#I don't know if I ever will either. I've discussed it a LITTLE with a friend but it's nothing canonical.

[the-most-faithful]

I take down MovieFlame video (Morgan Ross) In Defense of Snape

I found a video in my YouTube feed that deals with a comparison between Snape and James and who was worse, now we know well that this clash has been going on for years and I don't think it will ever stop. The beauty of fandom is also the fact of being able to explore the subtexts, give personal interpretations and compare with other fans. So I don't want you to understand my intervention as a declaration of war against one side or the other. Whether you are supporters of Snape or James we must be honest and say that what we know through the canon is partial. We know many things, but not enough objective. James Potter is a character that we see only through the memories of a person and that is told to us. It is unfair to judge a person just by hearsay. So the comparison between Snape who appears in all the saga, and James who died in the time of the story is an unequal comparison.

My annoyance, however, comes from the certainty with which some fans, often Marauders stan (although not always) maintain that James was better than Snape. They assert it forcefully but when you dig deeper you realize that they have no solid evidence. If we don't know enough to judge James negatively then we don't have enough evidence to consider him better than Snape either. We can't have double standards on this. Either we know or we don't know. For this reason I usually avoid embarking on a comparison like this, but it is James' fans who first started, for years, to throw mud at Snape and to justify their hatred towards the character. They started comparing him to James, elevating the latter as a hero based on the little information we have. So let's move on to specifically dismantling this video, which reports most of the points that are brought up by James' defenders. (for fairness I invite you to watch the original video HERE, so you can get a personal and balanced idea) The first point brought up in the video is this:

“it's true that James bullied Snape when they were kids which wasn't right but Snape took part in this rivalry as well oftentimes going after James but people just conveniently forget that”

I would like to point out that the first part, absolutely correct, which admits that James bullied Severus, admitting that this was wrong, is followed by a BUT as big as a house. Bullying is always wrong, it doesn't matter if the victim is a good person or not, I've already discussed this point other times but I will never tire of repeating it. If you think that bullying is less serious because the victim is someone you don't like then you are blaming the victim. And this is what many fans have been doing for years. First they try to minimize the seriousness of what James (and Sirius) does, then they justify it until they deny it by claiming that it wasn't bullying. And in the first minutes of the video this is exactly what the boy tries to do.

Snape took part in this rivalry as well oftentimes going after James

Again, attention to detail, the linguistic choice, first he admitted that James was a bully and now he is instead very subtly invalidating the first part by saying that it was a rivalry, because Snape also attacked James. This means that either the first part of the sentence is false or this one is and let's look at the facts. How do we know that this thing happened? In which case in the canon are we ever shown Snape attacking James? In none, because as I said at the beginning we know little about James, we only see snippets of his life, of his attitude and then we are told what he was like by his best friends, boys who even as adults justified his bullying. How can they be reliable? The fact that Snape attacked James is not shown to us, it is only told to us and by Sirius and Remus in the fifth book, after Harry has spied on Snape's memories in which he sees James and Sirius attacking him for no reason in the worst memory. (and don't try, memories in the Harry Potter world are objective, not emotionally modified) Sirius and Remus explain to Harry how Lily started dating James, the two say that James toned down a bit in seventh year and stopped hexing people just for fun. And when Harry asks if James stopped attacking Snape, Remus says this:

"Well," said Lupin thoughtfully, "Snape was a special case. I mean, he never missed an opportunity to curse James, so it was only natural that he would react..." (Harry Potter and The Order of the Phoenix)

This is the only part used by the Marauders Stan to justify James. The subtext is clear, James stopped cursing his classmates, but not Snape because he had to defend himself. But this is simply a reversal, James has heavily bullied Snape for years, and this is canon, but if Snape defended himself and responded to the attacks according to James' defenders this makes him on par with James. In short, if a victim rebels, he is no longer a victim according to them. While on the contrary, after years of heavy bullying, if Snape attacks James and James responds then Gryffindor is the poor victim who in short has the right to defend himself? Am I the only one who smells double standards? For consistency, we should always use the same approach. Either James was a bully for six years and Snape was entitled to defend himself, so they were not on equal footing. So in the last year Snape was in the wrong and James was just defending himself. Or they were equally in the wrong all along. This second hypothesis is absurd, after all, if someone attacks you, do you just have to take it? This message is terribly dangerous. While in the first hypothesis, that is, that it is legitimate to defend oneself (even for James), then the scales tip to one side. To be clear, we are comparing six years of James's severe bullying of Snape to just one year, the last one, in which Snape instead began attacking James at every opportunity. 6 against 1 How can one year be worse than six? Six in which Snape's life was ruined, in which he was humiliated, stripped naked in public and even risked being killed in the prank? Even if we take Remus' words for granted, it means that what Snape suffered from James is clearly worse than what he inflicted on Gryffindor. So first point dismantled. (and we're only at the first minute) Let's continue:

snape disliked James because he was jealous of him he envied James' popularity but meanwhile he spent his time practicing the dark arts with other future Death Eaters there's a reason he wasn't popular like James people saw him

Once again FALSE. All this information comes from the opinions of unreliable people. I have debunked the idea of Snape's alleged jealousy of James in the past but let's get back to it quickly. Who says Snape was jealous of James? Guess what, Sirius:

“The thing is,” said Sirius, “James and Snape hated each other from the first moment, it’s one of those things… you can understand that, can’t you? Because James was everything Snape wanted to be: popular, ace at Quidditch… ace at pretty much everything. Whereas Snape was just a little weirdo up to his neck in the Dark Arts, and James – believe me, Harry – has always detested the Dark Arts.”

This is an opinion of Sirius, James's best friend. He lists things that he considers essential, being popular, an ace at Quidditch. Things that Snape has never cared about. When did Snape ever try to be popular? When did he ever care about Quidditch? The truth is that Snape hated James because from the first train ride James was hateful to him, insulting the Slytherin house that Snape hoped to end up in. James butted into the conversation between him and Lily and already on the train James and Sirius started calling him Snivellus and tripped him up. Do you really think that the antipathy was born because James was popular? James started to annoy and bully Snape right away, it is clearly shown in the canon, in the seventh book. And the question of the dark arts? Same thing is Sirius who tells us, also giving an unflattering opinion, he considered Snape "just a little weirdo immersed up to his neck in the Dark Arts" Do we trust the words of a bully to judge his favorite victim, really? “my ex was really crazy” said the ex-boyfriend who cheated on her several times. Little angel.

It's true that Snape was fascinated by the dark arts, so what? How do we know that he spent his time practicing the dark arts with other future Death Eaters? When is it shown or said? Do you really want me to believe that at Hogwarts, the safest place in wizarding England, students practice dark magic undisturbed?

“There’s a reason he wasn’t as popular as James. People saw him.”

Really? People saw it and what did they do? Didn't they warn the teachers, didn't they try to intervene? The truth is that this is an idea of ​​Sirius that is passed off as fact without any proof. Snape was fascinated by the dark arts as were other housemates, period. People, teachers or classmates never saw him practice illegal spells, no one ever saw even the future Death Eaters do it. The strength of the precursors of the Death Eater, the Knights of Walpurgis in the era of Tom Riddle was that no one knew. Only Dumbledore SUSPECTED but he never managed to prove anything. Do you want to tell me that years later some teenage kids knew for sure what a capable wizard like Dumbledore never managed to prove about the dark wizard par excellence? This is simply ridiculous, an act once again only to try to justify James's bullying of Snape. I repeat, the subtext is always the same: Snape was a bad person, strange, passionate about the dark arts, jealous of James and therefore deserved to be bullied. This mentality, in addition to being horribly wrong, is dangerous. And do not forget, most of these suppositions are either false or unproven, so even if they were true, and it is a very big IF, they cannot justify the bullying suffered. The next point is very interesting instead, the creator of the video says this:

Lily also called Snape out because she wanted to join the Death Eaters.

This is a half-truth. The conversation you quoted comes from Snape's memories seen in the chapter The Prince's Tale in the seventh book and takes place after the worst memory in which Snape was bullied by James and Sirius, and threatened to be stripped in public, (which happens a few months after the prank) here Snape insults Lily after he saw her smile or almost while James was bullying him, he called her Mudblood. That same evening Snape went in front of the Gryffindor tower to apologize and Lily didn't accept the apology, and by bringing up the fact that Snape hung out with shady people, like Avery and Mulciber and that he himself wanted to join the Death Eaters she ended their friendship. But that's a later thing, Lily had known for a long time how Snape thought about Muggles, she knew who he hung out with and what his Slytherin classmates did and yet she remained his friend. The rift came after Snape insulted her. Lily, even if she badly tolerated Snape's ideas for years, as long as she was the exception it was fine, the problem arose only when she was personally insulted. But what interests me most is the sequel, the boy in the video says that Snape did not change his mind even to save his friendship with Lily, I quote:

“can you which for Snape is more damning than anything else I can think of thinking about this the person whose opinion he valued more than anybody else saw him as a bad person and he still didn't try to change let me repeat that Snape could not make himself a better person even for the woman that he loved like nobody else if he couldn't do it then it's clear that he could never change

This point would require a much longer and more in-depth discussion, but I will try to be brief. Snape was prejudiced against Muggles, there is no point in denying it, he frequented future Death Eaters and aspired to join them, not to torture Muggle-borns, but to gain power, to become respected. Something he never experienced. The same "good guys" who were supposed to represent good marginalized, mocked, humiliated, bullied him and were never really stopped. Snape had no one but the future Death Eaters to welcome him. Lily, his best friend, in all these years, even with the authority of Prefect, has never managed to stop the bullying or protect him properly. From his point of view, Snape's distorted one, the Death Eaters were the only way to gain respect. Statements by the author. So the idea of ​​changing sides, of joining the good guys who humiliated or marginalized him didn't make sense. Snape improved in the future, he understood his mistakes and tried to redeem himself as an adult, but as a teenager what did you expect would happen? After his best friend also turned her back on him what should he have done? Improve in what way? Marginalizing himself even more from the only ones who accepted and appreciated him? I understand what the video is saying, if Snape loved Lily so much he should have changed for her, but in the real world it doesn't work like that. If you change just to please someone, the change is not genuine but only superficial. It's a very manipulative attitude. Real change must come from within, it must be desired by the person who implements it, not be performative. Snape will change, even if it will be many years later, precisely because he will understand his mistakes, but as a teenager he lives that separation as something definitive, so much so that he no longer gets close to Lily, respects the girl's wishes and leaves her alone. On the contrary James does the opposite, he pesters her for years, threatens her so that she agrees to go out with him. He bullies her best friend as a moral lever, lies to her and in the last year he shows himself changed to go out with her. As I said before this is a superficial change, since we know that james continues to attack snape in the last year without telling Lily. James has never apologized, he has never understood his mistakes, if there has been a change in his not cursing his classmates for fun it was precisely in function of Lily. This distorted idea that changing for the girl you like is a romantic sign is problematic. You don't have to show that you've changed for the person you like, you have to change to become a better person for yourself first and this must happen for a personal desire that cannot have any exceptions.

If James continues to attack Snape then he hasn't understood his mistakes, he has only learned to hide them. If he had really matured he wouldn't have hidden it from Lily, if he had really been the victim in his last year he could have told Lily and instead he doesn't. Shortly after the boy in the video confidently states that James has changed since in his last year Dumbledore makes him Head Boy. And this simply doesn't make sense, why should Dumbledore's judgment be a moral compass to judge James? I don't know if you realize this but every time someone tries to show how good a person James was you have to go on trust with weak assumptions:

-Lily started dating him so he got better. - Dumbledore made him head boy so he matured. - Lily married him so he was good.

These are all assumptions with big gaps. Dumbledore also gave Remus the Prefect badge in the hope that he would keep his friends at bay and we saw how it went, it didn't help. The next point really made me turn up my nose. The boy in the video brings up a very interesting point, many people who were bullied as teenagers feel empathy for Snape and understand what he felt, but the video states that no, it can't be the same thing, because someone who is bullied in real life doesn't plan for years to join a group of assassins, such as the Death Eaters. On this point I can see the logic, but saying that you understand a character, that you feel empathy for him, maybe even because it reflects a personal experience in a small way does not mean justifying his mistakes. Understanding and justifying are two very different concepts. I rationally understand Snape's actions, but on many occasions I don't agree with them. Fortunately, most people who are bullied have not joined violent groups, but that is not an absolute. The world is complex, people react differently to trauma and yes, unfortunately in reality there are victims who have joined violent groups. The classic phrase "the abused becomes the abuser" must not become a way to justify wrong actions, but as I said before it is a way to rationally understand situations.

Bullying someone, even a bad person, is never justifiable for this reason too. What you trigger in the victim is a sense of helplessness and anger. Feelings that in the worst case can lead a person down dangerous paths. Those who understand this understand how strong she was when she was young, how difficult it was to remain a good person. The saga teaches us clearly, you have to choose between what is right and what is easy. But I breathed a sigh of relief when the boy in the video said with clear feeling that he was sorry for all the people who were bullied because they didn't deserve it. I smiled slightly and thought: "finally a nice message, thank you." But before I had time to inhale, he dropped the bomb, I quote:

“you guys did not deserve to be bullied and I am so sorry that that happened to you... but Snape kind of did deserve to be bullied”

The hypocrisy of this sentence makes me tremble. He clearly said that Snape deserved to be bullied. *Ok I'll take a breath* I'll repeat it clearly: NO ONE DESERVES TO BE BULLIED. If you justify bullying you are mentally a bully. The reason why he then justifies bullying is somewhere between absurd and exasperating, once again falsehood

"Snape himself was a bully, he and his little Death Eater friends picking on the other Muggle-born students"

FALSE, I know exactly where this idea comes from and it's so tiring to have to repeat the same things over and over again. Snape never attacked or cursed any of his fellow muggleborns. Was Snape a bully? In a way yes and I'll tell you why it might be correct to call him one (the fact that I have to do it is absurd) because he called muggleborns Mudblood, all except Lily. And we know that in fictional narrative that is a very serious slur. This is where his bullying begins and ends, and yes using insults like that is a form of bullying, I agree with that.

Now, what does this tell us? That using insults is a form of bullying and therefore those who use them deserve to be bullied? Again I smell double standards. By this logic then even James deserved to be attacked by Snape last year, because for years Snape was attacked, bullied, mocked with the name of Snivellus, stripped naked in public, suffocated etc... Why is Snape a horrible bully to demonize if one uses the term mudblood while the people who tormented him for years are justified? After years now I understand the game, I know perfectly well where people want to get with this. They want to make James look like a vigilante, someone who bullied Snape to defend the muggleborns. But once again it is false. James was a bully who attacked those he considered inferior, when he was in numerical superiority. He never attacked people like Mulciber, Avery or Malfoy. James started bullying Snape as early as the train ride, long before Snape had even heard of Death Eaters.

“Snape has always been a racist, even at 11 years old.”

.Funny how the video clearly quoted the part where Lily worriedly asks if it makes a difference to her being a muggleborn and Snape says NO. Snape hesitantly says it makes no difference.

“the only reason why he said no was because he wanted to make sure that Lily liked him the way that he liked her”

Excuse me? This is your baseless assumption, Snape has been her friend for years, he defends her, helps her understand the magical world. I understand not wanting to sanctify Snape, really, he has so many flaws and no, he wasn't a wonderful person, but if you take his clear words and start from the assumption that he is lying you are being unfair. Also because I would like to point out that this is exactly what James does. He shows himself to have changed ONLY to please Lily, didn't he praise him for this just now? Even taking the boy's false interpretation as true How come if Snape does it he is a manipulative liar while if James does it he is to be praised? Oh look, another double standard has entered the room.

"James's bullying is not responsible for Snape joining the Death Eaters."

This is a simplification of the speech, the bullying that Snape suffered is not the reason why he joined the Death Eaters but it is one of the reasons, not the only one but one of the. The difference is clear. If Snape had not been bullied and marginalized, if he had been able to live the Howarts years in peace with his best friend he would not have felt the need to be accepted by the future Death Eaters. Mind you I'm not saying that he would not have been attracted to them, his childhood experiences, the violent Muggle father would have remained, but with a positive contrast and a part of the "good" who defends him and helps him he would have been much less inclined to approach the Death Eaters. But we know that with the if you don't make history, it went as it went, but pretending that the bullying suffered did not play any role means denying reality. As well as trying to make it less serious than it is.

When we then go to compare the more "adult" versions the discussion becomes even more partial because we know even less about the first war. The fact that James joined the Order as I have reiterated several times is not a sign of maturation, he has always been against the dark arts and not by choice. His parents were against it, as they were against the purist ideology. He did not have to rebel, he simply adapted to the ideals that were fortunately right. Could he ever not have been interested in the war? Actually not since his wife was a target because she was Muggle-born and shortly after his son too. It is not a sign of maturation and if I may say so, not even of who knows what reasoning. Even Peter Pettigrew joined the Order, what does this prove?

The whole next part is based on pointing out that if Snape hadn't told Voldemort the prophecy, the Potters would be alive, but once again what ifs lead nowhere. If Snape hadn't eavesdropped on the prophecy and told Voldemort, the events that led to his destruction wouldn't have been triggered and we would never have had the saga. Drama is the engine of events. In the narrative fiction, Snape was reporting important information to his boss, he didn't torture or attack anyone, he just passed on information without knowing what it would lead to. What's the point of blaming him for what follows? Do we use the same reasoning for all the other characters in the saga? I don't think so, so let's not waste too much time on it.

Another great classic:

snape was going to let Voldemort kill a baby and probably its whole family without batting an eye until he realized that Lily was involved he asked for mercy only for her and even Dumbledore is disgusted that Snape doesn't care that James and Harry die.

I have often spoken about this and it is always the same story, couldn't Snape ask for mercy also for Harry who was Voldemort's main target and poor James? Why would Snape have cared about the boy who made his life hell? Snape dared to ask for mercy for Lily and to be sure he also went to Dumbledore risking his life. Allying himself with Dumbledore is a clear betrayal towards Voldemort, if he had been discovered he would have been killed. And I would like to remind you that Snape is terrified of Dumbledore at this point in the story, so much so that as soon as he sees Dumbledore appear he begs him not to kill him Dumbledore is then disgusted by what exactly? From his interpretation of events. Dumbledore thinks that Snape wants Lily all for himself. How distorted is this thing? It is disturbingly similar to what Voldemort thinks. Snape doesn't want Lily, he just wants her to be spared and is so panicked that he asks Dumbledore for help.

snape aided Voldemortin killing a baby without batting an eye

Ehm, no? Snape couldn't know that the prophecy was referring to a child, the prophecy is not clear, it is only said that whoever has the power to defeat Voldemort approaches. Approaches does not necessarily mean is about to be born.

I also approached the supermarket checkout yesterday to pay, I wasn't born in front of it. Snape learned that the prophecy referred to a child, Harry, only after Voldemort interpreted it that way. As soon as he learned that it referred to him and therefore Lily, he was activated. (and for those who pretend not to understand cause and effect, Snape's request to spare Lily is what allowed Lily's sacrifice to take effect)

james Potter died protecting his family and died a hero meanwhile Snape changed sides because he was obsessed with a girl who he called a racial slur and who probably hadn't given him a second thought since that incident snape holding on to this high school crush is creepy and honestly the fact that he even loves Lily in the first place is

James died protecting his family, true great thing he risked his life to try to protect the ones he loved. Commendable. Snape risked his life to protect the ones he loved by starting to snitch on silent after silent made it clear to him that he was disgusted by him and was clearly trying to use him. He risked his life for years. Disturbing.

Hey look at more double standards. Also this whole obsession thing really tired my soul. You want to think that Snape was obsessed? Ok say it, I don't feel like repeating it all over again, I made a whole video about it, HERE. (Italian Version)

"honestly the fact that he even loves Lily in the first place is pathetic because Lily never showed any sign of feeling the same way i get it if you're hung up on your first high school girlfriend but Lily was never even close to that for Snape in fact most of their middle school and high school career she was questioning their friendship"

Really Morgan? Is unrequited love pathetic? I've had friends confess to having a crush on me and even though I didn't reciprocate I never thought they were pathetic. A relationship like that, as turbulent as you want, wasn't questioned until Lily was insulted, she and Severus had been BEST FRIENDS for years. She had doubts about Avery and Mulciber and exposed them to Snape of course but she never questioned Snape until her worst memory.

"Everyone commemorated James' heroic death"

But don't tell me? James was loved and popular, right? What's surprising about him being praised after his death? Can I remind you that even Peter Pettigrew was considered heroic because he faced Sirius until he lost his life against him? At least in public opinion. Whoever dies in war becomes a hero, wow what news.

Snape became a teacher at Hogwarts spending his days bullying children as an adult people fault James for bullying a kid when he was a kid but Snape bullied innocent children as a grown man there was no excuse for that no matter how hard you were bullied.

Ah here we are, the comparison out of scale. James is dead so he is a hero, Snape survived, the comparison should stop there, you can't make a comparison between a dead person and a living person. Snape treats some students badly? Absolutely yes and I have already spoken about it. Is it unfair? Absolutely yes, but what does this prove? You see him getting closer, right?

The point is simple, James was a bully (so at least he admits he was) but as a boy, teenager against teenager, while Snape (bad guy) takes it out on children. What is there to do with it? first James is a bully, then he isn't, then in reality it's a rivalry, then he still was but he matured and Snape still deserved it and the thesis changes again, James was a bully but less serious because he took it out on those his own age. All aimed at downplaying James's faults. But he is totally blind to the evidence, even at the same age James always took it out on those who were lower than him, he attacked classmates (not just Snape) in numerical superiority 2 against 1, in superiority of magical ability, in superiority of status, he was popular and the others were not. by Sirius' own admission many turned a blind eye when they did these things. Where would the equality be?

But hey the video doesn't end there, everything that is brought up after that is already tired and hackneyed points, Snape bullied the students? I talked about it HERE. Snape was Neville's Boggart I also talked about this HERE. Then he goes on to say that Snape treated Harry badly in the first lesson because he still hates James and also the fact that Snape saved Harry's life in the first book doesn't count because he didn't do it to atone for his guilt but because he had a suspicious account with James, because he had a life debt since James saved him from The Prank.

Snape couldn't bear being in your father's debt i do believe he worked so hard to protect you this year because he felt that would make him and your father quit then he could go back to hating your father's memory in peace

But guess what? This is a supposition of Dumbledore who in order not to reveal the truth to Harry says this thing but it is HIS SUPPOSITION. I understand that Dumbledore is wise and knowledgeable but he really is not the omniscient narrator, not everything he says is true and we know it well. Snape feels guilty and tries to atone as he can. Invalidating his commitment to saving Harry is absurd and unfair.

this was not heroic whatsoever it was immature selfish psychopathic and honestly I would even say evil

Ok there is only one thing I can agree with here, Snape is immature in some ways, he is in his early 30s and has some immature attitudes. but selfish? he sacrificed his life to fight voldemort, he gave up everything, he risked himself over and over again to protect Harry and not only that. How can you call him selfish? If he was, he simply wouldn't have agreed to be a spy, he wouldn't have cared. psychopathic? really a term used inappropriately just because it sounded good, I guess. evil for what? I'm really curious about this

"I will admit that Snape was brave for going behind Voldemort's back..."

oh great, at least this is... no wait talk again

"but the reason why he did this wipes away any credit he would get for it the fact that his inspiration for this was his ���love” for Lily is concerning."

Oh well, even a brave thing he did is invalidated because he did it for the love of Lily, what a surprise. Then he tries to get back to the obsession thing and it reaches new levels of detail:

"he had not spoken to Lily since he called her a mud blood 22 years ago his last memory of her was a 16-year-old girl while he was a 38-year-old man thinking about this I'll let you sit on that for a second his obsession with Lily for 22 freaking years is disturbing"

Ok please tell me I'm not the only one with an image in my head here. it's clear what Morgan is referring to right? Snape alone in a dark room that reminds of his adolescence, remembers Lily, her beautiful green eyes, her red hair and then he goes down and... OMG I know I know some James stans are wild but this is just hilarious. You want me to believe that you actually spent time thinking about snape going you-got-it? This is disturbing, the fact that you thought about it. xD This is just a rather sick assumption by some fans, disturbed on multiple levels but with no basis in canon.

Snape may have died a brave man but he also died as a man who brought nothing but harm to the world.

How annoying is it that there is always a BUT? Snape is brave BUT... Snape saved Harry BUT... Snape gave his life BUT... We could do the same with James, but we're better than that, I hope.

nobody was better off because Snape was on this earth.

Of course not, except that without Snape, as mentioned before, the events that led to Voldemort's two downfalls would never have happened. But hey, who cares, right?

everything that made him a hero and made people argue that he was a good person was avoidable if as James said he wasn't alive he should not be commemorated the way James a true hero was

If Snape had died during the first war, you mean? Well, he certainly wouldn't have been considered a hero because he wasn't one yet. Really, what kind of nonsense reasoning is that? If James had died at 14, he wouldn't have been remembered as he is remembered in the canon for fighting Voldemort. But thanks to Zeus, it's obvious. Snape becomes a hero later, and is remembered as such for this, just like James. The fact that James was a bully doesn't erase his merit in fighting Voldemort, but the opposite is also true, merits don't erase guilt. This also applies to Snape, his guilt doesn't erase merits and his merits don't erase his guilt.

snape is an evil person and always was james' bullying might have brought that out a bit but deep down it was always in there

Evil again, I would like to understand why, but obviously it doesn't go any further, because all the things listed are just a constant invalidation of Piton's merits and belittling his suffering. even here, when for the umpteenth time he retracts on the bullying he suffered he ends up saying that the bullying he suffered only brought out that part of him but it was always there.

"if you're still defending Snape after everything I just went over you are absolutely delusional i'll leave you with these words FU*K Snape"

Yes the video ends like this. Very mature I would say xD. I am Snape Stan precisely because I can dismantle all these weak arguments. The real delusionals are those who for years have tried to throw mud on a character as complex and imperfect as Snape, driven by anger and precisely by disappointment because there are those who can appreciate a gray character and see heroism even in a not so nice person. And to justify all this it is precisely the James Stans who have started this unequal comparison that they are always destined to lose, in which they compare a complete character with one who only appeared in past scenes.

(I'm also working on a video answer but it's a long job, for now I hope this post can be useful to you)

@moonlightdancer26 @doeprince-blog @snapedefender @snapedefense @soraya-snape @lilithofpenandbook

[odd-chips]

You know... Thank God no one's asked WHY Cap'n became an eyeless weredog yet, because I do NOT have an answer for that HDGDJGSJKL

[equalperson]

I fucking hate being traumatized because why am I bawling the hardest I've bawled in god-knows-how-long because someone I didn't even like that much berated Me. gasping wailing trembling and snotting over this for several minutes.

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 36: To The Sea

Summary: It's time to move on. You're not sure where you're going exactly, but anywhere is better than Texas

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 7,811 words

Warnings: ANGST, injuries, medical stuff, descriptions of pain and injuries, brief discussion about strangulation, mentions of PTSD and nightmares, so much crying, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, angst, a very little sprinkle of comfort, language, mentions of medications, still very heavy emotionally

A/N: Not actually a lot of warnings for this one. It's a lot of dialogue and inner monologues. Not a lot happens, just mostly setting the scene for the next chunk of the story. Bring tissues though, the last part of the chapter emotionally wrecked me but also might be the best thing I've ever written.

11/30/24: **This Chapter has been edited and rewritten from its original version**

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It’s warm outside. 

Not even the shade from the building can completely shield you from the dome of heat that seems to surround the base. It seeps into the concrete and asphalt that lock it into place, trapping everyone in a bubble that may as well be an oven. It’s always hot in Texas, though. You hate it. You’ve been spoiled by the cold, rainy seasons in England. You’d gladly take that over Texas. 

You’d take anything over Texas. 

The heat prickles at your skin, your arm starting to get sweaty in the sling. It had been Dr. Keller’s idea to keep your shoulder as still as possible so you don’t continue to cause yourself pain when you move. It still hurts, but at least you won’t instinctively try to use your left arm now.

Despite the warmth, there’s still a chill deep in your bones. The warmth of the pain medicine has worn off and you’ve been left with the perpetual ice that has seemed to coat your insides. Dr. Keller says it's the stress giving you a fever. Every nightmare, every flashback sends your body temperature spiking, your heart beating right out of your chest. You’re not out of the woods yet. It can take a long time to recover from that level of distress and the omega taking over. You almost regret it, but there was no guarantee you would have lived either way at that time. You did what you had to do, and it did work out in the end. 

But at what cost? 

Dr. Keller’s phone buzzes in her pocket and she pulls it out, staring down at the screen for a moment. “Kyle wants to come by.” 

You don’t want to see him. You don’t want to see any of them. 

“I think you should see him. Even if it’s just for a moment.” She squeezes your hand. “I’ll be right here.” 

It’s a predicament. Dr. Keller supports your decision to keep them away, putting some distance between all of you for the time being. Yet, she also says being close to your pack will help your healing. Having your pack around will help your omega settle once again. She needs that safety, that security before she finally lets go completely. 

You don’t want to be close to them, but you may not have any other choice. 

You sit there in silence, picking at the fabric of your sweatpants as you wait for Kyle’s arrival. Sweat has started to bead on your back, the day only getting warmer and warmer as the sun moves higher in the sky. You want to go back inside, back into the cool air conditioned building. You want to crawl back onto the hospital bed and lay there for the next few hours. 

You can’t. 

Footsteps approach, but you don’t look up. You know who it is. You don’t want to see him. 

“Kyle.” Dr. Keller greets. 

“Christine.” He says back. It still throws you off, hearing Dr. Keller's first name. She'll always be Dr. Keller to you. Kyle turns his attention to you, still standing a few steps from the bench you're perched on. “Hi, love.” He says. The affectionate nickname almost makes you wince. You don't look up at him. You don’t want to see his face. “I wanted to stop by and see how you’re doing.” 

You don't move, don't give an answer. You don't have an answer to give anyway. You shouldn't have to give an answer. 

He lowers himself onto the bench, sitting as far away from you as he can. “It’s hot today.” He says, adjusting his hat. Always wearing a hat. Maybe that's why he and Price work so well together. 

He stares at you for a long moment but you don't bother moving, your gaze still on your sweatpants. They're starting to get a bit warm, even with your perpetual chill. 

“I’m not here to apologize.” He says, breaking the silence. “You’ve probably heard enough apologies to last you a lifetime.” He shakes his head. “Words can’t fix what we did. Nothing can fix what we did. All we can do is give you what you need, try and make you as comfortable as possible.” 

Tears burn your eyes as you listen to him. He's not wrong, an apology won't fix what happened. No words will ever be able to fix what they put you through. You're not sure there's anything they could do that would make up for it. An apology still would have been nice, despite the fact you know how guilty he is. Their avoidance of you, their willingness to give you such space in an unknown place just proves how guilty they all are. 

That doesn't make things hurt any less. 

You slowly turn away from Kyle, angling yourself towards Dr. Keller. 

He doesn't say anything further in that regard, taking your movement as an answer to his non-apology. He leans forward instead, resting his elbows on his knees. “I just wanted to let you know that we’re getting ready to leave soon. We’ll be heading somewhere safe, somewhere quiet and secluded. I think you’ll like it.” 

Dr. Keller had informed you of that earlier after she went to speak to them. They've decided what to do, what's best for the pack again. You might have protested, except for the fact it meant you were getting to leave Texas. Where exactly they're taking you, you're not sure. You just know it's not Texas. 

“I want you to know that we’re here if you need us.” He stares at you for a moment longer before pushing himself up to stand. 

If, not when. 

Maybe they're finally getting the message. 

Dr. Keller stands, touching your right shoulder gently before she steps away with Kyle, speaking quietly with him, but you can still hear every word in the nearly silent space around you. 

“In an attempt to remain a neutral, professional party in this situation, I feel it would be appropriate for me to tell you not to beat yourself up too much about this.” Dr. Keller says. “The unprofessional side of me has many words I’d like to say to all of you.” She clears her throat. “That being said, on a positive note I can say you’re all doing the right thing for once, prioritizing your omega and fulfilling her needs, even if her needs require you to leave her alone for now. I know it’s hard, I know every instinct is screaming at you to help her, but just take comfort in knowing you are helping her. You’re doing the best thing you can do for her at this time.” Dr. Keller puts a hand on his arm, squeezing it gently. “Even if it is tearing you up inside.” 

“Thanks, Doc.” He says. 

“I’ll see you soon.” She says, patting his arm before she heads back towards your bench. 

You turn your head just slightly, not missing the way Gaz lingers for a brief moment before he turns his back on you, walking back down the sidewalk. 

It hurts. 

You want to cry with every swallow. No matter how much you chew, it doesn’t ease the pain of trying to swallow solid food. Even the worst sore throat you’ve ever had pales in comparison to this pain. Tears burn in your eyes as you eat, unable to refuse this time in favor of choking down some liquid nutrients. Even liquids make your throat ache, but they are easy to chug to get it over with at once. 

This feels like torture. 

Dr. Keller looks guilty as she spoon-feeds you the soup. Chicken noodle, something simple and easy but still something with some substance. It makes you think back to when you were sick as a child, your mother dutifully feeding you homemade chicken noodle soup until you reached the age you could feed yourself. 

You do feel like a child again, unable to even hold the spoon. Well, you could hold it, but it would have come at the expense of some burns from how badly your hand was shaking. 

So instead you sit here, being spoon-fed soup you can barely stand eating. 

“I know.” She says as a tear finally falls, your inhale shaky from the ache in your throat. “You need something in your system for the sedative. It’s a long flight and you’ll be sick when you wake up if you don’t have anything in your stomach. That’s going to hurt a lot worse than eating now.” 

Yeah. You’ve already figured that out. 

“Strangulation is a tough thing to survive.” She says, dragging the bottom of the spoon against the edge of the bowl to wipe off any soup that might drip on you. “Then again, so is getting shot, and distressing to the point of your omega taking over.” She holds the spoon up to your lips, and you’re tempted to refuse. “You’ve survived a lot, more than most could. And to look this good after...” 

You blink up at her, teary eyed and sickly looking, exhausted and bruised. Your left eye is still almost swollen shut, and your hair is tangled perhaps beyond saving, tied up in a bun at the top of your head. All just reminders of what you survived, all reminders of what happened to you. Of what was allowed to happen to you. 

You’re not quite sure when the last time you had a real shower was either. 

“I know.” She says, spooning more soup into your mouth. “You might not feel like it, right now.” 

“I want a shower.” You say, your voice still hoarse and cracking through your throat. A real shower might solve a lot of problems for you right now. It won’t fix much, but being truly clean would make a lot of things feel better. 

“I wholeheartedly agree.” Dr. Keller says. 

You give her a look. You don't smell that bad. She should know, she’s the one that cleaned the blood off of you and the one who gave you the sponge bath this morning. 

She gives you a look back. “I meant it would be nice to take a real shower. Once we get where we’re going, we can work on the logistics of a shower.” 

Right. You can’t exactly stand for a long time on your own, not to mention the problem of only being able to use one arm without bringing blinding pain upon yourself. That’s where the pack would come in handy. 

The thought of one of them seeing you vulnerable like that, putting their hands on you right now makes your skin crawl. 

A shiver runs down your spine, your body shuddering uncontrollably. You grunt as your shoulder screams in pain, another electric jolt burning straight through your nerves and down through your feet. Fuck. You mouth the word, squeezing your eyes shut. It makes your stomach churn, the soup starting to burn a path back up through your esophagus.

“Breathe for me.” Dr. Keller says, putting a gentle hand on your right shoulder. 

In and out. You focus on your breath, the only thing you can do without feeling like you’re going to go insane from the pain. It’s all you can do in this situation. It’s the only thing you can do at all. Breathe. Just keep breathing. 

Sometimes you don’t want to. 

The pain passes as it always does, leaving behind a subtle ache that will linger until the next flare of pain. It’s a constant, never-ending cycle that you can’t escape from. Weeks, Dr. Keller had said. It can take weeks to heal. You’ll be stuck in this cycle for weeks and weeks. What if it never heals? That is a possibility. It’s always a risk with any injury. 

What if the rest of your life is like this? 

You’re crying again, hot tears blazing a path down your cheeks. They won’t stop, they never stop. There’s a constant stream down your face, even in your sleep. You’ve woken to find your face and neck damp from the never ceasing flood of tears. 

How you can’t wait for the time to come when you have none left.

You’d welcome the numbness at this point, greet it like an old friend and invite it in for tea. Anything over the pain and tears that won’t stop. The depression-fueled numbness that had filled you when Price and Gaz left, then Soap and Ghost would be a welcome relief at this point. Anything would be better than the pain. 

You almost wish you were in a coma right now. Then you wouldn’t feel anything at all. 

Dr. Keller puts the spoon back into the soup bowl before rolling the table to the side. She puts a hand on your head, gently stroking your hair as you cry. The room is silent aside from your sniffles, Dr. Keller not having to say a single word. The silence is almost a blessing. You’re tired of hearing words, of hearing people speak. There’s nothing anyone can say that will do anything to help you, to comfort you, to make it better. 

There’s nothing anyone can do to make it better. 

You’re so tired of being like this. 

The sedative is kicking in before you even reach the airfield. She can see the way your head is drooping further and further forward in the car, your body jostling without any complaint. It had started kicking in before you even got into the car, as you offered very little resistance when Kyle helped her mauver you into the front seat. She chose Kyle out of everyone to help her in hopes it would be easiest on you. Your claimed alpha’s beta is a good place to start in rebuilding the bonds within the pack, and his calm demeanor certainly helps. He is a caretaker through and through, that beta trait prominent above the others in him. He would have made a good medic, had he gone that route. 

Your chin drops to your chest as the car comes to a stop in front of the plane, your body slumping to the side against the door. 

“She’s out.” Christine says, unbuckling her seatbelt. 

“Makes this easier.” Kyle says, getting out of the car. 

They maneuver you into the wheelchair, Christine easing your head onto your right shoulder to avoid aggravating the left. The less pain you’re in when you come out of it, the better, though pain will be unavoidable. Kyle pushes the wheelchair up the ramp of the plane, Christine following close behind. She’s glad she gave you the sedative before you left the med center to avoid as much pain as possible. She almost wishes she had given it to you earlier, as getting you into a sweatshirt had been a battle of its own. Though, the longer it stays in your system, the longer you’ll sleep through the flight. The longer you sleep through the flight, the longer they can delay the inevitable emotional storm of being enclosed in a tight space with your pack. 

If you’re lucky, you’ll be out of it long enough for them to reach the cottage without incident. 

John is waiting near the front of the aircraft, his eyes watching carefully as Kyle helps maneuver you into a seat. Even with the turmoil in the pack bonds, an alpha will always feel protective over their omega. There’s some things that can’t be undone, even in such a fragile state. Some instincts can’t be unlearned, no matter what. 

“I gave her a sedative.” Christine explains as she gets you as comfortable as possible in the seat. “It won’t last the whole flight, but it’ll take a while to wear off regardless.” 

“Is that more for her or for us?” John asks. 

“Both.” Christine says. “Mostly for her. It helps with the pain of moving around, but it will also keep her calm in close quarters like this.” 

“Here.” John says, handing her something. It’s a blanket, brand new by the feel of it. “Johnny made a store run this morning. It’s going to get cold in here, so he got the warmest one he could find.” 

Christine takes the blanket, the fabric thick and soft in her hands. It’s a touching gesture, speaking volumes of their desire to still care for you despite everything, their willingness to do what they have to, to keep the pack together. “Perfect.” She says, carefully draping it over you and tucking it around you before John gets you secured in the seat. 

“It’s going to be a long flight.” John says, taking a step back. 

“It is.” Christine says, pulling out her thermometer. She takes your temperature, letting out a hum at the number that pops up on screen. “I need to monitor her temperature.” She explains as John gives her a look. “It’s been spiking when she gets stressed.” 

“She's not quite out of it yet, is she?” John asks.

“Not quite.” She says, putting the thermometer back in her bag. “I’ve only seen two omegas successfully come back from that point, and I know the number across the board isn’t very high. It takes a long time for the body and the brain to get back to normal.” 

“And on top of everything that happened...” 

She stares up at him for a long moment. “She’s very strong. I knew she was a fighter, but to come out the other side even where she is now...” Christine shakes her head. “I didn’t want to say this at the time, but I was expecting the worst. When that call came in about what state she was in...” She bites her lip, holding the emotions back. “Her resilience and fortitude is what kept her alive. That and Simon’s courage to do what needed to be done.” 

“I know.” John says, looking past her. “We all owe a lot to him.” 

Christine puts a gentle hand on his arm. “You’re doing what’s best for her. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how much it goes against every instinct you have, it’s what she needs.” 

“That’s all that matters to us right now.” John says, staring down at her hand for a moment. “There’s nothing else we can do, so it’s time we start putting our priorities where they should have been the whole time.” 

Christine gives him a small smile. “I’m proud of you for that. It takes a lot to unlearn the things you’ve been told since the beginning.” 

The corner of John’s lips twitch before his face falls into the emotionless mask he’s been wearing for the last few days. “It’s about time we get our heads out of our arses.” 

“I can’t blame you totally.” She shrugs. “We were all just doing what the initiative was telling us to do. We couldn’t have known. There wasn’t any room to question it.” 

“I wish we would have figured it out sooner.” He sighs. 

“Things might have been worse if the truth did come out sooner. If you started digging into the initiative too soon, Shepherd might have gotten antsy and taken more drastic measures to stop the truth from coming out entirely.” She glances down at you. “I think this was all inevitable.” She turns her gaze back to John. “What happened, happened. None of us can change that. All we can do is keep moving forward with what we have right now.” 

He stares at her for a long moment. “The more time passes, the more I’ve come to realize why Kate chose you for this position.” 

The corner of her lips turns up in a smile. “Well, I am rather good at my job, which, among other things, involves advocating on behalf of omegas.” 

John huffs. “Wish we would have listened sooner.” 

“You can’t change the past.” She repeats, looking down at you again. “But you can change the future.” 

You woke from your sedation about four hours from Helston. 

Well, ’woke’ might have been too strong of a word for it. Your eyes opened, but you were still hazy, movements sluggish and entirely unaware of the world around you. You floated between sleep and awareness for an hour before finally gaining consciousness completely. Awareness took quite a while to return, though. Not until they were moving you to the car from the plane. 

Even still you’re groggy, slumped against the door in the back seat of the car. You blink slowly, eyes unfocused as you stare out the window at the blur of green passing by. 

“How is she?” John asks from the driver's seat, glancing up at the rearview mirror. 

“Cow.” You say, blinking slowly as the car passes a field of cows. 

“Still out of it.” Christine answers from the back seat where she's sitting next to you. Your response might have been enough to answer that. “Better than being in pain, though.” 

“How long will it take for her to get out of it?” Kyle asks. 

“Hopefully she’ll be more lucid by the time we get there, but it could take a few hours for it to completely wear off.” Christine says, wiping a bit of drool from your chin. “Probably not a bad thing. This is a big change, and with everything that’s happened, it’s going to take some time to settle in.” 

“Things are going to be rough.” Kyle says. 

“Yes.” She agrees. “Being enclosed in a small space with the people you want to see the least in the world isn’t an ideal situation. It’ll be an adjustment for everyone. I trust all of your abilities to adapt, though. Just don't go in expecting things to be the way they were.”

John's hands tighten around the steering wheel, his knuckles going white. Kyle cracks his window open, prepared for the thickening of John's scent in the air. Christine knows she hit a nerve, but it needed to be said. Even if you were open to forgiveness right now, even if they had chosen to go after you right away, things still wouldn't be the same. Things won't ever be the same. It is their fault deep at the root of it. Those cameras were put up because of them, you were taken because of them. You were chosen for the “initiative” because of them, because Kate thought you'd fit in well with them. Their decisions shaped your life, and will continue to shape your life. 

Can you ever come to forgive them? Christine likes to think so. She has the hope that they can put in the work and regain your trust and earn eventual forgiveness. She knows you'll allow them to try once the initial hurt and emotions begin to fade, once the two of you put in enough work to start processing the trauma around the events that happened. It will take time. Probably a long time. 

She'll be there every step of the way. 

“Ashley did some shopping for us, picked up some stuff to get us until we can get into town.” Kyle says, looking at his phone. 

“Good.” John says, his shoulders starting to relax. “Should wait a couple days before going. Get settled in.”

“She's still working on cleaning up. Probably still be there when we get there.” Kyle says, putting his phone back in his pocket. 

“That's fine. We’ll probably have to utilize her a bit.” 

“Doubt she'll complain.” Kyle says, looking out the window. “Be thrilled to have something to do besides work.” 

You let out a quiet groan, shifting against the door. “Hurts.” 

“I know, honey.” Christine says, carefully adjusting your left arm. “I’ll give you more pain meds once we get to the cottage.” 

“We’ll be there in half an hour.” John says, glancing up at the rearview mirror again before turning his eyes back to the road. 

The half hour seems to take the longest as you continue to become more and more lucid and aware. The pain sets in first, your brain picking up on those signals before anything else. John’s knuckles are white around the steering wheel as you begin to whine and whimper around every bend in the road and turn he has to make, every jostle of the car. Every instinct in his body tells him to pull over and comfort you, but he can’t. It’s more important to get to the cottage, and there’s no guarantee you’d even let him. It might make things worse. 

The last thing you need right now is for things to get worse. 

Christine breathes a sigh of relief as they pull up to the cottage, glad she can finally get you somewhere more comfortable. You’ve been in far too many uncomfortable positions today, moved around too much. She would have liked to keep you in Texas a couple more days, but she knew as soon as you were able to travel, the better. The sooner they could get off the grid, the better. 

The sooner they could get out of Texas, the better. 

Kyle is getting the wheelchair out of the trunk when Johnny and Simon pull up, not having been far behind. They likely took a turn around the back roads to ensure no one was following and to keep things from looking too suspicious. 

Christine keeps you from slumping out of the car as she carefully opens the door on your side. You’re more awake than you were, blinking up at her with almost startlingly aware eyes.

“Crutch.” You pout when she pulls the wheelchair closer. 

She gives you a look. “Honey I'm not sure you could even stand right now.” You may be more aware, but that doesn’t mean your body is working as it should.

You let out a defiant noise as you attempt to get your legs out of the car, trying to hide your grunts of pain and discomfort. 

She's tempted to stand there and let you try, but she knows all hell will break loose if she lets you fall. She's not willing to take that risk, not to mention it will cause you more pain to get you up off the ground. 

“Come on,” She says, stopping you before you can get your feet under you. “Nice and slow.” 

You let out a quiet growl of indignation but you allow her to help you, your legs trembling as she eases you up. Kyle is there with the wheelchair, getting it as close to you as possible so she can sit you down quickly. 

“Ow.” You breathe, eyes pinched closed as you breathe through the pain. 

“I know.” She says, patting your good shoulder lightly. She's glad she put you in the sweatshirt before you left Texas. It's chilly outside, chillier than it was further inland a few days ago. 

It's hard to believe it's only been a few days since you were taken. Barely even a week. So much happened in such a short period of time. It feels like it’s been weeks since everything started, but then again, it had been weeks since John and Kyle first left. It had been weeks since you had been around your whole pack together by the time you were taken. The deep depression you sunk into before the events of the last week had been draining you slowly for weeks before this. It had started before John and Kyle were deployed, back to that day when you revealed the cameras and the secret you had been hiding from them. 

How long you’ve gone in such turmoil. 

How far you still have to go. 

The path up to the door is rocky and uneven, the wheelchair jostling as she pushes it up towards the door. She can picture your face, the way it has to be screwed up in pain. You're silent though, holding it all in. She almost wishes you weren't being silent about it. 

The door is already open, light shining from inside as she approaches. Kyle is in the house already, having gone ahead to greet his sister. John is right behind the two of you as Christine turns to wheel you up the steps into the house. His eyes are on you, focused and ready should you fall.  

Christine would never let you fall, and from the way your hand is gripping the arm of the chair for dear life, you probably couldn't anyway. 

She wheels you through the entryway, the inside warmer thanks to a fire that's burning. It's a nice cottage, far nicer than she had been expecting judging from the outside. 

Johnny lets out a low whistle as he enters behind John, looking around. “Yer parents own this?” 

“It was given to our mum by our grandparents. They did some...renovations before they passed it on.” Kyle says. 

“Yer tellin’ me.” Johnny says. 

It looks new inside. New wood floors, freshly painted walls. The furniture looks like she would expect to find in an English seaside cottage, though. Kyle’s parents went to France for summer vacation instead of utilizing the cottage, and none of his siblings had wanted to use it, he told them. It looks almost perfect, like it came right out of a home renovation show. Kyle’s sister must have worked some sort of magic to get it this clean. 

It is a very nice cottage. It’s small, the door opening right to the main area. There’s two couches and a chair in the middle of the room around a coffee table. To the left of the couches is a fireplace, the fire already lit and crackling. It looks original, likely having been untouched in the renovations. There’s a door to the left of the fireplace closer to the main entryway. A bedroom maybe? To the right of the front door are two doors, one on the far wall and one facing the front door. 

The stairs are in the middle of the house, leading up to the second floor where there’s likely more bedrooms. On the far side of the main area is the dining area and beyond that is a sliding glass door. Around the corner on the far side of the stairs is likely the kitchen. She can see the fridge from where she’s standing. It’s new. Very new. Makes her wonder just how long ago it had been renovated. 

“Everyone, this is my sister Ashley.” Kyle says, introducing the other woman in the room. 

“Hello,” she says, giving everyone a wave and a dazzling smile. 

She’s dressed simply in jeans and a t-shirt, her medium box braids pulled up into a bun on top of her head. They look a lot alike, her and Kyle. Tall and slender and stunning. They have the same smile and the same soft brown eyes. She's wearing scent blockers, but Christine can imagine her having a soft scent like lavender or something fresh like mint. 

“There's two rooms down here, and two upstairs.” Kyle says. “The main bedroom is through there.” He points towards a door to their left. “I figure we'll give that to our omega. The bathroom in there has a walk-in shower.” 

“Perfect.” Christine says. That will make getting you in and out of the shower easier at least, and you won’t have to go far to use the bathroom.

“You should take the other room down here.” John says, looking at Christine. “So you can be close in case of an emergency.”

And so you don't have to be too close to them, so you won’t feel like they’re hovering.

He doesn't have to say that part out loud. 

“I put new sheets on all the beds.” Ashley says. “I also picked up everything Kyle sent on the list. Food, some clothes, some other necessities.”

You let out a quiet groan, Christine patting your head gently. You have to be exhausted and sore after the day. She should give you another dose of pain medicine like she said she would. You’re going to need it tonight. 

“Let's get you laying down for a bit.” She says, wheeling you towards the door. 

Kyle opens it for her, revealing a spacious room with a big window looking out towards the sea. You're going to spend a lot of time in front of that window, she thinks. The bed is in the middle of the room, and there’s two chairs facing the window. She’s almost tempted to sit you in one of the chairs, but laying down will be more comfortable for you right now. 

You're still too out of it now to care much as she wheels you to the double bed. With Kyle's help they get you horizontal, Christine draping the blanket at the end of the bed over you. It’s not very soft, but it will do for now. She’ll have to get the guys to pick up some soft blankets for you when they go to town. She has a whole list of things starting in her head she needs them to pick up.

She leans your crutch against the end of the bed just in case you might need it for an emergency. She hopes you’ll yell first, but you always have been stubborn. Being mostly bed-bound has only made that worse. 

“I’m going to go look through the things Ashley picked up.” She says, patting your leg gently. “Get some rest.” 

Christine leaves the door open a crack as she exits, wanting to give you a little privacy as you nap, or at least she hopes you’ll nap. It’s going to be a rough adjustment, and you’re going to need as much rest as you can get. 

“I’m assuming you’re Christine.” Ashley says, walking up to her. 

“I am.” She says, giving Ashley a smile. 

She can’t help but get lost in Ashley’s soft gaze for a moment. The Garrick siblings seem to share the same magnetic energy. There’s something almost ethereal about them. She could easily imagine them with glowing halos and angel wings. It’s almost like she’s being blessed with the opportunity to look upon her. She could spend an hour staring at Ashley’s face and not grow tired of looking at her.

“I picked up the items Kyle said you needed.” She says, motioning to the bags on the coffee table, pulling Christine out of her daze. “I couldn’t find the exact nutrient powder you asked for, so I got one that was as close as I could find.” 

Christine glances through the bags. She was thorough, getting at least two of everything. 

“I got warmer clothes for her too, since it can get chilly out here this time of year. Just some simple things for now until you guys get into town.” Ashley says. “I did some research too and I read that omegas like comforting things so I picked up some extra blankets and pillows” Ashley says, motioning to a couple bags sitting on the couch. “I also picked up this,” She pulls a stuffed dog from one of the bags, holding it up. “It was the softest one I could find. I thought it might help.” 

A small smile forms on Christine’s face, her heart fluttering in her chest from the sweet, thoughtful gesture. Ashley doesn’t even know you, nor did she know exactly what happened to you, and yet she went so far as to pick up some comfort items for you. You have nothing right now, only the borrowed clothes on your back. All of your belongings are still on base, all of the things that you had built to make your perfect nest. Would you want any of them still? Or have they been tainted by the events of the last few weeks? 

That Ashley thought to do this has warmth flooding Christine’s body. You can have some comfort now without having to wait for their trip to town. She almost feels the urge to cry. She wants to hug Ashley, thank her over and over for her kindness. Ashley has no idea how much her small act of kindness means, how much it's going to mean. 

A smile forms on Christine’s face as she stares at the stuffed dog. “It’s perfect.” 

You can hear it. 

In the distance, the quiet roar reaches your ears as you’re dragged from the sweet arms of sleep. It must be a dream, or perhaps the sedative is still clinging to your mind, making you imagine things. 

No. 

You’d know that sound anywhere. 

The effort to push yourself up to sit is a momentous one, every cell in your body protesting after a day of being moved and jostled. The last thing you want is to move right now, but you have to. 

The pain meds have done little to help.

The crutch at the end of your bed must be a thousand miles away as you sit there and stare at it. The ache in your body only increases as you become more and more aware of the pain, almost as if it can tell what it is your mind is planning. 

The door is cracked open, letting in a slit of light from outside. It’s dark in the room, the curtains pulled over the window. It’s a blessing compared to the bright yellow light outside the door. You welcome the darkness as your head begins to throb. You could call for assistance. You’d get more help than you needed. More help than you want. 

No. 

You need to do this. 

The effort it takes to get standing nearly sends you back onto the bed. The pain nearly blinds you as your feet touch the floor, your body leaning against the side of the mattress out of desperation. If you fall, you’ll never be alone again. You can’t afford that. You don’t want that. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

The breaths out of your nose are short and sharp as you reach for the crutch, fingers trembling in the effort to fight the pain threatening to blind you. You’re trembling like a leaf in a storm as your fingers finally wrap around the cool metal. The rubber bottom drags across the floor as you tug it over to you, holding it against your chest for a moment. 

Breathe. That’s what you need to do. Breathe. 

In and out. 

Nice and slow. 

The pain is only a memory. The pain is nothing. The memories forming at the edges of your mind will take over and wipe out the pain and the misery. You just have to be sure. You just have to be certain.

You push yourself upright using the crutch, tucking it under your arm. You should go back to bed. You should rest. 

No. 

You need to know. 

You need to be certain.

The first step you take nearly makes you sick. 

It’s like watching a baby deer walk for the first time, knees wobbling, feet shaking. You lean heavily on the crutch, your determination the only thing keeping you from tumbling to the floor in a heap. That might almost hurt worse than forcing yourself to stand upright. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

Inch by inch you move across the floor, silently grateful for the socks on your feet. They allow you to slide across the hardwood, but they also pose a threat. Slide too far and you’ll lose your feet. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

The determination and your desire for certainty is what keeps you sliding inch by inch across the floor towards that strip of blinding light in front of you. It’s hovering before you, threatening you. How do you know there’s not one of them standing guard, waiting for you to try and leave? You can’t know. You don’t have a clue what’s waiting on the other side of that door. It could be nothing. It could be your entire pack. 

Breathe. 

In and out. 

You take a moment at the door, resting your aching feet. Your body is throbbing from the effort to keep yourself upright, the sedative still numbing your brain and your movements. It’s like treading through honey, everything twice as hard as it should be. You can walk. You’ve done it before. You did it in the medical center. 

You can do it here. 

You use the crutch to push the door open more, your free arm still tucked in a sling to keep you from moving it. Reaching for it with that arm would have put you on the floor, would have caused more pain than you needed, would have made you fall. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

Breathe. 

The light burns. Explosions of yellows and whites erupt behind your eyelids as you screw them tight against the sudden onslaught. The sun is in the room, shining its rays directly into your sensitive eyes. Your stomach churns, your fingers tightening around the crutch so tight your knuckles begin to ache. The oppressive light makes you want to recede back into the darkness of the room behind you like a vampire shying away from the light of day. 

No. 

You won’t be defeated by the harsh artificial lighting. You need to know. 

You need to be certain.

The others are moving around. You can hear voices around the corner, voices upstairs with thudding footsteps. The air is thick with a mesh of scents, cleaning chemicals, and the burn of scent blocker. Your nose wrinkles at the sudden onslaught against your senses, your sedated brain making it all seem so much worse. 

You need to know. 

The hardwood floors continue and you use them to your advantage as you shuffle your way across the main area. The fire crackles as you pass, the popping of a log making you startle. Your feet slide again, your body pushing up against the crutch to hold yourself steady. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

Your target is dead ahead, a mile away but so close you can almost taste it. Just past the dining table and straight on till morning. 

Despite your snail’s pace, no one seems to notice you shuffling your way across the house. It should make you upset, the fact that none of them notice you moving around, but instead it makes you glad. They’d try to stop you if they noticed you, turn you around and shuffle you back to bed. Or worse, they’d carry you. 

How easily you could slip away, though. 

Well...in theory. 

Perhaps that’s why they ‘re not paying you any mind. How far could you really go in your current state? 

Why would you want to stray from the only safe space you have? 

The world outside is more dangerous with the state you’re in. Not just because of your injuries and your status, but also because you know Shepherd is still out there, and for all you know Graves is as well. 

He could be waiting right outside the door. 

No. 

They’d know. 

They’d protect you. 

They failed. 

You push past the fear in favor of certainty as you push forward, passing the dining table in your slow crawl towards the sliding glass door. 

It poses an entirely new threat as you stand before it, staring out the darkened glass. You have to get it open. Getting it open takes strength and you’re down to one hand that’s trying to keep you upright. 

You have to know. 

You have to be certain. 

You lean your weight on the crutch, ignoring the way it digs into your armpit as you reach for the handle. You click the lock, wrapping your fingers around the plastic before pulling. Your body screams with pain as you tug, the door sliding in the track as slowly as you had moved across the small living area. It’s almost as if it's mocking you. 

It’s open only as wide as you need to crutch your way through, doing your best not to knock your left shoulder against the frame. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

Breathe. 

You can smell it. 

The salty sea air invades your senses, slipping up through your nose and straight into your brain. Memories come flooding back of childhood vacations back when things were simpler. Back when nothing mattered but the sand and the water and avoiding getting chased by your brothers carrying the piece of seaweed they found. 

Polkadot bathing suits, bright red to be seen easily. Toes in the water, sand everywhere. The nap in the silent car home. 

How simple life was back then. How easy life was. 

Your heart aches for those days again. The days when you could exist without a care in the world, trusting your pack would keep you safe, trusting your family would care for you. Your mind yearns for that sense of safety and security again. 

The world is grey as you hobble across the porch, the grey seeming to go on forever. You missed it, the chill in the air, the gloomy grey overhead. How you yearned for the gloom of England while stuck in the heat of Texas. 

Anything is better than Texas. 

Your forward shuffle pauses at the edge of the deck, your eyes looking out into the grey. Your breath catches in your throat as you stare out into the distance, the ache in your chest intensifying. It blocks out the pain in your body, numbing you to everything else as you stand there, legs trembling from the effort of going the short distance from your room to the end of the porch. 

You can see it. 

Emotions swirl inside of you like a hurricane as you stare out where the grey water meets the grey sky in the line of the horizon. Those emotions threaten to choke you as you stand there trembling at the edge of the porch. There’s a breeze, a cold one that bites through the fabric of your sweatshirt and into the skin below, but you don’t care. 

You can’t care. 

Your legs shake from the exertion, the neverending exhaustion that’s settled deep into your bones. It’s not just a physical exhaustion, but a mental one as well. It’s been a long week. 

Only a week. 

So much has happened in a week. 

You want to sit. You want to sink down onto the porch and rest. 

If you fall, you’ll never get up again. 

There’s a pain in your chest as your breath catches in your throat. The emotions are whirling, tightening around your chest, squeezing your lungs until they feel like they might pop. 

Breathe. 

In and out. 

You needed certainty. You needed to know. 

You can hear it. You can smell it. You can see it. 

A single tear rolls down your cheek as you stare out at the sea. 

NEXT ->

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[hhaechansmoless]

OFF THE GRID PT.1

pairing: f1driver!scoups x ex!femreader

genre: angst, romance, exes to lovers au, childhood bestfriends / neighbours au

description: Part of the Beyond The Grid series. Four-time world champion Choi Seungcheol has spent years at the top with Ferrari, but as the 2025 season drags on, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s not quite where he used to be. The competition is catching up, his team isn't what it used to be, and for the first time, he’s starting to wonder if he’s past his prime. By the time the season winds down, he finds himself back in his hometown, which isn't quite the same either. But the hardest race was never on track, and sooner or later, he’ll have to figure out what comes next.

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, descriptions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, slowburn, honestly quite f1 heavy

w/c: Part 1 - 14k Part 2 - 13k Part 3 - 19.5k

glossary taglist

a/n: a big big thank you to ashi (@junplusone) and rae (@nerdycheol) for beta-ing this and to tiya ( @gyubakeries) who sat through not just me yapping and losing my mind over this fic but also over real f1 happenings too 🥹 quite literally got me through the last 10k of this fic, no joke. this was incredibly fun to write and is the longest piece I've ever written fjdhfjd I hope you guys love it too!! also i swear to god i did not mean to jinx ferrari w this like don't come for me i am a ferrari fan too guys pls. do comment/reblog/send an ask w your thoughts!!

MONACO, CIRCUIT DE MONACO

Saturday, Post qualifying May 24th

The room is cold. The kind of cold that seeps into your skin, into your bones – the kind that makes everything feel a little too sharp, a little too clear. Seungcheol wonders if it would be the right time to ask someone to turn the AC down. He stares at the screen at the front of the room, but the numbers blur together—lap times, tire degradation, sector splits—none of it matters. He already knows what they’re going to say.

His arms are crossed over his chest, jaw locked as his race engineer drones on about qualifying performance. Tyre warm-up wasn’t ideal. You lost a tenth in sector two. The front row was possible. Possible. Not achieved.

He should’ve been faster. He should’ve been better.

Seungcheol shifts in his seat, pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t take notes. He doesn’t ask questions. No one is looking at him to lead this discussion anymore.

He’s had the feeling for a while now. Maybe it was when he won the championship last November. Maybe it was the pre-season meetings before testing in February. Maybe it was the first race, the one where he lost. Maybe it was the second when he—again—didn’t live up to everyone’s exceptions. Maybe it’s been the entire journey along the way. The thought has sat in the back of his mind for a long time and now it resurfaces, pressing hard against his temple. Seungcheol tries to push it back, tries to look at his race engineer and see the belief, the trust. He hasn’t seen that in a while too.

This isn’t your team anymore.

It doesn’t matter that he won the championship last year. It doesn’t matter that he was Ferrari’s chosen one, that he fought for them, bled for them, brought them back to the top. The shift was slow, subtle, happening in the way conversations changed, in the way people spoke to him, in the way expectations started to feel lighter. Not because he was carrying less, but because they were starting to place the weight elsewhere.

They don’t say it outright. They don’t have to.

He isn’t the future anymore.

Maybe, just maybe, they don’t believe he’s the present either.

And then there’s Jaehyun.

Seungcheol doesn’t turn his head, but he doesn’t have to. He can feel him sitting just a few chairs away, posture relaxed, flipping through his notes like he isn’t feeling the weight of this season pressing against his ribs. Like he’s not the one who’s supposed to be chasing, not the one who’s supposed to be trying to keep up.

But that’s not how it is anymore, is it?

Jaehyun is confident. Comfortable. Maybe even a little smug, though Seungcheol knows he wouldn’t show it. Not here, not yet. But Seungcheol feels it in the way the room leans toward him now. In the way the engineers talk, the way the strategists hesitate when they discuss race plans, the way every discussion that used to be centered around him now has another name in the mix.

It wasn’t always like this.

And it shouldn’t be like this now.

Jaehyun is good. He’s always been good. But Seungcheol knows better than anyone that being good isn’t the same as being great. And yet, the way things are going, the way Ferrari is talking, the way everything feels like it’s slipping out of his grasp before he can hold on to it—

No.

His grip tightens around the pen in his hand. He forces himself to exhale.

No. The team is just shifting priority to be safe, he tries to convince himself. Seungcheol hasn’t been performing the same this season, and Ferrari cannot just sit there and wait for him to get his game back on. It’s only natural that they shift their focus to Jaehyun. 

Who has been outdoing you in almost all the races till now, he thinks bitterly, but now is not the time. His focus must be on getting back to that top step tomorrow. He’s not on the front row, but he’s on P3. And he’s done this before. Multiple times. You’re a four time world champion for a reason, he reminds himself.

The meeting ends without ceremony. Someone thanks them for their time. The engineers start shutting their laptops, the strategists murmuring amongst themselves, but Seungcheol stays seated, pen still in his grip, gaze still fixed on the screen even as the numbers disappear.

He should leave. Get up, grab his water bottle, head back to his room, reset. He’s done this a million times before. Shake it off, focus on the race.

But for some reason, he doesn’t move.

Around him, the room is shifting. The dull hum of post-meeting chatter fills the air, team personnel filtering out in quiet clusters. It feels casual. Like this was just another debrief, another normal day at Ferrari.

But it isn’t. Not to Seungcheol.

He knows he hasn’t been performing at his best. He doesn’t need the numbers on the screen to remind him. But the part that unsettles him isn’t just his own frustration. It’s that no one else seems particularly concerned.

A season ago, a bad qualifying would have meant hours of discussions, strategists picking apart every sector, his race engineer sitting with him long after the meeting ended. But now, the debrief ends too quickly. The team moves on too easily, like they aren’t waiting for him to fix it anymore.

Seungcheol finally stands, rolling his shoulders back, exhaling sharply. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. That he just needs to focus on the race.

It’s Monaco. The crown jewel of the F1 calendar. He must do this.

—

Sunday, Race Day May 25th

“We need to push now, Seungcheol.”

He grits his teeth, jaw locked so tight it feels like it might snap. Push? Like he hasn’t been wringing every last bit of performance out of this car, like he hasn’t been on the limit for the last forty laps?

Like this race hasn’t already been slipping through his fingers since the second he left the grid.

The tires are gone. The strategy didn’t work. The plan was to overcut, stay out, build a gap—but the numbers lied. The degradation is worse than they thought, and now he’s stranded, barely keeping the car pointed in the right direction as he tries to squeeze out just one more lap before pitting.

It’s Monaco. Track position is king. And yet, here he is, fighting against cars that should be behind him.

“Box, box.”

The words come through, sharp and final, and Seungcheol exhales hard through his nose. He throws the car into the pit entry, hits the brakes slowly and pulls into his box.

It’s slow.

Too fucking slow.

The rear-left refuses to come off, the mechanic scrambling, precious seconds bleeding away. Three seconds. Four. Five. By the time they send him back out, he knows. It’s done.

His hands grip the wheel so tight his knuckles burn.

“Car ahead is Jaehyun and ahead of him is Haechan. The others ahead are yet to pit so you are back in P3 for now.”

Jaehyun and Haechan.

Of course.

His engineer is saying something else, some meaningless reassurance about the stint ahead, but Seungcheol isn’t listening.

He can’t listen.

Because he realizes, for the first time, that this isn’t just a bad day, or a bad weekend or a bad first half of the season.

This is the championship slipping away from him. This is driver number 1 slipping away from him.

The gap isn’t closing.

Seungcheol has been pushing—hard, too hard—but it’s not making a difference. The pace isn’t there, the tires are overheating, and every lap that passes feels like another door slamming shut in front of him.

The harbor glints under the afternoon sun, the yachts filled with celebrities and billionaires sipping champagne, watching from their floating palaces as the cars thread through the streets below. The air is thick with engine heat and the sea breeze, the grandstands packed.

Monaco isn’t just another weekend. It’s where legends win, where the greats cement their names.

And right now, he isn’t driving like one.

He flies through the tunnel, foot flat on the throttle. He knows every inch of this track, knows exactly where he should be gaining, but it doesn’t matter when the car isn’t responding the way he needs it to.

Seungcheol is stuck.

"Gap to Jaehyun?"

"Two seconds."

Two seconds might as well be twenty.

He shifts down aggressively into the chicane, braking later than he should, hoping for something—anything—to change.

The noise of the crowd swells as he rounds the Swimming Pool section.

His grip tightens on the wheel. It’s not supposed to be like this. He’s supposed to be attacking, not looking in his mirrors, not having to think about defending, not feeling the weight of the entire race pressing down on his chest.

"Seungcheol, we need to manage the tires."

The words snap through his earpiece, grating against his nerves. He forces himself to breathe, to settle the frustration threatening to spill over.

They want him to manage.

They want him to hold the position.

They want him to accept that this is all he’s getting today.

He sets his jaw and throws the car into the next turn, taking a little too much of the curb on the exit.

By lap 75, the gap between Seungcheol and Jaehyun is huge again.

It’s worse than before.

The second stop was clean, no delays, no mistakes. And yet, somehow, he’s still lost time.

Fucking Monaco.

It doesn’t matter how well he drives. It doesn’t matter that he’s hitting his marks, that he’s extracting everything left in these tires. The mandatory two-stop has killed any chance of clawing his way back.

"Gap to Jaehyun?"

"Four seconds."

Four seconds. Before the stop, it was two.

He presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek. At this rate, he won’t even see Jaehyun’s rear wing by the time the checkered flag falls.

And now, he has another problem.

The Red Bull in his mirrors.

Jeno.

The younger driver had been quiet all race, sitting behind, waiting. But now with just four laps to go, he’s close. Too close.

Seungcheol shifts his grip on the wheel, fingers flexing, gloves damp with sweat inside the cockpit. The wheel feels smaller, the car tighter around him.

P3 is all he has left.

And he’ll be damned if he’s about to lose that too.

—

The champagne is cold when it hits his suit.

Seungcheol flinches, but only slightly, just enough to feel it soak through the fabric, just enough to remind him that he’s standing here, that this is happening.

Haechan and Jaehyun get down from their P1 and P2 steps, champagne bottles tilted high, foam spilling over their hands as they spray each other first before turning toward him. He lifts his own bottle, angles it in their direction, but it’s only for the sake of formality.

Haechan stands in the center.

There’s something about him. The way he carries himself, the way he looks at the trophy, the way his hands stay steady even in the chaos. Seungcheol watches the way he smiles, watches the way he doesn’t fumble under the weight of it all. He’s young, still early in his career, but he handles himself like someone who’s been here before. Like someone who expects to be here again.

It reminds Seungcheol of himself. Or at least, of the driver he used to be.

And that’s when it sinks in.

That he’s not getting it back. That there’s no way for him to fight for this championship, not this year. That whatever edge he used to have—the thing that made him great, the thing that made him unstoppable—it’s not there anymore.

He tightens his grip on the bottle, jaw locking as he exhales slowly.

A podium at Monaco is supposed to mean everything.

But right now, it just feels like confirmation of what he already knew.

Seungcheol barely registers the walk back down to the garage. His ears still ring, whether from the crowd or the exhaustion settling deep in his bones, he doesn’t know.

His PR manager is beside him, speaking, but he only catches fragments. Media pen. Keep it neutral. Good points for the team. The same routine, the same lines, but it feels heavier today. Because he’s never had to talk about losing here before.

Seungcheol mentally scoffs at the way he thinks it’s become a routine. Since when was he this alright with settling for mediocrity?

The media pen is packed, cameras already rolling, reporters waiting. Seungcheol takes his spot, forces his expression into something composed, something neutral.

The first few questions are easy. Tyres, strategy, the mandatory two-stop. He answers on autopilot.

Then, the question he’s dreaded is asked.

“Seungcheol, this track has always been one of your strongest, but today you missed out on the win for the first time in five years. How are you processing that? And with Haechan taking the victory, do you think he’s proving himself as a serious contender?"

He expects it, but the words still land heavy.

For a second, he says nothing, fingers flexing against the edge of his race suit. Five years. He hasn’t lost here in five years. Until now.

"Yeah, of course, it’s disappointing. Monaco is always an important race, and I would’ve liked to fight for the win," he says, voice measured, controlled. "But we did what we could today. A podium is still a good result for the team."

It’s the right answer. The expected one.

"And Haechan?"

Seungcheol nods one, shoulders tight and strung up.

"He did well. Controlled the race, didn’t make mistakes. Winning here takes a lot, and he handled it."

It’s short and simple and exactly what he needed to say but as he moves on to the next reporter, the weight of it lingers. Because to him, more than what he said, it’s what he doesn’t say that matters. 

He doesn’t say he could’ve won if he tried harder, if the situation were a bit different. He doesn’t say he hopes to win next time.

And for the first time in his career, he’s not sure if he will.

HOME

In your defence, you never really expected Seungcheol to attend the wedding, especially with it being held smack bang in the middle of the season. 

In his defence, you suppose this is the reception and not the wedding itself. It isn’t to say that you are unsurprised when you walk over to your table with Seungkwan to see Seungcheol’s name on the seating list. The name sits there in Madina Script, all elegant swirls and carefully placed flourishes, as if good typography could soften the impact of his presence, slotted between yours and Jihoon’s, as if it belongs. You blink at it, half-expecting your eyes to be playing tricks on you, but Seungkwan sees it too, a soft sound of surprise escaping his mouth.

You can tell he’s excited as he sits down on your right, a small smile on his face that he tries to hide for your sake. You can’t help but shake your head and scoff at him in adoration. The boys haven’t seen Seungcheol in a while. He didn’t come back home last winter and you have a suspicion that it was partially because of you.

The reception hall hums with the easy lull of conversation, the clinking of glasses and silverware filling the space between soft music and warm laughter. The candlelight flickers against the delicate floral arrangements at the center of each table, casting shadows that sway with the breeze from the open terrace doors. Outside, the night stretches over the coastline, waves rolling lazily against the cliffs below. It’s the kind of evening that feels untouched by time, the kind where memories slip into the present so seamlessly that it’s easy to forget just how much has changed.

And it applies to you as well, as you turn toward the entrance, hoping to catch Jihoon before he finds his seat. You're ready to convince him to sit next to you when you spot the figure just behind him. For a moment, your stomach flutters, instinct overriding reason. You feel the simple pleasure of seeing someone familiar before you remember. Before it really registers who you’re looking at.

Seungcheol stops in his tracks too. Just for a split second, which you notice only because you were already looking at him. You turn back to Seungkwan, wondering why Seungcheol looks surprised that you’re here. You live in this town. It’s your neighbour’s wedding. Of course, you’d be here.

Seungcheol exhales slowly through his nose, steadying himself as he weaves through the tables. It’s fine. He’s fine. This night is just another social obligation—one he’ll get through with practiced ease.

Or so he thinks.

Because when he finally reaches his assigned table, when his gaze flickers over the place cards arranged neatly around the table, he sees it.

His name.

Right next to yours.

For a moment, all he can do is stare.

Then, with the kind of composure he barely feels, he pulls out his chair and sits down. Like the sight of your name beside his doesn’t feel like a cruel fucking joke.

The chair legs scrape softly against the floor, but you don’t look at him. Not yet. You’re still angled toward Seungkwan, fingers tracing lazy circles against the stem of your glass, as if you haven’t noticed him at all.

But he knows better.

Seungcheol reaches for the placard with his name on it, turning it between his fingers like the cursive script might offer an explanation. As if some part of him still doesn’t quite believe it.

And then you shift—just slightly, just enough for your gaze to flicker toward him, catching him in the act.

He sets the card down and straightens his spine, forces an easy expression onto his face, even as his pulse betrays him.

“Hey,” he says, hoping he sounds simple, nonchalant. He wonders if it is of any use though. Twenty nine years of knowing him doesn’t usually get erased by almost a year of no contact.

“You look well.”

Your voice is  smooth, free of hesitation, and for some reason, that unsettles Seungcheol more than silence would have. He glances at you, finding your expression unreadable, your posture relaxed like this is just any other conversation. Like there’s nothing strange about exchanging pleasantries after everything.

He wets his lips, nodding slightly. “So do you.”

There’s a pause, not quite awkward, but not entirely comfortable either. You nod in acknowledgement, taking a slow sip of your drink, and he watches as the condensation on your glass leaves faint moisture on your fingertips when you set it down.

“How long have you been here?” he asks. You can tell he’s uncomfortable by the way he glances around the hall, not meeting your gaze.

“A while,” you say, your lips tilting slightly like you know he’s asking just to fill the air between you. “Long enough to know the best way to sneak out if it gets unbearable.”

Something in him eases, just slightly. “And here I was thinking you stayed for the speeches.”

“I do. But that doesn’t mean I like them.”

Seungcheol is about to say something when Seungkwan leans forward, elbows on the table, “Alright, before the drunk bridesmaids start their speeches, how’s the season going?”

Seungcheol exhales, tilting his head slightly before reaching for his drink. “It’s going.”

Jihoon doesn’t let that slide. “That’s a non-answer.”

Seungcheol huffs out something close to a laugh, but there’s an edge to it. “It’s been competitive,” he says.

Seungkwan hums. “Red Bull’s that fast, huh?”

Seungcheol sips before nodding. “Yeah. They came into the season strong. The car’s quick, and they’ve barely put a foot wrong.”

Jihoon leans back, considering that. “And Ferrari?”

Seungcheol shrugs, tapping his fingers lightly against his glass. “We’re not slow. Just not as consistent as we need to be.” He pauses, then adds, “It’s not last year.”

That part lingers. Last year was different. Ferrari had been the team to beat, and Seungcheol had been the one everyone was chasing. He doesn’t say it outright, but you hear it anyway.

Seungkwan senses that the conversation might be heading downhill and rushes to say, “Well, at least your team is second fastest. I remember reading that McLaren were dropping down into the midfield again.”

Jihoon lets out a dramatic sigh. “Man, remember when they were actually fighting for wins?”

Seungcheol chuckles, shaking his head. “Feels like forever ago.”

You stare at him, watching as he sips his drink again. There’s a lot you want to say but you settle for asking something else. “Next is Canada, right?”

Seungcheol pauses, fingers tightening just slightly around his glass before he looks at you. He blinks, like he hadn’t expected you to ask.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Canada’s next.”

“Oh, Montreal’s always fun. Wet races, safety cars, chaos. Right up your alley, huh?” Seungkwan shakes his head as he leans back into his chair.

Seungcheol huffs a small laugh, shifting his attention to him. “Something like that. Hopefully.”

Seungkwan hums in response, but before he can say anything else, a commotion from the other side of the hall catches his attention. His gaze flickers toward the dance floor, where a group of slightly tipsy guests have started an impromptu dance-off. Jihoon follows his line of sight, shaking his head with a quiet laugh.

“Unbelievable,” Jihoon mutters, but there’s amusement in his tone.

Seungkwan leans in slightly, watching with clear interest. “I’ll give them five minutes before someone trips over their own feet and spills a drink on someone else.”

“Three,” Jihoon counters, reaching for his drink.

Their conversation drifts as they start making bets on which unfortunate guest will go down first, their focus shifting entirely to the spectacle unfolding before them.

And just like that, it’s just you and Seungcheol again.

You glance at him, catching the way his shoulders have stiffened slightly now that the buffer of conversation has faded. He’s staring at his drink, thumb tracing absently over the condensation on the glass.

“So,” he says, voice low, hesitant. “You still watch the races?”

You blink, turning fully toward him. “Of course, I do.” There’s a hint of offense in your voice, even if you don’t mean for it to be there. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Seungcheol exhales softly through his nose, like he’s considering something. Then, he offers a small, almost apologetic shrug. “I don’t know. Just figured—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

You don’t press him on it. Instead you sigh, staring into your empty glass, “I never got to congratulate you, by the way.”

His brows furrow slightly. “For what?”

“Your championship.” You give him a look like it should’ve been obvious. “2024. You did it again.”

Seungcheol laughs dryly, going back to his drink for a sip before he replies. “Wow,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “Bit late for that, don’t you think? Not doing that great anymore, am I?”

It’s tossed out casually, but the bitterness is unmistakable. His voice is light, almost like he’s making a joke, but you know him too well. It’s in the way his fingers tighten around his glass, the way his gaze flickers away from yours just a second too long.

Your stomach twists. You hadn’t thought much of it at first. He’s always been hard on himself, always pushed himself further than anyone else ever could. But this might be different, you realize.

“I don’t believe that.” You challenge, frowning slightly.

Seungcheol scoffs quietly but doesn’t argue. He just leans back into his chair, letting out a long exhale while pretending to look around the venue. 

“I’m going to get another drink. Do you want anything?” He asks finally. 

You shake your head slowly, still watching him. “No, I’m good.”

Seungcheol nods, pushing himself up from his chair, but the weight of his words linger.

He’s deflecting, ignoring what you said before and that means something is definitely wrong. You think back on how this season’s been going, searching for any sign. He hasn’t been winning like he usually does. But it isn’t like he’s dropped off either. He’s been on the podium for almost every race till now. So really, what could be bothering him?

Just as he returns, a warm voice cuts through the chatter. “Well, well, if it isn’t the four of you together again.”

You turn to see the bride standing beside your table, her lips curved into a knowing smile. She glances at you first, then at Seungcheol, Jihoon, and Seungkwan before shaking her head fondly. “I was just telling my husband that it’s been ages since I’ve seen you four in the same place.”

Her husband raises an eyebrow. “They were that close?”

The bride lets out a soft laugh. “Oh, more than close. They were inseparable. If you saw one of them, you knew the others were nearby, usually getting into some kind of trouble. I remember trying to study in my room while these four ran up and down the street, screaming about some game they’d made up.” She shakes her head, eyes twinkling. “It was basically a ‘buy one, get three free’ situation.”

Seungkwan laughs, nudging you. “Hear that? We were iconic.”

Jihoon scoffs. “More like infamous.”

Her husband chuckles, looking between the four of you. “Alright, so who was the ringleader?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” the bride answers before anyone else can. She tilts her head toward Seungcheol. “It was always him.”

Seungkwan snorts. “Yeah, because people actually listened to him. Meanwhile, the rest of us? Chaos.”

Jihoon hums in agreement. “He had that whole intimidating older brother thing going on. Worked wonders when we needed to get out of trouble.”

Seungcheol finally looks up, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Or when you needed someone to take the blame,” he mutters, shaking his head.

You sigh. “And yet, you still went along with everything.”

Seungcheol exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. “Someone had to make sure you three didn’t burn the neighborhood down.”

“Excuse me,” Seungkwan says, hand on his chest. “I was a delight.”

Jihoon snorts. “You literally almost set the park on fire that one time.”

Seungkwan waves him off. “Details.”

The bride grins as her husband shakes his head, clearly entertained. He looks at Seungcheol before offering a handshake. “I just wanted to say—I’m a big fan. Wishing you luck for the rest of the season.”

Seungcheol blinks, slightly caught off guard, but he takes the handshake with a small smile. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

The second they’re out of earshot, Seungkwan leans in with a grin. “Wow, a big fan, huh?”

Jihoon hums. “Did you see that? He even looked a little starstruck.”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose, shaking his head as he picks up his drink. “You guys are unbearable.”

Seungkwan gasps dramatically. “The four-time world champion has no love for his supporters. Could be the next big scandal on the grid.”

Seungcheol groans, pinching the bridge of his nose as Jihoon and Seungkwan dissolve into laughter.

You watch them, unable to stop the smile stretching across your lips. It’s been so long since you’ve seen them like this, teasing and bickering as if nothing has changed. As if life hasn’t pulled you all in different directions, as if time hasn’t worn away at the bond the four of you thought was unbreakable. For some of you, it still is unbreakable, you suppose. You’ve got to give Seungkwan that, since you see his insufferable face every day.

But it still aches, just a little. Because you know things aren’t the same anymore. Because you’re not sure if they ever will be.

ITALY, AUTODROMO NAZIONALE MONZA

Thursday, Media Day September 4th

The garage is comparatively quiet today, Seungcheol notes as he follows his race engineer inside. Must be because most of the mechanics have gone for lunch.

The usual hum of conversation and metallic clang of tools is subdued, leaving only the low whir of cooling fans and the occasional murmur of engineers discussing setup changes. There are a few mechanics working on Jaehyun’s car on his side of the garage, but his side is mostly empty. The silence should be a relief, a rare moment of calm before the chaos of the race weekend begins. But instead, it feels suffocating, pressing against his ribs like a weight he can’t shake off.

There’s a weight in the air here that doesn’t exist anywhere else. Monza. Ferrari’s home race. The Tifosi already gathering outside the paddock, red flags draped over the fences, the pressure thick enough to choke on. He’s raced here for years, he knows what this weekend means—to the team, to the fans, to himself.

Which is why the growing pit in his stomach feels so out of place.

His car sits on the floor stands, untouched. No mechanics checking the rear suspension, no engineers reviewing his setup. But just across the garage, Jaehyun’s car is surrounded by people, a quiet buzz of activity following his teammate’s every movement.

Seungcheol glances at one of his engineers, who is flipping through setup notes on his tablet, barely paying him any attention.

“So, ahead of FP1 tomorrow, we’re keeping things mostly the same-”

“We need to fix the rear,” Seungcheol interrupts, voice firm. “I told you last week. It’s too light on the corner entry. If we don’t stiffen it, I’ll be fighting the car all weekend.”

The engineer exhales, rubbing his temple like this is an inconvenience. “We’ll keep an eye on it after FP1.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens.

Not a yes. Not even a no. Just a ‘later’.

The frustration simmers low in his chest, but he forces himself to breathe slowly, keeping his voice measured. “I’ve been saying this since Silverstone. We don’t need to wait for practice to confirm what we already know.”

“We’re still analyzing the data.”

A humorless chuckle threatens to rise in his throat, but he swallows it down. “I gave you the data last race.”

His engineer doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t bother coming up with a real answer, just nods vaguely, already shifting his attention back to the screen. Like this conversation is over. Like his concerns aren’t worth addressing now.

The irritation claws its way up his spine, but before he can say anything else, a voice from across the garage catches his ear.

“…he said he wasn’t comfortable with the rear,” one of the engineers mutters, crouching near Jaehyun’s car.

Another voice, sharper. “Yeah, we’re softening it a little, adjusting the setup so it’s more stable through the corners.”

Seungcheol stills.

His grip tightens around the water bottle in his hand, plastic crinkling under the pressure.

The same issue. The same complaint. Except this time, there’s no hesitation, no we’ll see after FP1, no vague nods and brushed-off concerns. They’re already fixing it. Already adjusting, already making sure his car is exactly how he needs it before he’s even turned a lap. And his car? Still untouched. 

“Good,” one of the engineers says. “Can’t have him struggling this weekend.”

Seungcheol exhales slowly, running his tongue over his teeth.

The shift isn’t always obvious at first. It starts in small ways. Whose concerns get addressed first, whose feedback carries more weight in meetings, whose name gets spoken with more urgency. It’s subtle, so subtle that if he wasn’t paying attention, he might’ve convinced himself he was imagining it.

But he isn’t.

Not when he’s standing in the garage in Monza, in his team’s home, and watching everyone move just a little faster for someone else.

And it’s not that Ferrari doesn’t want him anymore. It’s not that they’re pushing him out. But they’re not prioritizing him either. They still expect him to perform, still need him, but they aren’t listening to him the way they used to.

And suddenly, it all makes sense.

This is why the paddock has been whispering. This is why people have started wondering about his future. He hadn’t wanted to believe it before, had pushed it aside as nothing more than speculation. But maybe they saw what he was just now realizing.

That Ferrari isn’t betting on him anymore.

They’re keeping him. But they’re investing in Jaehyun.

It’s been happening all season.

From the very start, Seungcheol remembers the discrepancies—strategy calls that made no sense, pit stops that were just a second too slow, orders that left him boxed in at the worst possible times.

And all this time, he’s chalked it up to bad luck. A miscalculation here, a mistake there. But how many miscalculations does it take before you realize they’re not just mistakes?

And the worst part? What have I done to deserve it? Nothing.

His results haven’t been bad because of him. He’s still the same driver who won them four championships. Every time he’s lost a win, lost a position, it’s been because of something they did. Something they got wrong.

He watches as Jaehyun steps inside, relaxed as he greets the engineers. They respond instantly, turning their full attention toward him, nodding as he speaks, making sure everything is exactly as he wants it.

Jaehyun doesn’t have to ask twice.

Jaehyun doesn’t have to fight to be heard anymore.

And Seungcheol is tired of feeling like he does.

The thought hits him harder than he expects. His fingers loosen around the water bottle he's holding, the tension in his shoulders shifting into something else. Something bitter.

Because suddenly, he remembers a different season. A different teammate.

Mingyu.

Seungcheol hasn’t thought about him in a while—not like this, not with the clarity he has now. But looking at Jaehyun’s car, watching the way the team moves around him, listens to him, works for him—he realizes it must have been the same back then, too.

Mingyu probably saw this.

Felt this, back when Seungcheol was the one Ferrari was pouring everything into, when every strategy revolved around him, when every upgrade, every minor tweak, was designed to suit his driving style first.

Mingyu had been a damn good driver. More than good enough to fight, to challenge, to win. But how many times had he been left with the we’ll see after FP1? How many times had he looked at Seungcheol’s car and known that he wasn’t getting the same level of attention?

Seungcheol had never thought much of it before. He’d always told himself that it was just how things worked, that the team backs the driver who can win. He hadn’t considered how it must have felt to be on the other side of it. To watch your team slowly stop listening. To realize that the people you trusted to have your back were already shifting their focus elsewhere.

And now, here he is.

The same team. The same treatment.

Only this time, he’s the one left waiting.

A mechanic brushes past him, calling out instructions, but Seungcheol doesn’t move. He keeps his eyes on Jaehyun’s car, watches as the team works quickly—effortlessly—to make sure his teammate is comfortable, that his car is exactly how he wants it.

Seungcheol unclenches his fingers and rolls his shoulders back, forcing his expression into something more relaxed, more neutral.

Then he turns on his heel and walks out, not saying another word.

Seungcheol’s spent six years at Ferrari. He’s won them four driver’s championships and five constructors. He was the one who dragged them back to the top, who delivered their first driver’s championship in fifteen years, who gave them the momentum they needed to take the constructors’ title the year after. He was the one who gave his blood, sweat and tears to this. 

Heck, you even sacrificed your relationship fighting for this team, He mentally scoffs.

Seungcheol’s never been the second driver. And he sure as hell isn’t about to start becoming one now.

—

Saturday, Qualifying

September 6th

The roar of the Tifosi is deafening, even from inside the garage.

Seungcheol sits in his cockpit, helmet still on, hands resting lightly on the wheel as the mechanics swarm around his car, making final adjustments. The session clock is still running, but for now, he’s stationary—P3 on the leaderboard, a tenth ahead of Jaehyun.

Outside, Monza is alive.

The Tifosi are everywhere, packed into every inch of the grandstands, a sea of red that stretches as far as the eye can see. Flags whip through the air, massive banners draped across the stands, their messages bold and impossible to miss. Monza is one of the circuits where the grandstands are sold out even during qualifying. There’s something different about Monza. Something that doesn’t exist at any other circuit, something even the best drivers struggle to explain. It’s not just the speed, the history, the track itself. It’s this. The weight of expectation. The way Ferrari doesn’t just belong to the team—it belongs to the people. To the thousands in the stands who live for this weekend. To all the other Italians watching on their TVs. 

Usually, Monza is Seungcheol’s favourite track. He’s set impressive records here before and the energy of the crowd is always motivating.

Even through the layers of his helmet, his balaclava, and the deafening sounds of the other cars on the track, he hears them chant his name.

At least they haven’t given up on me.

His fingers tighten slightly around the wheel.

He sits in P3 for now. Ahead of Jaehyun, but still behind a Red Bull. A Red Bull on pole.

At Ferrari’s home race.

It’s an insult to their team, a disgrace on their part.

His gaze flickers across the garage, past the blur of engineers watching the monitors, past the mechanics murmuring updates to one another. No one looks at him. Not directly. Not long enough for it to mean anything.

But they’re waiting.

They won’t say it, won’t dare to speak it aloud but he knows what they need from him.

They need him to take back Monza.

They need him to put Ferrari back where it belongs.

Like always. Funny that they need me, now that their new star driver can’t manage to fucking qualify above P5 when it actually matters.

His race engineer's voice cuts through his earpiece, slightly more alert now.

“Track is clear. Sending you out now.”

Seungcheol scoffs, a humorless laugh against the inside of his helmet.

Right. Of course they are.

He presses the clutch paddle, lets the engine roar back to life, and rolls out onto the pit lane.

The television flickers, the glow of the screen casting soft light across the dimly lit living room. You keep the volume as low as possible. Your parents are sleeping, and you wouldn’t want to wake them up because of the commentary at this ungodly hour. 

You hadn’t planned on watching qualifying. It had been a long day and the last thing you needed was to be up at one in the morning, wet hair dripping onto your t-shirt after a bath, on the edge of your seat as you watched your ex-boyfriend qualify for his team’s home race.

You should be asleep, but instead, you sit curled into the corner of your couch, staring at the leaderboard on the screen.

P3 – Choi Seungcheol.

The commentators have been talking about him all session. About how this weekend is crucial, about how Ferrari needs a strong result at their home race. About how Jaehyun is only P5 and how Seungcheol is the only Ferrari in a position to fight for pole.

The pressure is unbearable even from here, thousands of miles away. You can only imagine what it must feel like there, in the cockpit, in that worrying little head of Seungcheol’s.

The camera cuts to the Ferrari garage, to Seungcheol sitting in his car, helmet on, hands loose on the steering wheel as he waits.

Your stomach twists as his engineer’s voice crackles through the radio.

"Track is clear. Sending you out now."

Seungcheol doesn’t respond. Just shifts into gear, rolling out of the garage onto the pit lane.

The commentators barely take a breath before launching into his out-lap analysis.

"This is it, folks. One final shot for Ferrari’s Choi Seungcheol. He’s currently sitting in P3, but can he challenge for pole?"

"He’s had a tough session so far, struggling with the car’s balance, but he’s pulled off magic laps before. Let’s see what he can do."

You exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles against your lips as the camera follows him through the out-lap. He’s weaving aggressively, warming up his tires, testing every movement.

And then, finally—

"Choi Seungcheol begins his final lap."

The screen shows his car flying into a long, sweeping curve, and something tugs at your memory.

"It’s trickier than it looks," Seungcheol had once told you. It was late, the two of you sitting in the dim glow of his kitchen after Monza in 2023. "It’s easy to take it flat-out, but if you misjudge the line by even half a meter, you’re screwed on the exit."

Your breath catches slightly as you watch him now, the Ferrari holding steady, perfectly placed, just like he described.

The timing screen flashes, indicating a purple sector.

The commentators react instantly.

"He’s improving! Seungcheol is on a great lap. Can he challenge for pole?"

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the blanket draped over your legs.

The car flies through the next sector, fast and on the edge. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. It’s pure instinct, the kind that only comes after years of knowing exactly where the limit is.

Purple again.

"He's still gaining! This could be huge for Ferrari!"

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath.

The final corner looms. The moment of truth.

"It’s deceptive," he'd said, "the Parabolica. The biggest mistake is to brake early. If you do, you lose all your momentum. You have to trust the car. Trust yourself."

His Ferrari dives in so late you think for a second that he’s overdone it. But who are you kidding? It's Seungcheol. Seungcheol who would never settle for anything less than a front row at Monza. He knows what he's doing.

As he crosses the finish line, the leaderboard updates.

P2.

The commentators erupt—a front row start for Ferrari. The camera cuts to the grandstands, where thousands of fans in red are screaming his name.

You exhale.

Not pole.

But at least he’s ahead of Jaehyun.

The screen flickers back to the garage. Seungcheol removes his helmet slowly, setting it down beside him. He doesn’t look at anyone, doesn’t react to the pats on his back. His expression is unreadable.

Seungcheol is disappointed. Yes, he's out-qualified Jaehyun. But a Red Bull still sits on pole. Another at P3. His teammate's stuck at P5.

He mentally scoffs, A championship contender, that boy.

It's been a hard weekend for Ferrari this year. The Red Bulls have been fast all weekend. All season, but this weekend matters the most and Seungcheol has a chance. To prove to the team, to prove to himself and to win for the fans. 

He watches as Jaehyun gets out of his cockpit, looking thoroughly frustrated for once. 

Good, Seungcheol thinks. He's not going to be able to fight for the championship always, but if Ferrari has any chance of challenging for the constructors then Jaehyun needs to start doing better. Needs to start being harder on himself. 

As his PR manager approaches him, Seungcheol thinks about what this year's driver’s championship winner would mean. If it’s going to be Haechan, which seems to be the most probable case, then that would mean the downfall of Ferrari again. If Jaehyun won against the odds, it would mean that Seungcheol lost to a teammate for the first time in his career.

Ferrari is going to start asking him to play the team game soon. He's not going to have the choice to deny that. He just hopes it doesn't start tomorrow.

He needs that win.

—

Sunday, Race Day

September 7th

Seungcheol doesn’t know why he’s bothering with coffee. It’s not like he needs it. His body is already running on adrenaline, his mind sharp, wired, bracing itself for the race ahead. But still, he stirs sugar into his cup, watching it dissolve in slow, deliberate circles.

It gives him something to do. Something to focus on that isn’t the feeling creeping under his skin, the quiet conversations happening around him.

He hears Jaehyun before he sees him.

“You always drink coffee before a race?”

Seungcheol looks up, finding Jaehyun standing across from him, arms folded loosely over his chest, gaze unreadable but not unkind.

“Sometimes,” Seungcheol replies, setting his spoon down with a quiet clink. “You?”

Jaehyun shakes his head. “Doesn’t sit right. Too bitter.”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose, a faint scoff of amusement. “That’s because you drink it wrong.”

Jaehyun tilts his head slightly, considering that. “Or maybe you just have bad taste.”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. “Right. That’s why I’m the one drinking an actual espresso and not whatever sugar-filled disaster you get at the airport before flights.”

Jaehyun lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Okay, first of all, an iced latte is not a sugar-filled disaster.”

Seungcheol gives him a look.

Jaehyun exhales. “Fine. Maybe a little.”

For a moment, it almost feels easy. It reminds Seungcheol of when they weren’t sharing the same garage, when they weren’t dealing with the undercurrent of tension that came with being teammates. Back then, things had been simpler, Jaehyun in his own team, Seungcheol in his, their conversations laced with nothing more than lighthearted competition. The paddock had been big enough for both of them, their rivalry something manageable, something that only existed on track.

Jaehyun shifts slightly, straightening his posture, finally getting to the point.

“So,” he says, exhaling lightly. “Big day ahead.”

Seungcheol hums. “Guess so.”

Jaehyun taps his fingers against his arm, watching him carefully. “You’re planning to be difficult?”

Seungcheol finally looks at him. “Aren’t you?”

Jaehyun holds his gaze for a second longer before huffing out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I’m just saying, it’d be nice if we both made it to the finish line today.”

Seungcheol nods, slowly but surely. “Then don’t give me a reason to stop you.”

Jaehyun’s lips twitch like he wants to say something else, but he just nods once before stepping back.

Seungcheol watches as he walks off, settling at another table, already engaged in quiet conversation with one of their engineers.

He picks up his coffee again, rolling the cup between his palms.

A clean race.

Sure.

That depends on who refuses to back down first.

—

Seungcheol’s brother tosses you your drink as you settle down on the corner of their couch, next to your father. You wipe off the condensation on the can with the sleeves of your sweatshirt, tucking your legs under yourself as your father pats your knee, still talking strategy with Seungcheol’s dad. Your mothers are in the kitchen, loading the last plates from dinner into the dishwasher before they come over for the race. 

Seungho sighs, fiddling with the remote as he settles on the right channel before plopping down onto the bean bag at your feet. Your mothers sit on the two seater, smaller sofa to your left, you sitting with the fathers on the bigger one, just like you have for years. Race day traditions don’t just disappear, even when everything else has changed.

Seungcheol’s father peels an orange, handing over the pieces to you and Seungho. Your mother complains about the AC’s temperature, but your father tells her that it’ll be hotter by the time the race starts anyway. Your finger already finds its place on the corner of the sofa’s armrest, the splinters of old wood that you pick on when the race gets heated. You don’t need to just yet, but you guiltily realize that you’re ruining their sofa every time. No one says anything to you about it. No one has to. It’s been your spot, your thing for years.

Seungho nudges you lightly, nodding toward the TV. "They’re saying the softs might not last long in the first stint," he muses, popping a piece of orange into his mouth. "You think Ferrari will actually pit at the right time today?"

You snort. "That’s optimistic."

He hums, shifting in his seat. "If they want a chance at winning, they need to be aggressive. Hards won’t get them track position, and the mediums are a gamble if the degradation is worse than expected."

You watch as the broadcast shows the tire allocations on screen, your eyes flickering over the strategies analysts have predicted. "Yeah, but you know they’ll be too focused on playing it safe. They always are when it actually matters."

Seungho sighs, not disagreeing. His gaze lingers on the Ferrari pit wall, the strategists adjusting their headsets. "Cheol won’t want to wait for them to figure it out," he says.

"They’re going to have to take risks eventually," he muses as the national anthem ends, watching as the cameras linger on Haechan as he walks back to his car. "Red Bull is too far ahead otherwise. Haechan’s been cruising all season, and Jeno’s not exactly slow either."

You shake your head, sinking further into the couch. "It’s ridiculous. Their car is practically untouchable. Even when they mess up, they still somehow come out ahead. It’s like they’re playing a different game."

Seungho leans back, arms crossed. "Ferrari had the chance to challenge them early on, but they didn’t capitalize when it mattered. Now it’s just damage control."

You chew on your bottom lip, eyes fixed on the screen as the camera cuts to Seungcheol on the grid. His helmet is still off, jaw set tight, gaze flickering across the sea of people moving around him. He looks calm, but you know better.

“You don’t think Jaehyun has a chance?” You ask distractedly.

Your father lets out a small laugh, “Wishful thinking, honey. Seungcheol and Jaehyun need to watch out and start playing for the team. The second Red Bull lad isn’t too far away from snatching up third or even second in the standings if these two mess up.”

—

The race settles into a rhythm, not a comfortable one, not for him, but a rhythm nonetheless.

Seungcheol grips the wheel tighter, eyes flickering between his mirrors and the track ahead. He’s in second, exactly where he started, but there’s no comfort in that. There’s a Red Bull ahead of him, and another behind.

And Jaehyun.

Jaehyun, who started P5. Jaehyun, who has been carving his way through the field. Jaehyun, who right now, is fighting for P3

He sees it happen in his mirrors, sees the moment Jaehyun lunges into turn one, late on the brakes but just precise enough to make the exit ahead of Jeno. A bold move. A necessary one. Seungcheol doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react beyond the slight press of his foot on the throttle, keeping his own pace steady.

It doesn’t matter.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

The radio crackles to life. His engineer’s voice, calm and composed. But something’s still off.

“Jaehyun is the car behind.”

Not quite an order. Not yet.

Seungcheol doesn’t reply. Just tightens his grip, shifts slightly in his seat. He knows what’s coming next.

Another chime in his ear. “Let’s be smart about this.”

There it is.

He exhales slowly, foot pressing just a little harder against the throttle. Smart, meaning don’t fight too hard. Smart, meaning don’t ruin the team’s chances. Smart, meaning move.

He’s done playing smart.

Jaehyun is closing in, the red of his Ferrari filling Seungcheol’s mirrors as they barrel down the straight, DRS open, momentum in his favor. Seungcheol adjusts, keeping his line just tight enough to force him to work for it.

The first chicane is clean. The second is anything but.

Jaehyun dives. Seungcheol defends.

They come out the other side still wheel-to-wheel, neither willing to yield.

The straight ahead is the fastest part of the track, the only chance to breathe before the next braking zone. Seungcheol is already calculating his defense, watching for the moment Jaehyun makes his move, ready to cover him off—

Too late.

Jaehyun clips the curb, the rear unsettled just enough to break traction. The car bounces, weight shifting unnaturally, and before Seungcheol can even react, he sees it. The flash of the underbelly, the violent twist of suspension giving out, the horrifying realization that Jaehyun’s car is airborne.

For a heartbeat, there is only silence.

And then, impact.

The force slams through him, the weight of the other car crashing down against his, shaking his entire body. The harness digs into his shoulders and ribs, holding him in place, but his head snaps forward, then back, helmet knocking against the headrest. The sound is deafening—metal crunching, carbon fiber shattering, the high-pitched screech of tires skidding helplessly across asphalt. His vision blurs at the jolt, breath knocked out of him as they careen off track, the gravel rushing up to meet them. The car shudders violently, bouncing as the suspension struggles to absorb the force. He barely registers the dust cloud kicking up around him, the shards of debris scattering across the runoff.

You feel your heart stop as the scene unfolds on the screen. It stutters hard, gripping your chest and throat as you stare at the two Ferraris get pushed into the gravel. From the corner of your eye, you see Seungho get up, hands on his head. No one in the room speaks. No one moves. The only sound is the distant murmur of the commentators, voices rising with urgency, barely registering in your ears.

“Oh my word! Massive crash between the Ferraris! Are both the Scuderia cars OUT of their home race?”

Even with the volume low, even through the ringing in your ears, you hear the grandstands erupt. A mixture of shock, horror, disappointment.

The slow-motion replay flashes across the screen—Jaehyun’s car hanging in the air for a fraction of a second before crashing down on top of Seungcheol’s, the halo absorbing the impact.

“Look at that! The halo is doing its job there, saving Seungcheol. But what a terrifying impact!”

Your fingers dig into the fabric of your sweater, your chest aching with the force of holding your breath. The camera shifts to the wreckage, two Ferraris, lifeless in the gravel trap, neither driver moving yet.

The ringing in his ears is the first thing Seungcheol notices. Then the tightness in his chest, the dull ache in his shoulders, the way his hands are still gripping the wheel like the race isn’t already over. His body feels heavy, like he’s just been thrown into a brick wall and left there.

He blinks.

His visor is coated in a thin layer of dust, the track ahead distorted through the haze of gravel and smoke. Something is still pressing down on him. Jaehyun’s car, still partially tangled with his own.

His radio crackles, his engineer’s voice cutting through the ringing.

“Seungcheol. Seungcheol, are you okay? Can you hear me?”

He inhales slowly, tests the movement in his fingers, flexes them once, twice. His chest rises and falls, shallow but steady.

“I’m here,” he mutters, voice hoarse.

You hear the shuddering breath of relief that his parents let out as soon as they hear his radio on the television. You exhale too, feeling your hands tremble. You’ve seen Seungcheol crash before. But it’s never felt like this. Never this violent or sudden. Never with another car landing on top of him.

Your fingers dig into your sweater as you stare at the screen, waiting for movement, waiting for confirmation that he’s okay beyond just two words through the radio. The marshals are already there, swarming the wreckage, clearing debris, working to separate the cars, but you can’t tear your eyes away from Seungcheol’s cockpit.

You barely register as Jaehyun jumps out of his cockpit, turning around to look at the wreckage before shaking his head and walking away. It infuriates you. Seungcheol was doing what he had to do to defend. Why did this guy have to come in and ruin it all? There was a turn there, maybe he didn’t fucking notice that he had to move his steering wheel, you seethe.

The camera cuts to the Ferrari garage. His mechanics are frozen, watching the same screen, the same image of his wrecked car, faces unreadable but tight with something that looks a lot like guilt.

Seungho mutters. “Come on, man, Get out.”

And then, finally, movement.

The top of his helmet shifts, his hands coming up to unbuckle his harness. You feel like puking as he pushes himself up, slow and obviously shaken up, until he’s climbing out of the car.

“And it’s confirmed,” The commentator begins, “Both Ferraris are out of the race at Monza! Can you believe it? In front of the thousands of Tifosi here, it has been a nightmare of a weekend for Ferrari.”

But as you watch Seungcheol stand there for a moment, staring down at the car that was supposed to take him to victory today, you can’t help but stop the unease from settling down in your gut. 

He turns and walks away without looking back.

—

When he’s let back to his driver’s room after the medical check-up, Seungcheol slams the door shut behind him, the sound echoing through the empty halls. The windows shudder from the impact, but he pays no mind to them. 

His helmet is still in his hands, his grip so tight it almost hurts. His fingers flex around the edges, his breathing shallow, the weight of everything pressing down on him all at once. Then, without thinking, he hurls it across the room.

It crashes against the lockers with a violent clang, bouncing off metal before rolling to a stop near the couch. The sound rings in his ears, but it’s not enough. Nothing is enough.

He braces his hands on the edge of the table, exhaling sharply. His pulse is still hammering against his skull, a blunt ache settling at the base of his neck. His body feels stiff, sore from the crash, but it’s the frustration crawling under his skin that he can’t shake. He walks over to the bathroom.

This shouldn’t have happened.

Seungcheol’s jaw clenches as he stares at his own reflection in the mirror. His hair is damp with sweat, strands sticking to his forehead, his suit— the prized, blazing red overalls he once admired, the bright yellow emblem he respected— still covered in dust and streaks of dirt from the gravel trap. He looks exactly how he feels, like he’s been through a war and came out of it with nothing.

His head falls forward, hands dragging down his face, pressing hard against his temples.

He knows what’s happening outside. He knows that while he’s in here trying to catch his breath, Ferrari’s PR team is already working overtime to control the damage. He knows that somewhere in the paddock, Jaehyun is in his own driver’s room, being comforted, reassured, told that this wasn’t his fault.

Seungcheol exhales, a bitter scoff slipping past his lips.

He doesn’t need to hear it to know how this will play out.

Jaehyun is young, new, still learning. Seungcheol is experienced. Seungcheol should have been the one to manage the situation better.

That’s how they’ll spin it. That’s how they always do.

His knuckles whiten around the edge of the sink. He doesn’t trust himself to move just yet, not when his entire body feels like it’s still vibrating from the adrenaline. The crash replays behind his eyes every time he blinks—the lunge, the curb, the impact, the moment he realized he was completely powerless to stop it.

Be grateful you’re alive and well, Seungcheol reminds himself. It could’ve been so much worse. You’re okay. Physically.

Seungcheol struggles to get this breathing under control as he walks back out, picking his helmet up from the floor. A small part of the covering has chipped off, but it’s nothing he can’t get fixed. He stares at it for a moment— the black, prancing horse that adorns the back of his helmet. His race engineer had convinced him to get it after he’d won Monza for them in his debut year at the team. 

“You deserve to proudly show off that emblem,” He’d chuckled as he affectionately patted Seungcheol’s back.

Seungcheol wonders if he still thinks that. If he’s still deserving of this team’s respect. If they still have some for him, even if he is.

His thoughts are interrupted by rapid knocks on his door.

“Cheol, are you alright in there? Let me in.” It’s Seokmin, his trainer.

Seungcheol sighs. “I’m alright. Just leave me alone for sometime, please.”

Seokmin hesitates on the other side of the door, but eventually, his footsteps fade down the hall. Seungcheol exhales, pressing his fingers into his temples, trying to shake the exhaustion that clings to his body.

Then his phone vibrates.

The sound cuts through the quiet, sharp and unexpected. He doesn’t look right away, just lets it buzz against the table, debating whether he has the energy to deal with whatever crisis their PR team is about to throw at him.

But when he finally glances at the screen, his breath catches.

It’s you.

His throat dries up. For a second, he doesn’t move, just stares at your name, his mind sluggish in processing why, after everything, you’d be calling him now.

His finger hovers over the screen.

For a moment, he considers letting it ring out.

While you wait for him to pick up, standing in a corner of his parent’s backyard, you wonder if he’s changed his number already. Even if it is the same, would he still pick up?

The call connects.

You hear rough breathing on the other side. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, and you almost think he’s answered by mistake. Then, his voice comes through, low and strained.

“Yeah?”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Hey,” you say quietly.

Seungcheol doesn’t respond right away. There’s movement on his end, fabric rustling, the distant clatter of something being set down. When he finally speaks, his voice is flat, unreadable.

“What’s up?”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, glancing toward the house. His mother is still in the kitchen, her movements slow, like she’s distracted, like her mind is still on the crash. Your own parents are murmuring inside, their voices barely audible through the open back door.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” You sigh softly, “Are you okay?”

There’s a pause. Not too long, but long enough to know that he’s probably about to lie.

“Yes, I’m fine.” 

You don’t believe him and he knows that, because he doesn’t try to fill the silence or rush to convince you. There’s only the sound of his breathing, steadier now but still uneven at the edges, like he hasn’t fully caught it since stepping out of that car.

“No seriously, Cheol, everyone’s worried.”

There’s a soft scoff on the other end, the kind that isn’t amused at all.

“Yeah?” Seungcheol mutters. “They’re worried enough to call?”

You press your lips together, glancing back inside where Seungho stands at the door, a quizzical expression on his face as he tries to ask you what’s going on. “You know they are.”

Another pause. “Well, tell them they don’t have to be. I’m as good as I can be.”

You turn your back to his brother, throwing your head back in slight frustration, “Cheol, come on. They probably don’t want to bother you by calling right now.”

He doesn’t respond to that. The silence stretches again, and reality settles back in.

You kick at some of the pebbles on the ground, fingers tightening around your phone, “I wasn’t going to call either.”

“I figured. Wasn’t going to pick up either.”

You debate whether to say more, whether to ask the things you actually want to. Is Ferrari blaming you? Did Jaehyun say anything? Are you okay in ways that matter?

But you don’t. Instead, you sigh, voice quieter now. “I don’t know why I called.”

Seungcheol hums, a little absentminded, but not dismissive. “Guess you were hoping I wouldn’t pick up.”

You breathe out. “Maybe.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

You almost smile. Almost.

There’s something about the way he says it, like he knows neither of you really mean it, like he doesn’t mind that you called, even if he won’t say it outright.

You take a slow breath. “You should rest. I’ll let you go.” You hope someone reminds him to eat properly tonight. Hope someone eases his mind and tells him not to worry too much. That one loss here doesn’t mean the end of the world. 

He hesitates for just a second. “Yeah. Goodnight.”

You hesitate too, Can’t you just say it to him yourself? 

But it’s not your place anymore. So you don’t.

“Goodnight, Cheol.”

BRAZIL, AUTÓDROMO DE INTERLAGOS

Friday, Post FP2 November 7th

Seungcheol sits at the end of the long table, hands clasped loosely in front of him. Across from him, Ferrari’s team principal flips through his tablet, running over last-minute adjustments. His race engineer and senior management sit alongside him, unaware of why Seungcheol has called this meeting.

They don’t know yet.

Seungcheol exhales slowly, gaze drifting across the room, over the familiar red embroidered logos, the crest of the prancing horse he’s carried on his chest for the last six years.

The team he helped bring back to the top.

The team he’s about to leave.

The team principal finally looks up. “Alright, let’s go over—”

“I’m leaving.”

Silence.

At first, the reaction is mild, just confusion, like they’ve misheard.

The team principal’s fingers pause over his screen. His race engineer shifts slightly, exchanging a glance with the others.

Then, finally—

“What?”

Seungcheol leans back in his chair, voice even. “I won’t be re-signing with Ferrari.”

The words settle, the weight of them pressing into the room. His engineers stare at him, a mixture of shock and confusion on their faces

One of the executives clears his throat. “We haven’t even begun contract negotiations yet.”

“I know.”

A pause.

The team principal exhales, setting his tablet down, eyes narrowing slightly. His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it now. “Seungcheol, this doesn’t have to be a rushed decision. We can—”

“I’ve made up my mind.”

That’s when it truly sinks in. The initial surprise fades, shifting into something heavier, something closer to disbelief.

His race engineer straightens in his seat. “Look, if this is about the way this season has gone, if you’re frustrated, if you’re unhappy with how things have been handled, we can fix it. We can go into next year with a fresh start-”

“This isn’t just about this season.”

Seungcheol exhales, running a hand over his face. He knew they’d try to talk him out of it. Knew they wouldn’t just let him go without a fight.

So for a moment, just a moment, he lets himself be honest.

“You know…” he starts, voice quieter now, almost reflective. “Seven years ago, you called me to this very meeting room in Brazil.”

If everyone in the room wasn’t already still, they are now.

His team principal doesn’t react immediately, but Seungcheol knows he remembers.

“I was still at Alfa Romeo,” he continues. “I was still quite young and new, still figuring out the sport, still proving I belonged here. And you sat me down, and you told me that you saw talent in me and if I came to Ferrari, we’d bring this team back to the top. That you’d help me become a world champion.”

He lets the words linger, lets them sink in. His throat feels tight.

“And you did.”

The words aren’t empty. He means them.

Seungcheol looks around the room, at the men who have dictated his future for the past seven years. The ones who once fought for him. The ones who celebrated with him. The ones who, somewhere along the way, stopped prioritizing him the way they used to.

He takes a slow breath. “I’ll always be grateful for that.” He says, and for the first time, it hits him that he’s done with this team. That with what he’s said, they’re not his anymore. Seungcheol can’t help the feeling of mourning that overcomes him in this moment. “No matter how things have turned out, I won’t forget what we’ve achieved together.”

He isn’t sure if they expect him to say more. Maybe they expect him to be bitter, to bring up the choices they made this season, to throw blame in every direction.

But Seungcheol has nothing left to prove.

“Ferrari gave me everything,” he admits, voice steadier now. “You gave me my first real shot. You gave me my first win, my first championship. You gave me a team that I could fight for.”

He leans back, exhaling. “I’ve given you everything I had in return.”

The weight of that truth settles between them.

His voice drops slightly. “That’s what makes this so hard.”

There’s a flicker of doubt in the team principal’s gaze.

“Is this about another team?” he finally asks. “We haven’t heard anything yet, but if you’ve been approached, we should discuss it. We can match whatever offer they’re giving you.”

Seungcheol shakes his head slowly, the corner of his lips lifting in irony. They think this is about negotiation. About money, about leverage. They don’t realize it yet.

“There is no other offer.”

A flicker of uncertainty passes through the room.

The team principal frowns. “What do you mean?”

Seungcheol presses his fingertips against the table, grounding himself. This is it. If you say it, it’s real now.

“I mean, I’m not going anywhere else.” He’s surprised with how steady his voice is. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

The silence that follows is different now. They don’t know what to say, don’t want to realize what he means

His engineer’s brows furrow. “Cheol…” He hesitates, voice dipping lower, more personal. “You’re not just leaving Ferrari, are you?”

The team principal exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Seungcheol, you’re thirty. This is not the time to retire. You’re at the peak of your career. You don’t just—”

“I’m not retiring. But I know what I want.”

It’s the first time his voice hardens.

His pulse thrums against his ears. He doesn’t need them to understand. He doesn’t need permission.

But for the first time, he lets himself admit it.

He’s tired.

“You don’t have to decide this now,” the team principal tries again, but there’s something more fragile in his voice this time. “Take the off-season. Step back. Think about it properly.”

“I already have.”

And the finality with which he says it shuts them up. There’s no convincing him because he’s already gone. He’s been gone for a while now, but it’s real and true today.

Seungcheol pushes his chair back, rising to his feet. The Ferrari crest catches his eye on the team principal’s polo, the same one he’s worn for the last six years. Once, it felt like armor. Now, it just feels like something he’s outgrown.

No one stops him as he moves toward the door.

But just before he reaches it, his race engineer speaks again, voice quiet.

“You’re really sure about this?”

Seungcheol’s hand grips the doorknob tight. It’s a last-ditch effort, a peace offering, another chance to take it all back and go back to the team he’s called his home for almost his entire career.

He nods, slow at first but his expression is sure when he turns around for the last time. “Yes, I am.”

When he closes the door behind himself, Seungcheol hopes that no one walks out to talk to him now. The finality of his decision settles down on him, light on his shoulders but still heavy on his mind. 

These hallways that he’s walked for so long, this team that he’s been leaning on for so long. He wonders how just a few words can change how he feels. His footsteps echo against the floor, the polished tiles reflecting the dim overhead lights. He knows every corner of this building by heart. The walls lined with photographs, framed moments of glory, the history of Ferrari captured in still images.

Your history too.

His fingers brush absently against the edge of one as he passes, a photo from their first constructors’ championship together. The entire team, arms raised, champagne spraying in the air. His younger self is at the center, a Ferrari flag draped over his shoulders, eyes bright with something fierce.

Hope.

Determination.

Belief.

He stops walking.

The picture right next to it is worse.

His first drivers’ championship.

He remembers that night, the way his race engineer had pulled him into a bone-crushing hug, the way his mechanics had lifted him onto their shoulders, the way he had looked at his car and thought—this is home now.

Now, he stands here, staring at that same version of himself, and wonders if he would even recognize him anymore.

Would that Seungcheol understand why he’s leaving? Would he be disappointed?

He breaths in deeply, tilting his head back.

This is what he wanted. This is what he chose.

It doesn’t make it any easier.

He forces himself to keep moving, the weight in his chest growing heavier with every step. The hallway stretches ahead of him, but for the first time in years, he’s not sure where he’s going.

Tomorrow’s race, for now. That’s where he’ll go. Let the season end before we figure it all out.

But tomorrow comes and Seungcheol knows this feeling of losing will stick to him for the rest of his life.

He hears the Red Bull team celebrating their Constructors’ win outside their garage. The cheers, the fireworks, the champagne. He’s been there before. Knows what if feels like to win this, to fight for something bigger than himself and come out victorious.

But not this year. Not anymore.

He glances around the garage. No one is talking. The mechanics keep their heads down, clearing equipment, avoiding each other’s eyes. The pit wall stares at the monitors like they can will the result into changing. His race engineer exhales sharply beside him, but doesn’t say a word.

They all knew this was coming.

Maybe that’s what stings the most. Not the loss itself but the inevitability of it.

He should be angry. He used to get angry.

But now, as he watches Red Bull celebrate on the screen, as he sees Haechan and Jeno lifted up on their mechanics’ shoulders, champagne bottles held high in the air, as he sees Jaehyun sitting in his chair, staring at the ground, shoulders stiff with disappointment, he just feels…exhausted.

The ‘what-if’s’ cloud his mind, momentarily. What if they’d backed him up like they used to. What if they’d all worked harder on the car, what if Seungcheol hadn’t been feeling like he was past his prime.

But a part of him knows, and he’s sick of shutting it down, so he lets the thought flow through him. This was bound to happen. This was always how it would’ve ended.

Seokmin hands his phone back to him, wordlessly, as they walk up to their hospitality. Seungcheol thinks Seokmin has known, maybe even before he’d made the decision. It’s easy to break the news to someone who is the least surprised by it. All Seokmin had done was clap him on the back once and wish him all the best. Seungcheol knows he’ll be there if he ever comes back and that is enough.

UNITED ARAB EMIRATES, YAS MARINA CIRCUIT

Sunday, Race Day December 7th

Ferrari’s lion walks away — Choi Seungcheol announces exit from the Italian team.

“Ferrari and Choi Seungcheol will part ways at the end of the 2025 Formula 1 season, bringing an end to a six-year partnership that delivered four driver’s championships, five constructors’ titles, and a legacy that has cemented him as one of the most successful drivers in the team’s history.

The announcement, made ahead of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, has sent shockwaves through the paddock. While speculation around Seungcheol’s future had been growing in recent weeks, many expected Ferrari to push for a contract renewal. Instead, the 30-year-old has confirmed that he will not be re-signing with the team.

What remains unclear is what comes next. Unlike most high-profile exits, Seungcheol’s departure has not been linked to a move elsewhere. Ferrari has not commented on whether they attempted to retain him, nor has Seungcheol confirmed if he plans to continue in Formula 1 beyond this season.”

You stop reading after that sentence.

Your eyes hover over the words, rereading the title once, twice, three times before you yell after your mom, asking her to come down immediately. Just as she walks down the stairs, your front door opens, Seungcheol’s mother walking in with an exasperated look on her face, hands gripping her phone tightly.

“From the look on your face, I’m assuming you didn’t know about this either.” She laughs out in disbelief.

You shake your head, still processing the words you just read as your mother asks her what’s wrong before snatching your phone from you. 

Seungcheol’s mother exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. “That boy,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Not a single word. Not to me, not to his father or his brother. We find out through the damn news?”

The frustration in her voice is clear, but you can also hear the hurt seep through.

You understand.

You sit down at the table, glancing at the article again. Seungcheol has not commented on whether he plans to continue in Formula 1 beyond this season.

The thought makes your stomach twist.

Your mother sighs, rubbing her temples. “He has a race today, no? How come they announced it today? Did you try calling him?”

“Do you think he’d pick up?” Seungcheol’s mother clicks her tongue. “He’s probably acting like it’s just another race weekend. I don’t need to try to know that his phone is switched off.”

She’s right. You know she’s right.

You can already picture it. Seungcheol walking through the paddock, head down, sunglasses on, pretending the world isn’t speculating about his future, pretending like he hasn’t just changed the course of his career with one decision.

Pretending like he hasn’t kept the people who have known him the longest in the dark.

But the one thing you can’t wrap your head around is—

“Why would he do this?” His mother sighs, heading to your kitchen to grab a glass of water, “He loves his team. Dreamt of driving for them since he was a kid. What went wrong?”

—

When the fireworks are over and the celebrations cease, Seungcheol comes down to the Ferrari garage, one last time.

The mechanics are mostly quiet as they pack up, with the season over and no more races to prepare for, there’s not much to talk about either. For a moment, Seungcheol is unsure of what he’d say to them. If there’s anything to be said, in the first place. He knows the news was broken to them before the articles came out, so that there would be no surprise and no disbelief during the race itself.

Seungcheol’s finished P2 here today. It isn’t a win, but he’s a little glad that he’s on the podium for his last race with the team.

 When Seungcheol steps inside, a few heads turn. Some of the younger mechanics glance at him hesitantly, like they don’t know if they should say something. But the ones who have been here long enough, the ones who have known him since the beginning, they know this is goodbye.

One of them straightens from where he’s kneeling by the tire blankets, wiping his hands on his overalls before walking over. 

“You’re really doing this, huh?” The mechanic’s voice is rough with fatigue, but affectionate still.

Seungcheol exhales, lips tilting into something almost like a smile. “Yeah.”

There’s a beat of silence before the mechanic lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Damn. Going to feel weird without you around here, kid.”

Seungcheol nods.

One by one, the others start to gather. A few hesitant at first, but then more of them, his mechanics, his engineers, people who have been here since his first win in red. They’ve been through everything with him.

He mumbles simple words. Thank you, I couldn’t have done this without you, I’ll miss you all. They clap him on the back, exchange knowing looks, make a few dry jokes to lighten the mood. But there is an undeniable sadness in the air, the loss of a prized one, the loss of a team.

Eventually, his race engineer finds him.

Seungcheol knows that this moment would come, but when he meets the man’s eyes, he feels bare and stripped down in front of him.

For years, he’s been the voice in his ear, guiding him through every lap, every race. The man who’s saved his life a hundred times, talked him out of bad decisions, made him the best ones. The man he’s trusted almost his entire career.

And now, there’s nothing left to say.

Still, his engineer sighs, shaking his head. “Feels wrong, doesn’t it?”

Seungcheol lets out an awkward laugh. “A little.”

There’s a pause before his engineer speaks again, quieter this time. “I’m sorry.”

Seungcheol blinks, caught off guard. “For what?”

“For how this year went. For how they treated you.” He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “You deserved better.”

Seungcheol swallows. Hearing it out loud makes it even more real. “It is what it is. I don’t blame you.”

His engineer scoffs. “Bullshit.”

He stares at Seungcheol before speaking again, “Do you remember Austria?”

“You’ve got to be more specific than that. Which year?”

“In 2018.” 

As soon as he hears that, Seungcheol can’t help but laugh out loud, nodding his head.

“On the last few laps, you ignored my call to box for fresh tyres because, and I quote: ‘I can make it till the end.’”

Seungcheol smiles, “And then the rain hit.”

“And then the rain hit,” His engineer repeats, shaking his head, “And I spent the next five laps yelling at you to come in before you crashed into the barriers.”

He tilts his head, “But I didn’t.”

His engineer sighs, crossing his arms. “No. You didn’t. Somehow, through sheer luck or divine intervention, you kept it on track and won the damn race.”

Seungcheol remembers that day. The panic in his voice, the way his tires felt like they’d give out any second. The sheer adrenaline coursing through him as he dragged his car to the finish line.

He shakes his head, looking down at his shoes, “You were so pissed at me afterwards. I remember.”

“I was,” his engineer agrees. “But I was also secretly proud as hell.”

His engineer exhales. “That’s what made you special, you know.”

Seungcheol looks at him.

“You always knew where the limit was,” his engineer continues. “You always trusted yourself to find a way.”

Seungcheol swallows.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it?

He’s spent his whole career pushing the limits. Trusting himself when no one else would. Fighting for what he believed in.

And now, he’s stepping away.

“I hope we meet again, on track.” His voice is soft now, “Doesn’t have to be here. Doesn’t have to be with them.”

Seungcheol looks up, surprised. 

“But if you come back, and if you still want me droning in your ear. I’ll come.”

He doesn’t respond right away. This is a promise. It’s the most heartwarming thing anyone here has ever said to him. 

But finally, his lips twitch in the closest thing he’s had to a real grin all season.

“Good to know.”

“So what now, Seungcheol? Where will you go?”

Seungcheol knows the answer now. It’s quite simple.

“Home.”

tags: @znzlii @yawnozone @archivistworld @minjiech @the-vena-cava @kookiedesi @starshuas @exomew @reiofsuns2001 @fancypeacepersona @angelarin @blckorchidd

[d-z20]

From Jealousy, Comes a Flood (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: During a coven gathering, harmless flirtation draws the sharp eyes of Agatha and Rio, their possessive instincts simmering beneath the surface. Later, in the privacy of their bedroom, they remind you exactly who you belong to.

-OR-

Jen is flirting with you, much to the displeasure of Agatha and Rio. They can only take so much so it is not long before you're dragged upstairs and fucked into next week

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, mentions of alcohol consumption, Top Agatha, Top Rio, bottom reader, threesome (duh), kind of mean agathario, light dom/sub themes, magic cocks, possessiveness, ownership, degradation, praise, creampie/breeding, overstimulation, squirting, soft aftercare, cock-warming

Words: 4.9k

A/N: another FuckMarvelEveryoneLives AU and I've decided that Eddie gets roped into the coven as well. I think I'm utterly hilarious with this title and I don't care if you disagree 💀 Fic req

AO3 | Masterlist

The evening hums with warmth, the air thick with candlelight and magic. Agatha’s living room is filled with the easy sounds of conversation, the occasional clink of glasses, and the quiet laughter of a coven that has, against all odds, found peace. Lilia and Billy sit tucked away in one corner, deep in discussion about the ever-shifting paths of the Witches’ Road, their words a steady, familiar rhythm against the backdrop of Alice’s teasing. Eddie groans in mock frustration, waving her off with a smirk, but it’s all background noise to Agatha, barely registering past the scene unfolding across the room.

You’re seated comfortably on the loveseat, a glass in hand, and Jen is next to you—too close, really, though you either don’t notice or don’t mind. The warmth of her body presses against yours, a slow and steady presence, her knee brushing against yours beneath the low table. She’s relaxed, sprawled in a way that lets her arm drape casually over the back of the couch, fingers dangerously close to your shoulder. Every so often, when she leans in to say something, her lips hover just shy of your ear, the words meant for you alone.

Agatha’s grip tightens around the stem of her wine glass.

She watches, sharp blue eyes tracking every languid movement Jen makes, every flicker of her fingers against your arm, every flash of your smile in response. You look at Jen the way you always do—open and warm, entirely unaware of the way Agatha’s gaze darkens, something smouldering beneath the surface. The wine is smooth on her tongue, but there’s something sharper curling in her gut.

From across the room, Rio stands near the fireplace, her stance deceptively relaxed, one arm resting against the mantel as she observes the interaction with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Her fingers tap a slow rhythm against her lips, a steady metronome of barely restrained irritation. She doesn’t bother to mask the way her gaze lingers on Jen’s hand—where it rests, where it shouldn’t.

Jen is playing with fire. And she doesn’t even realise it.

Or maybe she does. Maybe she’s testing the waters, seeing just how far she can push before the dam breaks.

It’s not overt—nothing crude, nothing anyone else would comment on—but Agatha knows. She knows the way a witch moves when she’s hunting, the way interest sharpens into something bolder. She can see it in the way Jen leans just a little too close, in the way her fingers graze your wrist under the pretence of emphasising a joke.

You laugh, head tilting back slightly, and the sound is a warm, golden thing that makes something in Agatha snap. Just for a second. Her knuckles go white around the glass, the tension bleeding into her posture, but she reins it in before it can spill over. She’s controlled. Patient. But, oh, she’s scheming.

Rio catches the shift before anyone else—the slight clench of Agatha’s jaw, the way her fingers flex before settling, the sharp inhale she takes before exhaling through her nose. Brown eyes flick back to you and Rio’s smirk deepens. It’s not amusement anymore.

It’s oh, sweetheart, you have no idea what you’re in for.

And when your hand slips over Jen’s for just a moment—fleeting, accidental, barely even a touch—Agatha’s patience wears just a little thinner.

—

The evening winds down in a slow, lazy hum, conversations fading into the comfortable haze of flickering candlelight and half-drunk glasses of wine. What hasn’t wound down is the tension that has been steadily curling around you, threading through every moment since Jen first laid a hand on you. You feel it now—wrapped around your skin like something tangible, like something electric.

And Agatha is done waiting.

She doesn’t announce it, doesn’t make a scene. She simply moves. A shift of energy, a shift of power. One moment, she’s perched on the edge of the couch, glass in hand, her blue eyes unreadable as they flick between you and Jen. The next, she’s there—at your side, close enough that the warmth of her body is a quiet, searing brand against your own.

An arm snakes around your waist, fingers firm but deceptively gentle, nails grazing the fabric of your clothes as she pulls you flush against her side. The contrast is dizzying—the casual way she holds you, like she’s done it a thousand times before—and the quiet steel beneath it, the way her grip brooks no argument. She doesn’t ask. She takes.

“We’re going upstairs,” she tells everyone, her voice a slow, dark thing that settles deep in your belly.

Then a beat of silence. The air crackles with unspoken meaning before Agatha tilts her head, smirking slightly. “No need to leave just yet,” she adds, deceptively pleasant. “Señor Scratchy will make sure you all find the door soon enough.”

The coven collectively shifts their gazes toward the far side of the room, where the very content, very fluffy rabbit sits on an ornate end table, lazily munching on a piece of lettuce. His nose twitches slightly, his ears flicking as if in acknowledgement, but otherwise, he seems completely unbothered.

Lilia is the first to clear her throat. Eddie coughs. Alice shifts uncomfortably. Jen just smirks, taking a slow sip of her drink as if she knows exactly what’s happening—and that she’s not the one who won this little game.

You barely have time to process the shift before another presence joins you—heat at your other side, softer but no less overwhelming. Rio presses in close, her breath a whisper of warmth against the shell of your ear, her lips just shy of touching.

“Say goodnight, sweetheart,” she tells you, voice thick with something that sends a shiver down your spine.

Your breath catches, the sudden intensity making your head spin. It’s not that you don’t know what’s happening; it’s just that it’s happening so fast, so seamlessly, that your body is still struggling to catch up. There’s a pull, an inevitability in the way they move around you, a claim in the way they close in, blocking out the rest of the room until it’s just you and them.

Your mouth parts, but the words stick, caught somewhere between confusion and anticipation, between the slow thrum of excitement winding tight in your stomach and the heat creeping up your neck. You barely manage a stammered, “Uh—g-goodnight,” before Rio’s fingers ghost down your arm in silent praise, a teasing brush that makes your pulse stutter.

Jen, still lounged comfortably on the couch, lifts her glass in an easy, knowing salute, a smirk tugging at her lips. There’s amusement in her gaze, maybe even a bit of satisfaction—like she knew exactly what she was doing, like she knew what this would lead to. But she doesn’t push, doesn’t gloat. She simply watches.

Agatha meets her gaze with a single, sharp brow raise—nothing more, nothing less. A quiet warning wrapped in a glance, a silent you got your fun, now she’s ours.

Then, without another word, Agatha guides you forward, her hold on your waist unrelenting, leading you away from the dim glow of the living room and into the deeper, darker warmth of the house.

Upstairs.

To their room.

—

The door has barely shut before Agatha has you pinned against it. It isn’t rough, but it’s deliberate—controlled. A slow, calculated press of her body against yours, her presence overwhelming in a way that steals the breath right from your lungs. The wood is cool against your back, a sharp contrast to the heat curling low in your stomach and to the way her fingers trace down your sides, nails dragging in a whisper of sensation that makes you shiver.

Her lips are close—so close you can feel the warmth of her breath ghosting over your skin.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” She purrs, voice a knowing thing that winds tight around you. Her fingers tighten on your waist, pulling you in until there’s barely any space left between you. “Letting Jen touch you. Letting her look at you like that.”

The words aren’t a question. They’re a verdict. A confession she already knows you’ll make.

You can’t even form a thought before another touch finds you—this one softer but no less commanding. Rio’s fingers trail along your jaw, tilting your chin until you’re forced to meet her gaze. Her brown eyes gleam in the dim light, dark with something wicked, something hungry.

“Maybe we haven’t been reminding you who you belong to enough,” she ponders aloud, and there’s something almost playful in her tone, but underneath it there’s something far more dangerous.

Magic crackles between the three of you, thick and intoxicating, filling the air with a charge that sets your skin alight. It pulses beneath their fingertips and seeps into your bones.

Agatha’s nails press in just a little harder, a teasing scratch down your ribs. “That’s alright, darling,” she muses, her lips curving into a smirk that sends heat straight between your thighs. “We’ll just have to remind you.”

And you know with the way their bodies cage you in, with the way their magic hums against your skin like a living thing, that you won’t be forgetting anytime soon.

The air vibrates with something electric, something that thrums through your veins like a spell you have no control over. Agatha doesn’t need an incantation; just a flick of her fingers, a lazy curve of her lips, and suddenly, magic coalesces between you.

With a single, effortless motion of her wrist, the world shifts. Clothes dissolve into nothingness, vanishing in wisps of deep violet energy, unravelling at the seams like they were never there at all. Warmth rushes over your now-bare skin, a phantom caress where fabric had been just moments ago. You barely have a second to register the sudden exposure before a new sensation takes its place.

It takes shape in a slow, pulsing shimmer, raw energy forged into something solid, something thick and heavy. The last remnants of magic glowing faintly around the shaft make your breath catch.

Agatha tilts her head, watching you with a knowing smirk. “Since you were so eager for attention today,” she purrs, tapping the tip of her newly conjured cock against your thigh. “Why don’t you show us how desperate you really are?”

Heat floods through you, pooling deep in your core, making your knees weak.

Rio hums from where she lounges on the bed, one leg draped over the other, fingers tapping idly against her thigh as she watches. Amusement flickers in her eyes, but beneath it—beneath it is something darker, something that makes your pulse pound in your throat.

“Go on, sweetheart,” she murmurs, tilting her head. “Show us.”

Agatha’s hands find your waist, steadying you, guiding you onto her lap. Her skin is soft beneath your palms as you brace yourself against her shoulders, heat radiating from her in waves.

Then she pushes you down slowly, deliberately, and her cock slides into you, stretching you inch by inch. A sharp gasp leaves your lips as it fills you perfectly like it was made for you, like she knew exactly how to shape it to hit every aching, sensitive part of you.

Agatha’s nails press into your hips, holding you there, keeping you still even as your body trembles with the need to move.

“So pretty when you’re taking what we give you,” she notes, voice like velvet, dark and dripping with satisfaction. Her lips ghost over your throat, breath warm and teasing, as if she’s considering sinking her teeth in.

A choked whimper escapes you as she rolls your hips, setting a slow, torturous rhythm, dragging you along the thick length of her in a way that has sparks dancing up your spine.

From the bed, Rio’s voice reaches you, smooth as silk. “Look at them, my love,” she muses, her gaze molten as she watches. “So eager.”

Her lips curl, wicked and indulgent, as one hand lifts effortlessly. Magic crackles in the air, a deep, searing green that pulses and solidifies, taking shape in her palm. A thick, glistening length, forged from pure energy, larger than Agatha’s but just as intoxicating.

She wraps her fingers around it, stroking slowly, deliberately, her eyes never leaving you. The motion is unhurried, teasing, as if she’s savouring the anticipation, the way your breath catches, the way your thighs press together unconsciously.

“Let’s see how long you can last,” she purrs, heat and promise dripping from every word.

Agatha’s grip on your hips tightens, keeping you exactly where she wants you—trapped in the slow, torturous grind she’s set. Her cock twitches, responding to every shift of your body, pulsing with a pleasure that borders on overwhelming. Every drag, every deep thrust, sends sparks of sensation curling up your spine, heat coiling tighter in your stomach.

Her mouth never strays far from your throat, her breath a teasing whisper against your skin. “You feel that?” she murmurs, rolling your hips just a little sharper, just enough to have you gasping. “Every inch of you stretched so perfectly, taking what I give you.”

A whimper catches in your throat as your fingers dig into her shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto, something to anchor yourself against the immeasurable pleasure. But Agatha only smirks, amusement flickering in her sharp blue eyes as she watches you struggle between wanting to take more and barely holding on.

From the bed, Rio groans, a sound of both appreciation and impatience. “Mmph, fuck, look at you,” she breathes, her own desire evident in the low rasp of her voice. “So pretty when you’re like this—so needy.”

Your gaze flickers toward her, drawn by the hunger in her tone. She’s sprawled against the sheets, her chest rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths. But it’s her hands that make your pulse stutter; one is gripping the sheets for control, the other is wrapped around her own summoned length, stroking rapidly. Each slick glide of her palm is deliberate, hungry, her grip tightening as she watches you. She’s panting, barely holding herself back, jaw clenched, muscles taut as if restraining the urge to take you right then and there.

The sight of her like this—wrecked and wanting—sends a bolt of heat through you, your body reacting instinctively, clenching hard around Agatha’s magic cock inside you. Agatha notices immediately. A sharp inhale, a dark chuckle, and then—her fingers dig into your hips, nails biting deliciously into your skin as she drags you down further, rougher this time, forcing you to take every inch.

The sudden stretch, the overwhelming fullness, rips a cry from your lips, your head falling forward onto her shoulder. But Agatha only hums, pleased. “Take what you’re given.”

“Is this what you wanted?” Rio taunts, her voice smooth and dangerous. “To be fucked like this? To let her flirt with you all night while you waited for us to put you back in your place?”

It’s too much and not enough, all at once. The pleasure is searing, magic rolling over your skin in heated waves, and you’re on the edge—so unbelievable close. You arch against her, hands fisting in her hair, eyes fluttering shut as you—

“Not yet,” Agatha tuts, slowing your movements, keeping you just barely from tipping over the edge. “You’ll cum when we say you can.”

A desperate sound slips from your lips, but she only chuckles, dragging you into one last, deep roll of your hips before finally stilling you in her lap. You’re trembling, breath ragged, body thrumming with need.

Agatha strokes a hand up your spine, soothing despite the wicked smirk she wears. “That’s enough—for now.” Then, softer, close enough that her lips brush your ear, she whispers, “Now, be a good thing and let Rio have her turn.”

The words send another shiver through you, but before you can fully process them, strong hands are on your waist, guiding you to your feet.

Agatha’s grip is firm and unyielding as she manoeuvres you effortlessly onto the bed. Rio’s hands replace Agatha’s as they press against your hips, steadying you as they shift your position. Before you realise what’s happening, you’re being bent over the edge of the bed, your knees sinking into the mattress, your palms bracing against the sheets. The cool air against your heated skin sends a shudder through you, anticipation coiling tight in your belly.

Rio moves behind you, her body flush against yours, the solid heat of her presence a stark contrast to the chill of the room. There’s no hesitation as she presses into you, her chest warm against your back, her breath ghosting over your shoulder as her hands map slow, possessive paths over your body. Her fingers trace over the curve of your waist, down your stomach, teasing lower, skimming over sensitive skin still thrumming from Agatha’s touch.

“You’re shaking, sweetheart,” she teases, the amusement laced with dark satisfaction. “Let’s see just how much more you can take.”

Her hand dips lower between your legs. A sharp gasp escapes you as she gently strokes your clit, teasing, spreading you just a little more.

You barely have a second to catch your breath before she’s pressing the tip of her cock against you, not pushing in yet—just waiting, letting you feel the heat radiating from it, the pulsing energy that matches the pounding of your own heartbeat.

Her lips brush your ear, her free hand coming up to rest against your throat, fingers curling just enough to remind you who’s in control. “Gonna make sure you can’t even think about anyone else,” she promises, voice dripping with possession.

Rio doesn’t rush; she never does. She starts to push herself in, stretching you open, inch by inch, the heat of her magic cock thrumming inside you, making you feel every inch of its pulsing weight. Your body shudders against her, muscles trembling from the unrelenting pleasure already coursing through you, but she only chuckles, low and satisfied.

“That’s it,” she murmurs against your skin, teeth grazing your shoulder. “Take it all. Let me feel you, my love.”

Her hands roam—one splayed possessively over your stomach, pressing down just enough to make you feel how deep she is, the other tracing up your chest, over your throat, to grip your chin. She tilts your head back, forcing you to meet Agatha’s gaze.

The older witch watches you with something like reverence, sharp blue eyes heavy-lidded, lips curved in a knowing smirk. Her fingers brush the damp skin of your flushed cheeks. “Still with us?”

You can’t answer—can barely think—because Rio starts moving. A slow, deep pull before she thrusts back in, setting a rhythm that has you gasping, back arching against her. The heat of her magic rolls over your skin, intoxicating and overwhelming, pushing you closer to the edge with every snap of her hips.

Her breath is hot against your ear, her voice dark and possessive. “No one else gets to touch you like this. No one else gets to hear these pretty sounds.”

Agatha leans in, tracing a thumb over your parted lips before slipping it into your mouth. “So perfect when you’re like this,” she hums, watching the way you instinctively suck, tongue swirling over her thumb. “Our pathetic, pretty, little slut.”

They move together, Agatha’s hands guiding your hips, Rio fucking into you deep and steady, drawing out every little noise, every desperate twitch of your body. It’s too much, too good, pleasure curling so tight inside you it’s almost painful.

And then they switch.

You don’t even have time to process it before you’re back in Agatha’s lap, her cock filling you once again, stretching you perfectly as Rio moves in front of you, fisting your hair to tip your head back.

Their hands roam—Agatha’s grip unyielding on your hips, Rio’s fingers tracing your throat and your lips, her gaze dark and hungry as she watches you fall apart between them.

Again and again, they take you, switching, repositioning, and fucking you until your body is trembling, your voice breaking on gasps and whimpers. Until your skin is slick with sweat, muscles twitching from overstimulation, nerves frayed and buzzing with raw pleasure.

Rio is the one to finally allow you to cum.

You're on your knees, straddling Agatha, your thighs trembling as you try to hold yourself up. Beneath you, Agatha leans back against the headboard, watching you with dark, hooded eyes, her hands gripping your waist as if she has no intention of letting you escape. Her nails dig into your skin, keeping you exactly where she wants you.

Behind you, Rio is relentless. She pounds into you, each deep thrust forcing you forward, pressing you harder against Agatha’s body. The room is thick with heat, with the slick sounds of skin meeting skin, with Rio’s panting breaths and the quiet, pleased hums from Agatha as she watches you fall apart between them.

Agatha’s fingers trail up your spine, slow and teasing, before wrapping around your throat, tilting your head down so you’re forced to meet her gaze. “Completely ours.”

Then, Rio cups your face from behind, her fingers warm, her thumb tracing your lower lip in a slow, tantalising glide. She leans in, her breath hot against your ear, her voice thick with command and something sweeter—something indulgent.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” she coaxes. “You can let go for us now.”

Agatha’s mouth ghosts over your skin, her nails digging into your hips as her voice turns sharp, electric with command. “Cum for us, you desperate little thing. Show us who you fucking belong to.”

The command shatters you.

Your body seizes up, pleasure slamming into you so hard it knocks the breath from your lungs, your vision going white. Heat erupts from deep inside you, a gush of wetness spilling over Agatha’s thighs, soaking her completely.

Rio groans, dark and satisfied, watching you unravel.

Agatha hums, pleased, dragging her fingers through the mess between your thighs before bringing them to her lips, tasting you with a satisfied smirk.

“Now that,” she chuckles, her voice dripping with pride, “was beautiful.”

Your body trembles; you can barely hold yourself up as Agatha strokes slow circles into your hips, her touch grounding. Under you, her thighs (and the bedsheets) are soaked with your arousal, her blue eyes hooded with satisfaction as she watches you struggle to catch your breath.

And then Rio thrusts one last time, burying herself to the hilt with a low, guttural grunt. Her arms tighten around you, muscles tensing as she finds her own release. A shudder racks her frame, and you feel it—all of it—spilling deep inside, filling you in a way that makes your body clench around her in aftershocks.

She holds you there, pressed flush against her, breath hot against your neck. “Fuck,” she mutters, voice thick and satisfied, lips ghosting along your damp skin.

Agatha hums, trailing her fingers through the mess between your thighs, bringing it to her lips with a wicked smirk. “Beautiful.” 

Rio’s laughter is low and sinful, a slow drawl of amusement as she watches the way your body still trembles, the way slick drips down your thighs, glistening in the dim light. “Look at you,” she coos, fingers skimming possessively over your lower back. “Absolutely pathetic.”

In a flash, Agatha’s hands are in your hair, firm enough to make her point as she pushes you forward. With a displeased grunt, your cheek is pressed against the soaked sheets, the scent of your own release thick in the air.

“Making such a mess,” Agatha tuts, her voice laced with mock sympathy. Her nails scrape lightly down your spine. “Like a needy little thing who can’t help themselves. Is that what you are, hmm?”

Rio leans down, her breath warm against your ear as she adds, “Did you even realise how much you were dripping? Fucking soaking the bed like a desperate little slut.” Her fingers trace over the damp imprint you’ve left behind, and she chuckles. “And it’s all because of us. Only we can make you lose control like that.”

Agatha’s fingers grip your chin, tilting your face up just enough for her to smirk down at you. “But you like this, don’t you?” she jibes, rubbing a thumb over your kiss-swollen lips. “Being used. Being ruined. Being ours.”

And despite the teasing, despite the way they taunt, there’s something else lingering beneath it—a kind of satisfaction, a wicked pride that it was them who made you break like this.

In a complete switch of character, soft hands start to guide you away from the bed, leading you into the bathroom. Your legs nearly give out as you stand, but Agatha steadies you with a knowing chuckle. “Oh, darling. You’re completely wrecked, aren’t you?”

Rio presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder, her arms wrapping around your waist. “You did so well for us.”

Warm water surrounds you as they pull you into the shower, Agatha sliding in behind you while Rio hovers at the edge, running a washcloth over your body with slow, deliberate care. Every touch is gentle now, a stark contrast to their earlier intensity.

Agatha hums as she combs fingers through your damp hair. “Still with us, love?”

You nod, sinking further against her, completely pliant as Rio finishes cleaning between your legs, her touch featherlight. She grins when you whimper, placing a teasing kiss to your knee. “Sensitive?”

You glare at her, but it lacks any real heat.

When they’re satisfied that you’re clean, they literally carry you back to bed because your legs still aren’t working properly. Agatha tucks you between them, her fingers trailing lazily along your arm as Rio curls herself around your back, her chest warm against you.

For a moment, it’s peace.

Until you feel something hard press against your oversensitive clit.

Your breath catches as you shift, feeling the unmistakable shape of Rio’s length rubbing against you, already slick from the mess between your thighs. She doesn’t move—just lets it rest there, pulsing, waiting.

When you don’t protest, Rio rolls her hips forward, pushing inside you with a smooth, deliberate thrust.

Your body jolts, a whimper escaping as the stretch burns just right, still sensitive from before. Every nerve is raw, overstimulated, yet the moment Rio moves, your body betrays you—clenching around her, desperate despite the exhaustion weighing heavy in your limbs.

She groans, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your shoulder, her lips hot against your sweat-damp skin. “Sorry,” she breathes, though there’s no real remorse in her voice. Only hunger. Only possession. Her arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly closer. “Couldn’t help myself. You feel too good.”

And then she moves again.

Slow at first, rolling her hips against you, stretching you open all over again, but the drag is too much, too intoxicating, and she quickly loses patience. Her thrusts grow rougher and deeper, pressing you down into the mattress as she chases her pleasure.

One of her hands slides down, pressing against your lower stomach, feeling how deep she is and how your body takes her so perfectly. “Fuck,” she grits out, her voice breaking into something desperate, something raw. “You were made for this, made for my cock.”

She buries herself to the hilt, grinding deep as her breath stutters, her grip on you bruising. A low, guttural groan spills from her lips as she spills inside, heat flooding you, filling you up in a way that makes your body arch, whimpering at the sensation. But she doesn’t pull out.

If anything, she shifts closer, wrapping herself around you, securing you in her grip, arms banding around your waist as if she could sink deeper, as if she could mould you to her, and her cock twitches inside you softening slightly.

Agatha chuckles beside you, lazy satisfaction dripping from her voice as she drags her nails down your stomach, the sensation sending another shiver through your overstimulated body. “Oh, sweetheart,” she breathes, her amusement laced with something dark, something final. She leans in, lips brushing yours as she purrs, “You’re staying like this all night.”

Rio hums in agreement, a deep, satisfied sound as she strokes your hair, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “So when you wake up,” she whispers, her breath warm against your skin, “the first thing you feel is us.”

And just like that, you’re pulled deeper into their warmth, into the comforting weight of them around (and inside) you.

—

When you wake the next morning, every part of you aches—a deep, satisfying soreness that lingers in your muscles, in the tender places where hands had held you down, where teeth had marked you.

You shift slightly, stretching—and then you feel it.

The fullness between your legs, still there, still hot, still hard.

A quiet groan vibrates against your skin, and you realise Rio is awake, her breath warm against your shoulder.

Agatha is watching from her side of the bed, propped up on an elbow, smirking down at you. “Morning, darling,” she purrs, looking far too amused.

Rio presses a slow, lazy kiss to your shoulder, her hips shifting slightly. “Sleep well?” She grumbles, her voice still husky with sleep.

Your breath stutters, your body already reacting despite the oversensitivity, and heat sparking low in your belly.

Agatha hums, brushing a teasing hand down your stomach, nails grazing over your skin. “Oh, sweetheart,” she coos. “We’re not done with you yet.”

And just like that, the morning is off to a very good start.

-----

Ugh, I finally remembered to include the diva that it señor scratchy in my writing, I've been meaning to do it every time because I love that guy 😭😭

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taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @idkwhatever580 @lostbutlovely33 @sweetmidnights @6ange19 @jujuu23 @juls-stark

[luveline]

jadey!! would you ever write something for spencer where reader gets tipsy/drunk and is all over him? i just think he would be so cute and flustered, especially if she isn’t usually this forward with him (either established relationship or mutual crushing!)

thanks for your request lovely♡ —you really want spencer to be your boyfriend. fem!reader, 1k

The smell of your lip balm is the very first thing Spencer acknowledges, rather than the soft press of your lips to his cheek, or your hand on his neck. When he does realise you're kissing him it's like a shock to the system; Spencer hadn't thought about what his neck might feel like to a new hand until you're cupping it sweetly, hadn't worried about the neatness of his hair before you ran a hand over it with reverence. 

"Thanks for coming to pick me up," you say, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Best boyfriend ever." 

Which is a great sentiment and all, but Spencer isn't your boyfriend. He holds your back in one arm, the other busy strangling his shiny car keys, his mind racing. He isn't your boyfriend. Right? You have to ask someone for it to be official (according to Derek, Penelope, and Emily) (JJ was a little more lax about it) and Spencer's been too scared to ask you. 

"Are you okay?" he asks softly. You're wobbly. 

"Super drunk," you say, like it's one word, a diagnosable affliction. "Sorry." 

"Hey, it's okay. You don't have to be sober for me to drive you home. I'm really glad you called me." 

You're drunk enough to miss his confused tones. "No,  I'm sorry 'cos I knew you'd say yes even though you hate driving. I honestly didn't even think you had a car." 

Spencer pulls you closer as a couple stumbles out of the same bar you'd been inside of, though when he arrived you were sitting on the cold sidewalk with your knees pulled up and your dress slipping out of place. He adjusts his grip to put an arm under yours and begins leading you toward to the parking lot. 

"Next time, I'll come inside to get you, okay? I don't think I need statistics to remind you that it's not safe to be inebriated by yourself in the city, especially now." It's pitch black outside, stars like a scattering of tint salt grains visible to only the most dedicated of eyes. "It's dangerous for you. I don't mind coming in to find you." 

"You're the nicest," you declare, letting your head fall onto his shoulder. 

He's fitter than he used to be, but Spencer doesn't have a chance of getting you to the car if you're not conscious. "Hey, keep your eyes open. It's not far, okay? Work with me."

"Will you call me something nice if I do?" you ask. 

Spencer helps you down off of the curb and across a naked stretch of asphalt shining like grease in the light from the lamppost. "I'll call you whatever you want me to." 

"You called me pretty on Thursday." 

Spencer feels the heat of a blush blooming at your slurred proclamation but doesn't back down. "You looked pretty on Thursday. You look pretty every single day. Watch the curb." 

"What about, uh, pet names?" 

"Like what?" he asks. 

"Like honey, and sweetheart. Angel, doll, dove." 

"Is that what you want?" he asks, trying to sneak a look at your face. You're concentrating hard on your footsteps, your tall shoes slippery on the wet ground. 

"If we're together…" 

"Are we together?" Spencer asks. He shouldn't ask while you're drunk, and it's not like he's going to take your word for it now over any sober discussion in the future, but he wants to know. 

"You don't think we're together?" you ask, frowning. He's horrified to see the crushed tremble in your lip. 

"I haven't had the chance to ask you yet," he says quickly. 

You sniffle, looking at him with a wide-eyed hope. "But you're going to ask me?" 

"Yeah, I'm going to ask you." He lowers his voice. He's not afraid of other people hearing him. If anything, he's afraid you will. He's afraid you'll hear him and reject him, despite every sign that says you won't. "I've wanted to ask you for a really long time, but you're– I was scared. You're beautiful, and kind, and you make me feel like I've found something I was missing, now. I guess I thought holding off would change the odds." 

"I thought you got banned from all those casinos," you say, clinging to his arm. 

Spencer's nose wrinkles. "What does that have to do with anything?" 

"You count cards and pr… probability," —you sound it out— "right? Have you not been doing that with me?" 

Spencer stops walking to help you pull your jacket back onto your bare shoulder. It's too cold to stay out here long. "It's different. You're different." 

"Oh." You smile at him dreamily. Eyes squinting until your lashes kiss in the corners, you smile like your lips have been stuck together with honey. You pout at him very gently, and he thinks you might want a kiss.

Spencer pats your back. "Come on. I'll take you home. You can sleep it off." 

"Can I come home with you?" 

He sees his car in the distance, a beacon of hope. "Yeah, if you want. But I don't have any pyjamas or anything for you." 

"Not yet," you say. 

Spencer goes pink to the ears, and unfortunately for him, you notice. You refuse to walk a step further, throwing heavy arms over his shoulders to beam at him eye to eye. Your fingers tangle gently into the ends of his hair and twist in circles that have butterflies exploding in his stomach. His breath catches when you tug on a strand, clearly bemused. 

"I really want to be your girlfriend." 

"I–" He swallows roughly. "I really want you to be my girlfriend." 

"Will you ask me?" 

"Tomorrow?" he asks delicately. He might be shy with you, but he has no qualms now showing you how vehemently he returns your affections, his arms curling slowly but surely behind your back. 

You fall into his arms for another hug. "Yesssss," you cheer under your breath. 

He sneaks a kiss against the shell of your ear. "Wanna go get something to eat first?" 

You gasp like you've been offered the world. "You really are the best boyfriend." 

[shouts-into-the-void]

Montresor caring about Will didn't come out of nowhere, Lenore was just mad: a biased completely unbiased post

The thing we need to remember as a rule is that Montresor's default personality is rude and antagonistic even when he's not actively trying to be an aggressor, which means you have to look at what he means rather than necessarily the things he says. He's a clear victim of abuse, who reacts to feelings trapped, cornered, threatened, panicked, or humiliated by lashing out. From what I have gathered, it seems like his mother may have been the type of person who was nice one minute, then became abusive at the drop of a hat, and/or acted loving while claiming she "had to do this for his own good", and he was clearly raised in a very strict religious environment where he didnt have a lot of control/was punished for things he couldnt help. As a reaction, Montresor tries to force an aggressive response out of anyone he feels threatened by, because at least then it's predictable and he feels in control. Okay, great, Montresor analysis out of the way, moving on.

Our first real look at Will and Montresor as a unit is when the clusterfucks (side note: I've seen a lot of people calling them the acoleets now? Far less funny, absolutely not) are discussing their spectres. During this conversation, Montresor is actually hyping Will up, and even when he agrees with Ada that is sounds useless, he makes sure to assure him that it "looks really cool though."

We only really see Montresor become outright violent and dangerous once it's revealed that only one person can win a new life. We see him actively panic about it, and while we don't really get a lot more context for him yelling at Will in the moment, I think its relevant that this is the moment when he starts treating Will less nicely, because now it's a competition and everyone else is potentially out to get him. Hell, he even immediately begins joking around with Will after telling him to shut up, so it's clear that he's acting out of stress and fear immediately after the revelation.

The interaction that immediately follows this is the incident with Morella and Ada, and I find it notable that Montresor goes out of his way to include Will. (when he makes sure to let you get your turn humiliating a woman to prove her loyalty to the group #romantic 🤡)

Later, during the Spectre vs. Students lesson, when Berenice bites Will and he asks for help, Montresor immediately tells her to leave him alone. While he seems mildly annoyed with Will the whole time (kind of understandably, because Will keeps screwing up the plan) he only says anything particularly horrible after Berenice slashes him across the face with her knife, which clearly pisses him off in general. We see him letting Will nap on his shoulder afterwards, which isn't super important I just think it's cute.

Montresor clearly sees them as a unit, as he still involved Will with the plan despite Will messing up the previous night with Duke and stops Will from helping Annabel with Ada despite not having a real reason to do so by saying "We'll sit this one out." Like it should have gone without saying that if he's not doing it, Will isn't either. Then the next day, the fact that Montresor comes to get Will specifically so they can walk to breakfast together? Knows what his toothbrush looks like and goes out of his way to give it back? The little flick on the forehead when he calls him a churchmouse? That he picks up on Will's distress and immediately goes to collect Ada to save him? I see you, fake-ass idgafer.

Which brings me to my next point, which is that it is Lenore on her enraged, vengeful tirade who claims that Montresor hates Will. She claims it's due to his behavior towards Will when he came to get him, but I think its pretty clear she only says it to upset Will. And Will can't think of anything nice Montresor's ever done for him because he's stressed, thinks he's about to get shot, and his self-confidence is super low. He even addresses the fact later that Montresor goes out of his way to save him all the time.

I also think now is a good time to point out that Montresor only seems to physically hurt Will in any significant way when he's been having a flashback. His expression when he comes out of his death flashback to find himself attacking Will is shocked, and while he doesn't apologize, his response does come across as apologetic. He has a similar expression when he wakes up from Ada's vision choking Will, only he looks incredibly panicked that time because he'd done actual damage. The expression on his face when Lenore points out what he's done is pained. I think this runs back to Montresor telling Will not to touch him, I'm pretty sure part of his trauma revolves around physical touch and when he's having an episode of PTSD/not fully aware of his surroundings he lashes out instinctively at the person touching him, which unfortunately means Will, who is a very physically affectionate person (man has 13 siblings and it shows.) Which is unfortunate, because I think Montresor also seems to be a very tactile person, and he actually goes out of his way to be touching Will a lot.

Another interesting thing? Montresor only ever addresses Will by name, which is very significant with context. The nicknames Montresor gives people are meant to mock them, so by only using Will's name it subtlely signals that he holds him in higher respect (or at least in more genuine regard) than the others. In Will's flashback, Sally–someone who went to school with him and was in all the same classes–doesn't remember his name, only that he's one of many Wilson siblings. So for Montresor, who can't even remember his "ace in the hole" and current fling's name, to be constantly making it a point to say he knows who Will is, is a great indicator of his actual feelings. By contrast, Will calls Montresor "Monty" exclusively, the only nickname he receives that is genuinely affectionate and something he never attempts to make him stop calling him.

Which pretty much brings us back to the events of the current episodes, which I've already talked about the significance of in another post. I know this is probably insanely biased for multiple reasons and im sure theres a bunch of little tidbits I've forgotten , but do with it what you will.

[toriaaniin]

The Jive

The following is a recreation of a conversation I had the other night with a friend from one of my group chats. Yes, even when I believe in Luke and Nicola as strongly as I do, I suffer from little brain niggles that feed doubt. I'm so very grateful for my chat groups because even though my friends and I regularly review all the info we know, talking it out loud can make all the difference.

Jive with me!

"Let's talk about it again." "Again? We talked about Luke and Antonia as a couple last night." "Yes please. How are you feeling? After last night's talk with the group, we all left feeling good. But how are you feeling now?" "Feeling doubts. Brain niggles." "Yes. Yes; those damned brain niggles. So let's talk about it again. Make it make sense." "You know we never can make it make sense. The pieces don't jive." "You're right; let's try again anyway. Where do we start?"

We start in the present and move back in time. We start back on NYE 2024 and move forward in time. We start in the middle somewhere because why not? With every starting place - forward, backward or round-about in time - we encounter a glitch, or confusion, or a hurdle, or a "no fuckin' way!" or... well, no matter where we start, the pieces just don't jive.

"Let's start in the present day." "Okay. Cool."

We pause and then step gingerly (because yuck, groan and LOL) into a discussion of recent Luke & Antonia sightings like the People Pap photos (clearly arranged) and the Yungblud concert (weird - with, as usual, no IG acknowledgement of a possible evening spent together by either of them. Luke shared a photo of he and his long-time friend Dom/Yungblood. Obviously Dom was Luke's priority for the evening).

"It's all so baffling and confusing! After watching Luke, most especially, and Nicola at the SAGs..."

We find ourselves happily reminiscing about that evening, and the days afterward. We laugh at Nicola's scramble on the following Monday to redirect the narrative to "my buddy", Jake's seemingly emphatic use of the period as punctuation (how I laughed when the Jakola's decided that was a love message!), and then the unexpected (but I feel strategic) follow of Antonia's IG.

"Hey! We've gotten off track. We're supposed to be finding a way to make Luke and Antonia work as a couple." "I know... but we can't compare apples (the best fruit ever) to dog shit. Luke & Antonia have no energy. No light. "Yep. The pieces just don't jive."

We have no choice but to admit that SAGs throws a wrench into the Luke & Antonia narrative, especially given the images published of the two of them together. Dog shit indeed.

"Let's try again." "We've been trying this since the BOSS event on January 30th and you know where we end up. Every time." "Yes, I know. The biggest stumbling block of all. The one golden nugget that kills any and all Lutonia jives."

Yes. I said golden nugget, as in the ultimate breadcrumb. A breadcrumb that can't be eaten by birds like in the Hansel & Gretel fairytale. Something that - when not ignored or obtusely explained away - is tangible.

At some point in the last days of January through to the first days of February, Nicola had a baby. I've read a lot of blogs that laugh at us for suggesting this reality. For me and for many with eyeballs in our head, photos like these tell the story. Plainly.

"There's no doubt that Nicola had a baby. You know that I believe Luke to be the baby's father... but is there a chance he isn't?" "Based on when we believe the baby was born, he was conceived back in late April or early May 2024 during the world tour. Sure, Nicola could have been seeing someone else at the time, but I wonder how he would have felt watching the chemistry between Luke and Nicola? Like that time when she was practically sitting on his lap during the long-sofa livestream (approx April 10)?" "Yes! And during the Australia leg of the WT? Luke couldn't keep his eyes away from Nicola's cleavage in that black dress! "Luke?! How about when he saunters out in that monochromatic beige coat, tank and pants, whips his coat open? Nicola was definitely NOT staring at his eyes then!" 🥵🥵

Bottom line is, if we don't consider Luke, there's no evidence of a significant person - a lover - in Nicola's life back during the time of baby's conception, during the whole world tour OR since. No, I don't count her friend Jake in this role. If I'm pushed on this possibility, and I willingly ignore Jake's preferences: Nicola's friendship with Jake isn't actively reflected in the media until late August... well after the August "Chaos Week" activities and the repeated Luke-coded content shared by Nicola on IG.

Luke being the baby's father jives.

"Let's not forget the polaroid photo of her and Luke in Nicola's phone case. We first saw that in Australia." "That's right. I remember her flashing it during the Taylor Swift concert back on June 21st. And of course she's had a possible Luke photo in her case ever since." "I wonder how a significant non-Luke lover would feel about Nicola carrying around a photo of her co-lead in her phone case, right where she can see it multiple times a day, for this past year?" "She even shared the polaroid phone case photo in her 2024 IG photo dump - mirror selfie in Skims, looking sexy, with her phone case clearly visible. Talk about a Luke breadcrumb!

Luke being the baby's father jives.

So what's with Antonia? Did Luke and Nicola break up before the baby was born? After all, Luke took Antonia to the BOSS event on January 30th... right around the time that Nicola's baby... their baby... was born.

"All I can think of is yuck! That's not the Luke that Nicola has described to us." "I agree. The Luke in People's 'Sexiest Man Alive' This/That video showed a lovely excitement when he described 'fairytale ending': 'Happily married; end of season 3 vibes'. Complete with a love-goofy gaze over at someone (Nicola, of course!)." "Don't forget the Claddagh ring. It hasn't left her left hand since October 1st, and of course the left hand with the heart facing inward signifies marriage." "Well... except for that one time in Paris (Jan 26-28) when she moved it to her right ring finger. I think that's because in those last days of pregnancy, her hands were swollen so she shifted it to a less swollen finger." "Heck! During the SAG interview on January 25th when she declared that she and Luke were 'just friends', she was flashing that ring (on her left hand) around!" "We saw it back on her left hand after Paris. Nicola is married with a child and all clues make Luke the father. All tangible indications (ring [ring truther!], polaroid, SAGs energy, This/That video, audiobook Misdirected [possibly released on Baby Newt's due date, Feb 4th], and other clues) are that Luke and Nicola are together to this day." "But what about Antonia?"

What about Antonia. How about I ask you this. When Nicola and Luke were having their baby, what were we in the fandom talking about? The BOSS event and Antonia. Misdirection. Pure and simple.

We have no idea of all the particulars and the whys. "Why her?!" laments get us nowhere. When we look closely at the "relationship" between Luke and Antonia though, we see nothing that jives. It doesn't fit. To my way of thinking (like many here on Tumblr), this is a contractual agreement only. Don't ask me or anyone why. All we can do is speculate. I've done some research and I've looked at it critically... and while I believe I have some understanding of possible whys, it's still bloody confusing!

My recommendation? Accept the fact that we don't know the whys, and we never will. Accept the fact that a contract exists because groaning about it will only take us to a place of frustration. Simply recognize that there is nothing in a Luke and Antonia "relationship" that jives. Then laugh when you see them in papped photos!

To my way of thinking, Nicola and Luke's baby means their relationship is real. It's always been them. Now it's their little family. This reality is what keeps me here!

We all know what we saw. Luke and Nicola jive. They define jive.

Aaniin Xxx

[woogilicious]

rent's cheap, ghost included ꒰ wooyoung ꒱

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ pairing: broke college student!wooyoung x ghost!reader (gender neutral ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ word count: 2.4k words ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ genre: comedy, fluff, hurt/comfort, supernatural au, soft angst ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ warnings: curse words, discussions of depression, suicidal thoughts, mentions of death (non graphic), wooyoung being an annoying little shit sometimes ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ a.n: this oneshot is more casual than the others and it's actually my favourite, lol. i know it sounds cliché, but i just really love this type of storyline so much.

You don't know who the hell decided to rent out your house to another human so soon. It's been, what? Two months since the last one moved out? And you were this close to getting peace and quiet.

But nope. Now you're stuck with watching some college kid struggle to drag in a suitcase twice his size and sad looking rice cooker into your kitchen.

You float near the ceiling, arms crossed, frowning hard enough to wrinkle the ghostly air around you.

He's muttering under his breath the whole time. "God, finally," he says, wiping sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his hoodie. "I don't even care if this place is haunted. It's cheap, and I'm broke, so I've accepted death."

You narrow your eyes. He's accepted death? Oh, honey. We'll see about that.

You watch as he dumps his stuff in the middle of the dusty living room, sighs deeply, and flops onto the floor, face first. You wait for a bit.

...now.

You blow a cold breeze past his ear. He shivers, shrugs his hoodie up to cover his head like a turtle, and immediately starts snoring.

What?

No screaming? No running away? He's just... asleep?

You float down closer, staring at him. He's cute, you guess. A little stupid, maybe. Who sleeps on the floor without a blanket?

Fine, you'll step it up.

Later that night, after he wakes up and shuffles into the kitchen to cook himself some instant noodles, you slam the cupboard doors. Not once, not twice, but eight times.

He doesn't even flinch, just stands there, stirring his sad little noodles, muttering, "Me too, buddy," like he's the one haunting YOU.

You rattle the windows, and he throws a thumbs up at the ceiling.

You drag a chair across the floor with an awful screech and he shouts, "Sounds good, friend!" and keeps eating.

You...

You don't know what to do with this guy.

He's ruining your reputation as a ghost.

You float around, sulking, until you finally decide that if he won't be scared of invincible ghost you, then you'll just show yourself.

You remember the last tine you showed yourself. An old man had almost died of a heart attack and you felt so bad that you cried.

But Wooyoung? He deserves it.

You focus real hard, pulling your form together. It's a little tricky since you haven't done it in a while, but you manage. A little translucent, and a little floaty, but you look decent.

You drift right in front of him while he's standing by the sink, trying to get the hot water to work.

"Hi," you say, your voice a little echoey and spooky on purpose. "I'm the ghost haunting this house."

He blinks, dropping the mug he was holding which thankfully, was empty. He tilts his head a little. Then, with all the enthusiasm as if someone finding out their favourite ramen flavour was back in stock, he grins and goes, "Cool!"

You stare at him and he stares back, so genuinely delighted that you actually float back a little, suspicious.

"So―" he sets the mug on the counter carefully. "Are you, like, a real ghost? Or, like, a stress hallucination? I mean, either way it's fine, but it'd be sick if you were real."

You blink at him, a little thrown off. "...I'm real."

He pumps a fist in the air. "Hell yeah! This house is awesome, cheap rent and I get a new friend? Awesome!"

You don't even know what to say to that. No one's ever been happy to see you before. You're kinda... weirdly flattered?

After that first night, everything gets... weird.

Day by day, Wooyoung just keeps talking to you. You don't even have to show yourself anymore. Half the time, you're just floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching him live his life like he's got an invisible roommate.

And oh my god.

He. does. not. shut. up.

You kinda thought he would calm down after a while. Maybe get tired of talking to a ghost who barely replies.

But, nope! Turns out, for someone who is constantly tired and has panda eyes and sighs like he's carrying the weight of the world on his back... he's got a lot of mouth energy.

"Today I dropped a whole box of paper towel at work and my manager looked at me like I committed a crime," he tells you one afternoon, kicking his shoes off and throwing himself face-first onto the couch. "Like dude, calm down? It's just a paper towel, not some fragile diamonds."

You hover over the lamp, just blinking slowly.

He waves a hand in the air, half heartedly. "Yeah, yeah. I know. Your silence is valid too, and you're so real for that."

Some nights, he sits cross-legged on the floor, eating cup noodles as usual and watching weird documentaries on YouTube. All of a sudden, he tells you some random facts.

"Did you know that octopuses have three hearts?" He says, pointing the noodle cup at you like it's a microphone. "And they can just vibe with no bones. Just, squish around."

You just float nearby, dead silent.

"I think you'd like being an octopus," he adds thoughtfully. "You're kinda floaty too."

Sometimes you wonder if you're the one who is getting haunted by this loud, chaotic, tired human.

Not that you mind, exactly. It's just new.

But one night, it's different.

You know the second he walks in.

He slams the door harder than usual. He doesn't kick his shoes off, doesn't mutter a tired "I'm home" like he always does.

You drift down from the ceiling, watching.

He throws his work apron onto the floor and his hands are shaking a little.

"Fucking―" he starts, then cuts himself off, dragging his hands through his hair. "Customers are the worst!"

He paces the living room in circles. You follow him slowly, floating just a few feet away.

"This one guy today," he says, voice getting louder, "This asshole―he yelled at me for like, five minutes straight because the yogurt he wanted was sold out. Like I fucking make the yogurt myself, right?"

You float quietly.

He's not really talking to you. He's just letting it all pour out.

"I hate it," he mumbles. "I hate this stupid job. I hate that I'm broke. I hate that I'm killing myself for college when I'm not even smart. I'm just doing it because―" he stops, swallowing hard. "―because if I don't, my parents will be disappointed. Tsk, like they aren't already."

You reach out without thinking―your hand passing through his shoulder gently―trying to comfort him, even if he can't feel it.

Wooyoung laughs a little, but it's not the funny kind. It's broken.

He sits down hard on the couch, staring at the floor, then he looks up, right at you.

Even though you're invisible, somehow, he knows where you are.

"...Hey," he says, voice small. "Is it fun? Being a ghost?"

You blink.

"Like... is it better?" he keeps going, softer now. "Do you get to just... stop worrying about stupid shit? Like bills and parents and yogurt?"

He huffs a breath that's almost a laugh.

"I mean, if it's better," he says, looking back at the floor, "Maybe I should just―you know? Join you."

The room goes very, very quiet.

And you.

You feel something deep in your chest, something you haven't felt in a long time. Fear.

Not for yourself.

For him.

You don't even hesitate to pull your form together. No more floating half-there, no more hiding. You focus until you're solid enough that he can see you clearly.

You step forward, right in front of him, and say―out loud, real and desperate―"No. Don't do that."

Wooyoung's hand snaps up. His eyes go wide, so wide and then―just like that, he breaks.

He lets out this raw, awful sob and crumples forward, burying his face in his hands. It's not loud, or dramatic. It's quiet, like it hurts too much to even cry properly.

"I'm so tired," he chokes out between broken gasps. "I'm so fucking tired of pretending."

You kneel down in front of him, trying to catch his gaze, but he just keeps talking, keeps pouring it out like a dam that has finally broke.

"Everyone thinks I'm―" he waves a hand weakly. "The funny guy, the loud guy, the one who never shuts up. And I guess you probably think that too."

Well, that is true.

"But I'm just..." he presses his hands harder against his face. "I'm just filling up the silence so I don't have to think about how empty I feel. I'm trying so hard to make life feel like it's worth living."

He looks up, and god, his face is so red and wet and messy that it hurts to look at.

"But to me... it's nothing."

Your chest aches.

You don't think. You just move.

You wrap your arms around him, and somehow, somehow, for the first time, he can feel you.

His body stiffens in shock for half a second. Then he breaks even more, grabbing onto you like he's drowning.

He doesn't care that you're supposed to be a ghost.

He doesn't care that you're supposed to be scary.

He just needs to be held.

"Let me," he whispers, voice totally wrecked. "Let me join you."

You shake your head hard. You pull back just enough to cup his tear streaked face in your hands, forcing him to look at you.

"No," you whisper. "Please. Don't waste your life."

He shudders.

"I know it's hard," you say, your voice shaking. "I know it feels like there's no point sometimes. But you're still here. You're still breathing. You're still fighting, even when it sucks."

You swipe your thumb under his eyes, wiping a tear.

"…and that's brave, Wooyoung. Braver than anything I ever did."

He frowns, confused through the tears. "What do you mean?"

You exhale slowly.

"I became a ghost," you say, "because I gave up."

His eyes widen.

"I thought… if I stopped trying, the pain would stop too. And it did. Kind of? But now I'm stuck."

You glance around the living room, the cracked walls, the flickering lightbulb.

"I'm stuck here, watching life go on without me. Watching people laugh and cry and live—even when it's messy, painful and unfair and I can't be a part of it anymore."

You look back at him, and your voice cracks.

"I would give anything to have another chance. To eat bad noodles, to get yelled at by annoying customers. To walk down a street and feel the sun."

You grip his shoulders tighter.

"And no matter how bad I want to have another chance, I can't. But you still can."

He stares at you, breathing hard, hands still clutching your sleeves like he's scared if you'll disappear if he lets go.

"Please," you whisper. "Don't throw it away. Not like I did."

You don't know how long you stay like that, holding him. But slowly, Wooyoung's breathing starts to even out. He blinks up at you with swollen eyes and puffy cheeks and somehow still manages a tiny, tired laugh.

"You're kinda… a terrible ghost," he croaks. "Aren't you supposed to scare me away or something?"

You smile a little, brushing his messy hair off his forehead. "Maybe," you whisper. "But I think you're scarier."

He snorts. "Fair."

You squeeze his hand, gentle but firm.

"Wooyoung," you say softly. "You're not alone."

He swallows thickly.

"I'm here," you say. "I'll be here. As long as you need me."

You press your forehead lightly against his. Your voice drops to a whisper.

"Let's heal together."

He squeezes his eyes shut, tears leaking out again—but this time, they feel lighter.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Let's do that."

He pulls you into a hug again. Tight, real, so full of feeling you almost forget you're supposed to be a ghost. You hug him back just as hard.

After a long moment, he mumbles into your shoulder. "You gotta promise me, though. Promise me you won’t leave me."

You smile.

"I promise," you say.

Life doesn't magically fix itself overnight.

Wooyoung still comes home with bags under his eyes. He still has days where he slams the door and mutters about rude customers.

But he doesn't cry alone anymore, because you're there.

You're there when he drags himself into bed and mumbles goodnight to the ceiling. You're there when he rants about dumb professors and overpriced cafeterias food. You're there when he laughs too loud at memes on his phone and shows you even though you can't actually hold his phone yourself.

But slowly, you see the light coming back into him.

He even starts bringing back little cheap snacks from the convenience store. He leaves them on the counter with a little sticky note that says, "For ghostie" even though you physically can't eat them.

It makes you smile anyway.

Tonight is movie night.

You're curled up on the couch, or well, floating while cross legged slightly above the couch. While Wooyoung got three blankets wrapped around himself like a burrito, clutching a giant bowl of popcorn.

"Okay," he says, eyes shining. "We're watching a horror movie. A real one. None of that jumpscare baby stuff."

You raise an eyebrow at him. "You sure about that?"

He scoffs. "Pft. Yeah! I live with a ghost so I'm built different."

You smirk. "Right."

He picks some indie horror movie that looks grimy and messed up. Lots of dark woods, and creepy faces in mirror. Within fifteen minutes, Wooyoung is already sitting suspiciously closer to you. Within thirty minutes, he's gripping the popcorn bowl like his life depends on it.

You nudge him in the side.

He yelps so loud he throws a handful of popcorn straight into the air.

"Oh my god—!" he gasps, clutching his chest.

You stare at him.

"You," you say, pointing at him, "are scared of this?"

He scowls, cheeks turning red. "It's spooky, okay?!"

You float a little closer, crossing your arms.

"You literally live with a whole ass ghost. A real one." You jab a thumb at yourself. "Me. Hi. Real ghost."

He huffs. "Yeah, but you're not scary! You're—" he waves his arms vaguely. "You're you!"

You stare. He stares back, defensive.

Then you burst out laughing.

"Unbelievable," you snicker. "Wooyoung, living with a real life ghost, defeated by a low-budget horror film."

He grins, wide and stupid and alive.

And for the first time in a long, long time, you both feel it. Hope.

Real, stubborn, stupid, wonderful hope.

And maybe that's what living is, you think. Even if you're technically not breathing anymore. Just being here, together.

It’s messy and imperfect.

It's life.

[bakuhatsufallinlove]

I’ve seen people saying 431 wasn’t written by Horikoshi but by his assistants; is there any truth to that? (Sorry if this isn’t the type of question you like to answer, you’re honestly the most reputable source I know for MHA)

The only reason people are saying this is because they hate the content and want an excuse to dismiss it.

We have no reason to believe this chapter was written or drawn by anyone other than Horikoshi, who has a team of assistants as all manga artists do.

The only middle-men here would be WSJ editors and executives, who have regular input on the story's direction and execution. One could theorize about how much pressure and of what kind there might have been on Horikoshi, as the creator of a hugely popular and lucrative shounen series, to hint towards the possibility of a heterosexual relationship at the end, especially considering WSJ's relationship to the "settle down and have kids" politics of modern Japan. But that's all it would be: theorizing.

Regarding editorial overreach, Horikoshi has said that he will tell the story he wants to tell. I'm not positive, but I think he went through several editors trying to find a good fit, someone who would respect his vision instead of dominate it. It would be insulting to insist he is some helpless victim with no agency whatsoever. Or, for that matter, that he would ever allow someone else to draw his manga for him, slap his name on the title page, and call it a day.

I have no special information in this regard, but my guess is that Horikoshi arranged to end the serialization of the series where he wanted to, then had meetings with his publishing team to discuss what kind of material he could create to fill the final tankōban, which needed extra material to meet publishing standards. 431 is the result of that.

At 38 pages, it could have been two serialized chapters. But it wasn't.

The thought I keep coming back to is that 431's pages are after Horikoshi's afterward in the volume. I've heard that people are trying to say that 430 and 431 are BOTH "up for interpretation" or "just future possibilities," but consider this: only one of those was included in regular serialization and can be read back-to-back with all the other chapters in the usual way.

That chapter directly parallels the first chapter in a number of extremely meaningful ways, both visually and thematically. That's 430.

The other chapter, for whatever reason, comes after Horikoshi's comments on the story's conclusion. It is literally separated from the rest. Maybe this isn't that significant, but I don't know any other final ending chapter like that. Demon Slayer's volume-exclusive epilogue comes immediately after the serialized chapters, with the only break being a two-page extra explaining character genealogy. Gotouge's comments come after the brand new epilogue.

All of that, plus the content itself, contributes to me personally feeling like 431 is just extra. It's undeniably Horikoshi's work, but it doesn't draw any strong parallels to the established themes of MHA. It isn't necessary to the conclusion of the story we've followed.

But for what it's worth, I haven't seen anyone in the jpn fandom bring up whether 431 is canon or not, because they don't care. Japanese fandom is very flexible and self-indulgent. Fanworks and headcanons regularly contradict canon and no one cares even a little. It doesn't matter if the chapter is "canon" or not, they'll do what they like either way.

I have seen a huge range of responses from jpn fans. Some see it as confirmation of a het ship, others see it as open-ended. Some find the outcome sad, some felt it was hopeful. Many people had mixed reactions of happiness and sorrow.

I saw at least one person interpret the "put down the camera" note as providing the fans the opportunity to "freely imagine what happens in the future." Another person questioned how they were supposed to interpret that phrase in conjunction with Shouto's monologue about "inevitability."

I'm gonna go Plus Ultra here and reach far beyond the framework of your question, so let me just say this: No one has to care about the creator's intentions. No one needs permission to ignore canon.

For one thing, we are only ever guessing what the creator's intentions are. We can only surmise and make arguments based on our interpretations of their work.

To act as though there should be one sole authority that dictates what the audience is allowed to think about art is ridiculous, and that includes the creator.

Because art is completed by the audience. Art is communication. In language, the speaker knows only what they intended, while the listener knows only what they interpreted. We may discuss our perspectives in different ways to try to understand each other better, but in storytelling, the audience doesn't interact that way with the creator. They interact with the art itself.

Art means something new the moment it touches another human heart.

Who I am, what I value, my experiences in life, all of these influence how I see Horikoshi's story. And that's a good thing. To remove myself from that—to insist that who I am as a person has nothing to do with what art means to me—is to diminish the meaning of art itself.

I don't need Horikoshi to agree with me. I don't need him to see things the same way I do or tell me I'm right. He wrote a story about the complex, profound love between two boys. Whether he thinks that love means they'd wanna kiss each other is completely fucking irrelevant to me.

The love is on the page, where I found it.

Other people may think it means something different or fail to see it entirely, and that's fine. That's their relationship to the story. That has nothing to do with me.

I'm glad Horikoshi got to write the story he wanted. I wished I liked his extra chapter more, but them's the breaks.

[meanbossart]

im so curious-- how well does DUDrow get on with the other companions? I've only seen your art and going off that I feel like: he gets along with Shadowheart, Gale I think he borderline cant stand, and Wyll/Lae'zel/Karlach I have no idea how he'd feel about them but id love to know!

So, funfact, because I was not familiar with these kinds of games at the time I played BG3, I practically stuck with the same exact party the entire playthrough. I distinctly remember swapping Wyll in for Astarion once at the end of act 2 because I thought he NEEDED to be there to find Mizora, and I replaced Gale with Karlach when I went to kill Gortash. Otherwise... It was pretty much always just DU drow, Shadowheart, Astarion and Gale. I did this because they were the characters I liked most, so I wanted to see all they had to offer.

Anyways, I mention this because it reflects how DU drow related to everyone - which is to say that he didn't. He picked his favorites (two because he liked them, one because he has fireball) and didn't get particularly close to anyone else.

BUT, there were definitely notable dynamics!

Lae'zel: She's dead. He killed her night 3 or something. Before that he thought her annoyingly demanding and over the top. I don't think DU drow even remembers her by the end of the game.

Gale: Just to add to your original observation, Gale and DU drow have a little bit of history. Gale tries, for about half of the campaign, to pursue him romantically. DU drow keeps turning him down and is either misinterpreted or ignored, and by the time Gale does give up on him their relationship has completely soured to the point where they are constantly shooting daggers at each other. (this reflects a romance bug I got in my first run, except I didn't realize it was a bug. Either way I think its more interesting storytelling than the intended experience.)

Wyll: DU drow was profoundly frustrated by Wyll every step of the way. He found him to be incredibly naive and a bit delusional in his pursuit for heroism, and could never relate to Wyll's perspective or choices - the few he made for himself, at least. They definitely had the least in common and DU drow avoided interacting with him most of the time.

Halsin: He didn't care for Halsin much. He was vaguely helpful but by the time they got to the shadow-cursed lands DU drow had the impression he'd only been dragged here to help him clear his conscience, which he didn't appreciate. Also, he couldn't bear to have someone in camp be taller than himself. Halsin was left behind in Act 2.

Jaheira: DU drow fucking loves Jaheira. They bickered and borderline insulted each other and had a great time doing it. He can respect anyone who will call him a monster, threaten to murder him in his sleep, and make light fun at him the next day. It helps that she's hot, also.

Minsc: Weird hamster man. Ocasionally rendered him speechless. Puzzling human being.

Karlach: He didn't get Karlach, but he was often amused by her and curious enough to want to hear what she had to say. There was a similar issue here as Wyll's where he just couldn't relate to her enough to have much to discuss, but Karlach at least had an edge to her that made her far better company. They got along pretty well when the topic wasn't serious, but when it came to the problems she actually faced their perspectives shifted significantly. DU drow thought everything could be fixed, that accepting her own demise was a cowardly thing to do - and as they approached the end, and she asked him if he would stay with her when she died, he thought she was weak. I don't know if he ever discusses it with anyone, but he feels guilty about her death to this day and sees it as personal failure.

[creatingblackcharacters]

Hi there! Many apologies if I put my foot in my mouth here.

Do you have any rules for when to use BIPOC vs POC? I personally don’t like the term BIPOC for a number of reasons, most of which match the Newsweek article I link at the end, but since I’m nothing close to an expert, I wanted to check if you had an answer for what to do on that front. Possibly separately or possibly as part of the same question, do you have a preference as to which is used in your inbox? Happy to do either, even if the surge towards only ever using BIPOC makes me a little squeamish since I really struggle to find anyone championing it who doesn’t eventually turn out to be white when I look them up.

PS - I feel like I see both PoC and POC, but never BIPoC. Is there a reason for that, or are people just making inconsistent guesses at capitalization?

Newsweek article in question: https://www.newsweek.com/bipoc-isnt-doing-what-you-think-its-doing-opinion-1582494

I think it's really just a personal choice, fr. I have never cared for it, really 😅 I have better battles to fight (the proper use of 'NOUN of color'), and I get what they were trying to do, but... I tried and I just... I don't care for it.

It feels self serving to me. It's redundant and yet it sort of lumps Black and Indigenous folks together in a way that... It doesn't address that while we do have similarities and overlaps, we're not the same and shouldn't be dismissed so easily.

And also, "indigenous" doesn't necessarily mean 'Indigenous to the Americas', so without that added context to the conversation, you could be talking bout anywhere and those indigenous people could very well be white 😭 and if your point by then is "well I mean the ones of color" then by then you could have just said "people of color" already! 🤣 But that might be me overthinking it.

You could just refer to people by their names 😭 I'm not just an amorphous POC, I'm Black! So when you enter my inbox, say Black. No, don't refer to me as a POC/PoC or a BIPOC, you know what I am and what I've asked you to refer to me as. It's honestly incredibly insulting when I make posts specifically discussing Blackness and they get hit with the #poc #poc things. I do love my folk of color and will show solidarity ofc, but when I'm talking about Black people, I do mean Black people. And I'm pretty sure I can tell who's leaving those tags 😬

We're not all one lump solely defined by "not white"- when you know our identities, use them!

Sidebar, I also always misread it as "Bi and Indigenous people of color" 😭 Lmao you managed to accidentally hit on something I'm very passionate about but rarely speak on 😅

[togglesbloggle]

I've got to say, it's a very strange feeling, becoming the sort of person that is in the exact target audience for Buttercup Festival.

Like, this thing has been running for decades, since 2000 if you believe wikipedia, and it got around without ever being really discussed explicitly by people I know. The strips always drifted past me every now and then without incident- neither offensive nor inoffensive, a bit puzzling at times.

And then... something? Something in me, not in the strip, that much is clear enough. But now I just love these little things to death, on a good day it's competitive with Calvin and Hobbes or something else really top-tier.

And it's just bizarre, you know? They certainly don't rely on what you'd traditionally call humor, and even when there's a belly laugh it's not because there was anything like a joke per se. But if I try to explain to people what it is that makes the strip work, I just come up with all these ridiculous sentences that may or may not mean anything.

So I went from not getting the strips at all, and just walking past them without registering their presence, to really enjoying them and considering them one of my favorite comics ever, without once passing through a moment in time where I understood what made them so poignant. Just bouncing between two very different kinds of ignorance.

And that's interesting in itself, no? One kind of wants to reason through one's aesthetic preferences. I know I do. I suppose, on the grounds that I want to reason through everything. But my experience with Buttercup Festival seems determined to resist that treatment, at least so far.

Jokes as an art form are rather interesting- they get a laugh out of us before we know why they're funny, and discussions about humor tend to be unsatisfying after the fact. Explaining a joke doesn't make it any funnier, and the experience of 'funny' itself can't really be explained. Most forms of art, you can develop a deeper appreciation of the form by breaking it down in to specific shapes and methods and styles, and find new layers of beauty as you explore the structure of it. But it seems like laughter doesn't follow the same path, exactly.

Jokes aren't necessarily the only thing with this kind of structure. The koan, also, is supposed to open something to the student without any intervening explanation or analytical framework. Like a good joke, a koan often don't seem to make any damn sense at all, and like a good joke, a koan is often quite short. So that's two examples.

So there's this tricky thing where there's a class of experiences that seems to resist explanation, and we mostly encounter it through humor, but it's not actually limited to humor per se. I don't think I have the slightest idea where the contours of that thing are, or how to explore it, even though it's quite beautiful.

I don't think it's meaningless either, even though it sort of challenges the usual ways we define that term. I don't know how deep it goes, though it's much deeper than I expected. And you can grow in it over time, either because of certain experiences or certain insights or... I don't know. It wasn't signposted. I just kinda woke up here one day.

[kanmom51]

Jikook came home

God, how I missed this.

How I miss them!!

Before getting into the whole JM post followed by the cute-flirty interaction that followed, I will take this opportunity in congratulating both JM and JK for their MAMA awards achievements.

JM winning Daesang fans choice of the year.🎉🎉

JK winning top 10 fans choice, best male artist and best dance performance (SNTY).🎉🎉

JM being the sweetheart that he is came to us with a lengthy post to thank Army for voting and receiving a Daesang.

There are a couple of nuanced differences in some of the translations, but all in all, they are pretty much on the same page.

The main difference I've seen is the translation of this part:

벙벙 벙벙 벙벙벙벙벙

Being it "dumbfounded" or "stunned" or "bemused".

I think this probably captures it best:

And then we had JK....

Who was most likely sitting there right by JM's side, the speed of their back and forth being one of the indications to that (we are talking within seconds here), not to mention patterns of past behaviour with those two.

Do we discuss for a second the Weverse translation of the discussion?

Like wtf? 🤣🤣

Ok, so the actual translation would be:

Insert the word of bemusement of your choice I guess, lol. But basically we have JM telling us he's stunned/dumbfounded and mainly happy and then that back and forth between those two right in front of our salads.

Oh, and can someone explain the @JK to me please? I mean, I get JM @JK -ing when posting his replies, but why the hell is JK @JK -ing when posting his replies to JM?🤣🤣

The way those two keep doing this shit (in such a good way, may I add) is just absolutely and utterly hilarious.

This whole exchange gives me these vibes:

And Idk why, but this interaction came straight to mind as well when I saw this back and forth between them...

Take those two and combine them and then picture that in mind with this back and forth going on:

Oh, and do I mention that obviously they had access to Internet, enough to have this back and forth between them, while both in the same place, and JK preferring to flirt in our faces with JM rather than post himself about his wins, which I can assure you he knew of. You know how it is when you don't want to take away from your boyfriend's thunder...

Maybe we'll hear from him later on maybe not, but this was about JM, his win, his moment, his post, his excitement.

And JK CANNOT miss out on a little teasing-flirtatious banter with his man, now can he?

Let's back track for one moment, because I do want to talk about JM inserting JK into his post. I do believe this is going to be a new standard/constant/reality. You know, the "me and JK"/ "JK and I" or "me and JM"/"JM and I". That very natural way of inserting one another in their interactions/conversations with us. Now, don't get me wrong, this is not a new thing what so ever. They have been doing this since forever. But I do think that it's going to become more of a constant and less of a "OMG, he mentioned JK/JM" moment for us. They have shown us for years, but more so over the past year, just how important they are to each other, but even more so, just how intertwined their lives are with one another. They literally could not even part ways to do their military service!! Choosing to spend those 18 months together, even if it meant having to endure much harsher conditions and a much more difficult service as a whole. All to be able to be together. With each other. What I'm saying is that I do think we will be getting so much more of "US" from those two.

Openly and proudly.

US.

One last thing, and again this is either Jikook coincidence or kismet or maybe not too much of a coincidence and more of a conscious decision, but JM's post yesterday, 23 Nov 2024, was posted on the year mark of Jikook leaving for their oh so very special and emotionally charged Japan trip, 23 Nov 2023.

💜💜💜

Coincidence or not, we got Jikook back then, and after radio silence from those two for such a long time, we got Jikook yesterday again!!!

[walkingstackofbooks]

We all know Richard and Amsha were awful parents in DBIP, but here are some things that stuck out to me when I re-watched it:

(You may recognise this as a series of posts I made last year - sorry, I just found them and wanted to collect them all in one place! 😊)

1. Richard's insecurity over Julian's enhancements

Over time, I've come to assume that this was more in my head than in canon. But not, it's right there on the screen and it makes me furious. A long time ago, I mused that Julian's image of himself as "unnatural" might have come from the unknowing, offhand comments of playground bullies, but actually... from these conversations, I think Richard himself could well have described Julian's intelligence as "unnatural" during his childhood.

"We're not as bright as he is. We don't have your gifted intellect so we can't see the perfectly obvious." "You're so smart. You know so much that you can stand there and judge us. But you're still not smart enough to see that we saved you from a lifetime of remedial education and underachievement!"

He just cannot stand Julian being able to hold his own in an argument. His own intelligence is such a point of pride that he cannot allow his son to be smarter than him, despite him literally desigining Julian that way. He claims that genetic enhancements are nothing to be ashamed of - that, if anything Julian's "a little more" human for them - yet he's constantly putting Julian down for using his intellet in any way that Richard disagrees with. ("You could've done research back on Earth. I told you that five years ago." AS THOUGH JULIAN DIDN'T KNOW THAT.)

2. Richard's arguing tactics

It managed to surprise me, somehow, how it really is Richard instigating the arguments, with Julian making sarcastic reponses for as long as he can before he resorts to yelling. In both conversations, however, once Julian starts shouting it's made to seem like he's the one being unreasonable. And honestly, I don't think it's an overstatement to call it gaslighting.

In the first conversation, when Julian storms out, Richard calls after him "No, let him go. He can barely stand to be in the same room with us!" - implying that there's no good reason why Julian should want to leave (there is), and that it's Julian's fault for getting angry with them, rather than being based on their actions. He also repeatedly twists Julian's words, making them into attacks against him, implying that Julian is selfish and thoughtless ("We could go to prison, Jules. Have you ever thought about that?") in a way that's either completely unevidenced -- or, again, dismissive of any grounds Julian might have even if it were true. (RICHARD: You don't trust us? AMSHA: He didn't say that, Richard. RICHARD: No, but that's what he meant, isn't it? You think we're going to slip up, say the wrong thing, get us all in trouble.)

Later on, when they're discussing what they're going to do about the reveal, Richard tells Julian "You'd better change that attitude right now if you want to hang on to your career!" and "Well you'd better grow up right now or you're going to lose everything!". At this point, Julian's made it quite clear that he doesn't want to go through the courts, yet Richard insists on continuing to portray this as something Julian needs to do for himself, rather than something that Richard wants to do. And Julian calls him out on it -- "You mean, you're going to lose everything"... But how many arguments did he have to try to fight as a child before he learnt to spot Richard's blame is misplaced?

Other rotten implications in this scene:

the idea that Julian's being childish for taking the decision to resign form Starfleet rather than fight any judgement that came his way (it's not);

that even his "gifts" don't make him as clear-sighted and smart as Richard (gah, see part 1);

and through it all, again, that he's the one being unreasonable.

3. Amsha's manipulations

Oh, she's just awful. First off, it was really noticeable how much she forces Julian to hug or touch her -- the first scene in Sisko's office, in particular, when he's so clearly uncomfortable.

And then she tries to make herself into this mediator, but she's not a good one. She loves Richard -- she talks about his stacks of drawings like their endearing, she's very affectionate with him, and while she will say something if she thinks he's going to far, I don't think it's necessarily because she disagrees with him, but because she knows how he said it will send Julian away. But she also is, in a way, happy to make out that Richard is the "bad parent" to keep her position as the neutral, loving parent intact. She makes Richard 'apologise', she takes none of the blame for the genetic engineering -- once again, I am going to call this behaviour gaslighting. Amsha is constantly manufacturing this image of her own reasonableness and love for Julian as opposed to his father's tendency to fly off the handle, and this is supposed to absolve her of any reponsibility she has for neglecting Julain's needs.

In my view, Amsha only interested in making Julian return her "love" for him (and to a lesser extent, Richard's too). In that second conversation, she initially makes a small plea for him to "listen to his father" (causing Julian to physically move away from her hand on his shoulder) -- and then allows them to continue with their argument, until it gets to the point where Julian implies they're both unloving. Her anger clearly takes Julian aback; she's the one here who attacks his feelings as unreasonable and makes him back down into silence. And then her entire argument is all about her feelings. To paraphrase: "Watching you struggle made me feel bad."

Then she says this: "You can condemn us for what we did. You can say it's illegal or immoral or whatever you want to say, but you have to understand that we didn't do it because we were ashamed, but because you were our son and we loved you."

i.e: "I know you think it was wrong, and I'll even let you say that, but you are not allowed to think that we don't love you."

And if Julian has to believe that his parents' motive was their love for him, then, actually... is he really allowed to condemn them? Or is that just lip service, again, to make Amsha sound reasonable and accommodating?

4: Their 'apologies'

Both times after they argue, his parents then approach him to apologise/make amends. I've always previously assumed this was abnormal for them due to the situation, but I'm starting to wonder if actually this was quite a regular pattern that Julian grew up with. Both his parents clearly want to see themselves as "good people", and so I can imagine them feeling the need to make these lip-service apologies that --presumably, if he's made these same arguments to them before -- end up meaning very little.

Did he learn as a child that shouting was the only way to get them to listen, if only for a little while? Is he used to apologies lasting only for a short while before his parents return to the status quo?

There are imo a number of factors leading to his unusually impassioned defence of his father in the final scene, but I think this could play into it. Agreeing to go to prison is the kind of apology Richard can't just take back a few days/weeks/months later when he starts to remember how 'unreasonable' Jules was being and wonder why he agreed to it when he was in the right. I can imagine one of Julian's first thoughts being "what happens when he changes his mind?"

(Also, it has to be mentioned how shit an apology the first one was. "It's a stressful time for all of us and maybe I said some things I shouldn't have." MAYBE?? Fuck you. Really.)

[Heading towards headcanon territory: Amsha's behaviour, as previously discussed, is another reason why I wouldn't be surprised if the argument-apology model was frequent, because whether or not she's consciously aware of her manipulation, it's an excellent way to control Julian's feelings. It gives her the power of being the mediator; it puts Julian in the position of either accepting it and showing forgiveness, or sounding unreasonable. We never see his actual reaction to their 'apology', but we know they don't think there's anything too unusual about the hologram simply standing there - and Amsha feels quite at ease to reward her unresponsive 'son' with a kiss. Idk, but it seems like they expect Julian to reluctantly accept their apology, and even if he doesn't, they're now in position to absolve themselves of any reponsibility because 'at least we tried'.]

5: Their disregard for Julian's wants

I feel like the previous points have covered this to an extent, but there's a big one which, previously, I've managed to overlook.

At the end of the second conversation, Amsha, in all her reasonableness, finally seems to start listening to Julian. She's shared her feelings, assured him they love him, and asks him "What do you want to do?", to which he, of course, responds with a weary "Nothing".

AND THEN THEY COMPLETELY DISREGARD THIS.

AND THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE THE BASIS FOR JULIAN'S FORGIVENESS OF THEM?!

I mean, luckily for Julian, it worked out. But they had no basis to assume that Sisko could do anything, and they had no right to go behind Julian's back in the way that they did!

And this is something I've said before, but I also HATE how it's framed that Richard is going to prison "in exchange" for Julian's career. Why should Julian have to bear any of the responsibility for Richard going to prison, when it was Richard's choice to do something illegal that carries a prison sentence? But as it is, Julian would presumably be portrayed as unreasonable if, after this 'sarifice', he didn't forgive his parents and 'accept their love'. Gahhhhhhh. It's just another, horrible manipulation -- and while I don't believe his parents had that much power over how it played out, they must have been going into Sisko's office with some sort of similar agenda on the cards.

["He pleads guilty to illegal genetic engineering and in exchange you stay in the service."

Writing this post, and thinking about this quote, has started me wondering how exactly the conversation went down, because "I'll come quietly if you let him stay in Starfleet" isn't exactly a flex. Unless, of course, Richard has threatened to make this a very embarrassing, public, courtroom drama for Starfleet if the plea deal isn't made -- exactly the type of fuss Julian explicitly didn't want.

I know that Sisko's very good at making his case, and it might all have been his influence. But I can't help wondering if that was the only reason "Richard pleading guilty" would be seen as a good enough reason to acquit Julian, when whether he did or not, they now have evidence of his wrongdoing.]