hand and pushes the whole thing forward with a calculated swagger, “All in,” He says smoothly, “Why not?”
The girl beside him beams, “See? That’s the spirit.”
Gojo’s gaze never breaks from yours when he adds, voice velvet and venom, “Let’s see who’s really lucky tonight.”
Jordan mutters, “Jesus, he’s down bad.”
The wheel spins and the room itself feels like it’s holding its breath.
You and Gojo don’t blink. Jordan is relaxed as hell, happy to play along, having the most fun he’s had in months. The model is practically on Gojo’s lap.
The ball slows, clicks twice, and lands on ten.
Jordan laughs, grabbing your waist in excitement before he lets go, “No shot—three times? Three?”
Your smile is quiet, lethal, perfect, “Looks like it.”
Gojo freezes and the model gasps, “Oh…bad luck again, Satoru?”
Again. Again. And again.
He keeps on losing and knows he should walk away, but he doesn’t. He stays to watch you win.
You lean forward, voice silky-sweet and amplified enough for him to hear, “Some people just struggle with odds.”
Gojo’s eyes burn as Jordan lifts his glass of bourbon, “To the miracle girl.”
The model tries to soothe Gojo with another touch, “It’s just a game—”
Gojo leans into the gesture, jaw sharp, eyes fixed on you, “I’m aware.”
You hold his stare, then slowly, push all your remaining chips forward.
Ten of them, ominous orange and yellow; eighteen thousand dollars sliding across the table like a guillotine.
The sound is soft, yet the impact is seismic. The whole room feels it.
You exhale once, calm in a way no one else at the table understands, “All in.”
The dealer blinks twice, recalibrating, “Miss, to confirm—all of this on…?”
You tap the table once, right beside the number that’s been taunting Gojo since he walked in, “Ten.”
A few players at surrounding tables lean in, someone whistles low, but Gojo—he goes still. Like you reached across the room and wrapped a hand around his throat.
Jordan grins beside you, a rumble of laughter leaving his chest, “There you go” He murmurs, proud and amused and unmistakably charmed, “That’s how you play the game.”
The model gasps, hand shooting up to his bicep with theatrical shock, “Oh my God—Satoru, did you see that? She put everything on it!”
Gojo doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t look at her. He just watches you.
Like the world will end if he takes his eyes off, and he’s trying to memorize the moment you decided to burn the whole room down just to win a game he started.
The dealer spins the wheel and the crowd hushes, something electric hangs in the air.
Jordan’s knuckles brush yours. Gojo’s jaw tightens. The model leans closer.
The wheel slows and your heart spikes.
The ball ricochets once, twice, a third time.
And then it drops.
Ten—a perfect, impossible, devastating strike.
The dealer freezes, mouth parted. The pit boss on the rail stands up straighter. Luca who’s somewhere behind you in the room whispers, “No fucking way.”
Jordan jumps out of his seat and pulls you into a hug so ecstatic it knocks the air out of your lungs. He spins you once; laughing loud, incredulous, and thrilled.
Your eighteen grand turned into six hundred and fifty.
The whole room turns; people stare, whisper, while some outright cheer.
But Gojo, he is the only still thing in the entire casino.
He sits there with one hand fisted around his cards and doesn’t smile or blink, he just stares at you.
Furious, enamored, wrecked, riveted, and absolutely losing the game he started.
You rise slowly from your chair, the red dress catching the chandelier light like a caution sign.
Jordan stands with you, a hand on your waist; you hold Gojo’s gaze across the room and smile triumphantly, and mouth, “four-nothing.”
His eyes blaze with promise. A declaration that this isn’t over.
And he’s already pushing back from the blackjack table, cool on the surface but volcanic underneath, when a Ferrari comms staffer rushes into the high-limit room, waving a laminated lanyard.
”There you guys are! The team wants everyone upstairs! Suite-level club. Private floor. Drinks are already flowing—let’s go!”
Jordan straightens, still laughing, still high on adrenaline, still holding your waist like he hasn’t realized he’s allowed to let go.
“Miracle,” He says, grin bright, “You’re leading the victory parade.”
You exhale slowly, gathering your chips as staff begin to escort you toward the velvet ropes. The rush of people parts for you; Jordan on your right, Luca scrambling after you, casino security opening a path.
Behind you, Gojo rises from his chair. The model clings to his arm, starry-eyed, “Are we going upstairs, Oh my God, this night is insane!”
He doesn’t answer her. His eyes are exactly where they’ve been the entire night—on you.
He watches when the dealers congratulate you, seething when Jordan leans in to murmur something against your ear and you laugh at whatever it was he said.
He follows, because of course he would. He can’t help himself.
And you don’t look back; you don’t need to, already feeling him like gravity.
You step into the elevator, Jordan and Luca step in behind you.
The doors almost close and then a hand slips in at the last second, stopping them.
Gojo walks in and the model does too, practically sewn to his side.
The space shrinks, the air thickens, and your heart kicks.
Jordan’s hand rests lightly at the small of your back—comforting, confident, quietly protective.
Gojo sees it and his jaw flexes once, sharp enough to slice the air; the elevator begins to rise.
Bass thumps from the club above, matching your pulse and the tension; matching the way Gojo’s gaze drags down your dress and back up like he’s reminding himself that he’s angry, not ruined.
The model leans into him with a breathy giggle, lips brushing his shoulder as she whispers something you don’t care to hear.
Jordan leans in closer, voice warm against your ear, “Ready to celebrate?”
Your lips curl slowly, “Oh,” You murmur, eyes fixated on Gojo’s furious reflection in the mirrored wall, “I’m just getting started.”
The elevator dings, the doors open.
You’re met with heat, light, and bass. The entire top-floor suite club exploding in gold and red, the Ferrari logo everywhere, music so loud it rattles your ribs.
You step out first, Jordan at your side, his hand still resting at the small of your back like he’s forgotten how to remove it. Luca follows just behind, already scanning the room like he’s calculating exit strategies.
Gojo steps out after him, a half pace behind, the model glued to his arm—hand looped possessively through the crook of his elbow, smile wide, and cheeks flushed from champagne and attention.
For one suspended moment, the five of you stand there. Casino heat still clinging to your skin, jealousy and adrenaline stitched into the seams of your clothes, before the room notices you and then you’re swallowed.
Mechanics, engineers, PR, people you’ve only ever seen with headsets and laptops now holding cocktails and glowing under club lights.
“(Y/N)!”
“P1 in Vegas!”
“Miracle girl!”
Hands clap your shoulders, ruffle your hair, and tug you into hugs that smell like sweat and cologne and victory. You let yourself be passed from one embrace to the next, smiling, laughing, letting the roar of it all pour over you like another podium.
Jordan sticks close, an easy, grounding presence on your right; accepting high-fives, shaking hands, grinning when people realize who he is.
“Holy shit, Hale’s here too?” One of the mechanics wheezes, “This table of odds is insane.”
Luca appears like he teleported, already holding two shot glasses. He shoves one into your hand with solemn ceremony.
“Hydration.”
“That’s not how it works,” You say, but you take the shot anyway.
The tequila sears down your throat, burning a line that almost matches the one running through your chest.
“Tonight it does,” He replies, then leans in, lowering his voice so only you can hear, “And for the record, I told you both to be in bed by midnight. This is on you.”
“Obviously.”
Over his shoulder, you catch a flicker of movement—Gojo and the model slipping deeper into the club.
He moves through the crowd like he owns the place, black shirt undone at the throat, sleeves still rolled, an easy careless swagger in his step. People clap him on the back, shout his name, shove drinks toward him.
He smiles for them, for the cameras already lifting and the staffers filming on their phones, but his eyes—they’re on you.
Even with the model plastered to his side, laughing as she tips her head toward his shoulder and fingers tracing idle patterns along his forearm, his gaze keeps finding you again and again.
Through gaps in the crowd, across the dance floor, over the red and gold chaos; Jordan follows the direction of your stare and snorts softly.
“He really doesn’t know how to lose, does he?”
“Clearly not,” You say, tipping the empty shot glass back and setting it on a passing tray, “Shame roulette doesn’t care about his feelings.”
Jordan huffs a laugh, eyes alight, “Or his ego.”
Another burst of cheers erupts as someone cranks the music louder and the DJ’s voice booms over the speakers, announcing, “Vegas Grand Prix winner in the building!”
Hands shove you gently toward the center of the room, a glittering Ferrari banner unfurls above a low platform that looks suspiciously like a makeshift stage.
Luca groans, “Here we go,” But he’s smiling.
Jordan leans down to murmur near your ear, “Lead the way, Miracle.”
You let the crowd pull you forward. Red strobe lights flash across your skin, the bass hits so hard your insides vibrate, staff push a branded champagne bottle into your hand with cameras already recording.
You lift it because you’re supposed to, because they want a show and tonight, you can give them one.
The cork explodes and foam erupts, everyone screams.
You’re laughing, drenched in champagne and neon and the high of it all, when you feel it again.
Gojo steps into your line of sight like the room parted just for him with the model still on his arm, expression carved in something sharp and unreadable.
The DJ’s lights catch the red of his wristband and the glint of the silver chain around his neck. For one heartbeat, with the entire club screaming for you, it feels like just the two of you.
And then, like this is all still part of the game, you tip the champagne bottle toward Jordan instead.
“Catch,” You say, tossing it lightly.
He plucks it out of the air, grinning, and slings an arm around your shoulders; pulling you in against his side as he sprays the remaining foam toward the cheering mechanics.
The room loses its mind as Jordan laughs into your ear, “You’re gonna get me killed, you know that?”
You smile up at him, knowing exactly where Gojo is standing and exactly how closely he’s watching, “Relax. It’s just a game.”
Across the room, Gojo’s jaw flexes so hard you can see it move from where you stand.
The model says something breathy near his ear, fingers splayed over his chest. He looks down at her and for the first time tonight he lets his hand slide fully around her waist, pulling her flush against him.
Her answering smile is blinding, yours dies just a little.
Jordan feels it—the micro-stiffen in your shoulders, the way your laugh loses a degree of warmth.
He squeezes your side once, “Want another drink? He asks, voice low, “Or do you wanna dance and really ruin his night?”
You glance up at the DJ booth, the swirling lights and dance floor that’s already forming in front of the stage.
You catch Gojo’s gaze again, he doesn’t look away.
Rage, want, challenge—all tangled up in blue.
You lift your chin, “Let’s dance.”
Because you won the race, you won the gambling, and you’re not done breaking him yet.
Jordan’s grins sharpens, “Yes, ma’am.”
He threads his fingers through yours and pulls you off the platform, down onto the dance floor. The DJ switches tracks like the universe is siding with you—bass-heavy, dark, pulsing; the kind of rhythm that turns a room into a heartbeat.
Your body answers before your brain does, tequila hums through your veins, champagne clings to your skin. Adrenaline has nowhere to go, so it pours itself into the way you move.
Jordan keeps a respectful distance at first; hands loose at your waist, eyes shining, letting you set the pace.
He’s good at this, at reading space; watching the way you sway, the way you laugh up at him, the way you tilt your head back when the chorus hits.
“Careful,” He shouts over the music, breath warm on your ear, “You’re gonna make Vegas fall even more in love with you.”
“They can get in line.”
He laughs, loud and delighted and spins you.
The room blurs as lights smear across your vision. You come back into his orbit, back pressed into his chest now, his hand settling a little lower at your waist as the song melts into something slower but dirtier.
You let your hips roll with the rhythm and drop your hear back onto his shoulder.
It’s easy to fall into, move with him, and let the alcohol and victory make you feel weightless.
Then you feel it—that tug, that awareness.
Gojo is just off the edge of the dance floor, still in that half-shadow in between VIP couches and strobe lights. The model is in front of him now, arms looped around his neck, his hands resting low at her waist.
He’s not dancing so much as letting her dance on him; hips pressing into his, hair swaying, lips close to his ear.
Every time she turns her head, her mouth almost brushes his cheek. Yet, even then his eyes are still on you.
“Hey,” Jordan murmurs, feeling the way your body tenses, “Stay with me.”
You drag your gaze back up to him and force a smile, “I’m here.”
He studies you for half a beat, like how a quarterback reads coverage, and then simply moves closer.
One hand finds your hip. The other slides up your side, fingers splaying just under your ribcage, and you arch into it because you refuse not to.
If Gojo wants a show, you’ll give him a fucking spectacle.
Another round of shots appears like magic—Luca again, exasperated and amused, a glass in each hand.
“You’re supposed to be the calm one,” He yells while laughing.
“I am calm,” You insist, grabbing both shots.
You down one. Then, because you’re a problem, you hand the second to Jordan, steal it back, and knock it down too. The burn is instant, thick, ruthless.
“Shit,” Jordan laughs, “You trying to outdrink a whole offensive line?”
“Trying to forget I have to be back in a car next week,” You say, even though it isn’t true.
But what you’re actually trying to do is forget the way Gojo’s hand just tightened on some other woman’s waist.
The music swells and your head spins, pleasantly at first, then a little more; the line between high and dizzy blurring.
Jordan’s hand steadies you, “You okay?”
“I’m great,” You answer a little too loudly, “I’m fucking fantastic.”
You flip your hair back, feel sweat at the nape of your neck, feel heat crawling under your skin. You’re laughing again, but it’s starting to sound like something scraped raw.
You risk another glance across the club. A mistake.
Gojo’s on the edge of the dance floor now, pulled into the thick of it by staff and PR. The model is facing him, arms around his neck, chest pressed flush to his; his hands are at her hips.
He lets her grind against him when the beat drops and you watch it happen.
His fingers tighten, his head dips, and those stupid, captivating eyes finally drop from you to her mouth for just a second.
He says something you can’t hear and she laughs against his throat, lips grazing his skin.
Jordan curses under his breath, “He’s really going for it.”
Your vision tunnels; the alcohol, the lights, the music, the jealousy—it all condenses into a hot, tight ball in your chest.
“Another drink?” Jordan asks carefully.
“No,” You say too fast, “I’m fine.”
You’re not fine.
Because you just watched his mouth tip towards hers like he’s deciding whether to close that last inch.
Luca appears again, expression shifting the second he sees your face, “Ragazza—”
“I’m good,” You cut in, “I’m—”
The model tilts her head back, laughing, hair tumbling, mouth right next to his. His hand slides up her spine the same way it slid up yours that night in Monaco; her fingers curl in the collar of his shirt.
Your stomach drops and the room lurches around you like a car snapping loose at the rear.
Jordan feels it, “Hey. Look at me.”
You do and his hands frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones, “You don’t have to prove anything,” He says softly, even over the music, “You already won.”
Something in your throat twists—you want to listen to him, want to let it go, want to be cool and untouchable and above it all.
But instead your eyes, traitorous, drag back to Gojo.
The model is millimeters from his mouth now. Her lips hover, waiting, inviting—testing.
And this time, he doesn’t look away.
He doesn’t look at you.
He looks at her.
Your vision goes white-hot.
You tear yourself out of Jordan’s hands and shove your way through the crowd before your brain can catch up.
Luca swears and moves after you, Jordan calls your name, someone tries to yank you into another photo; you barely feel any of it.
You cut across the dance floor, between swaying bodies and flashing phones, until Gojo is directly in front of you.
The model startles, eyes going wide, “Oh—hi—”
“Get off him,” It comes out low and sharp, though not loud enough for the whole club.
Gojo’s brows lift slowly, like he’s genuinely curious which version of you just walked up.
“Excuse me?” The model asks, more confused than offended.
You don’t look at her, just him, “You done?” You ask, voice shaking with fury, “Or do you need to fuck her against the DJ booth too to really drive it home?”
His jaw flexes, “Watch it.”
“Oh, now I’m supposed to watch it?” You laugh, humorless, “You just almost kissed her in front of the entire team, Satoru.”
The model flushes, stepping back half an inch, “We weren’t—”
“You were,” You snap without looking at her, “Trust me, I know exactly what that looks like.”
There’s a flicker—something like guilt, but it gets buried under his own anger, “Funny,” Gojo says, voice dropping, “Because from where I was standing you’ve been dry-humping the quarterback on every surface in this building.”
You step closer, chest nearly bumping his, “Yeah, and? At least I didn’t drag him here after using another girl to piss you off.”
His eyes flash, “You brought him to our casino. To our night. You started this.”
You’re aware of people around you starting to notice; conversations pausing, Luca hovering somewhere near your shoulder like he’s ready to throw himself on a bomb.
“He was already there, dumbass,” You spit, “But God forbid anyone touches something you think you own.”
His voice lowers further, dangerous, “I don’t own you.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” You snap, “You sure as hell act like it.”
The model clears her throat, visibly uncomfortable, “Maybe I should—”
Gojo cuts her off without looking at her, “Can you give us a minute?”
She hesitates. Then nods, stepping away, stilettos clicking as she disappears into the crowd.
You almost feel bad. Almost.
“You happy now?” He asks, eyes burning into you, “You officially scared off my ‘distraction’.”
“Good,” You snarl, “Maybe now you can stop pretending you’re not just doing this because you can’t stand the idea of me with somebody else.”
His fingers twitch as his sides, “Drunk you is really brave, huh?” He says, “You sure you wanna have this conversation here?”
“Where else?” You fling an arm out, nearly knocking into someone’s shoulder, “This is where you wanted to put on your little show.”
His expression turns to steel, “We’re not doing this in the middle of the fucking team party.”
“Why?” Your voice cracks, the first real fracture, “You embarrassed?”
He steps in, so close that his breath hits your lips and the music feels far away for a second.
“You’re drunk,” He says quietly, “And you’re going to say something you can’t take back.”
“Maybe I don’t want to take it back.”
A muscle in his jaw jumps, you can practically see the moment he stops arguing with himself.
“Fine,” He says, “Then say it where people can’t film it.”
Before you can decide whether to move, his hand closes around your wrist.
“Let go of me,” You hiss, instinctively trying to yank away.
He doesn’t, “I’m not leaving you here to blow up your career in front of every camera in the room,” He growls, “You wanna scream at me? You wanna tell me how much you hate me? You can do it downstairs.”
“That’s not—” You start, but your words slur at the edges, anger and alcohol tangling.
Luca appears beside you like he’s about to intervene, “Ragazza—”
Gojo looks at him once, “I’ve got her.”
Luca’s gaze flicks between your face and his grip on your wrist, your wild eyes, Gojo’s deadly calm, “(Y/N)?”
“I’m fine,” You bite out, even though your shaking, “I’m just—”
You swallow hard and the room tilts for half a heartbeat—okay, maybe not fine.
Jordan is suddenly there too, brows drawn, ready to step in if you give him the word, “You good, (Y/N)?”
You look at him. He’s warm and solid and safe and unfortunately, absolutely the wrong person.
“Yeah,” You say, voice tight, “I’m good.”
Gojo’s hand tightens minutely, reading exactly what good really means.
Jordan holds your gaze for another second. Then nods once, slow, “Text me if you need extraction.”
It’s a joke on the surface and an offer underneath.
You manage a weak smile, “Thanks.”
Gojo doesn’t look at him, doesn’t acknowledge him; he just starts walking and tugging you through the crowd.
You stumble once, your heel catching on the edge of someone’s bag. His hand shoots to your waist, steadying you automatically.
“Careful.”
“Don’t touch me,” You snap, even as you lean into the balance.
He doesn’t answer.
You both cut through the red and gold disarray, past team members too drunk to clock the tension, past PR girls filming stories and content, past mechanics chanting your name like this is the best night of their lives.
For you, it feels like a car sliding straight toward a wall.
The hallway outside the club is quieter, dimmer. The bass muffles behind the doors, reduced to a distant, angry heartbeat.
You yank your wrist again. This time, he lets go.
You don’t run. You just stand there, chest heaving, eyes burning, makeup starting to smudge at the corners.
“This is fucking stupid,” You say, voice hoarse, “We don’t have to talk. We can just go back to ignoring each other like we’re so good at.”
His eyes drag over your face and the drunken haze in your gaze, “Yeah?” He says quietly, “You really wanna go back to pretending none of this is happening?”
Your throat tightens, “No,” You whisper, before you can stop yourself.
It hangs there between you, raw, ugly, and honest. You hate him for hearing it.
“Elevator,” He says, softer now.
You jab the call button harder than necessary; waiting for it feels too long and too short at the same time. You’re hyperaware of the click of your heels, the sway in your step, the way your breathing sounds too loud in the carpeted space.
The elevator arrives with a faint chime. You step in first, arms crossed, back against the mirrored wall. He follows, hitting your floor with a familiar ease that pisses you off, and of course he remembers your room number.
The doors close and silence fills the air.
Your reflection stares back at you—eyes glassy, lip gloss smudged, hair wild from dancing and champagne.
You can’t look at either of you for long; tears prickle, hot and furious.
“You almost kissed her,” You blurt, voice breaking.
He exhales, long and controlled, like he was waiting for that, “Are we really doing this?” He asks, “You were draped all over Hale in front of me.”
“That’s not the same and you fucking know it.”
“How is it not the same?”
“Because,” You snap and the word comes out strangled, “I don’t actually want him.”
The confession shocks the air out of the tiny space and clamp your mouth shut like you can shove it back in.
His head turns slowly, eyes latching onto yours in the reflection.
“Say that again,” He says, voice gone dangerously soft.
You shake your head, eyes burning, “Forget it.”
“No,” He insists, turning fully toward you now, “You don’t get to drop that and then—”
The elevator dings and the doors slide open onto your floor. You bolt, he follows.
Your heels are less steady now. The alcohol has settled in your bones, in your knees, in the space behind your eyes.
You fumble your keycard from your purse, hands shaking too hard to slide it in cleanly.
“Fuck,” You hiss, missing the slot twice.
“Give it,” Gojo says, reaching.
“I don’t need—” Your vision blurs for a second, the hallway seems to tilt.
He takes the card before you can argue and swipes it with annoying ease. The light flashes green; he pushes the door open and steps aside, letting you go in first.
And you do, because you’re too drunk and too pissed and too tired not to.
The door closes behind you with a soft click that feels way too final and the room is quieter than you remember. Neon still bleeds through the curtains, casting everything in a strange, distant glow.
You make it to the middle of the room before the words boil over again.
“You almost kissed her,” You repeat turning on him, tears finally spilling over now, hot and relentless, “Right in front of me.”
“And you put eighteen grand on a fucking roulette table just to spite me,” He fires back, voice scrapping raw now too, “You flirted with him all weekend—at the track, the casino, the club. Like you were daring me to break.”
“Because you started it, asshole!” You shout, “You started all of this with her and then acted like I was crazy for reacting.”
Your chest hitches. The anger is still there, sharp and bright, but it’s sitting on top of something deeper now; something that hurts in a way you can’t keep swallowing down.
“I’m not crazy,” You say, tears slipping down your cheeks, “I’m not making this shit up. You—you look at me like—”
You choke on it; he’s breathing hard now too, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, “Like what?” He demands, “Finish it.”
You drag a hand across your face, smearing makeup and your vision swims, “Like I’m the fucking problem,” You manage, “Like I did something wrong by existing. By winning. By being there. And then you turn around and—”
You cut yourself off with a a sharp, wet laugh, “And I’m supposed to stand there and watch you pretend some stranger means something?”
Tears fall faster now; angry, frustrated, humiliated.
“This hurts,” You say suddenly, almost surprised by your own honesty, “You fucking hurt me.”
The words land between you with more force than anything you’ve ever said to him.
His expression flickers; all that fury, all that ego, all that petty game playing—stripped back in a second by six stupid, honest words.
You scrub at your cheeks, furious at the tears, at your shaking hands, at the fact that you’re letting him see you like this.
“I’m drunk and tired and I should be celebrating,” You rush on, voice wobbling, “I should be talking to my parents and eating overpriced room service and sleeping for twelve hours. Not—not begging you to not kiss some girl you don’t even care about just because you can.”
Your breathing comes in harsh, uneven pulls. Your chest aches, your mascara burns.
“So congratulations,” You finish, bitter and broken at once, “You win, okay? You got what you wanted. You got in my head. You fucked me up. You broke me. You win.”
You turn away, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. Behind you, you hear him move slowly, like his body isn’t sure if it’s allowed.
“(Y/N),” He calls quietly.
Your name in his mouth shreds something inside you.
You shake your head, shoulders quaking, “Don’t. Just—don’t.”
“(Y/N)” He says again, quieter this time.
You squeeze your eyes shut, “I said don’t.”
There’s a beat; one single, suspended second, before the air in the room shifts.
Then you feel him—not touching you, not yet, but close enough that his presence brushes the back of your legs like heat rising off asphalt.
“Look at me.”
“No.”
“You’re allowed to be mad,” He murmurs, “You’re allowed to be drunk. You’re allowed to yell at me. But don’t walk away from me while you’re crying.”
You choke on a laugh, wet and miserable, “Why? That ruin your fun?”
“No,” He says, the word steady, devastating, “Because I can’t stand it.”
Your breath stutters. You still don’t look at him.
He moves closer, slow and cautious, like you’re something volatile he’s afraid to mishandle.
“Do you think I didn’t see your hands shaking on that roulette table?” He asks softly, “Do you think I didn’t see the way you kept looking at me like you were daring me to stop you?’
Your throat tightens so hard it hurts, “Do you think,” He continues, stepping closer, his breath warming the back of your shoulder, “I didn’t feel it every single time Hale touched you?”
A shiver tears through you and you swallow, “Then why did you almost kiss her?”
His breath catches and when he answers, it’s barely a whisper, “Because I was losing.”
The words hit your spine like a jolt of electricity. You turn slowly, unwillingly, unable to stop yourself and he’s right there.
White strands messy from the club. Black shirt half unbuttoned. Cheeks flushed from jealousy and liquor and adrenaline. Blue eyes blazing with something unguarded.
“You never lose,” You whisper, tears still collecting at your lashes.
“I lose with you,” He says immediately as if he’s been holding it for hours, days, weeks, “I lose every time you look at someone else. I lose every time you laugh at their jokes. I lose every time you walk into a room before me because everyone sees you before they see me.”
Your chest caves inward, “That’s not true.”
His jaw clenches, “It is. And I don’t—I don’t know how to deal with that.”
You stare at him, stunned and breathless, pained in a different way now, “You hurt me,” You whisper again.
“I know,” His voice drops to a rasp, “I know and I’m—” He shakes his head, frustrated that the word won’t come out, “I’m not good at this. I’m not good at—whatever the fuck this is.”
“Then why—”
“Because when you looked at Hale,” He cuts in, stepping close enough your chests almost brush, “I felt like I was going to be sick.”
Your lips part and his eyes fall to your mouth like gravity yanked them there.
“I hated it,” He admits, “I hated seeing his hands on you and you leaning into him and—and watching you pretend he was the one you wanted.”
He moves, one step, then another. Until you’re backed into the dresser without even realizing you moved.
His hand lifts slowly, giving you every chance to stop it, but you don’t. He wipes a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb, touch feather-light.
You inhale sharply, “Don’t cry because of her,” He murmurs, thumb brushing lower, tracing the corner of your lip now, “She didn’t matter.”
Your pulse jumps, “You made it look like she did.”
“I was trying to hurt you,” He admits, “Because you were already hurting me.”
You breath breaks open on a soft, choked sound, “That’s so fucked up.”
“I know,” His forehead lowers toward yours, stopping an inch away, “I know, but I can’t stand you crying.”
You blink up at him, shaking, furious, exhausted, and wanting more than you should.
“Then what do you want?” You ask, too honest to hide behind anything anymore.
His jaw flexes, his hand slides to your waist, breath catching on yours.
“I want you…” He whispers, voice breaking on the truth he’s been burying, “…and I’m done pretending that I don’t.”
Your knees nearly give out. His other hand rises, cupping the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair.
He leans in, breath trembling against your lips, giving you space to run even though you won’t.
“Tell me to stop,” He mutters, eyes flicking briefly to your mouth, “And I will.”
You don’t tell him to, you don’t move at all.
You just breathe in his air and shake under his touch, chest pressed to his, “Satoru…”
He shudders and moves that final inch, noses brushing; his thumb strokes your jaw.
His lips ghost over yours, hovering, “Just—” He stops, voice barely a sound, “—Don’t run away from me again.”
Your hand slides up his chest, your lips part and then you close the distance.
Your mouths crash together, messy and desperate, weeks of tension detonating in one kiss.
His hand slides into your hair with a low, guttural sound you feel all the way down your spine. You fist the front of his shirt, dragging him closer, kissing him like you’ve been drowning for months and finally found air.
He stumbles forward, pressing you up harder against the dresser; his mouth still devouring yours like he’s starved, like he’s infuriated, like he’s apologizing without words.
You break the kiss only because your lungs require it—your foreheads crashing together, breaths colliding, lips fanning each other.
Your voice comes out ruined, trembling, “I hate you.”
His breath hitches and his grip tightens in your hair, not enough to hurt, only to anchor. He pulls back half an inch so he can actually see you, eyes blown wide.
“Yeah?” He murmurs, “You really gonna lie to me right now?”
Tears cling to your lashline as your mouth quivers, but you force the words out anyway because they’re clawing their way to freedom.
“I hate you…because of what you do to me.”
You swallow, voice breaking again, “I hate you because you make me feel things I can’t control and get under my skin. Because no matter how hard I try, I can’t—” Your breath shivers out of you, “I can’t shake you.”
A sound leaves him, low and disbelieving, almost pained.
You press your palms against his chest, like you’re trying to push him away and pull him closer at the same time.
“I hate you,” You whisper again, softer now, “Because you matter. And I don’t want you to.”
His hands slide from your hair to your jaw, tilting your face up, blue eyes burning into yours.
“Good,” He breathes, voice rough and reverent all at once, “Because you do the same damn thing to me.”
And then he kisses you again, deeper and hotter, like he’s finally stopped fighting and finally started falling.
His hands slide down your arms, around your waist, gripping, guiding, hauling you away from the dresser. The room tilts and blurs around you as he walks you backward toward the bed.
You stumble once, still dizzy from tequila and adrenaline and him, but he catches you instantly; fingers digging into your hips as he steadies you.
“You’re shaking,” He breathes against your mouth.
“So are you.”
His laugh comes out broken, “I’ve been losing my mind all fucking night.”
You don’t have time to respond, because the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress, and then you’re falling onto the bed.
The room spins, the neon glow from the window painting the sheets a soft red as he looms over you, bracing one hand beside your head.
You’re breathless. He’s breathless. Everything is trembling.
Gojo swallows hard, staring down at you like he’s trying to memorize the sight. Like he doesn’t trust that you’re actually here or that he’s scared you’ll disappear if he touches you too roughly.
But then your hand lifts, uncertain, curling into the front of his shirt, and that’s all it takes.
He exhales a sharp, shaky sound and sinks down over you, his weight warm and grounding as his lips descend to yours again slower this time, deeper; a kind of kiss that drags the air from your lungs and replaces it with heat.
You gasp into it, he swears into it.
His hand slides up your arm, tracing your skin like he’s relearning the map of you and every inch is a question he’s been dying to answer.
He kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw. Each one more desperate than the last.
You fist the back of his shirt and tug him down again, kissing him harder, hungry, raw, drowning and grateful for it. He groans into your mouth, hips pressing into yours without thought, without restraint, without anything left to hide behind.
“God—” He mutters against your lips, “—you have no idea what you do to me.”
“Then show me.”
His breath stutters as your fingers trace down his torso, catching on the fabric of his half open shirt, feeling the heat of his skin beneath it. His muscles twitch under your touch as if your hands short-circuited something in him.
He dips his forehead to yours, “(Y/N),” He whispers reverently, “I’m trying—really fucking trying not to rush this.”
“Why?” You ask, dragging your nails up his spine, “I don’t want you to stop.”
He squeezes his eyes shut like that physically hurts him, “You’re drunk.”
“You are too.”
“Not like you.”
You swallow hard because you know what he means. You’re not blackout and you’re not gone, but you’re on that fine line of being aware enough to know what you’re doing, yet still warm, spinning, and sloppy.
He opens his eyes and that’s what destroys you, because he looks at you like holding back is killing him.
“Just tell me,” He whispers, leaning down until his nose skims yours, “Tell me you want me. Not because you’re angry or hurt and not because you’re drunk. Tell me you want me.”
Your hands rise, cupping his jaw, thumbs brushing the flushed heat of his cheeks, “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
He sucks in a breath, “I want you, Satoru,” You say, voice trembling but clear, “And it scares the shit out of me.”
He presses his forehead harder to yours; gripping the sheets beside your head like he’s fighting the urge to take you apart right there, “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Then die,” You coo, tugging him down, “But before you do, kiss me again.”
And he does, hard. The mattress shifts as he presses into you, your legs parting instinctively as his body settles between them.
Warmth surges through you, sharp and dizzying. His hands find your waist, sliding under the hem of your dress, fingers brushing bare skin.
His mouth trails down your jaw to your throat, lips dragging heat across every inch they find. He sucks gently at the base of your neck, just enough to make your breath catch and your back arch.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” He murmurs against you.
You shake your head fiercely, nails burying in his hair and pulling him back up to your mouth, “Don’t stop.”
He kisses you again—ravenous, consuming, losing the last of his restraint as he shifts his weight, pinning you further into the mattress.
The world disappears; the casino, the club, the jealousy, the game.
All that’s left is his body over yours, the tremble in his voice, the way his thumb strokes your cheek like he’s cherishing you and ruining you in the same breath.
His lips hover over yours again, both of you panting, “Bed stays,” He whispers, “Clothes don’t.”
You manage a breathless, shaky laugh, “Then take them off…” You say, “…don’t make me wait.”
He pushes up, arms braced on both sides of you, and with one slow, deliberate pull, he rends the red silk down the middle. The sound is obscene, a distinct tear that echoes in the quiet room.
The cool air hits your skin, “Jesus, Satoru…” You whisper, aroused and amused, “…I liked that dress.”
“I’ll buy you ten more,” He growls as he lowers his head, mouth finding the hollow of your throat.
His teeth scrape just enough to make you gasp, his tongue soothing the sting a moment later.
“God—” You choke out, nails clawing his shoulders, “You’re—you’re driving me crazy.”
He doesn’t speak, not yet. He just moves down your body, mouth leaving kisses on your skin like a trail of fire.
He tosses the ruined dress aside, hands gripping your hips as he settles between your thighs.
For a moment, he just looks; blue eyes taking in the sight of you, so vulnerable, so perfect.
You mutter, barely audible, “Please…I need you.”
Your plea lights a fire in him. Tugging your panties off in one decisive motion, he lowers his head and the first lick of his tongue rips a sound from you that you didn’t know you could make.
You cry out, back bowing off the bed, “Fuck—Satoru—don’t stop. Please don’t stop—”
He’s merciless; his mouth, tongue, fingers, working in a rhythm designed to rip you apart until you’re shaking, unraveling, and moaning his name in a desperate, mindless string.
He looks up at you while he pushes you over the edge; eyes dark, possessive, starving for every reaction you give him.
Your orgasm hits hard—sudden, blinding, shattering, leaving you limp, “Oh my God—Satoru…” You gasp, barely coherent.
You’re still floating in the haze, vision blurry, limbs heavy, when you feel him rise; hands sliding up your sides, steady and warm.
He leans over you, lips ghosting your ear, “Turn over for me.”
Your breath catches as his fingers tighten on your waist, “On your stomach,” Then softer and hungrier, “…I haven’t seen you from this angle yet.”
A tremor runs through you and you obey before you can think. You hear the frantic rustle of fabric behind you. The drag of cotton. The low, frustrated sound in his throat. The thud of clothes hitting the floor like he can’t get them off fast enough.
Then he’s settling behind you, hands guiding your hips up, palms dragging reverently over them. And you’re trembling—part nerves, part desire.
You feel the hot, blunt head of his cock press against your entrance, and you forget how to breathe.
“Relax,” He soothes, voice cracking with restraint, “I’ve got you.”
And he enters you in one slow, deep, devastating stroke. Your lungs collapse, your fingers claw the sheets, “Fuck—” You choke, “It’s—too much.”
He pauses, buried fully inside you, hands digging into your hips like he might shatter. You can feel his heartbeat against your back, desperate and wild.
“Shit…” He breathes, “…feels just as good as I remember.”
You moan, pressing your head deeper into the mattress, “Move…please. I need it—need more.”
He pulls back and thrusts again, deep and deliberate and intense, building a rhythm that builds a new kind of fire in your blood. Every stroke is an admission, every roll of his hips a confession.
Your hands fist in the sheets, your nails claw into the fabric; you push your body back to meet his without thinking, “Satoru—”
He groans, low and guttural, pace unrelenting, “Don’t—” He warns, voice fraying, “Don’t do that unless you want me to lose my mind.”
“So lose it,” You cry, needy as ever, “I don’t care—just don’t stop.”
He swears violently under his breath as he shifts his angle slightly. The next thrust, he hits a spot inside you that makes you see stars.
A sharp, shocked sob tears from your lips, “Oh my God—Oh my God, right there!”
And he hits it again. And again. And again. Pushing you further and further to the edge of another unforgiving climax.
Gojo’s voice is raw now, “That’s it…that’s it, take it—you’re so good.”
Your orgasm crashes over you at the sound of his praise, violent and uncontrollable, “Satoru—!”
He pulls out suddenly; you whine loud, startled, and flips you again in one fluid motion. You gasp at the speed, the strength, the sheer desperation.
He’s above you now, chest heaving, blue eyes dark and feral, “I need to see you.”
“Satoru…” You plead, grabbing his shoulders, “…please, just keep—going.”
He settles between your thighs; sliding into you again slowly, the both of you shuddering.
His forehead presses against yours, his breath coming in harsh pants, you shut your eyes tight as he warms himself inside your taut walls, “Look at me.”
You force them back open and his pale blues burn into yours.
“I hate you…” You whisper, “…hate how you make me feel.”
His eyes flare—hurt, desire, possession all tangled, “Good,” He growls with a single thrust, “Feel it. Look at me and feel all of it.”
Then he moves; languid, long, deep strokes, over and over—like he’s carving your name into his bones.
You sob against his mouth as he fucks you relentlessly, “I—God—I can’t—keep up.”
“Yes you can,” He soothes, hands grasping your hair as he buries his cock impossibly deeper, “Stay with me, stay right here.”
Your nails drag across the lean muscles of his back, your legs tighten around his waist, locking him in place.
“You feel…fucking perfect,” He gasps, thrusts growing sloppier, “Don’t look away—stay with me—”
“Satoru—”
“I’ve got you,” He says as he shifts his angle once again.
And for the third time, you’re breaking. A shrill cry falls from your lips, “That’s it—give it to me—fuck, (Y/N), I missed this.”
Your climax slams into you like impact, catastrophic and overwhelming. You wail his name and it only makes him fuck you through it further.
The moment you're clamping around his cock, he chokes on a groan and his body shivers intensely as he cums with you, burying his face in your neck.
Heat floods your insides, both of you trembling as he collapses onto you, heartbeat hammering against his ribs.
Your fingers weakly find his hair, stroking through snowy strands. For a moment, neither of you say a word. The only sound that fills the air is labored breathing.
Then, after minutes of laying there intertwined, Gojo finally cuts through the silence, “…No more pretending. No more running. No more games.”
Your hand slides from his hair to the back of his neck, holding him there, “Okay…”
Outside, Vegas keeps pulsing. Sirens in the distance, muted bass from clubs below, neon lights bleeding through the curtains like the city is trying to pry its way in.
They say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.
But as you lie there with Gojo’s heartbeat pressed to yours and the taste of his confession still on your tongue, you already know better.
This won’t stay here.
It’ll follow you onto the next grid, into the next corner, under every set of lights and back onto every podium.
It’ll follow you everywhere.
It’s the one gamble you made tonight that can’t be cashed out with chips.
And for the first time all weekend, as the city refuses to sleep around you, you finally feel like you can.
