#T-Mobile Edge

[jeffcbliss]

U2 - T-Mobile Arena; Las Vegas, NV (5-11-18). @U2

Photo: Jeff Bliss

[royalreef]

(( Honestly it's kind of funny to me how many people get caught up on how to draw Miranda's head. I don't kid when I say it's cinderblock shaped. I just draw a brick and that's her head.

[thetechtalker]

What is T mobile edge In details

What is t mobile edge-T-Mobile Edge, a telecom company, provides data services to its users through EDGE (Enhanced Data Rates for GSM Evolution) network technology EDGE is an evolution of the original GSM (Global System for Mobile Communications) technology, and it allowed users to access the Internet, email and other online services they could have accessed on their mobile phones However, it is important to remember that technology in the telecommunications industry evolves rapidly, and T-Mobile may have moved to modern network technologies such as 3G, 4G LTE, or even 5G on the current day in 2023. I recommend checking the T-Mobile official website or contact their customer service Get the latest and up-to-date information.

what does t mobile edge mean

T-Mobile EDGE is an older network technology (Enhanced Data Rates for GSM Evolution) used by T-Mobile to provide data services. It offers better speeds than standard 2G networks but is outdated compared to modern technologies like 3G, 4G LTE and 5G.

how to get rid of t-mobile edge

T-Mobile had already retired most of its EDGE network technology in favor of cutting-edge technologies like 3G, 4G LTE and 5G. If you continue to receive "T-Mobile EDGE" connections, it is conceivable that your device is not compatible with another network, or that you are in a restricted coverage areaT-Mobile had already retired most of its EDGE network technology in favor of cutting-edge technologies like 3G, 4G LTE and 5G. If you continue to receive "T-Mobile EDGE" connections, it is conceivable that your device is not compatible with another network, or that you are in a restricted coverage area You can try the following actions to strengthen your data connection and ensure you are using the latest network technology available in your environment:

Check for software updates:

Check if the operating system and firmware are up to date on your mobile device. Manufacturers often release updates that improve device compatibility and performance. Go to the network settings on your device and check the desired network mode or network type. If available, set it to "LTE" or "4G", which prioritizes faster network connections over slower one Make sure you are in an area with adequate T-Mobile network coverage. In areas with low signal strength or coverage, EDGE can still be found, even though it is an older technology.

Contact T-Mobile Customer Service:

If you have tried the above options and still cannot connect to high-speed networks, contact T-Mobile Customer Service. They can help you determine if your device has any network restrictions or session issues. Remember that era evolves fast, and the records provided right here can be obsolete. I recommend contacting T-Mobile directly for the maximum current updated information regarding T-Mobile's community technologies and a way to beautify your connection. Read the full article

[usedpidemo]

Almost is never enough. (Ive Gaeul)

23.7k words

Content advisory: Act III is practically an F1 fanfic. Please enjoy the feature presentation!

——————

The fluorescent lights stab your eyes like ice picks. Every blink sends fresh waves of nausea rolling through your gut, thick and sour. There’s a low, insistent throb radiating from—everywhere. Your skull feels packed with wet sand, your chest aches with a deep, bruised soreness, and there’s a strange, heavy numbness anchored to your right leg. The air tastes sterile, sharp with antiseptic and something vaguely metallic. Plastic tubes snake from your arm, taped down with irritating precision. You have no idea where you are.

Suddenly, a voice cuts through the fog, sharp as a scalpel.

"You fucking idiot."

The cry is strained, ragged, laced with a fury that vibrates in the aseptic air. It takes monumental effort to turn your head, your muscles screaming in protest against stiff sheets. The world swims, blurs, before coalescing into a figure hunched in a plastic chair beside the bed. 

Gaeul.

Her usually pristine dark hair is a chaotic halo around a face devoid of its usual softness. Mascara streaks like inky tears carve paths down pale cheeks, dreary against the furious flush high on her cheekbones. Her eyes, usually holding a calm, observant depth, are wide, bloodshot pools of raw, unvarnished anger and something far more terrifying: sheer, unadulterated panic. She’s clutching the edge of your thin hospital blanket, knuckles bone-white.

"What—?" 

A dry, painful croak comes out, barely recognizable. It scrapes your throat raw. Your tongue feels thick and clumsy.

"What?" Gaeul snaps, the word cracking like a whip. She leans forward, her gaze boring into yours, intense enough to make you flinch back against the fluffy pillow. "That's all you have? 'What?' After everything? After you nearly—" She hitches, the fury momentarily choked by a sob she viciously swallows down. "What the hell is wrong with you? Were you even thinking? Were you trying to leave me?"

The accusations land like physical blows, adding to the symphony of aches. Confusion wars with the pain. 

Leave her—what is she talking about? 

Your mind feels like a shattered mirror, reflecting only disjointed, meaningless fragments. The sterile smell, the ache, Gaeul’s devastated anger—nothing connects. You still have no clue as to how you got here. The last clear memory—it’s like trying to grasp smoke. A flash of speed. A deafening roar. Nothing solid forms. Only this crushing weight of now.

You try to push yourself up slightly, a reflexive move to meet her intensity, but a searing bolt of agony lances through your torso, stealing your breath. A gasp escapes you, sharp and involuntary. The movement shifts the thin hospital gown, pulling taut against your body, and your gaze finally drops downwards.

Reality crashes in with brutal clarity.

Your right foot, encased in stark white plaster, juts out at an awkward angle from the edge of the bed. It looks alien, heavy, and wrong. The cast climbs halfway up your calf. Taped wires snake across your chest beneath the gown, connecting to blinking monitors that chirp with infuriating cheerfulness. Your left arm is braced in a sling, resting heavily on your abdomen. Tentatively you flex the fingers of your right hand—stiff, sore, but mobile—and they brush against bandages wrapping your ribs. A dull, persistent throb emanates from your shoulder. 

You glance down at exposed skin on your forearm, a latticework of dark purple and yellow bruises, intersected by angry red abrasions, like you’d been dragged across concrete. The sheer scale of it hits you like dynamite, amplifying the disorientation. 

This wasn't a mere fall. This was—demolition.

"Gaeul—" you manage again, confusion now mixed with a dawning horror. "I—I don't—remember. What happened?"

Her furious expression flickers. For a moment, pure, unadulterated fear replaces anger, making her look terrifyingly young. "You don't—?" she whispers, the fight draining out of her throat, leaving only hollow disbelief. "You don't remember Spa? The rain? Eau Rouge?" 

The names mean nothing. Empty sounds in the echoing void of your memory. 

Her gaze sweeps over the cast, the wires, the bruises, the sling. The fierce, scolding idol vanishes. Tears she’d been holding back overflow, spilling hot and fast down her cheeks. She shakes with silent sobs, her carefully maintained composure dissolving into pure, intense grief. 

"You—you went into the barrier," she chokes out, the words thick with tears. "So fast—so much smoke—they couldn’t get you out—I thought—" 

A ragged sob cuts her off. She buries her face in her hands, her slender frame trembling. "I thought I had lost you. They said—they said it was touch and go for hours."

The image—vague, nightmarish—flickers at the edge of your consciousness: blinding spray, a sickening sense of weightlessness, an impact that shakes through your very bones. Afterwards, nothing. Just this sterile purgatory and Gaeul’s shattered presence. 

A cold dread seeps into your veins, colder than the IV drip. You had almost left her. The evidence was strapped, wired, and plastered all over you. The anger hadn't been scorn; it had been the desperate, terrified backlash of someone who’d stared into the abyss of losing everything.

Driven by a need that transcends the screaming protests of your body, you move your unslung right arm. Every muscle groans. Wires tug; monitors protest with a flurry of beeps. Ignoring it all, you reach out, your bandaged hand trembling slightly. Your fingers brush against the tear-damp skin of her forearm where she’s clutching her own arms.

She flinches slightly at the touch, then stills. Slowly, hesitantly, she lifts her head from her hands. Her eyes, red-rimmed and swimming, meet yours. The anger is gone, replaced by a vulnerability so profound it steals your breath more effectively than the pain in your ribs. 

You have no words. The confusion, the fear, the sheer immensity of the pain—it’s too much. All you can offer is the warmth of your touch, the feeble attempt at connection through the layers of bandages and her own trembling skin. Your thumb strokes a clumsy, soothing pattern on her arm, a silent plea, an anchor.

"I'm here," you rasp, the words suffocating you. "I'm—sorry." 

Sorry for the fear. Sorry for the pain you caused. Sorry for the terrifying blank space where the explanation should be.

Gaeul stares at your hand on her arm, then back at your face. A fresh wave spills over, but this time, they’re quieter, mixed with a shaky, almost disbelieving relief. She doesn't pull away. Instead, her own hand lifts, trembling, and covers yours, resting on her arm. Her grip is surprisingly strong, desperate, like she’s clinging to driftwood in a stormy sea. Cool fingers press against your bandaged knuckles, a grounding counterpoint to the tumult inside you both.

Before either of you can navigate the fragile, tear-slicked silence further, the door swings open with a soft whoosh. A nurse bustles in, her scrubs crisp, her demeanor a practiced blend of efficiency and calm that feels jarring against the emotional wreckage in the room. Her eyes sweep over the monitors, then land on the two of you: Gaeul’s tear-streaked face, your bandaged hand clutching hers.

"Ah, good, you're awake," she says brightly, cutting through the heavy atmosphere like sunbeam through storm clouds. Moving to check the IV drip, her motions are quick and precise. "We were starting to get a bit concerned, but vitals are stabilizing nicely now." 

She taps the screen of a monitor displaying a steady, rhythmic green line. "Pain manageable?"

You try to nod, but it sends a fresh spike through your neck. "Manageable," you grit out, the word tasting like rocks. Manageable meaning a constant, grinding symphony of aches punctuated by sharp stabs if you dared to breathe too deeply or move the wrong limb.

The nurse nods, making a note on a chart. "Excellent. Doctor will be doing rounds soon, but I can give you the preliminary good news." She offers a warm, professional smile. "You are incredibly lucky. The injuries are significant, yes," her gaze flicks meaningfully to the cast, the sling, "but nothing life-threatening now. No internal bleeding we’re worried about, no spinal damage. The concussion was severe. Explains the memory gap, but the scans look promising. You’ll make a full recovery."

Gaeul lets out a shuddering breath beside you, her grip on your hand tightening almost painfully. "Full recovery?" she echoes, her voice thick with hope and residual terror.

"Absolutely," the nurse affirms, her tone reassuring. "It’s going to take time, though. Months of physio, especially for that ankle. Complex fracture, ligaments took a beating. And the shoulder needs careful rehab." 

She pauses, her expression turning slightly more serious, almost sympathetic. "They said it was a miracle you walked away, really. Jesus was certainly riding shotgun with you that day at Spa. That corner—" 

Before she trails off, she shakes her head, a flicker of something resembling professional awe or grim understanding in her eyes. "Anyway," she continues, her rehearsed brightness returning, "the main thing is you’re through the worst. Focus on healing now. Rest is paramount." 

A wire taped to your chest is adjusted. "Oh, and try not to worry too much about the season. Plenty of time for that later. Right now, just concentrate on getting yourself right."

Season. That word snags in your foggy brain. Spa. Jesus riding shotgun. The nurse’s casual comment hangs in the air, heavy with unanswered implications you can’t grasp. 

Season. Football. Basketball. Autumn. Duck. Rabbit. 

It felt absurdly trivial against the canvas of pain you were stretched across and Gaeul’s distress. The confusion must show on your face, a furrow deepening between your brows as you try to parse the meaning.

But Gaeul isn’t listening to the implication. The nurse’s words—you’re through the worst, full recovery—seem to be the only things penetrating the haze of her fear. Tense lines around her eyes soften infinitesimally. Her desperate grip on your hand relaxes slightly, shifting from a lifeline to a connection. She leans forward, resting her forehead gently against your unbandaged shoulder, her dark hair spilling over the thin hospital gown. You feel her tears through the fabric, a slight tremor still running through her.

"Months," she murmurs against your shoulder, muffled but the relief palpable. "But you’re here. You’re alive." She lifts her head just enough to look at you, her eyes searching yours, the earlier fury replaced by a weary, profound gratitude that makes your own throat tighten. "That’s all that matters right now. Just—be here. With me."

The nurse gives a final, satisfied nod at the monitors and quietly slips out, leaving you cocooned in the beeping stillness of the room with Gaeul. 

Countless questions weigh on your slowly reforming mind. The mystery of the season, the terrifying void where your memory should be, the grueling road to recovery hinted at by the nurse—it all looms like storm clouds on the horizon. But for this suspended moment, anchored by the warm, real weight of Gaeul’s head on your shoulder and her hand still clasped in yours, the only truth that matters is the one she whispered: You’re alive. 

The rest—the terrifying, confusing rest—could wait. 

Pain is a constant drumbeat. The cast an immovable anchor, the wires a tether to this fragile existence. But underneath Gaeul’s tears and the lingering echo of her furious, frightened voice, there’s a fragile, desperate kind of peace. 

You’re here. She’s here. 

The nightmare of ‘almost’ is over. Now comes the long, painful awakening.

—————

Late summer air hangs thick and sweet as the car door clicks shut behind you, sealing off the world of antiseptic corridors and beeping monitors. The familiar scent of your neighborhood—cut grass, distant barbecue smoke, the faint tang of exhaust—floods your senses, almost overwhelming after weeks of hospital sterility. 

Gaeul maneuvers the wheelchair with surprising grace over the uneven pavement, her movements precise, almost rehearsed. Every bump, every minute jolt, sends a fresh reminder of your battered body up your spine. The cast on your right leg is a leaden weight, the sling cradling your healing left shoulder a constant, restrictive presence. Beneath it all, the lingering ache in your ribs is a dull percussion.

"You good?" Gaeul murmurs, pausing at the footpath leading to your front door. Her voice is soft, carefully controlled, a complete 180 to the raw fury and terror that had emanated from her in the hospital. Now, there’s a focused tenderness, a watchfulness that never wavers. She adjusts the blanket draped over your lap, her fingers brushing lightly against your good arm. The touch is warm, grounding.

"Yeah," you rasp, trying for a smile that feels stiff on your face. "Just—surreal. Being back. Back in the real world." 

The confusion hasn’t completely lifted. Fragments swirl: the blinding lights of the hospital, Gaeul’s tear-streaked face, the nurse’s cryptic words about a season and a vague comment about God riding shotgun with you at a corner. But the why, the how—it’s a frustrating blank. 

"Gaeul—" you start, the question bubbling up again, the one you’ve tentatively asked a dozen times. "What happened? Really. Before the hospital. I need to—"

She cuts you off, not harshly, but with a firmness that brooks no argument. Her hand rests gently on your uninjured shoulder. "Later. Please. Doctor Lee was very clear. Stress impedes healing. Your focus," she replies, her gaze locking onto yours, deep and pleading, "needs to be here. On resting. On getting stronger. On—" Her voice catches slightly. "On being here." 

The unspoken ‘with me’ hangs heavy in the air, echoing her fear in that hospital. She pushes the wheelchair forward, navigating the small ramp installed during your absence. "Let's just get you settled first, okay? One thing at a time."

The front door swings open, revealing not just your familiar hallway, but an explosion of color and care. Your breath hitches, not from pain this time, but sheer surprise. The entryway and living room beyond are filled—overflowing—with gifts. Bouquets of vibrant flowers (lilies, sunflowers, delicate orchids) jostle for space with extravagant fruit baskets bursting with exotic berries and perfectly ripe mangoes. Giant, plush teddy bears wearing Get Well Soon sashes stand sentinel beside sleek, high-tech recovery devices still unopened in their boxes. Cards are piled high on every available surface. Elegant embossed ones, funny cartoon ones, simple heartfelt notes.

"Whoa," escapes your lips, the sheer volume momentarily eclipsing your aches.

Gaeul smiles, a genuine, warm curve of her lips that lights up her face. "Told you everyone missed you." She wheels you further in, navigating the sea of well-wishes. "The girls—they practically raided every high-end department store in Seoul." 

She points at a large, foreboding presence. "That ridiculous giant panda? Rei. Said it was ‘for optimal hugging comfort during recovery.’ The basket with the imported Swiss chocolates and the very expensive silk pajamas? Liz and Leeseo. Yujin sent that state-of-the-art massage pillow. Said your neck would need it. Wonyoung—" Gaeul chuckles softly, pointing to a towering arrangement of white roses and lilies so pristine it looks sculpted, alongside a sleek, limited-edition noise-canceling headset. "—went for elegance and practicality. Said you’d need quiet."

Touched doesn't begin to cover what you feel. The thoughtfulness of her bandmates, their distinct personalities shining through their choices, wraps around you like a warm blanket. But the display extends far beyond IVE.

Gaeul then guides you towards the low coffee table, dominated by a different kind of tribute. Nestled amongst the flowers are model cars—intricately detailed 1:18 scale replicas. A gleaming red Ferrari SF-25 sits beside a papaya-orange McLaren MCL39. A sleek silver Mercedes W16. And, unmistakably, a dark green and black Kick Sauber C45. Propped against them are signed caps, race gloves mounted in shadow boxes, and even more cards, these bearing familiar crests and signatures.

"Charles sent the Ferrari," Gaeul says softly, picking up a card with the Prancing Horse logo. 

Inside, in neat handwriting: "Mon ami, get well soon. The grid is not the same without your crazy moves. Come back stronger. – Charles."

Gaeul then picks up the McLaren model. "Lando and Oscar sent this together." She flips open the attached card, revealing two distinct scrawls. 

"Mate! Gutted for you. Spa bites. That move was almost legendary! Heal up fast, we need you back causing chaos (preferably behind us!). – Lando" 

Beneath it, neater and subdued: "Wishing you a speedy recovery. Focus on healing. The podium will wait. – Oscar"

A pair of worn but clean racing gloves sit in a box marked with the Ferrari logo. Lewis Hamilton’s signature streaks across the cuff. The note is succinct, powerful: 

"Strength isn't just speed. It's the comeback. Heal well. We’re all praying for you. – Lewis."

Then, Gaeul picks up the Sauber model, her expression softening further. "The team—they sent this. And this." She holds up a thicker envelope bearing the Kick Sauber logo. Inside, a formal letter wishing you a full recovery, signed by the Team Principal and every department head, expressing their support and confirming your contract details for the following season. Paperclipped to it is a handwritten note on team notepaper, signed by dozens of names: from engineers, mechanics, down to catering staff.

"Get well soon, mate! The garage is too quiet! Hurry back! – The Sauber Crew"

And then, almost hidden beside the Sauber model, a simple, unsigned card. No team logo. Just stark black letters on white: 

"Next time, brake 5 meters later. Or don't. Made it exciting. Get well. – MV." 

You stare at the initials. Max. A reluctant grin tugs at your lips despite the pang of—something—the card evokes.

Gaeul watches your face, seeing the dawning realization, the struggle to reconcile the evidence with the void in your mind. She kneels beside your wheelchair, her hand finding yours again, her thumb stroking your knuckles. The tenderness in her eyes is almost unbearable. "See?" she whispers, "You matter. To so many people."

The sight of the Sauber car, Max’s blunt note, the sheer physicality and outpouring of support—it chips away at the mental barrier. A pressure builds behind your eyes, a mix of gratitude and profound frustration. "Gaeul," you ask, the plea undeniable this time. "Please. I need to know. What happened at Spa? What did I do?"

She hesitates, her gaze flickering to the cast, the sling, then back to your desperate eyes. The carefully maintained wall of protection cracks. A sigh, heavy with the weight of traumatic memory, escapes her. Sitting back on her heels, still holding your hand, her other hand rises up to brush a stray strand of hair from your forehead with infinite gentleness.

"Okay," she concedes, losing her practiced calm in place of brewing concern. "Okay. But remember: you’re here. That’s the important part." 

Gaeul takes a steadying breath. "It was Spa. Rain. So much rain. It was—brutal. Visibility was a joke. The car was a handful, even more so in the wet. But you—you were driving like a man possessed." A flicker of old, fierce pride shines through the worry in her eyes. "You were climbing. P5 with—less than five laps left."

The words trigger nothing. Just abstract concepts. Positions. Laps. Vague sounds of engines roaring. The relentless patter of downpour.

"You were stuck behind Max. He was defending hard. The McLarens were ahead, fighting for a 1-2 finish." Her grip tightens slightly on your hand. "Coming out of Eau Rouge—up Raidillon—" She names the legendary, terrifying sweep with a reverence merged with dread. "You saw a gap. A tiny, miniscule gap between Max and the inside curb. On the exit of Raidillon, in the pouring rain." 

Her voice tightens. "You went for it. A divebomb. Everyone watching—we all held our breath. It was—audacious. Reckless. Brilliant. Almost."

The word hangs thick. Almost.

"If you’d made it stick—" Gaeul continues, a faint whisper now, visibly haunted. "You’d have been P3. Right behind the McLarens. Your first podium. Right there." She closes her eyes for a second, as if reliving the horrific flip-side, rewinding to that horrible scene. "But you—you overshot the apex. Just—just a fraction. The car snapped. You hit the outside barrier—" 

It suddenly breaks. "Hard. Then it spun—back across the track—into the other barrier. Metal screaming. Carbon fiber shattering—" Tears well in her eyes again, mirroring the terror you can’t remember. "There was fire—so much smoke. They couldn’t get to you. It felt like forever.”

She buries her face against your good arm for a moment, her shoulders trembling silently. When she looks up, her eyes are swimming. "They pulled you out. Barely. You were—broken. Unconscious. They airlifted you straight to Liège. And then—coma. Days. Tests. Surgeries. Waiting." 

She swallows hard, her gaze locking onto yours with keen intensity. "Gabriel Bortoleto—he’s in your seat now. For the rest of the season. The team—they had to. But you—you almost didn’t have a rest of your life. Do you understand now? Why I just—why I just need you to be here? To heal? The car, the seat—none of that matters if you’re not here."

The pieces crash together. The season. The nurse’s strange comment about Jesus riding shotgun. The model cars. Max’s card. Spa. Eau Rouge. Raidillon. Divebomb. Podium. Fire. The abstract horror crystallizes. You weren’t simply injured. You were an F1 driver. Gambled everything on one insane move for glory. And you lost. Catastrophically. Shattered your body and your season in a heartbeat of rain-lashed ambition. 

A cold wave washes over you, followed by a surge of something hot and vital. Shame at the recklessness? Terror at the near-miss? Yes. But beneath it, deeper, fiercer—a spark. The memory might be gone, but the feeling—the adrenaline echo of pushing the limit, the tantalizing glimpse of immortal glory, the bitter taste of almost—it ignites something primal. Determination.

The commentator in your mind isn’t describing a crash anymore; he’s describing the move that should have worked. "An outrageous lunge! Is he going for it? Yes! Oh, that is millimeters! If he holds this—P3! Unbelievable! Wait—no! Too much! over the curb! Loss of control! He’s into the barrier! Heavy impact! Red flag! Red flag!"

Gaeul sees the shift. Sees the confusion recede, replaced by a dawning intensity in your eyes that frightens her almost as much as the sight of you in that hospital bed did. 

"Hey," she says sharply, squeezing your hand. "Stop. Whatever you're thinking—stop. You need rest. Doctor's orders. Let's get you to the sofa."

Her command is firm, laced with that protective fear again.

She helps you transfer from the wheelchair to the plush sofa, arranging pillows with meticulous care behind your back and under your casted leg. Fetching water, checking your medication schedule, adjusting the blanket. Her tenderness is a balm, a constant in a storm of realization. She fusses, trying to anchor you in the present, in the slow, safe rhythm of recovery.

Later, after a light meal she prepared with focused precision, Gaeul announces she needs to run a quick errand. "Medicine refill," she says, grabbing her keys. "Twenty minutes. Tops. Rest. Promise me?" 

Her eyes search yours, seeking reassurance.

"Promise," you murmur, offering a weak smile.

The moment the door clicks shut behind her, the silence of the house presses in, filled only by the ticking clock and the phantom roar of engines in your mind. The giant panda Rei sent grins at you vacuously. The Sauber model on the coffee table glints under the lamplight. 

Almost. The word burns through your skull.

Driven by a force stronger than the ache in your bones, you reach for the remote. It takes some maneuvering with your good arm, fumbling awkwardly. You find the highlights video on YouTube, your fingers trembling slightly. 

Searching: Belgian Grand Prix. Lap 39. Spa fills the large screen. Torrential rain sheets down. Visibility is appalling. Cars ghost slowly through the spray.

There you are. Car #77. Kick Sauber. Lurking behind the bright Red Bull of Verstappen. The camera focuses on the climb out of Eau Rouge, up the steep incline of Raidillon. Crofty’s voice rises, tense with anticipation: "—and here comes the Sauber! Look at this! He’s glued to the gearbox of Verstappen! Is he thinking about it? Raidillon in these conditions—incredibly brave, or incredibly foolish—"

You watch your car. It darts left, a flash of dark blue cutting inside the Red Bull on the exit, riding the treacherous curb. The move is breathtakingly aggressive, a knife-edge gamble. "He goes for it! An incredible dive up the inside! Verstappen gives him just enough room! If he can hold it—!"

The ���if’ hangs. Your car—your past self—pushes a fraction too hard. The rear snaps out violently on the slick curb. A sickening pirouette. Impact with the first barrier is brutal, spinning the car like a toy. The secondary impact with the opposite wall is equally catastrophic. Debris flies. A sickening plume of smoke and steam erupts, instantly swallowed by the rain. Max’s Red Bull streaks past, completely unscathed. The camera cuts away quickly, but not before showing the crumpled, motionless wreck of the Sauber.

"—devastating crash for the Sauber! Heavy impact! That looks very, very bad! Red flag! Red flag! Medical Team deploying immediately!" Crofty’s voice goes grim, shocked. "A move that was this close to being legendary—ends in catastrophe. Let's hope the driver is okay."

You stare, numb, at the frozen replay image: your car, a broken sculpture against the tire barrier. The almost. The what-if. It’s no longer abstract. It’s visceral. It’s you. 

The podium champagne that wasn’t sprayed. The cheers that died in throats. Your season handed to Bortoleto. Months of pain mapped out on your broken body.

But the numbness doesn't last. It’s incinerated by a sudden, white-hot resurgence. Not shame. Not despair. Defiance. 

A fire you thought the crash, the pain, the amnesia might have extinguished roars back to life, hotter and brighter than before. It floods your veins, momentarily eclipsing the physical agony. 

Crofty’s words echo: "This close to being legendary." 

He was wrong. It wasn't legendary. It was a failure. A spectacular, near-fatal failure.

But the move—the sheer, audacious belief required to attempt it in those conditions—it never died. It’s still in you. Buried underneath heaps of plaster and bandages and trauma, but there. The podium wasn’t reached. The story wasn’t finished. It was brutally interrupted.

Gaeul’s terrified face flashes in your mind. Her tears, her protectiveness, her desperate need for you to just be safe. The love in her touch as she adjusted your pillows. It’s a weight, a responsibility, a reason to be cautious.

But the fire burning in your chest, ignited by the sight of your own near-triumph and catastrophic failure, is an equally powerful force. It speaks of unfinished business. Of limits tested and boundaries demanding to be pushed again. Of a story that cannot end crumpled against a barrier in Belgium.

You hear Gaeul’s key in the lock. Quickly, you switch off the TV, the image of the infamous wreck fading to black. Leaning back against the pillows, you close your eyes, feigning sleep. The physical pain rushes back in: a constant, grinding reality. But beneath it, deeper, more potent, is a newly forged resolve. A silent vow, etched in the phantom scent of burning fuel and the roar of an engine only you can hear.

I’m coming back.

I’m finishing that story.

The door opens. Gaeul’s soft footsteps approach. You feel her gentle hand brush your forehead, her sigh of relief when she thinks you’re resting. The tenderness is profound, a sanctuary. But within the oasis, the fire burns, waiting for the cast to come off, the bones to knit, the strength to return. Ready to fulfill unfinished business.

—————

Months bleed into each other, marked not by seasons, but by the incremental, almost obstinate, reclamation of your body. 

The sterile scent of the hospital fades, replaced by the musk of your home gym: sweat, rubber mats, faint metallic tang of weights. The leaden weight of the cast is gone, replaced by a persistent, grinding ache of bone knitting itself back together beneath scarred skin. 

First, a slow, agonizing shuffle, clinging to Gaeul’s arm like driftwood in a churning sea. Then, with crutches that dig into your ribs, each step a percussive thud of effort. Until, finally, completely unaided. The gait is stiff, a little uneven, a constant, low-level protest radiating from the rebuilt ankle and the shoulder that still twinges with certain movements. 

But you walk. You stand tall. You move under your own power, a victory wrested from the wreckage of Spa.

Gaeul is your constant, your anchor, your fiercely protective shadow. Her tenderness is a physical thing. She massages the tightness from your scarred ankle with warm oil, her fingers tracing the map of damage with heartbreaking gentleness. Sets timers for your medication with unwavering precision, her brow furrowed in concentration. Cooks meals rich in protein and calcium, plating them with a care that borders on reverence. 

When the phantom pains strike, sudden and sharp, deep in the marrow where metal pins hold you together, she’s there, a cool hand on your forehead, whispering calming reassurances until the wave passes. Her eyes, though, those calm, observant pools, hold a watchfulness that never fully relaxes. They track your every wince, every suppressed grimace, every moment you push a little too hard.

And you push. Oh, how you push. 

It’s a quiet, relentless fire burning beneath the surface of your recovery. While Gaeul is attending IVE schedules—practices that stretch long into the night, countless photoshoots, the whirlwind of promotions—the garage becomes your sanctuary. Physio exercises evolve into something more. Gentle stretches become deep, demanding lunges that make the tendons in your ankle scream. Light resistance bands are swapped for weights that strain your healing shoulder, sweat stinging your eyes as you grit your teeth against the pain, chasing strength you once possessed. 

You set up a simulator in the corner, a makeshift shrine to the world you crave. The first time you strap in, the familiar grip of the wheel in your hands, the pedals beneath your feet—even the stiff, unyielding motion of the brake—sends a jolt of pure adrenaline through you, momentarily eclipsing the ache. Front there, you run the scene back at Spa. Over and over. Not the crash. The move. The divebomb at Raidillon. Testing the virtual limits, feeling the car’s edge, chasing that impossible fraction of control you lost in the rain. 

It’s reckless, bordering on stupid. You know it. But almost is a song you can’t mute.

The rest of the F1 season unfolds on the large screen in the living room, a parallel universe you observe with gnawing intensity. McLaren’s dominance is absolute; a papaya-orange juggernaut. Oscar and Lando are locked in a breathtaking duel, trading wins and podiums, their points tally a neck-and-neck dance that captivates audiences. Commentary buzzes with their rivalry, the sheer brilliance of their driving, the inevitability of one of them lifting the World Driver’s Championship. You watch Lando execute a daring overtake on Charles in Baku, cool and precise, and feel a pang that’s equal parts admiration and fierce, burning envy. Then you see Oscar hold off a charging Max in Austin, ice flowing in his veins, and the phantom feel of champagne spray prickles your skin.

And then there’s the Sauber. Your car. Now Gabriel Bortoleto’s. It’s a carousel of disaster. Race after race, the highlights reel is a grim montage of green-and-black misfortune. He spun out in Monza, clipping the barrier at Variante Ascari on lap three. Tangled with George’s Mercedes in Singapore, retiring with a broken suspension. In São Paulo, an engine fire engulfs the car on the formation lap, a plume of oily smoke marking another DNF. When he does finish, it’s invariably at the back: P18, P19, sometimes the lonely P20, lapped and struggling. 

Commentary’s tone shifts from hopeful analysis to weary, defeated resignation. 

"Another tough outing for Bortoleto and Sauber—" 

"The C45 just doesn’t seem to suit the rookie—" 

"Sauber now mathematically certain to finish last in the Constructors'— a bitter pill for the soon to be Audi."

Each failure, each DNF, each bottom-place finish is another spark thrown onto the kindling of your resolve. The fire burns hotter, brighter. It’s not just the podium you almost had; it’s the sheer indignity of seeing your seat, your car, become a laughingstock. Bortoleto’s struggles scream opportunity. Qatar. Abu Dhabi. The final two races. 

The car may be utter shit, and the team’s morale at rock bottom, but you could wring something more from it. You know you could. Just two races. To finish the story Spa brutally interrupted. To prove, if only to yourself, that the fire hadn’t been extinguished, merely banked. It’s a blazing ambition best kept hidden. A secret smothered beneath Gaeul’s loving care. You smile through shared meals, listen to her talk about IVE’s preparations for MAMA, her voice animated about choreography and stage concepts. You even watch their rehearsal footage on her laptop, the girls—Yujin’s commanding presence, Rei’s quirky energy, Leeseo’s youthful spark, Liz’s vocal power, Wonyoung’s ethereal grace—moving in perfect, dazzling synchronicity. You murmur showers of praise, but your mind is elsewhere. Calculating recovery timelines. Mentally mapping the Lusail International Circuit. Imagining the feel of Abu Dhabi’s twilight track under fresh tires.

The dissonance grows unbearable. Her tenderness feels like a prison. Those watchful eyes, once a comfort, now feel like searchlights probing for the rebellion she surely suspects.

—————

The breaking point comes after a particularly grueling physio session. You’d pushed too hard on the shoulder rehab, a sharp, electric pain lancing down your arm as you attempted a weight overhead. You’d hidden the worst of the wince, but Gaeul sees everything. Later, as she kneels before you on the living room rug, gently kneading the tight muscles around your rebuilt ankle, the silence becomes thick, charged.

"You were grimacing earlier," she states, her fingers pausing their work. She doesn’t look up. "During the shoulder presses. You pushed past the limit again."

"It’s fine," you mutter, shifting slightly. "Just stiff."

"It’s not fine." Her head snaps up, her eyes locking onto yours. The calm observer is gone, replaced by a storm of worry and burgeoning frustration. "It’s never just stiff with you anymore. You’re pushing too hard. For what? The doctor said gradual. Not—not whatever superhuman feat you’re trying to pull off." 

Her gaze flicks meaningfully towards the garage door. "You spend hours in there. On that simulator. Like you’re—rehearsing."

The accusation hangs in the air. The secret is out: not in words, but in the fear radiating from her. 

"Qatar," you say, the word dropping into the tense silence like a stone. There’s no point in hiding it any longer. "And Abu Dhabi."

Gaeul freezes. Her hands freeze on your ankle. The color drains from her face, leaving her pale as parchment. 

"What?" The word is a breathless whisper.

"I want to race. The final two," you state, steady and resolute, fueled by months of pent-up determination. "Bortoleto’s a disaster. The car’s there. I’m—I’m ready. Or I will be."

"Ready?" The word explodes from her, laced with incredulous horror. She scrambles to her feet, towering over you where you sit, her usual composure utterly shattered. "Ready for what? To get back in that metal coffin? To tempt fate again? After what it did to you?" 

Her voice trembles with a terrifying blend of fury and terror. "Look at you! Look at what’s left! You think months of playing hero in the garage erases that?" She gestures at your tattered body: the subtle stiffness, the hidden scars. "You almost died, you fucking idiot! You left me staring at machines keeping you alive! And for what? A pointless lunge for glory that ended in fire and broken bones!"

"It wasn’t pointless!" You surge to your feet, the movement sending a fresh wave of pain through your ankle, but you ignore it, meeting her head-on. "It was this close, Gaeul! Podium! My first! And Gaby—he’s young, but he’s making a mockery of the seat! The team’s dead last! I can’t just sit here watching it rot!"

"So what?" she screams, tears springing to her eyes, her fists clenched at her sides. "So what if they’re last? So what if Bortoleto crashes every week? Is that worth your life? Is a stupid trophy worth leaving me alone?" Her plea grows raw and desperate. "There’s a reason you’re still here! A reason you survived that—that wreck! And it’s not racing! It’s this!" She motions between you, encompassing the home, the care, the fragile life she’s helped meticulously rebuilt. "It’s us! Or have you forgotten that part already? Forgotten the nights I sat by your bed, praying? Forgotten the pain? Forgotten me?"

"I haven’t forgotten!" you retort, the frustration boiling over. "But this is who I am! It’s not just a job, it’s—it’s in my blood! That fire, that need to push, to finish what I started—you can’t just ask me to bury that!"

"Bury it?" She lets out a harsh, humorless laugh, tears streaming freely now. "I’m asking you to live! To choose life! With me! Not death wrapped in carbon fiber! Is that really so impossible to understand? Or is the roar of an engine really more important than—than this?" Her cadence falls to a broken whisper, the anger momentarily swallowed by profound hurt. "Than me?"

Her raw vulnerability hits you like a sharp blow, cutting through the blinding recklessness. The image flashes: Gaeul, pale and trembling in the hospital chair, the sheer terror in her eyes when you woke. The months of unwavering care. The love in every gentle touch, every carefully prepared meal. The guilt is sudden, cold, and suffocating. But beneath it, the stubborn ember of a maverick racer still glows.

"I have to try," you say, purposefully low, strained. "I have to know if I can still do it. Just two races. To finish the story."

"Finish the story?" she echoes, hollow, all fight draining away, replaced by a profound, chilling disappointment. Staring at you, her eyes search yours, finding only a stubborn, unyielding resolve. The tenderness is gone, replaced by a bleak emptiness. "Fine. But remember—you’re not Cody Rhodes." 

The concession is flat, degrading, final. 

"Go on. Finish your story. Drive your heart out. Chase your precious podium. But don’t expect me to watch." She takes a step back, then another, her movements jerky. "I can’t—I won’t stand by and watch you throw away the second chance you were given. Not for glory. Not for anything."

"Gaeul, wait—" You reach out, but she flinches away as if burned.

"No." She’s quiet, terrifyingly calm now. "I need—I need space. From this. From you.”

She turns, walks towards the door with stiff, deliberate steps. 

She doesn’t look back. Doesn’t slam the door. It closes with a soft, definitive click that echoes in the sudden, oppressive silence of the room.

You stand alone amidst the dying remnants of the argument, furious energy evaporating, leaving only the familiar ache in your bones and a far deeper, colder ache in your chest. The fire of your resolve still burns, but now it’s ringed by the ashes of her words. 

Selfish idiot. Worth your life? Throw away your second chance. 

Blurs of Spa replay once more: the near-podium, the devastating crash. The picture of Gaeul’s devastated face as she walked out. The reckless drive to race feels suddenly hollow, tinged with a sullen, heavy guilt. 

You sink back onto the sofa, the silence of the house a crushing weight, the roar of imagined engines replaced by the deafening echo of that closing door. The path forward, once fueled with defiant purpose, now feels shrouded in doubt.

—————

The roar of the vast Hong Kong crowd vibrates through the very bones of Kai Tak Stadium. A physical pressure wave that hits you the moment you slip through the secure backstage entrance. It’s a stark, almost utter contrast to the sterile, homely silence you’ve inhabited for months. Neon strobes slash through the dim backstage corridors, catching on sequined costumes and anxious staff. The air crackles with adrenaline, sweat, and hairspray. Moving through the controlled chaos, you’re a ghost in plain clothes, navigating by memory and booming bass shaking the floor.

You find a sliver of space near the wings, hidden by a towering lighting rig. On stage, IVE is pure, incandescent fire. The complex choreography for their latest hit unfolds with razor-sharp precision, a kaleidoscope of color and synchronized power. Yujin commands the center with fierce charisma, Liz and Leeseo flanking her dance break with explosive energy. Rei’s quirky charm translates into dynamic moves, while Wonyoung moves with an ethereal grace that seems to defy gravity. 

And then there’s Gaeul. Your breath catches. She’s radiant. 

Every movement is sharp, confident, utterly focused. The Gaeul who massaged your scars and watched you with terrified eyes is absent, replaced by the consummate idol, owning her space under the blinding lights. There’s no trace of the devastation you caused—only sheer, polished brilliance. The performance crescendos in a final, breathtaking formation, met by a deafening wall of screams that shakes the stadium.

Time becomes a blur of waiting in the pulsating dark. Announcements boom. Awards are given. The tension backstage is a living thing, thick with anticipation and exhaustion. Then it happens. 

The actor’s voice echoes, amplified: “—and the Song of the Year Daesang goes to—IVE!” 

The shriek that erupts from the star-studded artist area is pure, unadulterated joy. You watch from the shadows as they surge forward, a whirlwind of shimmering fabric and tear-streaked smiles, clutching each other’s hands as they ascend the stage to accept the highest honor.

Their acceptance speeches are a flurry of gratitude, breathless and effervescent. Gaeul, holding the heavy trophy alongside Yujin, smiles—a genuine, effervescent beam that lights up her face—but her eyes, scanning the adoring crowd, hold a depth that wasn’t there during the performance. A flicker of something else. Something quieter beneath the triumph.

Back in the relative sanctuary of their dedicated dressing room, the atmosphere is electric chaos. Champagne corks pop. Staff buzz around, offering congratulations and managing logistics. The members are buzzing, laughing, replaying core moments, their Daesang trophy gleaming on a central table. Leeseo is twirling. Liz is mock-scolding Rei for almost spilling her drink. Yujin is radiating proud calm. Wonyoung is meticulously adjusting a strand of hair in a mirror, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips. 

Gaeul stands slightly apart near a refreshment table, holding a flute of untouched champagne, watching her members with a soft, affectionate smile that doesn’t quite reach the slight tension in her shoulders. The performer’s mask is down, revealing the woman beneath: proud, happy, but carrying an invisible weight.

You step out of the deeper shadows near the door. The shift is instantaneous. 

Rei, mid-laugh while hugging her giant panda plushie (a relic from your home, brought for good luck), spots you first. Her eyes widen comically. “Oppa?!” 

The single word cuts through the celebratory noise. Heads snap in your direction. Conversations die. Jiwon’s hand flies to her mouth. Hyunseo stops twirling. Yujin’s eyes narrow slightly, assessing. Wonyoung turns from the mirror, her expression unreadable but intensely observant.

Gaeul freezes. The champagne flute dips precariously in her hand. Softness vanishes from her face, replaced by sheer, unvarnished shock that quickly hardens into wariness. Her knuckles whiten around the stem of the glass. The warmth in the room chills by several degrees, the unspoken history—the hospital, the fight, the closed door—hanging thick and heavy.

“Surprise,” you say, feeling utterly exposed under the collective gaze, especially hers. You take a hesitant step further into the light. “Congratulations. That—that was incredible. The Daesang—so well deserved.”

Silence stretches, taut and uncomfortable. It’s Jiwon who breaks it, ever the warm heart. She steps forward, a tentative smile replacing her shock. “Oppa! You’re here! How—?” 

She glances nervously at Gaeul, then back at you.

“Caught a flight,” you shrug, the movement sending a familiar twinge through your shoulder. Your eyes never leave Gaeul. She hasn’t moved, hasn’t blinked. Her gaze is a physical pressure. “Had to be here. For this.”

Yujin steps forward, her leadership instincts kicking in, sensing the brewing undercurrents. She’s calm, diplomatic. “It’s good to see you. Are you—recovering well?” 

Her eyes flick meaningfully over you, taking in the residual stiffness you can’t hide.

Before you can answer, Gaeul finally speaks. Low, controlled, but vibrating with an intensity that silences the room again. “Why are you here?” 

No greeting. No acknowledgment. Just the raw, direct question you knew was coming.

You take a deep breath, the scent of champagne and hairspray suddenly cloying. The carefully rehearsed script in your head dissolves. All that remains is the messy, uncomfortable truth. 

“Because I was wrong,” you say, the admission scraping your throat raw. “Because I’m a selfish idiot. Because I took it too far—way too fucking far—trying to push myself back into that seat before I was ready, before—” You falter, your gaze dropping for a second before forcing it back up to meet hers. The anger, the fear you saw in the hospital, the profound disappointment when she walked out—it’s all still there, swirling in her dark eyes. “Before considering what it would do to you. Again.”

A muscle ticks in Gaeul’s jaw. “Too far?” she echoes, gaining an edge. “Trying to push? Is that what you call it? You were ready to throw away everything—everything we rebuilt—for two races. After everything.” She takes a step towards you, the untouched champagne forgotten. “You took recklessness to a whole new level. Again.”

The dressing room is utterly still. Rei clutches her panda tighter. Hyunseo splits wide-eyed glances between you and Gaeul. Jiwon bites her lip. Wonyoung’s expression remains carefully neutral, yet her gaze sharp. Yujin watches, her posture protective near her member, ready to step in when necessary.

“I know,” you whisper, the guilt a cold stone in your gut. “I know, Gaeul. And I didn’t go.” 

The reply hangs in the air. Gaeul’s fierce expression flickers, replaced by pure, stunned confusion. “What?”

“Qatar,” you clarify, gaining a sliver of strength. “I never got on the plane. I packed. I went to the airport. Sat at the gate. Watched the cars—on the screen.” The memory is vivid: the roar of engines from the TV in the departure lounge, the pull so strong it felt like a physical ache. “All I could see was your face. That night—when you walked out. The look in your eyes. I knew I couldn’t do it. So I turned around. Came back. Spent the weekend—here. Planning how to crash your party, I guess.” 

You attempt a weak smile that doesn’t quite land.

Gaeul stares at you, the confusion warring with the residual anger and a dawning, hesitant flicker of something else—relief. Understanding. Her posture softens infinitesimally, the rigid defensiveness easing. “You—didn’t go?”

“No.” You shake your head. “Couldn’t. Not like that. Not without—” 

You take another step closer, closing the distance. The members are silent witnesses, the celebration momentarily suspended. “Abu Dhabi is next week. The season finale. I still want to race it. I need to—to close that chapter. For me. But I won’t. I swear to you, Gaeul, I won’t set foot in that paddock unless you tell me I can.” 

Holding her gaze, you lay yourself bare. “You were right. It’s not worth losing this. Losing you. Not for any podium in the world. I don’t care anymore. As long as I have you. It’s your call.”

Silence stretches. Loud music thumping from the stage feels worlds away. Gaeul searches your face, her eyes tracing the lines of exhaustion, the lingering shadows of pain, the earnest desperation in your expression. The fierce protector, the terrified lover, the proud partner—they all quarrel within her gaze. Finally, a sigh escapes her, long and shuddering, releasing some of the tension coiled inside her. A small, almost imperceptible smile touches her lips, weary but genuine.

“Stupid,” she murmurs, lacking its former bite, softened by an undeniable warmth. “Reckless. Selfish. All of those things.” She takes the final step, closing the gap completely. Her hand lifts, not to strike, but to gently cup your cheek. Her touch is cool against your flushed skin, a grounding counterpoint to the storm inside you. “But you’re mine. And I know that fire. I saw it when you woke up in that hospital, even when you couldn’t remember your own name. I can’t—I can’t hold you back from what’s in your blood. Not truly.” 

Gaeul’s thumb strokes your cheekbone. “So yes. Go race Abu Dhabi. Finish your story.” Her gaze intensifies, holding yours with zealous love and a lingering trace of dread. “But you come back to me. In one piece. Not just alive—whole. Promise me.”

The wave of relief and gratitude that crashes over you is so profound it nearly buckles your knees. You cover her hand on your cheek with yours, leaning into her touch. “I promise,” you rasp, thick with emotion. “I will come back to you. Whole.”

A collective, subtle release of breath seems to go through the other members. Rei beams, giving her panda a happy squeeze. Jiwon lets out a quiet, relieved sigh, smiling brightly. Hyunseo bounces on her toes, the tension broken. Wonyoung offers a small, knowing nod. Yujin clears her throat, subtly breathing a sigh of relief, a soft smile finally touching her lips.

“Well,” Yujin says, warm but carrying a hint of gentle command. She picks up the Daesang. “This calls for proper celebration. We should find the managers, see about that after-party reservation—” She glances meaningfully at Gaeul, then at you, her smile turning slightly mischievous. “Leeseo, Rei, Liz—help me track down the coordinators. Wonyoung?”

Wonyoung, ever perceptive, simply inclines her head, her regal posture unwavering. “Of course, baby.”

Rei giggles, nudging Leeseo. “Come on, let’s go find the fancy champagne. The really fancy stuff!” 

Liz loops her arm through Leeseo’s, steering her towards the door with a final, encouraging smile in your and Gaeul’s direction.

Within moments, the dressing room vacates, the buzz of celebration moving elsewhere, leaving you and Gaeul in a sudden, intimate quiet. The only sounds are your breathing and the muffled thump of bass from the distant stage. Tension of the confrontation melts, replaced by a different kind of electricity. Gaeul’s hand is still on your cheek. Your hand covers hers. The space between you hums.

Gaeul’s eyes, no longer wary or angry, search yours. Seeing the exhaustion, the lingering pain, the raw vulnerability, and the fierce determination beneath. Her gaze drops to your lips, then back up, a slow, warm blush spreading across her cheeks. Faint scent of her perfume—something floral and expensive—mixes with the lingering champagne and the adrenaline of the performance. The low neckline of her stage costume glitters under the dressing room lights, drawing your eye to the smooth line of her throat, the rapid flutter of her pulse you can see just beneath her jaw.

“They think we need the room,” she murmurs, husky now, a world away from its earlier sharpness. Her other hand comes up, fingers lightly tracing the tense line of your jaw, then drifting down to rest against the pulse hammering in your neck. Her touch is deliberate, exploratory, reigniting embers that had been banked by pain and conflict.

“They might be onto something,” you manage, your own cadence rough. 

The months of enforced distance—the fear, the anger, the relief of this fragile reconciliation—it all coalesces into a sudden, overwhelming need. 

Your free hand finds her waist, the sequined fabric cool and slick under your fingertips. Pulling her gently, irresistibly closer, until your bodies are almost touching. The heat radiating from her is intoxicating. You can feel the rapid rise and fall of her chest against yours. The roar of the crowd is replaced by the roaring of your own blood. Her lips part slightly, an unspoken invitation, her eyes darkening with an answering hunger that mirrors your own. 

The chaos of MAMA fades away, leaving only the quiet room, the shared warmth, and the promise of a much different kind of reunion, long overdue and desperately needed. 

The hotel key card in your pocket suddenly feels heavy with possibility.

—————

The hotel room door clicks shut behind you, sealing off the distant thrum of MAMA, the muffled bass from distant parties, and the lingering scent of hairspray and adrenaline. Silence descends, thick and charged, broken only by the frantic hammering of your own heart against your ribs and the soft, quick breaths escaping Gaeul’s parted lips. The luxurious space feels suddenly small, intimate, charged with the electric current of months of repressed longing, fear, anger, and now, this fragile, desperate reconciliation.

For a heartbeat, you simply stare at each other across the plush carpet. The shimmering residue of her stage makeup catches the soft light from the bedside lamp, highlighting the high curve of her cheekbones, the slight tremble in her bottom lip. Her eyes, reflecting the city lights bleeding through the sheer curtains, hold yours with an intensity that steals your breath. There’s no wariness left, no residual anger. Only a raw, naked hunger that mirrors the fire scorching through your own veins. 

It’s not a gentle merging; it’s a collision. 

You meet in the center of the room, a tangle of desperate limbs and seeking mouths. Your lips crash against hers with a force born from months of separation and stifled need. 

Hers yield instantly, opening with a soft gasp that vibrates against your tongue. The kiss is deep, bruising. A frantic reclamation. Her hands fly to your face, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer, impossibly closer. Your own arms lock around her waist, hauling her flush against you, the sequined fabric of her stage outfit cool and slick beneath your palms, the heat of her body beneath it radiating like a healthy furnace.

The taste of her is intoxicating: champagne, a hint of her signature floral perfume, and something uniquely, addictively Gaeul. Your hands slide down her back, tracing the delicate ridge of her spine through the thin material, feeling her powerful dancer muscles coil and release. Hers are equally restless, roaming over your shoulders, down your chest, nails scraping lightly through the fabric of your shirt, sending shivers down your spine. 

The months of physio, the careful rebuilding—it all evaporates under the sheer, overwhelming need to feel her. All of her.

Clothing becomes an enemy. Fingers fumble with stubborn clasps and zippers. Breathless curses mingle with hungry moans against each other’s skin. You push the glittering straps of her outfit off her shoulders, the delicate fabric tearing slightly in your haste, a small casualty lost to urgency. It pools around her waist before you shove it lower, revealing the smooth, pale expanse of her back, the graceful curve leading down to the swell of her hips. 

Gaeul arches into your touch as your lips leave her mouth to blaze a trail down her jaw, her neck, finding the frantic pulse point hammering beneath her skin. You gnaw on her flesh, gently at first, then harder, marking her, claiming her anew. A low whine escapes her throat, her head tipping back to grant you better access.

Her own hands are frantic at your buttons, pushing your shirt open, her cool palms sliding over your chest, tracing the lines of muscle, the faint ridges of scars left by Spa—a reminder of the chasm you’d crossed to get back here. Her touch is both worship and possession. Pushing the shirt off your shoulders, it falls forgotten. Your belt buckle clatters to the floor, followed by the rustle of trousers being shoved down your legs. Her stage outfit follows. A shimmering cascade of discarded glamour, kicked away impatiently. 

Underneath, simple lace. Dark against her moon-pale skin. A final barrier quickly breached.

Then, it’s skin on skin. The shock of it is electric, grounding and dizzying all at once. 

The cool air of the room meets the blazing heat radiating from your bodies. You pull Gaeul against you, every curve and plane fitting together with a familiarity that aches, the months apart dissolving in sheer perfection of contact. Her breasts press against your chest, hardened peaks scraping your skin. Her thighs bracket yours, the softness yielding against the hard muscle of your legs. She feels like heaven, like home rediscovered after a long, perilous journey. A groan tears from your throat, deep and guttural, echoed by a sigh from her that’s half relief, half desperate want.

Driven by a need too primal to articulate, you guide her backwards, slightly stumbling in your haste, until her back meets the cool expanse of the bedroom wall. The impact draws a gasp from her lips, instantly swallowed by your renewed kiss: deeper, more demanding. Your hands roam freely now, mapping the familiar territory of her bare body with possessive intensity. One hand cups the perfect swell of her ass, fingers digging into the firm muscle, lifting her slightly, grinding the hard length of your cock against the soft heat at the apex of her thighs. She cries out against your mouth, her hips rocking instinctively, seeking friction.

Your other hand finds her breast, filling your palm, thumb sweeping roughly over the taut peak. She gasps, arching her back, pushing herself more firmly into your touch. 

“Yes,” she hisses, the sound vibrating against your lips. Her nails rake down your back, not gently, leaving fiery trails that speak of possession, of marking you as hers just as you’ve marked her neck. The slight sting blends perfectly with the overwhelming pleasure, a counterpoint that only elevates the intensity.

The wall provides leverage. You kiss her with a devouring hunger, your tongue tangling with hers, tasting her desperation. Your hand leaves her breast, sliding down the flat plane of her stomach, tracing the indent of her navel, slipping lower, through the soft curls, finding the slick, molten heat waiting beneath. Gaeul jerks against the wall as your fingers brush her clit. 

A high, keening sound escapes her lips. She’s drenched, swollen, impossibly ready. 

You slide a finger inside her, then another, curling them expertly, finding the spot that makes her thighs clamp around your hand, her head thudding back against the wall with a soft moan.

“Fuck—you’re so—” she pants, her eyes squeezed shut, caught in the sensations. “Don’t stop— please—”

But you do stop. Gently withdrawing your fingers, you relish the frustrated whimper it draws from her. You need more. You need all of her. 

Breaking the kiss, you trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, over the burgeoning bruises you’ve left, across the delicate ridge of her collarbone. Sinking lower, your hands replace your mouth on her breasts, squeezing, kneading. Thumbs circle her nipples with firm pressure that makes her gasp and writhe against the wall. You lavish attention on each tit, sucking one hardened bud deep into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it, then grazing it lightly with your teeth before moving to the other. She’s a panting, whimpering mess above you, her fingers clenched in your hair, guiding, urging, her hips grinding helplessly against air.

Leaving her breasts glistening, you continue your descent. Your lips blaze a trail down the center of her stomach, tracing the subtle muscles, dipping into her navel, tasting the salt of her skin. Her abdomen tenses beneath your mouth, a tremor running through her. Hooking your hands under her thighs, you lift her slightly higher against the wall. Her breath hitches, anticipation coiling tight in the silence.

Then, you bury your face between her legs.

The scent of her arousal is intoxicating, musky and sweet, uniquely her. Groaning against her heat, the vibration draws a sharp cry from her lips. Your tongue finds her slick folds, lapping slowly, deliberately, from the sensitive entrance upwards to the swollen bud of her clit. 

She jerks violently, a choked sob escaping her. “Oh God—”

This is worship. Penance. Desperate adoration. 

You flatten your tongue against her, delivering broad strokes that make her thighs quiver around your head. Circling her clit with the tip of your tongue, teasingly light at first, then firmer, faster. You suck gently on the engorged nub, swirling pressure that has her crying out, her hands fisting in your hair almost painfully. Delving lower, tasting her deeply, thrusting your tongue inside her heat, savoring her nectar, the way her inner muscles flutter and clench around the intrusion.

Muffled sounds escape you, lost against her skin: groans of pleasure, low hums of approval. “So sweet,” you mumble, the words vibrating against her slick flesh, making her gasp. “Taste perfect—missed this— missed you—so much—” 

Your praise is fragmented, raw, punctuated by the wet sounds of your hungry tongue.

Her responses are a symphony of pleasure and mounting tension. Guttural moans rip from her throat, punctuated by sharp gasps and breathless curses. “Fuck—right there—don’t stop—please—” 

Her hips buck against your mouth, seeking more pressure, more friction. She grinds down onto your tongue, her movements becoming frantic and uncontrolled. Tension builds, coiling tighter and tighter within her, a palpable force radiating from her core. Her thighs clamp around your head, her back arches impossibly off the wall, held only by your grip and the pressure of your mouth.

You feel it coming: the tremors starting deep inside, the flutter against your tongue becoming frantic, the sharp, ragged edge to her breathing. Redoubling your efforts, focusing relentless pressure on her clit, sucking firmly, your fingers dig into the supple flesh of her ass, holding her open, holding her there. Like’s high art on the bedroom wall.

With a cry that’s half sob, half scream, she shatters.

Convulsing against the wall, her body is held together by your strength. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through her, violent and all-consuming. Her inner walls clench rhythmically around your tongue, her slickness flooding over your chin. Her thighs tremble violently, her cries dissolving into wordless, gasping moans as the tremors wrack her. You hold her through it all, gentling your touch but not stopping, drawing out every last shuddering pulse of her climax until she sags, boneless and gasping, held up solely by your arms.

Slowly, carefully, you lower her trembling legs. Rising from your knees, your own body thrums with arousal, your face glistening full with her juices. Her eyes are glazed, unfocused. Her lips swollen, her chest heaving. 

She looks utterly ravished, beautifully wrecked. A slow, dazed smile touches her lips as her eyes focus on yours. 

Wordlessly, she reaches for you, pulling your mouth to hers in a deep, languid kiss. Tasting herself on your lips, she moans softly into your mouth. “Damn. I taste good.”

“Right,” you mumble, suppressing a faint chuckle.

Gently disentangling, you scoop Gaeul up into your arms. A renewed surge of strength fueled by adrenaline and desire. She feels light, pliant, wrapping her arms around your neck, nuzzling into your shoulder. You carry her the few steps to the vast bed, lowering her onto the cool, crisp sheets. The city lights paint shifting patterns across her skin as she sinks into the mattress, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes, dark with renewed passion.

You shed the last of your own clothes quickly, your gaze never departing hers. The sight of her sprawled naked across the bed, marked by your mouth, flushed with bodily pleasure, her eyes reflecting the hunger still burning within her, is almost more than you can bear. You join her, sliding onto the bed beside her, your body covering hers, skin sliding against heated skin.

The kisses start again: slower now, deeper, more exploratory. A rediscovery. 

Your hands roam over her body, relearning every curve, every dip, every scar and freckle. You kiss the bruises blooming on her neck, her collarbones, whispering apologies and promises against her skin. Her hands are equally as busy, mapping the planes of your back, your chest, drifting lower to wrap around the hard length of your cock, stroking you with firm, knowing pressure that makes your hips jerk involuntarily.

“Need you baby,” she breathes against your lips, her voice husky, totalled. “Need you inside. Now.”

The raw need in her voice is your undoing. You reach between your bodies, guiding yourself to her slick entrance. The first press is electric, a shock of heat and tightness that steals your breath. Pushing slowly, inch by torturous inch, watching her face, the way her eyes flutter shut, her lips part on a silent gasp. She’s incredibly tight, still pulsing faintly from her earlier climax, her inner muscles gripping you like a velvet fist. The sensation is overwhelming, a perfect, agonizing friction.

“Fuck, Gaeul,” you groan, burying your face in the curve of her neck, inhaling her scent, feeling the frantic pulse beneath your lips. “So tight—so perfect—”

She wraps her toned legs around your hips, heels digging into the small of your back, urging you deeper. “All of you,” she demands, her voice thick. “Give me all of you.”

You sink the final inch, hilting yourself completely within her, a groan tearing from both your throats in unison. The feeling of being sheathed inside her, surrounded by her heat, her tightness, after so long apart, is transcendent. You stay buried for a moment, simply taking in the connection, the frantic beating of her heart against your chest, the slight tremors still running through her. Her walls flutter around you, adjusting, flexing, welcoming.

Then, you begin to move.

Slowly at first, shallow thrusts that draw soft whimpers from her lips. You lift your head, capturing her mouth again, swallowing her sounds. The pace builds gradually, a steady rhythm established. The slide is exquisite, slick and hot, each withdrawal an ache, each stroke a shot of pure pleasure that arcs through your core. Her nails find your back again, scoring fresh lines alongside the fading marks, the sting a perfect parallel to the deep, lingering pressure within you.

She meets your thrusts, arching her hips off the bed, taking you deeper, her inner muscles clenching rhythmically around your cock. “Missed this,” she gasps against your mouth, breaking the kiss to pant. “Missed you—inside me—filling me—” The words are fragmented, lost in moans. “So deep—feels so—so good—”

You shift slightly, angling your hips, seeking that spot you know drives her wild. The next deep thrust draws a sharp, broken cry from her, her eyes flying open wide. 

“There! Oh fuck—right there—” Her head thrashes on the pillow, her back arching sharply. “Don’t stop—please—like that—just like that—”

Focusing your thrusts, hitting that perfect angle with relentless precision. The room fills with the raw, pornographic sounds of your bodies coming together: the slick slap of skin on skin, your ragged breaths, her escalating cries—guttural moans, sharp gasps, breathless pleas. She’s unraveling beneath you again, the tension coiling tighter, faster this time. Her legs coil around you like a vise, her heels urging you to go deeper. Harder. Her hands scramble over your back, on your shoulders, before finally tangling in your hair again, pulling your head down.

“Kiss me,” Gaeul demands, driven wild with ecstasy, “Please—kiss me—”

You crush your lips on hers, swallowing her cries as you drive into her with increasing, unforgiving force. The bed creaks beneath in protest. The world narrows to the feel of her cunt, the taste of her kiss, the sound of her vocalized pleasure, the blinding white-hot pressure building at the base of your spine, threatening to detonate at any given moment.

“Gaeul—” you gasp against her lips, your thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm. “Can’t—can’t hold—gonna—“

“Yes!” she cries out, tearing her mouth from yours. Her eyes blaze into yours, dark and wild, holding your gaze with fierce intensity. “Do it. Let go. Give it to me—cum inside me—fill me up—please—”

Her words, her desperate plea, the sheer overwhelming sensation of her cunt tightening around you like a silken fist—it shatters your control. 

A guttural cry rips through your lungs as you plunge deep, burying yourself to the hilt, and erupt. Pent-up want explodes, white-hot and blinding, surging through you in pulsing waves that leave you shuddering, gasping, and utterly spent. You feel her orgasm meet yours, triggered by the thumping heat flooding her core. Her body arches violently off the bed, a long, wordless cry ripped from her throat as she convulses around you, milking every last drop of your release.

Shot after shot, unloading into her creamy cunt, feeling every violent throb, twitch, and pulse of your cock, and her wanton pussy beg for more. You give it to her. Each and every load.

You collapse onto her, crushing her into the mattress, your forehead pressed to hers, gasping for air, trembling from the sheer force of your shared climax. Her arms wrap around you, holding you close, her own body trembling beneath yours. The only sounds are your ragged breaths mingling, the frantic hammering of your hearts slowly beginning to slow, and the faint, distant beat of the city outside.

Slowly, carefully, you roll off, pulling her with you so she ends up sprawled half on top of you, her head nestled on your chest. Your arms wrap around her, holding her close, your fingers tracing lazy, soothing patterns on the sweat-slicked skin of her back. Her leg is thrown over yours, her hand resting possessively over your still-thumping heart.

The silence now is profound and serene, filled only with the shared warmth and the lingering aftershocks of pleasure humming through your bodies. The frantic energy, the desperate need, has burned itself out, leaving behind a deep, satisfying exhaustion and a profound sense of reconnection.

You tilt your head, looking down at Gaeul. Her eyes are closed, long dark lashes fanning against her flushed cheeks. Her lips are slightly swollen, curved in a small, utterly contented smile. A faint sheen of sweat glistens on her skin. She looks utterly shattered, beautifully claimed, and completely at peace.

You brush a stray strand of dark hair, damp with sweat, away from her forehead. The tender gesture makes her eyes flutter open. She looks up at you, her gaze soft, hazy with satisfaction, but clear. Clear of the fear, the anger, the worry that had shadowed them for so long. There’s only warmth, trust, and a deep, abiding love that takes your breath away all over again.

“Hey,” you murmur, roughed up but tender.

“Hey,” she whispers back, a husky rasp. Nuzzling closer, she presses a soft kiss against the skin over your heart. “Welcome back.”

A slow smile spreads across your face, mirroring hers. You tighten your arms around Gaeul, pulling her even closer, breathing in the scent of her hair, her skin, the unique scent of her mingled with the lingering traces of sex and sweat. 

“Never really left,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Just took the scenic route.”

She chuckles softly, the sound a warm vibration against your chest. “Scenic route involving a lot of walls and hospital beds.”

“Worth it,” you say simply, your fingers tracing the line of her spine again. “To end up here. With you. Like this.”

She lifts her head slightly, meeting your eyes again. Her hand comes up, her fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your lips. “Abu Dhabi,” she says softly, the fear fading, replaced by a quiet understanding.

“Abu Dhabi,” you confirm, holding her gaze. “I’ll come back. Whole. Promise.”

Gaeul searches your eyes for a long moment, then nods slowly, a tiny, accepting smile touching her lips. She leans up, pressing a soft, lingering kiss. It’s tender, unhurried, a silent affirmation. “I know you will,” she whispers against your mouth. “Just—make it a less scenic route back, okay?”

You smile into the kiss. “Deal.”

She settles back down against your chest with a content sigh, her body relaxing completely against yours. The silence wraps around you again, incredibly warm and safe. City lights continue their silent dance on the ceiling. The distant thrum of the outside world and the challenge to come is a lullaby. Here, tangled in the sheets, skin to skin, heart to heart, the only victory that matters is this one. The long, painful journey from almost to here. 

Together. 

The roar of engines, the pressure of the podium, the unfinished story—they’re still there. Waiting. But for now, in this quiet afterglow, there’s only peace and warmth, a profound sense of being exactly where you belong. 

Home.

—————

The desert night at Yas Marina isn’t silent. It thrums. A deep, resonant pulse beneath the shimmering heat haze rising off the tarmac even after sunset—the collective heartbeat of twenty power units whispering threats inside their carbon cocoons. Floodlights carve islands of harsh white brilliance in the inky darkness, turning the circuit into a stage set for the season’s final act. The air hangs thick, tasting of overheated brakes, engine fuel, and the sweet, cloying scent of nearby frangipani blossoms, an incongruous counterpoint to the mechanical brutality about to unfold. 

Championship tension crackles like static: Oscar Piastri, cool and focused, holds a fragile points lead over Lando Norris, whose usual playful grin is tempered by steely determination. Victory here for Oscar seals it: his first. For Lando, nothing less than a win will suffice. The narrative is set. 

Until you rewrite it.

You move through the paddock’s controlled chaos, a reanimated corpse walking amongst the living. The Kick Sauber team shirt feels both familiar and alien against skin mapped with scars, held together by reformed tissue and titanium resolve. Every step sends a muted protest from your rebuilt ankle; every turn of your head whispers a reminder of the shoulder that still remembers impact. Yet, your stride is deliberate, purposeful, projecting an unnerving calm that cuts through the pre-briefing chatter. Eyes follow you—mechanics, journalists, junior engineers—their expressions a kaleidoscope of disbelief, morbid curiosity, and burgeoning awe. 

Headlines scream from every screen: 

"Phoenix Rises from Yas Marina Ashes?" 

"Medical Miracle or Madness? Sauber's Lazarus Act." 

You’re the impossible made flesh, the embodiment of defiance against physics, anatomy, and reason.

The circuit briefing room is a sanctum of focused tension when you push the door open. Team principals huddle over data pads. Engineers murmur into headsets. Drivers lean back in their chairs, some relaxed (Verstappen, already championed out, wanting to go home to his setup), others coiled springs (Oscar and Lando). Jonathan Wheatley, Sauber’s team principal, is mid-sentence about track limits when the room’s collective attention snaps towards the entrance like iron filings to a magnet.

Silence. Not gradual, but absolute. A vacuum sucking the air from the room.

Shock. George Russell’s mug of coffee halts halfway to his lips, frozen. Carlos Sainz’s eyebrows vanish beneath his hairline. Fernando Alonso, the wily veteran, leans forward, eyes narrowing with intense, calculating scrutiny.

Awe. Alex Albon stares, open-mouthed, a flicker of pure admiration breaking through. Charles Leclerc’s usually expressive face is unreadable, but his gaze holds a profound, almost reverent intensity. The other rookies glare with bated breath, their eyes seemingly capturing a ghost for the first time in their lives.

Confusion. Lewis Hamilton’s brow furrows deeply, concern etching lines around his eyes as he takes in your stiff posture, the subtle way you favor your right side. Beside him, his former principal Toto Wolff exchanges a sharp glance with Christian Horner, trying to comprehend what he’s seeing.

Insanity. Max Verstappen’s lips quirk in something that isn’t quite a smile. More a recognition of sheer, audacious lunacy. He gives a slow, almost imperceptible nod—the closest thing to respect from the 4x champion.

Worry. Lando Norris’s playful mask slips entirely, replaced by stark alarm. Oscar Piastri’s focused, gentle calm fractures momentarily, replaced by wide-eyed disbelief.

Nico Hulkenberg, already seated near the front in his Sauber gear, doesn’t just look shocked; he looks physically winded. He half-rises from his chair, a low, guttural sound escaping him. 

"Scheiße." 

Not of anger, but pure, unadulterated dread.

The FIA briefing officer clears his throat, bewildered. "Ah—Mr. Bortoleto—? We were expecting—"

"Gaby couldn’t make it," you state, cutting through the stunned silence. Calm. Level. Carrying effortlessly to the back of the room. It’s the voice of someone who’s bargained with oblivion and walked away. "Personal reasons. In his place, I’m driving. This weekend." 

You step fully into the room, the fluorescent light catching the sharp planes of your face, the focused glint in your eyes that holds no room for doubt. You look less like a man and more like a monument carved from desert rock and sheer willpower. The biggest badass in the room, radiating a quiet, terrifying certainty that death had merely detoured your schedule.

Wheatley finds his cadence, a mix of programmed relief and genuine unease. "We—we are, of course, immensely proud and relieved to welcome our second driver back. His recovery has been—" he searches for the word, impossible given the circumstances, "—extraordinary. FIA medical clearance has been confirmed for participation."

The FIA medical delegate, the man who’d signed your paperwork with palpable reluctance, gives a curt nod, his expression grim. "Provisional clearance stands. Subject to review after each session." The unspoken warning hangs heavy.

Hulk is already moving, striding towards you, bypassing standard procedure. The seasoned veteran, the voice of reason Sauber desperately needed all season, now radiates pure, protective fury. "No," he states, low and fierce, grabbing your good arm just above the elbow. His grip is tight, anchoring. "This is not happening. Not like this. Look at you! You can barely walk without wincing! Yas Marina? The forces? The braking into Turn 1? The long G-load through Turn 11? Your neck isn’t ready! Your ankle isn’t ready! The car is a fucking tractor!" He lowers his modulation, but the intensity vibrates through you. "This isn’t courage. It’s suicide. Be reserve. Advise. But get back in that cockpit? Now? After Spa?" 

He shakes his head, a gesture of desperate frustration. "It’s too soon. Too damn dangerous. For you. For everyone on that grid."

You meet his gaze, unwavering. The room holds its breath. Lando looks visibly distressed. Oscar’s jaw is clenched. Charles watches with solemn intensity. Lewis’s expression is of deep trouble. Max leans back in his chair, observing the confrontation like it were a Netflix drama.

"I’m cleared, Hulk," you reply, still calm, but with an underlying steel that refuses argument. "Better than cleared. Ready." 

Gently but firmly, you remove his hand from your arm. The movement is deliberate, controlled, showcasing regained strength, yet the slight stiffness is undeniable. "Sense stayed in the barrier at Eau Rouge. I came back to drive." You offer him a ghost of a smile, devoid of warmth, full of unfettered resolve. "Happy to be your wingman again. Now," you turn towards the briefing officer, "let’s hear about those track limits. I need to know where the asphalt ends."

You find an empty chair near the back, right beside a stunned Williams strategist. Sitting down isn’t fluid; it’s a conscious, careful lowering of your body. Yet the defiance radiates from you like furnacing heat. 

The ghost hasn’t just returned; it’s also taken a seat at the table. 

Hulk stares at you for a long, agonizing moment, conflict warring in his eyes—profound concern battling against a dawning, grudging awe at the sheer, terrifying scale of your resolve. He sinks back into his seat with a heavy sigh, running a frustrated hand over his face. 

The briefing resumes, but the atmosphere is forever altered, charged with the electricity of the impossible walking amongst them.

—————

The paddock buzzes like a kicked hornet’s nest. Cameras and microphones swarm you the moment you emerge from the briefing. Questions are shouted, a cacophony of disbelief and morbid fascination: 

"Are you in pain?" 

"Do you fear another crash?" 

"How is this possible?" 

“Do you have a death wish?”

You offer terse, confident answers, your aura intensifying under the scrutinizing glare. 

Some look at you with reverent wonder. Alex Albon gives you a firm, supportive nod and a quiet "Respect, man." 

Others watch with the horrified curiosity of witnessing a slow-motion train wreck. Fernando Alonso intercepts you near the Sauber motorhome. "Only you, amigo," he says, his voice a mix of dry amusement and deep respect. "You’re one crazy son of a bitch. But good luck. You will need it." 

George Russell offers a hesitant handshake, his expression deeply troubled. "Blown away, mate. Seriously. Don’t know how you do it. Just—be careful out there, yeah?" 

Carlos Sainz claps you on the good shoulder. A firm, comradely thump. "Incredible. Respect." 

Lewis Hamilton simply meets your eyes as you pass, his gaze deep and knowing, filled with an aging wisdom that has seen countless battles and even lives lost fought for this sport. He gives a slow, solemn nod. It speaks volumes: respect for the courage, fear for the cost.

Stepping into the Sauber garage is like entering the eye of a storm. The C45 sits under work lights, its green and black livery gleaming, but the atmosphere heavy with apprehension and fragile hope. Engineers greet you with backslaps that feel cautious, their smiles not quite reaching their worried eyes. The car is a tractor: slow, unpredictable, a handful, even with Hulk’s valiant efforts. And you are—a question mark wrapped in fireproofs.

Slipping into the cockpit for FP1 is like reuniting with a toxic lover. The snug embrace of the seat, moulded to a body that’s been broken and remade. The familiar, complex grip of the steering wheel. The overwhelming scent of fuel, hot carbon, and electronics. The belts cinch tight across your chest, a familiar pressure that now presses directly on healing bone. Your physio gives your neck a final, searching squeeze. You nod, pulling the helmet visor down. The world narrows to the cockpit, the track, and the screaming spectres in your muscles.

Yas Marina roars to life. The circuit is more than a track; it’s the final arbiter, a demanding, glittering beast under the floodlights. 

Rolling onto the pit straight, the engine note climbs to a shriek. Turn 1 looms: a heavy braking zone from high speed that immediately tests your rebuilt ankle. The sheer force jams it back, a bolt of white-hot protest shooting up your leg. You breathe through it, modulating the pressure. Through the fiddly, technical section around the marina, walls flashing past uncomfortably close. 

The car feels numb, unresponsive, heavy in your hands—a stark contrast to the razor-edged machine you danced with before Spa.

Then, the swooping, banked Turns 11-14. The hotel section. This is where Yas Marina bites. Sustained, brutal lateral G-forces press you relentlessly into the side of the cockpit. Your neck muscles, weakened by months of recovery, scream in protest. It feels like an anvil crushing your skull sideways. 

You fight to keep your vision centered, your inputs precise. Sweat beads instantly under your helmet. Exiting onto the long back straight, you push, chasing a feel for the limits on hard tires. The car squirms under acceleration, the rear feeling loose and unpredictable.

Coming into the tight chicane complex before the final hairpin, you carry a fraction too much speed. The still cold tires offer less grip than anticipated. You brake, but the rear snaps out viciously. Instinct screams—the faint memory of a thousand slides—and you counter-steer, wrestling the wheel. The correction is violent, wrenching your healing shoulder. 

A jolt of agony blinds you for a split second. The car slews sideways, tires shrieking, spewing plumes of acrid blue smoke. You catch it mere inches from the unforgiving Tecpro barriers, the car fishtailing wildly before you gather it up, heart hammering against your ribs like a frantic bird. A long, ugly smear of rubber mars the pristine tarmac where you nearly met the wall.

The radio crackles instantly, your engineer’s call tight with alarm: "Box, box! Are you okay? Report damage!"

You suck in a ragged breath, the taste of adrenaline and burnt rubber sour in your mouth. The pain in your shoulder is a deep, insistent throb. Vulnerability is a cold knife twisting in your gut. Hulk watches from the garage entrance, his expression grimly resigned. The anxious huddle of Sauber engineers observe from the pit wall. 

The narrative writes itself: Comeback kid nearly wrecks in first session back!

"I'm okay," you rasp into the mic, forcing steel into your words, pushing down the tremor of pain and near-panic. "No damage. Just—testing limits. Car’s snappy on cold hards." 

Understatement of the fucking season. 

Guiding the Sauber back to the pits, the slow drive is incredibly humbling. The C45 feels heavy and flawed, an anchor dragging you down. Death’s presence in the cockpit feels less like an inconvenience and more like a looming, inevitable passenger.

Back in the garage, the atmosphere is thick with unspoken tension. Data flickers on screens, confirming the worst: P19. Only Ollie Bearman’s Haas is slower. Humiliation bites deep. Mechanics swarm the car, checking for damage. Hulk approaches, his face etched with concern that borders on rage. He doesn’t speak immediately; he just looks at you, then at the damning timesheet. 

"See?" he finally says, low and gravelly. "It’s not just you. The car’s a nightmare. And you—you’re driving hurt. On a track that demands perfection. That snap? That was the car and the rust. Sandpaper on an open wound."

You pull off your helmet, sweat plastering your hair to your skull. The ache is pervasive now: it spikes through your ankle, shoulder, neck, ribs. A dull symphony of protest. But the fire in your core—it’s banked, not extinguished. It simmers beneath the pain and the poor result. You meet Hulk’s worried gaze. The heroic aura is chipped, revealing the raw, unyielding determination beneath. The monument shows some cracks, but it doesn’t crumble.

"Maybe," you concede, rough but steady. "But I know nightmares, Nico. I’ve driven them before." You tap your temple through the balaclava. "Rust scrapes off. Fear fades. The car’s slow," you glance at the timing screen, P19 glaring back like a challenge, "but it’s mine. And it’s racing on Sunday." 

You push yourself out of the cockpit, the movement stiff but deliberate. "Get me the data from that snap. Every telemetry trace. And let’s talk setup. We need to find a tenth. Just one. For Qualifying."

Hulk watches you limp towards the engineering station, your back straight despite the clear discomfort. He sighs, a sound heavy with worry and something else—a reluctant, burgeoning respect for the sheer, undeterred scale of your defiance. The refusal to let the almost of Spa or the almost of that spin define the ending. 

He mutters under his breath, turning back towards his own car, a flicker of his own competitive fire rekindling. 

If the ghost was back, then maybe, just maybe, it could haunt the midfield into submission. Crazy bastard. 

Qualifying loomed. Yas Marina waited, indifferent beneath its glittering lights. The final test was coming, and the fire in your eyes promised it wouldn’t be taken lying down.

—————

The desert sun hammers down on Yas Marina, turning the paddock into a shimmering mirage. Yesterday’s near-miss hangs large, a stale reminder, but it’s buried beneath the fierce, focused energy radiating from you as you stride towards the Sauber garage. The stiffness lingers: a constant companion in your ankle, a dull ache in your shoulder, a tightness across your ribs with every deep breath. But it’s background noise now, drowned out by the determination building inside your chest. 

Qualifying. The crucible.

Atmosphere in the garage is taut, a mix of lingering anxiety and fragile hope. Hulk gives you a long, appraising look as you pull on your fireproofs. The seasoned skepticism in his eyes hasn't vanished, but it’s tempered by a flicker of something new—a reluctant acknowledgment of the sheer, stubborn force of will standing before him. 

"Don't overdo it chasing ghosts," he grunts, adjusting his own gloves. "Points are possible tomorrow. From the back, even. Don't throw it away today chasing—miracles."

You meet his gaze, a feral grin touching your lips beneath the helmet you haven't yet donned. "Miracles are physics we haven't bullied yet, Nico." The defiance is back, sharper, honed by the humiliation of yesterday’s P19. The hero’s aura isn't merely a projection; it feels earned, carved from pain and a bold refusal to give up.

Slipping into the C45's cockpit is less reunion, more reclamation. The belts cinch tight, a familiar vice across your healing torso. The steering wheel feels alive, an extension of arms that remember speed even if the bones protest. The physio’s final tap on your helmet feels less like a warning, more like a benediction. 

Go.

Q1. The track is a furnace. The C45 feels marginally better. Setup tweaks overnight scrape away a fraction of its inherent sluggishness, or maybe it’s your own senses sharpening. The pain is immediate: Turn 1’s braking jolts your ankle; the sustained Gs through the hotel section crush your weakened neck muscles, blurring vision at the edges. You wrestle the car, feeling its every lazy understeer tendency, its nervous rear end. Early laps are messy, tentative. Times are mediocre. P15. Danger zone.

Crofty’s voice crackles over the radio feed piping into the garage: "—and the Sauber struggling, as expected. Looks like the comeback might be a bridge too far today—"

You block it out. The torrential rain of Spa was more than weather; it was chaos incarnate. This—this is heat and physics. Manageable. 

So you push harder. Lap after lap, the times drop incrementally. You find millimeters on the apexes, carry fractions more speed through the sweeps, brake a heartbeat later. The car protests, but you beat it into submission, forcing compliance through sheer, bloody-minded input. The pain in your neck becomes a white-hot brand. Stubborn tenacity overrides it. The final lap of Q1 is a blur of concentration and controlled aggression. 

As you cross the line, the garage erupts. "P12! You're through! Q2!"

Your engineer’s cry is a disbelieving shout. Hulk, watching the timing screen, lets out a low whistle, a genuine smile cracking his usual stoicism for the first time in months. The apprehension in the garage dissolves, replaced by a surge of unfettered, disbelieving energy. 

He’s doing it.

Q2 is a different beast. The track evolution is significant. The front-runners: Verstappen, the McLarens, the Ferraris—they’re in a league of their own, setting purples. But the midfield is a knife fight. You feel it click. The rust isn't just scraping off; it's evaporating. Muscle memory floods back, race instinct overriding conscious thought. The C45 still isn't fast, but you wring its neck, finding grip where there shouldn't be any, carrying impossible speed through Yas Marina’s demanding complexes.

You see Max’s Red Bull flash past on an out-lap, a blur of speed. For a split second, your eyes lock through the visors. There’s no nod this time: just a sharp, assessing stare. He sees it. The man who made him flinch in the Spa downpour is stirring, ready to complete unfinished business.

Lap after lap, you climb. P10. P8. P6. Commentary is incredulous. Crofty’s voice cuts through: "Unbelievable! Look at that Sauber! He's extracting something extraordinary from that car! That's not just resilience, that's raw, untamed talent reasserting itself!"

Your final Q2 lap is a masterpiece of controlled aggression. Every input is precise, brutal, efficient. You kiss the curbs, flirt with track limits, dance on the absolute edge of adhesion. The C45 feels alive, singing beautifully beneath your hands. You cross the line. The timing screen flashes.

P1. For Q2.

Silence, exploding into pandemonium. In the Sauber garage, mechanics leap, hugging each other, pounding the pit wall. Hulk stares at the screen, mouth slightly agape, then turns to your car entering the pit lane, raising a fist—not just in solidarity, but in pure, unadulterated awe. "Bloody hell!" he breathes into the radio, a laugh mixed with disbelief.

Crofty loses it: "Incredible! Absolutely incredible! The Sauber on provisional pole for Q2! He’s topped the McLarens! Topped everyone! The comeback kid isn’t just back; he’s flying!"

Oscar, climbing from his McLaren after securing P2 in the session, stares at the timing screen, his usual calm replaced by wide-eyed shock. Lando, P3, shakes his head slowly, a grin spreading beneath his helmet—part disbelief, part genuine admiration. Charles, watching from the Ferrari garage, offers a slow, respectful clap. Albon radios his engineer: "Did you see that Sauber lap? That was insane!" 

Even Max, perched near the top of the overall times, glances at the Sauber pit with renewed, wary interest. The Lazarus act just became a resurrection of legendary proportions. 

Team morale isn't just high; it's stratospheric. Hope isn't a flicker; it's a wildfire.

—————

The fire is white-hot in your veins. Pain is forgotten, subsumed by the intoxicating shout of potential. For all its flaws, the C45 feels like an extension of your will. You belong here. The podium isn't a dream; it's a tangible target glinting under the Abu Dhabi lights.

The first Q3 run is solid, but conservative. P5. Good, but not stellar. The track is faster now. You know there's more. So much more. There’s the final run. One more shot. Glory.

You push. Harder than before. Harder than Spa. The tires are fresh, the fuel load minimal. The C45 responds, biting into the tarmac. Turn 1. Perfect. The fiddly marina section—razor-sharp. The hotel complex approaches—Turns 11-14. Its sustained, brutal G-forces slam into you, crushing your already screaming neck muscles. Vision tunnels. Fighting through it, teeth gritted, steering inputs precise but demanding every ounce of strength from your battered shoulder.

Exiting Turn 14 onto the back straight, you carry every ounce of speed the car can muster. The rear feels light, skittish on the exit curb. Instinctively you correct, but the movement is sharp, aggravated by the shoulder’s weakness. The car snaps. Not a gentle slide, but a violent, sudden loss of rear grip.

Instinct screams. Counter-steer. But the damaged shoulder betrays you. The input is a fraction slow, a fraction weak. The car whips around. Time slows. The Tecpro barrier at the end of the straight rushes towards you, not sideways like Spa, but head-on. A brutal, unforgiving embrace.

The whole circuit goes deathly silent.

The impact is colossal. A sickening symphony of shattering carbon fiber, screaming metal, and the violent deceleration slamming you against the belts. Your helmet snaps forward, then back. Lights explode behind your eyes. The world dissolves into noise, violence, and a blinding flash of pain that momentarily eclipses everything—shoulder, ankle, neck, ribs—converging into one white-hot supernova of agony. 

Sparks fly. Debris scatters across the track. Red flags wave instantly.

Death feels less like an inconvenience and more a sledgehammer blow to the chest. For a terrifying second, there’s only darkness and the ringing in your ears.

Then, the training kicks in. Move. Assess. You wiggle fingers, toes. Nothing broken. The HANS device did its job. The survival cell held. Pain screams from everywhere, a cacophony of protest, but it’s localized. No numbness. No fire. This isn’t Spa anymore.

Track marshals rush to the scene quickly. You wave them off, unbuckling the belts with trembling, painful motions. The cockpit is a mess of shattered carbon. Pushing the halo aside you climb out, every little movement sending fresh jolts of agony through your weakened frame. You stand, leaning heavily against the wrecked monocoque, taking deep, shuddering breaths. The crowd is silent, then erupts in concerned applause.

Wheatley’s the first in your ear, tight with worry that instantly overrides his earlier awe: "Talk to me! Are you okay? Say something!"

You key the mic. A ragged gasp, but otherwise clear as silk. "Yeah. I’m okay. Just—pissed off. Car's toast." 

Taking a step away from the wreck, you test your legs. They hold. The defiance, though battered, isn't extinguished. You raise a gloved hand towards the Sauber garage. A grim acknowledgement.

The medical car arrives. You submit to the checks, walking unaided to the ambulance for the mandatory precautionary check-up at the medical centre. The stride is stiff, painful, a stark contrast to the fluid power of your Q2 lap. But you walk. The cameras capture every grimace, every stiff movement, but also the unwavering set of your jaw. The human cost of the audacity is laid bare, yet the spirit remains unbroken.

The session ends under red flags. The final grid crystallizes:

1. VERSTAPPEN (Red Bull)

2. PIASTRI (McLaren)

3. NORRIS (McLaren)

4. LECLERC (Ferrari)

5. RUSSELL (Mercedes)

6. HAMILTON (Ferrari)

7. ALBON (Williams)

8. TSUNODA (Red Bull)

9. ALONSO (Aston Martin)

10. ________ (Kick Sauber)

11. HADJAR (Racing Bulls)

12. SAINZ (Williams)

13. HULKENBERG (Kick Sauber)

14. GASLY (Alpine)

15. ANTONELLI (Mercedes)

16. OCON (Haas)

17. BEARMAN (Haas)

18. STROLL (Aston Martin)

19. COLAPINTO (Alpine)

20. LAWSON (Racing Bulls) (-5 grid penalty)

Back in the Sauber garage, the mood is somber but not utterly shattered. The C45’s wreck is a worrying sight. Hulk finds you after the medical all-clear, your shoulder freshly strapped, movements visibly restricted. He doesn't say I told you so. He simply looks at the grid listing on the screen in bright, taunting color—P10. Ahead of Hadjar. Behind Alonso. His own P13 a stark reminder of the car’s harsh limitations.

"Tenth," he states, flat. "From the wreckage. Could be worse." 

He pauses, then meets your eyes. There’s no blame, just a deep, weary understanding. "The ghost is back. Scared the hell out of everyone. Again." 

A trace of his own smile touches his lips. 

"Rest. That," he nods towards where the wreckage had been, his finger pointed where the dust had settled, "was the easy part. Tomorrow is the war."

You stare at the grid. P10. A monument carved from pain, defiance, and shattered carbon. The podium dream is fractured, but not dead. The fire, though dampened by agony, still burns. Death was tested, but the story isn't finished. The final battle awaits under the desert stars.

—————

Abu Dhabi dawn bleeds into the sky, a slow stain of orange and purple above the Yas Marina circuit. The desert air, usually thick and still, hums with a different energy today—the electric crackle of finality. 

For the sporting world, it’s the culmination of a season, a championship duel between Piastri and Norris. But for you, standing alone in the Sauber garage amidst the pre-race frenzy, it feels like standing on the edge of a precipice. 

Your life unfurls beyond this track: Gaeul’s warmth, IVE’s whirlwind, ventures born from your improbable recovery. Possibilities shimmer like mirages on the horizon. Yet, the weight of the fireproofs, the scent of fuel, the phantom roar of engines in your mind—they pull you back towards the abyss. 

A tremor runs through your hands—not fear of the track, but fear of losing everything beyond it. The ghost of Spa whispers in the stiffness of your shoulder, the dull ache in your rebuilt ankle.

Suddenly, a ripple of unexpected brightness cuts through the garage’s focused gloom. Like exotic birds landing in a steel nest, the IVE members materialize. Rei bounds in first, her eyes wide with excitement, clutching a tiny, absurdly fluffy green dinosaur wearing a crocheted black shirt—Sauber’s colours. 

"Oppa! Win! You gotta win!" she declares, shoving the plushie towards you, flailing its tiny arms.

Liz beams beside her, adding, "For real! Show them what a real driver looks like!"

Leeseo bobs her head vigorously, her youthful face alight with pure, unfiltered belief. “We skipped MMA just to watch you in-person! Do us proud!”

“You’re not supposed to reveal that, Seo,” remarks Liz, cutely admonishing her fellow member. The maknae’s cheeks go flush in embarrassment.

Yujin steps forward, her leader’s poise a calming presence amidst the exuberance. She offers a firm, supportive smile. "Do your best out there. That’s all anyone can ask." 

Wonyoung, adorned in a lavish pantsuit, inclines her head, her gaze sharp and observant. "Drive well. We’ll be watching." Her words are concise, carrying the weight of expectation.

Finally, Gaeul. She moves through her members, her eyes finding yours amidst the green-and-black chaos. The fierce protectiveness, the lingering worry from t6r57he crash, is still there, etched in the slight tension around her mouth. But overriding it is a quiet, unwavering warmth. She doesn’t speak immediately. Instead, she reaches out, her cool fingers brushing the back of your bandaged hand where it rests on the cockpit rim. The touch is grounding, an anchor thrown into turbulent seas. 

"Just finish the race," she murmurs, low, meant only for you. Her eyes hold yours, intense, pleading. "Come back whole. That’s the only win I care about today. Promise me."

The chaos of the garage fades. The nerves, the existential dread—they momentarily dissolve under the weight of her presence, her touch, her simple, profound demand. You cover her hand with yours, squeezing gently. 

"Promise," you rasp, thick with emotion. The precipice remains, but the path forward is suddenly illuminated, not by podium champagne, but by the certainty of her waiting embrace.

The formation lap is a slow-motion procession under the harsh desert sun, a final calibration before the storm. You slot into P10, the grid stretching ahead: Verstappen’s Red Bull, a predatory shark on pole, the papaya McLarens of Piastri and Norris poised like hunting dogs behind him. Hulkenberg’s Sauber sits in P13, a green-and-black island settled a little further back. Tension in the cockpit is a living entity, vibrating through the steering wheel, syncing with your own hammering heart. 

Crofty’s voice crackles, a detached narrator setting the scene:

"And there he is, ladies and gentlemen, Sauber #77, lining up P10. A story of resilience unlike any we've seen. The question on everyone's lips: can he translate that qualifying heroics into race pace, or will the physical toll prove too much?"

Brundle’s drier tone follows: "The car's limitations were starkly evident yesterday, Crofty. He wrung its neck for that Q2 time, but over 58 laps? Against this field? And let's not forget the state of the driver after that enormous Q3 shunt. He looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a heavyweight last night."

Ahead, the five red lights glow like malevolent eyes. Images flicker: Gaeul’s face as she whispered her plea, Rei’s bouncing enthusiasm, the grim wreckage of yesterday’s car. The nerves coalesce, solidify into a single, crystalline point of focus: Finish the story. Come back whole. 

Your hands tighten on the wheel, knuckles white beneath the gloves. The pain in your body recedes, compartmentalized. The world narrows to the lights, the clutch bite point, the engine note climbing to a fever pitch behind you.

All five lined up red. Right below, in an instant, a flash of green.

"LIGHTS OUT AND AWAY WE GO!"

Chaos erupts. A tsunami of sound and violence. You dump the clutch, the C45 lurching forward with a protesting groan. Into Turn 1, a vortex of screaming engines, smoking tires, and desperate lunges. You’re boxed in. Alonso’s Aston Martin jinks left, Stroll goes right right, Sainz’s Williams dives down the inside. You brake hard, the force jolting your ankle, vision blurring momentarily at the edges. Cars swarm past. Racing Bulls. Williams. Alpine. The pack swallows you whole.

"Okay, okay, clean through? Damage report?"

"Clean. Just—swamped. P—where am I?"

"P17. Behind Tsunoda and Gasly. Bide your time. Long race."

P17. Near the very back. 

Frustration wars with cold calculation. The C45 feels sluggish, unresponsive in the dirty air. Yas Marina reveals its true character: a deceptive beast. The long straights lull you into a sense of speed before punishing you with heavy braking zones that test your ankle’s limits. The fiddly marina section is a claustrophobic maze, walls flashing past, demanding millimetre-perfect precision that makes your healing shoulder scream with every corrective input. 

Then comes the hotel complex—Turns 11-14—the circuit’s heart of darkness. Sustained, brutal lateral G-forces slam you relentlessly into the side of the cockpit, crushing your neck, blurring vision, turning your spine into a column of fire. It’s a physical assault, relentless and draining.

Crofty draws the scene: "And the Sauber is really struggling in the dirty air, Martin. Dropped like a stone off the line. Looks like the fairytale might be ending before it really began."

Brundle’s biting tone adds: "Not surprising at all. That car is fundamentally slow, and he's carrying injuries that would sideline most athletes. Question is, can he manage the pain and the car for the duration?"

You push the thought and pain aside. Bide your time, as Wheatley said. Lap after lap, you learn the rhythm of the midfield battle. You study Sainz ahead: tidy, defensive. Stroll. Aggressive and erratic. Alonso—wily, conservative. Your tires settle. And the C45, while no thoroughbred, begins to talk to you again. 

The initial shock fades, replaced by the cold, familiar calculus of the race. The pain is a constant drumbeat, but it’s background noise now, woven into the fabric of the drive.

On Lap 8, the first opportunity knocks. Sainz outbrakes himself slightly into the Turn 6-7 chicane, running wide. You’re perfectly positioned. A squeeze of throttle, a precise turn-in, and you’re alongside the Williams on the exit. 

Clean. Clinical. Clear. P16.

"Nice move! Sainz cleared. Gasly next, 1.2 ahead. He’s on older softs."

Gasly’s Alpine is visibly slower exiting corners. You stalk him through the marina section, feeling the C45’s meagre downforce bite a fraction better in clean air. Down the long back straight, you slipstream, the Renault’s rear wing filling your vision. DRS opens. Pulling out late, braking impossibly deep for Turn 11, forcing the Alpine to defend the inside. Sweep around the outside, carrying momentum through the complex, leaving Gasly scrambling. P15.

Crofty’s impassioned voice rises. "He's climbing! The Sauber is on the move! Gasly dispatched with authority!"

Brundle’s remark is matter-of-fact. "Smart move. Used the Alpine's weak traction and the DRS perfectly. He's finding a rhythm now, despite everything."

Next target: Stroll. The Aston Martin is a wider, more aggressive beast to pass. He defends fiercely into Turn 1, forcing you to take the perilous outside line. You hold it, wheels on the very edge of the curb, the car dancing on the limit of adhesion, G-forces pulling at your injured neck. Side-by-side through the first sector, inches apart. You have the better exit from Turn 5 and muscle ahead before the braking zone for Turn 6. P14.

Then, the master: Alonso. The ageless fox knows every trick in the book. He anticipates your DRS run on the main straight, weaving subtly, breaking your tow. Brakes impossibly late into Turn 1, forcing you to check your own dive. Conserving tires, managing pace—he’s a fortress on wheels.

"Alonso’s managing. His tires are older, but he’s Alonso. Pick your moment. Don’t force it."

Patience. You shadow him for three laps, studying his lines, feeling the C45’s tires starting to grain slightly. Lap 15. Into the final sector. You gain a fraction more exit speed from the Turn 16 hairpin, closing the gap rapidly down the pit straight. DRS opens. This time, Alonso’s weave is predictable. Pulling out early gets you a cleaner tow. You brake marginally later, but crucially, smoother, carrying more minimum speed through the apex of Turn 1. Both cars are alongside by the exit. He tries to squeeze you towards the runoff, but you hold firm, your wheels kissing the white line, the Sauber vibrating with protest. You inch ahead, claiming the inside line for Turn 2. Alonso concedes, lifting slightly. 

P13. A wave of elation overrides the screaming pain in your shoulder.

Crofty lifts with excitement. "Incredible! He’s passed Alonso! The Sauber is near the points-paying positions! This is a drive of sheer, unadulterated willpower!"

Brundle stays calculating. "Astounding composure. Outfoxed the fox. Used the car's meagre strengths—that late-braking stability he found yesterday – perfectly. He’s making that C45 sing beyond its means."

Ahead, Hulkenberg’s Sauber is a green beacon in P12, chasing Albon’s Williams. Hadjar’s Racing Bull lurks behind you. You push. The car feels alive beneath you now, responding to your increasingly confident inputs. Reeling in Albon, the other Williams easily dispatched with a DRS-assisted move down the back straight into the chicane complex, cleaner than the pass on Gasly. P12. 

Then, on the next lap, Wheatley radios in:

"Heads up. Hadjar’s got fresh mediums. He’s rapidly closing in behind you."

You glance in the mirrors. Hadjar’s Racing Bull is indeed closing, a pure-white homing missile. You dig deeper. The hotel complex is agony, each corner a fresh assault on your neck, but you find a tenth, then another. You catch Hulkenberg asleep slightly exiting the marina section, getting a better run onto the straight. DRS. You pull alongside, teammates wheel-to-wheel. There’s a millisecond of hesitation—team orders unspoken but understood—then Hulk lifts ever so slightly, giving you the inside line for Turn 11. A gesture of respect, of faith. P11.

"P11! Hulk let you through. Hadjar 0.8 behind. Tsunoda ahead in P9, 4 seconds. Keep it clean!"

P11. On the cusp of the points. 

This shitbox C45, held together by grit and titanium balls, sits uneasy yet steady on the road. The physical cost is immense; sweat stings your eyes inside the helmet. Every breath feels like a knife twisting between your ribs. Your rebuilt ankle throbs with every brake application. But the fire burns brighter than ever.

Ahead lies Tsunoda’s Red Bull. Behind, Hadjar hunts on fresher rubber. Today’s battle isn't for the championship—far from it—but for redemption, for proving the story didn't end at Spa, or in yesterday's Q3 barrier. The final chapters are being written, one agonizing, winding corner at a time, under the relentless Abu Dhabi sunset. You brace for the hotel complex once more, the roar of the engine synching with the roar of your own blood. 

The promise echoes: Come back whole. But right now, whole feels like pushing a broken machine and a broken body to their absolute limit.

The desert air shimmers like molten glass over Yas Marina, pressing down with furnace heat that seeps through the Sauber’s carbon fiber monocoque and into your bones. P11. The number glows tauntingly on your steering wheel display. Hadjar’s Racing Bull fills your mirrors, a white-hot specter riding fresher medium tires, closing in furiously like a relentless cheetah.

"—and the RB’s looming large! Hadjar has a significant tire advantage. This could be terminal for Sauber’s points hopes unless he finds a miracle—"

The C45’s hard compounds feel like blocks of greased stone. Sector 2’s marina maze—a claustrophobic gauntlet of concrete barriers and abrupt direction changes—becomes a torture chamber. Each flick-left, jab-right wrenches your healing shoulder. The rear skitters nervously over curbs, threatening to snap. Hadjar lunges at Turn 9, his front wing inches from your diffuser. You slam the door shut, sacrificing exit speed, feeling the RB’s disturbed air buffet the Sauber like a boxer’s punch. 

It’s no longer about racing; it’s survival.

"Gap to Hadjar: 0.4. He’s nursing that tire advantage. Can you hold through the hotel complex?"

The hotel complex. Turns 11-14. Yas Marina’s heart of darkness. A relentless, banked corkscrew designed to wring necks and spirits. The sustained G-forces slam you sideways, crushing your injured neck against the headrest, blurring vision at the edges. It’s more than physical agony; it’s an assault on coherence. Hadjar gains in the dirty air.

A spark ignites in the chaos: audacious, born of desperation and an unshakeable belief in your own fraying limits. The team’s conservative strategy is a death sentence.

"Box this lap. Softs."

"Confirm? Softs now? Plan was Lap 32! They won’t last!"

"Confirmed. Softs. Now. We need the delta. Execute."

"Copy. Box this lap. Soft compound."

You peel off the racing line into pit lane’s sterile calm, the roar of the pack fading. 3.2 seconds of agonizing stillness—mechanics a green blur, the thunk of wheel guns, cold soft tires shrieking as you’re released back into the inferno.

P14.

Elsewhere, Crofty crackles with dynamite energy. "Astonishing gamble! He dives into the pits from the cusp of the points! Plummets to fourteenth! The soft tire is a Molotov cocktail—explosive but fleeting. Has bravery tipped into recklessness?"

"The mathematics are brutal, Crofty.” Brundle remains flat, calculated. “He needs near-perfect tire management for over forty laps on a compound that degrades exponentially here. It’s not just climbing a mountain; it’s climbing it on melting ice."

The transformation is immediate, electric. The new softs bite like razors. The sluggish C45 reawakens, its steering sharp, throttle response eager. 

Picking up right where you left off, you devour the backmarkers. Albon’s Williams is a late-braking lunge into Turn 6, inches from the barrier, the Sauber’s rear stepping out before you gather it with gritted teeth. P13. Ocon’s Haas—outmuscled with superior traction exiting Turn 16, DRS slingshotting you past down the pit straight. P12. Purple sectors flash on the timing screen.

“Look at those sector times! He’s a man possessed! Gaining three seconds a lap on the midfield!"

"The car is finally responding. He’s extracting performance buried deep within its flawed DNA. But the clock is ticking on those softs, Crofty. They’re burning bright, but burning fast."

"Pace is phenomenal! But rear left graining is severe. Manage! Temper the aggression!"

Manage. Temper. The words are static. The fire consumes you.

Hadjar’s Racing Bull falls prey to a daring outside-line pass through Turns 2 and 3, wheels kissing the unforgiving white line. P11. Sainz’s Williams succumbs to a DRS-assisted dive down the inside into the Turn 9 chicane, the Sauber vibrating violently as you force the issue. P10. Points finally claimed, but the softs are visibly fraying, chunks of rubber flying. 

Tsunoda’s Red Bull, trapped on older hards, is next. A calculated squeeze on the exit of Turn 16, using every millimeter of runoff, tires screaming in protest as you surge alongside and claim the position before the line. P9.

—————

Meanwhile, Rei bounces, jabbing a finger at the screen. "Go oppa! Faster!”

Liz and Leeseo clutch each other, gasping as the Sauber brushes the wall. Yujin watches closely, a sculpture of focused intensity.

"The tires—they won't hold—" Wonyoung mumbles, hands clasped together in wary focus and faint prayer.

Gaeul sits rigid, knuckles white on the armrest, both eyes glued on the screen, breathing shallowly. Every near-miss, every lurid slide, etches fresh lines of fear on her face. Her silent plea hangs in the air-conditioned chill.

Come back whole.

—————

Up ahead, the landscape shifts. Titans loom. Russell’s silver Mercedes. Leclerc’s scarlet Ferrari. Hamilton’s own scarlet Ferrari. The C45 feels laughably crude against their engineering marvels. Yet, you see fissures in their armor.

Russell. Blisteringly fast but occasionally leaves the door ajar on corner entry, trusting his Mercedes’ acceleration. Lap 41. Down the endless back straight. DRS open. Riding the Mercedes’ slipstream, the tow is monstrous. Russell defends the inside for the chicane complex. You feint left, then snap right, braking beyond the perceived limit for the first chicane apex, aiming for the sliver of space he left. Milliseconds. Tires shriek. The Sauber bucks, threatening to spin. Russell, startled by the sheer audacity, lifts minutely. You’re through. P8.

Crofty’s losing his voice. "He’s done it! Past Russell! A move bordering on suicidal! The sheer nerve!"

Brundle stays in quiet admiration. "Russell left him just enough room—a champion's width. And he took it with the precision of a surgeon. That’s not just speed; it’s racing intelligence under extreme duress."

Over the radio, Wheatley is elated. "Russell cleared! P8! Leclerc next, 1.8 ahead! Your tires are critical!"

Leclerc. The Ferrari is quicker, especially in Sector 1’s flowing curves. But it’s temperamental. Prone to sudden, vicious snaps of oversteer on power-down, particularly when pressured. 

Lap 44. You hound him through the marina sector, filling his mirrors, disrupting his rhythm. Into the tight left-right of Turns 8 and 9. Pressuring him mercilessly on entry, he’s forced to take a defensive, compromised line. On exit, as he feeds the power, the Ferrari’s rear steps out violently. Sparks fly as Leclerc course-corrects, scrubbing precious speed. It’s the microscopic opening. You pounce, squeezing the throttle earlier, surging alongside with superior traction. DRS opens. You sail past the momentarily crippled Ferrari before Turn 11. P7.

"Leclerc! You passed Leclerc! P7! Hamilton next! 2.5 seconds! But the tires—they’re on the canvas! Next lap, box! Box! Please!"

The softs are translucent, vibrating like unbalanced washing machines. Every bump threatens disintegration. But Hamilton’s up ahead. P6. The seven-time champion. The summit glows ahead. Yas Marina’s final sector offers one chance: the long blast after the Turn 16 hairpin, DRS activation, then the plunge into Turn 1.

Hamilton knows. He defends the inside ruthlessly down the main straight. DRS is open, but he blocks the tow, weaving subtly. You jink left, he covers. Speed bleeds away. Into Turn 1, he brakes impossibly late, securing the inside. Biding your time, you nurse the dying tires. 

Lap 46. Exiting the final Turn 16 hairpin, you muster up everything—every ounce of grip left in the shredded softs, every shred of strength in your screaming muscles. The exit is perfect, transcendent. You’re glued to the Ferrari’s diffuser. DRS opens. Hamilton weaves, but you’ve anticipated it. You pull out early, get a cleaner tow, and draw level just before the hundred-meter board for Turn 1.

It’s a drag race headed towards oblivion. The Ferrari’s superior horsepower claws back inches. Side-by-side, wheels almost touching, the scream of engines vibrating through your bones. The braking zone rushes up. You brake at the absolute limit—a force that feels like it will shatter your rebuilt ankle. Vision tunnels to a pinprick. The Sauber holds its line, shuddering violently, skating on the edge of adhesion. Hamilton, the master calculator, judges the margin. He brakes a fraction earlier, conceding the corner rather than risk mutual annihilation. You sweep through Turn 1 in the lead. P6.

Over commentary, Crofty has gone completely hysterical seeing the heroics. "He’s passed Hamilton! The Sauber is in sixth place! I am absolutely speechless! From the depths of P17 to the top six! This defies logic! It defies physics!"

Brundle, on the other hand, remains calm, but reverent. "A move of monumental courage and skill. He forced the greatest of all time into submission. Not with car speed, but with indomitable will and racecraft forged in fire. Legendary. Simply legendary."

"P6! You are P6! Hamilton 1.2 behind! 11 laps! Tires are critical! Manage! Bring it home, mate! Bring it home!"

Let it sink in. P6. Sixth place. In a fucking Sauber of all cars. A glorified lawn mower. 

The physical cost is apocalyptic—neck muscles in spasm, shoulder a molten knot of agony, ankle grinding with every pedal input, lungs burning. Your softs are translucent rags, vibrating horribly, their grip a fading memory. Yet, the dream—P5, Antonelli’s Mercedes just 3.1 seconds ahead—pulses with terrifying reality. Yas Marina’s glittering lights stretch ahead, no longer just a circuit, but the anvil upon which your promise to Gaeul is being forged.

You take a shuddering breath, tasting blood and exhaust fumes. The hardest laps are ahead. You brace for the hotel complex once more, the defiant roar in your veins drowning out the scream of the engine and the whimper of the tires. 

The story demands an ending. You will write it.

The desert heat throbs inside the Sauber’s cockpit, a physical counterpoint to the screaming vibration of the disintegrating soft tires. Sixth place glows on your dash: a monument built on defiance and agony. Antonelli’s Mercedes shimmers just ahead in P5, a silvery sign of unfinished business. The podium isn’t a dream; it’s a physical ache in your bones, a ghost whispering from the Spa runoff.

Wheatley screams in your ear, part static, all urgent concern. “Box! Box now! Softs are shredding! Pitting now gets you P9, maybe P8! Guaranteed points! You cannot hold this pace! Hamilton is closing!"

The calculation hangs in the scorching air. Pit: safety, points, survival. Stay out: glory, ruin, redemption. 

Gaeul’s face flickers in your mind—her whispered "Come back whole"— then vanishes beneath the visceral memory of Spa’s rain-lashed barrier. 

Then you hear your own voice. A call to action. 

Finish the story.

"Negative. Hunting P5. Tires have life."

"They have minutes! At most! You’ll be a sitting duck! It’s—"

The transmission cuts off, drowned by a collective gasp from the grandstands. Ahead, exiting the fiddly Turn 7-8 chicane, Lance Stroll’s Aston Martin rides the inside curb too aggressively. The car snaps sideways like a startled animal, spearing violently across the track. It slams nose-first into the unforgiving Tecpro barrier at Turn 9’s entrance with a sickening, echoing crunch. Carbon fiber erupts in a shower of debris. The Aston spins to a halt, broadside, blocking half the track. Stroll’s hand emerges, waving weakly from the intact cockpit. Relief wars with utter shock.

Yellow flags are waved. The safety car deploys onto the track.

Crofty shouts over the din: "Stroll! Heavy impact! Yellow’s out! Safety car! He’s moving, thank God! But the race is neutralised!"

Brundle sees through the crash and notices an opening. "A catastrophic lapse of concentration! Absolutely unnecessary! But a lifeline for the Sauber! He can pit under safety car and lose minimal time!"

Wheatley also sees it. "Safety car! Box! Box now! Mediums! We can put you out on P6! Fresh rubber! Ten laps! Go! Go! Go!"

The decision is instantaneous. The gamble transforms into opportunity. Glory remains within reach. 

"Copy. Boxing. Mediums."

You peel into the pit lane’s controlled calm, the roaring pack replaced by the whine of the safety car’s engine. The stop is a blur of green. 2.9 seconds. Fresh, yellow-banded medium tires slam onto the hubs. Cooler water floods the system. A microsecond of respite before you’re released into the slow-moving queue and back into the fire. P6. 

The pecking order crystallizes under the yellow flag’s caution: Piastri. Norris. Verstappen. Antonelli. Hadjar. You. Hamilton. Leclerc. Russell. Alonso.

—————

A silenced gasp fills the room as Stroll’s crash unfolds over the live feed. Gaeul presses a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with horror-turned-relief. 

Rei jumps up, pointing accusingly at the screen. "Ya! Stroll you idiot!" 

Liz and Leeseo clutch each other’s hands tighter, both pale as snow. Yujin grips the Sauber team’s desk board, her knuckles white. 

Wonyoung murmurs, pensive and cautious, "The safety car—his only chance—" 

As the Sauber rejoins P6 on fresh rubber, Gaeul exhales shakily, a single tear cutting through the tension on her cheek. 

Hold on.

—————

The safety car folds in at the end of Lap 51. Green flag is waved. Seven laps remain.

Up ahead, the pack explodes like a shrapnel bomb. Fresh mediums ignite the Sauber. The C45, revitalized, plants itself into the tarmac, responding to inputs with predatory eagerness. Hadjar’s Racing Bull is first. Defends the inside into Turn 1, but his worn mediums offer no traction on exit. You get a monstrous run, DRS flapping open, surging around his outside through Turn 2 with surgical precision. P5.

Next, Antonelli’s Mercedes looms quick. The rookie is fast, but flustered by pressure. You harry him through the marina sector—a claustrophobic dance of concrete walls and abrupt direction changes. Into the Turn 6-7 chicane, he brakes a fraction early, guarding the inside. You feint left, then snap right, braking impossibly late for the second apex. Tires kiss. Sparks fly. The Mercedes wiggles as Antonelli corrects. P4.

Crofty roars. "He’s through! Past Antonelli! Now fourth! The tire advantage is absolute! He’s dismantled the field in two corners!"

Brundle sounds awe-struck, flared with raw emotion. "A masterclass in opportunism! He smelled the weakness, exploited the tire delta with cold, brutal efficiency. That Mercedes had no answer!"

Five laps remain. Ahead, a solitary blue machine. Max Verstappen. P3. 

The Red Bull glints under the floodlights like a resting predator. The ghost of Spa—the man who dared challenge him in the monsoon—has returned. He knows you’re coming. He sees the relentless green-and-black machine filling his mirrors. The gap is 1.8 seconds. Yas Marina’s final sector stretches ahead—the long blast after Turn 16, the DRS activation, the plunge into Turn 1. Your only battleground.

"P4! Verstappen 1.8 ahead! Four laps! Your tires are prime! His mediums are thirty laps old! You can do this!"

The hunt intensifies. You push the Sauber to its screaming limit. Through the flowing curves of Sector 1, you gain tenths. Through the technical marina maze, you gain more. The gap shrinks: 1.5, 1.3—Verstappen defends, his Red Bull weaving subtly on the straights, blocking the tow, his lines inch-perfect. He’s conserving, calculating, the ice to your fire.

Lap 54. The hotel complex. Turns 11-14. G-forces slam you sideways, a crushing weight on your screaming neck. Vision tunnels. You emerge onto the back straight, the gap down to 0.9 seconds. DRS opens. Surging forward, riding the Red Bull’s slipstream, the tow claws you closer. 0.6 seconds. Verstappen defends the inside for the chicane complex. You jink left, he covers. No gap.

Crofty sounds breathless. “The gap is vanishing! Six-tenths! But Verstappen is defending like a lion! Where can he possibly pass?"

Brundle tenses. "It has to be the main straight. DRS. Turn 1. It’s his only chance. But Max knows it. He’ll make him earn every millimeter."

Lap 55. You replicate the approach. DRS open. Closer this time. 0.4 seconds. Verstappen weaves more aggressively. The Red Bull’s disturbed air buffets the Sauber. You hold firm, muscles burning, focus laser-sharp. No gap. Frustration is a live wire, but resolve is titanium.

Rei bounces, chanting, "Catch him! Catch him!” Liz and Leeseo are on their feet, hands still clasped. Yujin watches on seriously, a statue of concentration. Wonyoung’s eyes track every jink, every gain. Gaeul stands rigid, one hand pressed to her chest, the other gripping the team desk, her knuckles bloodless. Her lips move in a silent plea.

Lap 56. You hound Verstappen through Sector 2, filling his mirrors, disrupting his rhythm. Into the final Turn 16 hairpin. You take a tighter line, sacrificing exit speed for a fraction less distance. It’s a gamble. The Sauber’s nose inches closer to the Red Bull’s diffuser. Exiting the corner, you unleash every ounce of grip. The exit clean, but not transcendent. DRS activates. The gap is 0.3 seconds. Not enough. Verstappen defends the inside ruthlessly down the pit straight. 

The checkered flag looms on the next lap. Two more chances.

Wheatley’s voice is raw, hoarse. "Two more laps! Gap 0.3! You need a miracle out of turn 16! Give it everything!"

Sweeping through 14, 15, 16—a blur of concentration and controlled aggression. The hotel complex is a white-knuckle ride, G-forces threatening blackout. Then, the final corner. Turn 16. A slow, hairpin right. You brake marginally later, carry a fraction more speed, turn in sharper. The Sauber rotates beautifully, its mediums biting hard. You plant the throttle earlier, harder than ever before. The rear twitches, threatening to snap, but you catch it with instinctive reflex. The exit is perfect. A surge of acceleration pins you to the seat. You’re instantly glued to the Red Bull’s diffuser.

DRS flaps open. The tow is monstrous. The gap evaporates. Side-by-side with Verstappen before the 100-meter board for Turn 1. The roar of the engines merges into a deafening howl. Wheels inches apart. The braking zone rushes up—a wall of inevitability. You brake at the absolute limit, a force that feels like it will destroy your rebuilt ankle and compress your spine. Vision blurs to a pinprick of light framing Verstappen’s blue helmet. The Sauber holds its line, vibrating on the knife-edge of adhesion. Verstappen, the ultimate calculator, judges the vanishing margin. He doesn’t yield.

The desert air vibrates with the choral shriek of nineteen engines pushed beyond endurance. Inside the battered Sauber cockpit, every nerve screams in protest—neck muscles in spasm, shoulder a molten knot, rebuilt ankle grinding with each pedal stroke. Yet, the world narrows to a tunnel vision: the shimmering blue-and-red rear wing of Max Verstappen’s Red Bull, barely a few tenths ahead. 

Fourth place. The podium. Spa’s ghost demanding its due. Gaeul’s whispered plea—come back whole—echoes beneath the engine’s roar and the frantic hammering of your own heart.

Final Lap. Lap 58.

Exiting the Turn 16 hairpin, you’re glued to the Red Bull’s diffuser. DRS flaps open with a decisive thunk. The pull is monstrous, a physical punch slamming you forward. Side-by-side with Verstappen before the 100-meter board for Turn 1. Wheels inches apart. The desert sky bleeds deep black and sparkly-starry white as Yas Marina’s floodlights ignite, casting long, dramatic pathways across the tarmac. The roar of the engines merges into a deafening howl of defiance and desperation.

Crofty crackles with high tension. "Side-by-side! The Sauber and the Red Bull! Wheel-to-wheel down to Turn 1! This is it! The comeback kid versus the four-time champion! Shades of Spa!"

Brundle’s enraptured by the duel that’s unfolding. “The audacity! The sheer, unadulterated nerve! He’s forced Verstappen into a fight he never wanted on the final lap! Watch the braking!"

Verstappen defends with the fury of a cornered beast. The Mad Max of old resurfaces: desperate, ruthless, borderline violent. He jinks sharply left, forcing you towards the pit wall, the disturbed air buffeting the Sauber like a physical blow. Holding firm, your muscles scream, steering inputs micro-corrected against the turbulence. Inches from the white line. He jinks right, trying to crowd you towards the runoff on the outside. Your tires kiss the artificial grass fringe, kicking up a plume of dust, the car skating perilously. You counter-steer instinctively, the Sauber snapping back onto the black stuff, momentum barely checked.

Over team radio, Wheatley’s shrieking harshly in your ear. "Hold your line! Hold! You’re alongside!"

Verstappen’s aggression is his shield, but it’s also his energy drain. His weaving costs him precious exit speed out of Turn 1. You carry a fraction more momentum, staying glued to his flank through the fiddly Turns 2 and 3. He slams the door shut at Turn 4, forcing you to lift, sacrificing precious tenths. 

The McLarens far ahead are distant specks, their private duel for the championship already decided. None of that matters. Only P3. Only Verstappen.

Through the flowing curves of Sector 1, you gain minutely, the healthier mediums granting superior traction. The gap shrinks: 0.4 seconds. Verstappen mirrors your line, inch-perfect, defensive, blocking any tow opportunity on the straights. The marina sector looms—a concrete canyon demanding millimetre precision. You hound him, filling his mirrors, every twitch of his car telegraphing his next move. Into the tight Turn 8-9 chicane, you pressure him hard on entry, forcing a slightly compromised exit. You gain another tenth. 0.3 seconds.

Crofty’s all but out of breath: "He’s crawling all over him! The gap is vanishing! Three-tenths! But where can he possibly pass? Verstappen is defending like a man possessed!"

Brundle’s tensing up, yet still analytical. "It has to be the hotel complex exit or the final straight. But Max knows it. He’s conserving every ounce of energy, every scrap of tire, for the defence. The Sauber driver needs complete perfection."

The hotel complex. Turns 11-14. The crucible. Sustained, brutal G-forces slam you sideways, crushing your screaming neck against the headrest, blurring vision at the edges. It’s agony distilled. Verstappen navigates it flawlessly. Tight, but defensive. You push harder, carrying a whisper more speed through the banked turns, feeling the Sauber’s chassis groan in protest, the tires howling at the limit. You emerge onto the back straight mere car lengths behind. 0.2 seconds. DRS opens. You surge forward, the tow clawing you to his gearbox. 0.1 seconds. Nose to tail.

“Last corner! Make it count! Perfect exit! Perfect!”

Turn 16. The final hairpin. A slow, agonizing right-hander before the blast to the line. Verstappen brakes early, guarding the inside line, sacrificing exit speed to block any possible lunge. It’s textbook defence. But in that moment of hyper-aggressive control, focused solely on blocking the inside, he pushes his worn mediums a fraction too hard. The RB21 rear snaps out: just a tiny, almost imperceptible slide on the dusty apex curb. 

A microsecond loss of traction. A human moment of fallibility.

It’s all the opening you need.

You’ve braked marginally later, carried a fraction more speed. More than enough to close the near-nonexistent gap. Turning in sharper, the Sauber rotates beautifully on its fresher rubber. As Verstappen corrects his slide, sacrificing crucial exit momentum, you plant the throttle earlier, harder. The rear twitches but holds. The C45 rockets out of the corner, catapulting down the main straight with explosive traction.

Verstappen, desperately trying to claw back lost momentum, fishtails slightly, his exit compromised. You streak past him before the 50-meter board, clean air suddenly yours. The roar of the crowd hits you like a physical wave, drowning out the engine. The checkered flag waves.

P3.

Over at commentary, Crofty explodes, even more so than when Piastri’s McLaren took the win. "He’s done it! The Sauber takes third! He’s passed Verstappen on the final lap! Unbelievable! From the brink of retirement to the podium! A miracle in Abu Dhabi!”

Brundle, full of reverent awe, adds: "A move born of patience, precision, and capitalizing on the tiniest crack in the champion’s armour. Verstappen’s aggression forced the error, and the Sauber driver was clinical in its exploitation. One of the greatest final lap overtakes, on sheer guts and guile, I have ever witnessed. Legendary."

Over team radio, Wheatley’s voice cracks, evidently marred with raw emotion. "P3—P3! I don’t—I don’t believe it! That was—a miracle! An absolute bloody miracle! You magnificent bastard! Welcome back! Welcome back!"

Coasting down the straight, the adrenaline surging through your muscles like a tidal wave recedes, leaving utter exhaustion and profound, shaking elation. Piastri takes the flag and the Drivers’ championship. Norris follows, disappointment etched beside pride for his teammate. You cross the line third, the weight of the impossible settling like a physical mantle.

“We did it. We fucking did it.” 

Your words hang heavy, a verbalization of a dream now fully realized.

—————

The Sauber garage erupts. Mechanics and engineers leap over barriers, hugging, crying, pounding each other on the back in celebration. Hulkenberg, who finished P11, barely missing out on points, is the first one to your car as you crawl into the pit box. He rips off your steering wheel before the team can swarm, his weathered face split by a grin of pure, unadulterated joy and respect. He grabs your helmet, forehead pressed against yours.

"Crazy bastard," he rasps, thick, but brimming with pride. "You magnificent, crazy bastard. Told you you’d scare the shit out of them." He pulls back, clapping your shoulders, his eyes shining. "Podium. In this shitbox. Unreal."

In your heightened joy, you can’t help but aim at that low-hanging fruit. “While you—”

“Suck my balls mate.” The response is immediate, like he already anticipated it. But it’s all in light jest. He helps you out of the cockpit and back down to earth. “Well done.”

Drivers flood towards you, abandoning the usual parc ferme protocols. Oscar, the newly-minted champion, detours straight to you, grabbing your hand with both of his, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Mate—that lap—that last lap—incredible! Absolutely incredible! Welcome back!"

Lando slings an arm around your neck, still buzzing from his own race. "You maniac! Passing Max like that on the last corner? Spa wasn’t a fluke! You’re properly back!"

Lewis offers a firm handshake, his gaze deep, knowing. "Respect," he merely says, the single word carrying the weight of a legend recognizing a budding growth of greatness. 

Charles pats you on the back, a genuine smile replacing his usual intensity. "Chapeau. Truly."

George grins, shaking his head, clapping. "Unreal drive, mate. Just unreal."

Fernando also pats a hand on your shoulder, shaking his head in amusement. “You really are one crazy son-of-a-bitch, amigo. Helluva drive.”

In the midst of the commotion, Max approaches, cutting through the growing circle of competitors. The usual harshness is there, but softened by a hint of rueful respect. 

He extends a hand. You accept it. His grip is firm, but gracious.

"Almost Spa again, huh?" he says, shades of a smile touching his lips. "Good move. Hard, but fair. Welcome back." 

It’s the ultimate acknowledgement from the fiercest competitor. 

You curtly nod, sharing newfound respect for each other’s game.

But amidst the sea of green overalls and starry-eyed rivals, you see her—Gaeul. Pushing through the throng, the other IVE members trail right behind her: Rei bouncing with unrestrained glee, Liz and Leeseo beaming, Yujin radiating proud warmth, Wonyoung offering a rare, dazzling smile of pure admiration. Gaeul’s eyes are red-rimmed, tears streaming freely down her cheeks, cutting tracks through the desert dust on her skin. She doesn’t give a fuck about protocol or cameras.

She crashes into you, her arms wrapping around your neck with desperate strength, burying her face against your sweat-soaked race suit. The other drivers respectfully distance themselves to make room for shared intimacy. You hold her tight, ignoring the protests from your battered body, breathing in the scent of her hair. A lifeline after what felt like a neverending storm. Her shoulders shake with silent sobs of relief.

"You did it," she gasps against your neck, muffled, trembling. "You’re here. You’re whole. You’re safe." She pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, her hands cradling your grimy face. "You kept your promise."

"I did," you rasp, teeming with emotion. You lean down, capturing her lips in a brief, fierce kiss, tasting salt and relief and triumph. It’s soft, warm, profoundly intimate amidst the surrounding chaos. "I came back to you. Whole."

"Oi! Podium finisher!" Lando’s voice cuts through the personal moment, grinning. "Cooldown room awaits! Chop chop, hero!" 

Oscar nods along in agreement, widely smiling. The other drivers join in hearty laughter. Officials gently but insistently begin to whisk you away.

Gaeul clings a second longer. "Go," she whispers, wiping her tears, a radiant smile breaking through. "Enjoy it. You earned it. I’ll be here."

You squeeze her hand, negotiating a silent promise, before being swept away by the tide of officials and fellow drivers towards the interviewers and cooldown room.

—————

The cooldown room is a bubble of surreal exhaustion and exhilaration. Oscar is buzzing, the weight of the championship settling on his young shoulders. Lando is gracious, his disappointment of P2 tempered by overall team success and the sheer spectacle he witnessed. You slump beside the newly-minted champ, the adrenaline crash hitting viciously hard, every ache and pain announcing itself with renewed vigour.

"Seriously, mate," says Oscar, handing you a cold drink. You’re rewatching highlights of the race on the giant screen, soaking in every piece of nail-biting action. The closing lap shootout between you and Verstappen plays beat for beat like an extended movie scene only Hollywood can write. "That move on Max—I was watching the screens. Unreal. How did you even see that gap?"

"Didn’t see it," you admit, taking a grateful sip. "Felt it. Knew he’d push too hard defending. Knew the tires would bite him."

Lando shakes his head in awe. "Madness. Brilliant madness. Spa wasn’t a one-off. You’re a force of nature. Absolutely insane drive. Glad to have you back out there." 

The respect in their eyes is genuine, humbling.

The podium ceremony is deafening. The cheers for Piastri, the new champion, are immense. The applause for Norris is warm. But when you step onto the third step, the roar that erupts shakes the foundations. It’s a wave of pure adulation, respect, and shared disbelief. Fans waving Sauber green, chanting your name. It’s for the miracle, for the defiance, for the story.

The Australian anthem plays. The race trophies are presented. Oscar lifts his winner’s trophy aloft, aglow with a beaming smile on his face. Then, as the champagne bottles are handed out, Lando catches your glance. He grins, a mischievous glint in his eye. He points his bottle not at his newly crowned teammate, but squarely at you. Oscar, understanding instantly, follows suit.

A deluge of icy champagne hits you full force. You gasp, laughing, raising your own bottle in retaliation, showering them back. The podium dissolves into a chaotic, joyful melee of sparkling wine and shared triumph. The champion gets drenched, but the celebration is undeniably for the phoenix who rose from the ashes. Wheatley watches from below, openly weeping now, surrounded by his ecstatic, overjoyed team.

—————

Descending the podium, soaked in champagne and euphoria, the media swarm is relentless. Questions about the pass, the recovery, the future—they fly thick and fast. You offer tired smiles, heartfelt thanks to the team, praise for Piastri and Norris, immense respect for Verstappen. The story and the race speaks for itself.

Finally, you break free, scanning the crowded parc ferme area. And there she is. Gaeul. Waiting patiently near the Sauber garage, the other IVE members forming a protective, beaming half-circle around her. As you approach, they part like a curtain.

She meets you halfway. No words are necessary. You wrap your arms around her, lifting her slightly off her feet, burying your face in her hair, breathing her in—the scent of her perfume cutting through the champagne and petrol fumes. 

It’s home. It’s peace. It’s the real victory.

"I'm so proud of you," she murmurs, muffled against your shoulder. "So incredibly proud."

You set her down, holding her at arm's length, looking into her eyes, still shimmering with residual tears and pure happiness. The noise of the paddock fades. "I kept my promise," you say softly, an assurance fulfilled. "I'm here. Whole."

Rei bounces over, thrusting your third-place trophy into your hands (retrieved by a helpful mechanic). "You won! Well, third! But it’s like winning!" 

Jiwon and Hyunseo chime in with shared congratulations. Yujin offers a warm hug. "Amazing drive. Truly." 

Wonyoung gives a graceful nod and a slow clap. "You showed everyone. Great job."

Gaeul smiles, tracing the edge of the trophy with a fingertip. "So what now?" she asks, a warm gentleness. "The world is yours. Mercedes and Red Bull—they’re already calling Jonathan. The offers—" She looks up, searching your eyes. 

The unspoken question hangs: Will you leave again. For the top teams. For the ultimate glory.

You look at the trophy: a heavy symbol of an improbable journey. Then you glance back at Gaeul, at the love and quiet hope in her eyes. You recall the hospital bed, the pain, the fear, the promise whispered in the sterile air. You think of the roar of the engines, the taste of champagne, the adulation. Then you remember this. Her warmth. Her presence. The life waiting beyond the grid and the checkered flags.

You take her hand, lacing your fingers through hers. The trophy feels secondary now. A chapter closed in magnificent fashion. The next chapter beckons.

"I already have everything I want right here," you say, your intentions clear, certain. You raise her hand, kissing her knuckles, your gaze locked on hers. "The offers can wait. The season’s over. Tonight—tomorrow, and beyond—I’m with you. I’m here. Always will be.”

—————

(dedicated to raf <3)

(A/N: I hate lying to myself. LOL. As you can tell by now this is practically an F1 story first and foremost. My first brush with the sport was all the way back in 2008 (is that Glock was the first real sports moment I can vividly recall besides Kobe's 81). Up until circa 2010-2011, when Vettel was beginning his dominant run in RB. Got back into it literally last month cause all the friends on Discord were tuned in and the Lakers fucking suck (also LOL). Was kinda easy to adjust back and catch up on the last few years, to be honest! Also there's the movie with Brad Pitt coming out in over a week when this goes live, and I really wanna see that in theaters. Some inspiration from the trailers/marketing definitely bleeds into the story. This is the most action-heavy fic I've ever written and that's mainly due to the third act which is basically an entire race weekend. Tried to blend realism with Hollywood-level bullshit—don't care, I think heightened reality is fun, especially in settings like sports. I hope it didn't stray too far and I tried my best to keep everything mostly accurate to current day, but it is what it is, I'm still catching up on what I've missed. And then for the idol: there was only one choice. Gaeul's got that sweet, mature, tender vibe around her that made the perfect love interest, besides the friend this was written around. Thank you for reading!)

[whirlybirbs]

— MOONBEAM ; SANEMI ; 実弥

summary: you & shinazugawa have a score to settle, but you never did agree on the stakes, did you? pairing: sanemi shinazugawa / f!reader ; retired hashira word count: 4.7k tags: rated t+, mutual pining, drinking games, romanticization of everything in sight, sun and moon tropes, reader is a hashira, reader is missing her arm, cool prosthetics are my shit, sanemi can be nice when he wants, sanemi has no idea how to be touched, ranging hashira appearances for comedic impact a/n: i love this eyebrow-less fuck. let him be kissed. and pegged, probably.

"Another round."

Someone is going to die tonight. 

Someone is definitely going to die tonight, and no one even seems remotely concerned aside from Tanjiro Kamado, the designated sake pourer. 

H-He shouldn't even be here! 

Wrong place, wrong time, but Mr. Shinazugawa might kill him if he said no to the barked order of fetching sake for the drinking game. 

I mean — sure, sure. You're both Hashiras. Or, well, you were a Hashira. The Light Hashira. The Light Hashira who was forcefully retired as of last year due to losing your right arm facing down an Upper Moon. 

The entire room is packed with fellow rank-and-file members, and with each downed glass of sake, there's a raucous roar of cheers. 

Sanemi Shinazugawa thought this was going to be an easy win. 

After all, you're little Miss Perfect. Delicate and polite and demure, and always so well-mannered, and oh so soft-spoken. 

You may be retired, but you still serve the Demon Slayer Corp, working to rehab injuries just like your own. Your estate is the secondary stop after the Butterfly Mansion for many members who have lost limbs — your prosthetics are state-of-the-art. The custom, mobility aids have changed the lives of men and women who thought they'd never bounce back.

It's beautiful, really.

Just like you, Sanemi laments.

Your silver kimono is faultlessly pressed; the wisteria blossoms embroidered into your obi glimmer in the lantern light of the dining hall. That wisteria hairpin keeping your hair up and out of your face makes his stomach churn. He wants to yank it out of your hair and throw it across the room. He wants to see you... undone. Any less perfect than usual.

It's driving him insane.

You're on your fifth cup of sake. You hold the bottom, tilt it back, and finish it with a slow, thankful nod directed toward Tanjiro. The ceramic prosthetic of your right arm tinkers gently against the cup. Delicate. Poised. Perfect.

Sanemi's lip snarls.

"Oh come on—"

"Another round, if you would, Mr. Kamado."

You slip Sanemi a leveled look through heavy lashes. 

The Wind Hashira is drunk. There's no denying it. You can see the hot flush creeping up his chest, peeking out from the top of his undone uniform. There are his scars, and then there is a flush. It's cute. 

He's always been cute.

More than cute, recently. Handsome. Insufferable in every single way possible, but handsome. 

Rumor has it he's quite the gentleman, too, if you believe the girls over at the Butterfly Mansion. The youngest three seem partial to him — hailing him with an unbridled sense of respect (and infatuation).

"You've gotta be kidding me," he grits out as he runs a calloused palm down his face; he's sweating. He's hot. It's hot in here. Maybe it's the sake. Whatever. Sanemi lets out an exhausted sigh, "There's no way." 

There's a little crack — a tiny, sliver of a crack in your usual placid composure. Sanemi swears he sees a smirk. It's gone before his hazy vision can memorize it. 

"Shinazugawa," you breathe as Tanjiro worriedly pours another cup of sake for you both; your voice is punctuated with repose that dares to lightly mock, "Are you saying you can't continue?"

There's an edge to your voice — a slight slur. The only indication that you have been keeping up, drink-to-drink with him. 

The room coos a goading little cheer. They egg him on. 

Sanemi's eyes narrow dangerously. His eyelashes are quite pretty, you muse. The whole of him is. Scarred and rugged and always so tough...

"Oh, please. You think I'm going to tap out?" he shirks, slamming back the freshly poured sake with reckless abandon. Best to go fast. If he slows down, it's all going to catch up to him. That's five. You're both tied, "I'm not losing to you." 

Your cup pauses, right about to meet painted lips. There's the smirk again. Then:

"Break it up! Curfew started ten minutes ago!" 

You recognize it as Obanai's voice. 

Sanemi's eyes flick to your face, then to the door beyond the gaggle of swordsmen and Kakushi. You're pouting. The interruption has brought a wave of groans and chattered disappointment. 

Sanemi grits his jaw. You mirror his expression.

He wasn't done. 

You weren't done. 

You both concede with scowls on your face. 

No one died. 

Which is great! 

Except that was before, and this is now. Tanjiro winces sharply at the escalating volume of Mr. Shinazugawa's voice across the courtyard. 

"Rematch!" he's shouting at you as you cross the courtyard; a picture of elegance and grace. You've got a large wooden box in your arms. No doubt the delivery of a new prosthetic. 

You glide across the gravel, head held high. 

Perfect. Even in this fuckin' heat. 

Sanemi's jacket is in the grass — every recruit around him is winded. Seems they've begun another training regime. The summer heat beats down your neck as you rake your eyes across his figure. You watch a bead of sweat run down his temple.

"Name the place, Shinazugawa," you throw his way flippantly; Tanjiro can see you're not afraid of Sanemi and it's confusing, "You'll have your rematch."

"Tonight. Same place. M' not loosin' this time, Lady Hashira." 

He hates your laugh. He hates how fucking pretty it is — how soft and light it is, like a bell, like a breeze against his skin. 

Fuck.

You're so pretty. So kind — so... fuckfuckfuck. 

Tanjiro is definitely going to die. Mr. Shinazugawa has never gone this hard on them before, like, ever. This is bad. This is so bad. A wooden sword strike rattles the bones in his hands, pain echoing up his wrists, as he blocks a whirlwind of frustrated attacks.

He's going to die.

Obanai figures this is exactly how this would go.

It is Sanemi after all. The Wind Hashira is worse than himself. At least he can talk to Mitsuri without acting like it was the world's biggest inconvenience... 

Sanemi is not exactly subtle. The pent-up frustration is—

Oh. 

Oh, you're into it. 

Sanemi misses it, but Obanai is watching the rematch from the far table — he was trying his best to mind his business as he eats. The Serpent Hashira can see the way your eyes linger on the Wind Hashira whenever he might not be looking. 

Sanemi tips his head back, as he downs his cup of sake. Obanai notices your gaze.

There's something heavy about the way you take Shinazugawa in. Something... adoring. 

Well, shit.

Tanjiro Kamado's voice wavers as he throws a leg over the bench and settles to sit beside Obanai. 

"Are you sure... this is allowed?" the auburn-haired swordsman laughs nervously as he clutches the designated sake refill bottle, "I mean curfew is soon—"

"Did I say you could sit here?"

Great.

He's going to die.

And this time it's Obanai's stare that's going to do it.

Giyu is the one to enforce the curfew that night. It ends the same. Five drinks even. Sanemi almost kills the Water Hashira, and you smirk as you gather yourself up and retire for the evening. 

Giyu doesn't get it.

"Why entertain this?" he asks the next morning, juggling the large order of birch wood in his arms; you'd asked for his help, and truth be told he was always partial to you. You were kind and easy to talk to. Giyu's voice is level, "He's a brute."

You have a large box in your arms — your second piece of the week. This time, a knee-jointed leg prosthetic made from boxwood. It's for that young swordsman, Hime. 

"I don't mind him," you offer lightly.

Giyu doesn't get it. 

"He's loud," he challenges.

"He has a nice voice," you muse back, falling in step with the Water Hashira.

"He's rude."

"He cares not what others think of him."

"Is that supposed to be a good thing?" Giyu shirks, his lip curling a bit in distaste.

"I think so," you softly reply, slipping Giyu a sly look, "I find it charming."

"Is that what this is about, then?" he asks suddenly, almost tripping over his own feet. The gravel beneath his feet crunches, "Finding him... charming?" 

"...And what if it is?"

Giyu really doesn't fucking get it. 

The Water Hashira is quiet for a long time after that, but the silence is comfortable. You don't mind it. It's just the sounds of summer along the path and the soft footfalls of their steps. 

Then:

"He likes red bean paste mochi," Giyu mutters, "Tanjiro told me."

The parcel lands on his lap. 

He's trying to meditate. He's trying to think about anything other than you — anything other than your smile, your laugh, the way you wear your hair, or the way you say his name. 

Irritation cracks his placid expression.

His lavender eyes are still shut. 

His lips curl into a snarl. "Do you mind?" 

"A little something," comes your soft voice; you're standing before him, your hands clasped in front of you. Oh so proper, "for our next rematch."

Sanemi's eyes fly open. 

The sun is like a halo around your silhouette. Framed by blue sky, it's like staring at an angel. You're so fucking beautiful, it feels like someone's rammed his very own nichirin right through his heart. 

He swallows roughly.

"...What is this?" he grovels hoarsely. 

Skepticism softens into a fading sense of annoyance. Sanemi's eyes flick downward, eyeing the meticulously wrapped parcel on his lap. The handkerchief around the bento is... yours. It's clearly a scrap from your old Haori. He'd know the pattern anywhere. In the dark, even. In his dreams, always.

"Red bean mochi," you say slowly, tilting your head; your voice is coaxing, "Is that not your favorite...?"

You swear his eyes widen a mile. 

What a pretty sight.

Sanemi's lip twitches. He's hesitant to reach out and even touch the box. "...Who told you?"

You shrug. Your expression is light and playful. "Would it matter?"

"I need to know who I should kill," he grits out.

"If you don't want it—"

Sanemi snatches the box up. You'll have to pry it from his cold, dead hands. Handmade, fresh red bean paste mochis? From you? He'd rather die than give this up. 

You wet your lips, the gesture an attempt to hide your growing grin. You drop your gaze and idly fiddle with a sleeve. 

There's a tense moment of silence. Then, his voice rumbles out like a summer thunderstorm:

"Tonight. Rematch."

"Same time?" you ask brightly, already beginning to walk backward down the path. 

Sanemi watches, his eyes glued to your face. "I'm going to win."

"You can try, Sanemi Shinazugawa."

You might lose.

You — ha! 

You might just lose. 

You decidedly blame Mitsuri and Shinobu. They're laughing — and pouring a lot more than poor Tanjiro did. You aren't even that angry about it, because Sanemi looks so damn proud of himself and it's adorable. 

Your tongue is loose. Your posture is slipping. 

Sanemi's never seen something hotter. 

He's going to suffer for this tomorrow — he knows that. He's on his seventh cup, his smirk mingling by the edge of the sake as you drop your head and giggle at something Mitsuri says. 

Your eyes find his. You look so... beautiful. 

The other Hashira have stolen their sips from the jug. Not that either of you mind. You're both locked in your own little game. The others have drifted out to the engawa, sitting in the warm summer evening air. 

Stolen glances between you both bleed into decidedly light banter. 

"You're slipping," he chirps; his expression betrays his words. He's gone soft, "Keep up."

You lean forward onto the table, chin propped up in your hand. You lazily finish the sake in your cup while raking your eyes across his chest and neck and shoulders and face. All of him. 

Openly.

"Haven't you heard the story of the tortoise and the hare, Shinazugawa?"

"Sanemi," he corrects as gently as a man like Sanemi can, ignoring the way his heart skips a beat when your smile cracks just a little bit wider, a little bit looser.

The ceramic cup tinkers against the wooden table as you place it down.

"Sanemi," you sigh back — testing the sound of it — and he wonders if this is some sort of dream. You let your head lull to the other side as you take another sip, "Right."

He lifts his drink to his lips. He hesitates for a second; you trace the line of his jaw with your eyes. 

"Thank you," he says suddenly — and your expression clouds with momentary confusion. That's how he knows you're drunk. You're usually so sharp, so fast. Your wit is like the crack of a whip. Sanemi clarifies before downing his seventh cup, "For the mochi."

Fucking hell.

That smile.

He's never seen someone so fuckin' beautiful before. Light Hashira be damned. You're an angel. You're the sort of woman men throw themselves on their swords for. He gets it. He'd rage a thousand wars if it meant a kiss. He'd even take a slap. Maybe a punch. Anything. 

Fuck. 

Make him bleed. 

You sway a bit as he places his empty cup down sharply. 

"Were they good?"

"Best I've ever had," he admits; he's being honest. 

You feel like you're in battle again. There's an adrenaline rush beneath your skin. Seeing him so... soft. Maybe the girls had a point. Maybe he is a gentleman when he wants to be. Sanemi is being sweet. Must be the sake. 

You let that lovely realization sit in your chest for a moment longer before dragging your eyes away from the Wind Hashira. 

Shinobu is nowhere to be found. 

Mitsuri has relieved herself from her role as designated inebriatior.

She's on the engawa, enjoying the breeze, fingers inching close to Obanai's. The other Hashira — Giyu and Rengoku and Tengen included — seem more interested in the stars hanging in the warm evening air than the competition beyond the open sliding doors.

He clears his throat. You draw your attention back to him.

He's been watching you.

"Do you concede?"

"No, not yet," you admit. Your chin is perched on your hand again, "I suppose I still have another drink in me." 

You watch as he moves, then. He stands and moves across the room to fetch the jug of sake perched by the door. You follow him with your eyes, tracing the line of his figure. He moves with less grace and with more carelessness. The jug swings from his fingers by the twine handle as he returns to your side.

He settles on his knees to your left. 

Sanemi's grin is devilish. Sharp. Handsome. His ashen hair falls in his eyes as he pours himself his next round. "Now, now, Lady Hashira, only one?"

He's so close, you can feel his breath on your neck. His voice makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

Shinazugawa leans, scarred knuckles hesitating to pour your eighth cup. His scarred brow quirks in a quiet challenge. He stills himself and waits for your reply, only to smirk when you lazily wave a porcelain hand his way. Go on. 

"Perhaps two with the way you pour," you bite, eyeing the conservative amount of sake that spills into your ceramic cup, "Trying to spare me a loss?"

"Mind your mouth," he warns, rattling the near-empty jug. He tosses his cup back easily before settling back on his haunches. He snaps the cup down on the table and exhales.

Sanemi feels exposed. Moving closer was a bold move.

It's the way you're looking at him.

He watches as a piece of hair falls from your meticulous up-do — undone by the heat and drink — and he feels his entire chest lurch with need.

You're smiling in that honeyed way as you take a slow sip of this round's cup. Your words are slow like molasses on your tongue. "...We never settled on the stakes of this bet, Shinazugawa."

Sanemi is staring at that piece of hair kissing your cheekbone. His expression is less intense than usual, but there's still a burn there. However, it is not rage nor ire. It's something else — something that you're too blind and sake-adled to name. 

"Your hairpin."

He answers it easily without pause or hesitation.

Your painted lips quirk as your eyes flash to his. He sees a question flash behind your eyes but you allow it to slip by, unasked. You watch him cross his wide arms over his chest as if to shield himself from any ill reaction.

Without a word, Sanemi watches you tug the long, silver hairpin from your hair. 

Fuck. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

He's never seen you like this before — never, not even in battle. Your hair tumbles free in mussed strands wanting to bend and bow in the humid summer air. 

Sanemi's mouth runs dry as you slip the metal pin between your fingers and offer it. Your eyes are heavy-lidded and you sway a bit as you hand it over.

"Does this mean I've won?" he croaks. His calloused fingers brush yours as he takes the pin into his hands. It's heavier than he anticipated. The intricate amythest wisteria ornaments tinker in his palm as he turns it over.

You tip the last sip of sake back down your throat. 

Then, you shake your head no. 

"Had you asked," you slip out, dotingly pouring him yet another cup; you mirror the action and fill your own, "I would have simply given it to you."

Sanemi swallows.

You watch him as you eye your ninth cup.

You're drunk. Very drunk. Drunk enough that you fail to see the slack-jawed awe sucker-punched across Sanemi's face.

"What will you ask of me, then?" he dares to utter, realizing that this game ended a long time ago — that this is no longer about winning. Maybe it was never about winning at all, Sanemi realizes rather suddenly, but he doesn't dare linger on the thought you may just enjoy his company. 

No one enjoys his company.

He is a bastard. He is a brute. He is horrible and crude and scathingly stubborn. He is not kind, well-spoken, or patient. He's none of the things he sees in you. He is ever bit your opposite — you are the light that breaks through the clouds, and he is the wind that bites.

The idea of drinking another cup of sake makes his head swim.

"...Truthfully? I had not thought that far."

Your voice is small. Sanemi watches the way your porcelain hand stills against the cup. The confession stirs those white-hot feelings in his chest again. He barks out a rough laugh that sounds more like a wheeze than anything.

Then, he pushes his cup across the table. Your eyes widen, and Sanemi is shocked to realize his pride allows him this.

He concedes.

He has his prize, after all. He tucks your hairpin into his jacket, in a pocket beside his heart, before rapping his knuckles upon the wood of the table. 

The Wind Hashira lacks his usual amount of grace as he stumbles to his feet. 

He bends like a birch in the wind, then pushes that strand of hair from your cheek.

"Think on it, then, Lady Hashira," he rasps, "You win."

Tanjiro isn't the only one who notices that Mr. Shinazugawa has been in a better mood lately. 

Training hasn't been nearly as disastrous. The Wind Hashira has even begun offering pointers rather than beaten-in instruction. The ashen-haired man has some sort of reason for being... gentler. It's almost as if his mind is elsewhere.

Obanai notices, which means Mitsuri pries it out of him, which means Shinobu is told over tea, which means Tengen hears about it from Rengoku who hears it from the three youngest Butterfly Mansion servants and proceeds to tell Tokito one evening in the onsen. 

The steam hangs heavy in the air, and Giyu's head is tipped back against the cool stone. 

Tokito, dipped low and deep to nearly his nose in the baths, listens with interest to Tengen babble on. The Sound Hashira is stumped.

"I mean, c'mon, I love him, but the guy is never in a good mood," Uzui mutters as he flicks at a drifting maple leaf atop the water, "And suddenly it's sunshine and rainbows?"

"Hardly," Tokito murmurs.

Rengoku wrinkles his nose and agrees with the Mist Hashira. "I do not believe sunshine and rainbows are within Shinazugawa's purview."

"I'm being hyperbolic," Tengen stresses.

Giyu sighs loudly.

The heads of those present turn towards him owlishly.

He doesn't even open his eyes as he speaks.

"It's her," he states plainly, "Our Lady Light Hashira."

And it is, isn't it?

It becomes painfully apparent.

Even Kagaya Ubuyashiki, whose eyes may not see as they once did, notices — he can feel the weight of something sweet in the air when he calls the Hashira together for a meeting in the early afternoon.

...It makes him smile.

A bird chirps and the sound of a breeze slips through the leaves in the courtyard. The sun is hot on the curve of your knee, beneath your kimono.

You are in the back of the room, hands folded neatly in your lap. 

Your hair hangs across your shoulders. 

Your eyes have not once left Sanemi's back.

He sits rigid and perfect, his nichirin laid before him. 

And then, as the meeting breaks, he dares turn his cheek. Lavender eyes connect with yours only for a second. Then, the room moves, but you stay there on that floor, watching him move gracefully as he sheathes his sword. His jacket parts and you spy the ornament of wisteria flash beneath his breast pocket. 

Your breath catches.

The others pretend not to see as he steps down from the engawa, turning his attention to you once more as he squints in the sun.

"Have you decided?" he asks.

"No," you reply softly, poised as usual.

Sanemi snorts through his nose like a bull; his words may be grating but his tone betrays it. "Fine then. Be indecisive."

The others pretend not to see his smile, nor the bashful way you duck your head as he retreats towards the grass where the recruits have gathered. 

But, Kagaya Ubuyashiki needs not to pretend.

He smiles.

He finds you in the garden, after dinner.

You've made a habit of walking the quiet paths in the evenings while the Ubuyashiki Mansion is quiet and calm. Here, while the sun slips away and the moon chases her kiss, you can linger among the wisteria and their weeping blooms. 

Your getas still upon the gravel.

"I've decided, I think."

Your voice is softer than the petals that drift through the air.

Sanemi, from behind the largest tree, steps into view.

His arms are crossed. He is without his nichirin. 

He ambles closer, his attention drifting to the sky seeped in reds and pinks and purples. The moon is full, and it spills out gilded light that makes your silver kimono glow. You look as if you belong here — among the beauty and calm and peace.

"Yea?" he rasps in reply, realizing you've turned on your heel to face him fully, "Go on then, Lady Hashira. I'm not a patient man. I've waited long enough."

His words lack any sort of real bite. 

(He would wait a thousand years more if it meant hearing you ask of him anything. He'd do it, too. Over and over, as many times as you ask. Anything. For you.)

You venture closer. His eyes are still turned to the sky and the wisteria petals that swirl like clouds.

You spy your hairpin.

Wordlessly, you reach for it.

His hand snatches your wrist and halts it — at first, the movement is rough. It's as if Sanemi forgets what a touch from another can be, what it's like. You exhale, and his calloused fingers loosen their hold. He sets his jaw, and his thumb ghosts along your wrist in silent apology.

Then, you smile.

And you slip your hand down and into his own. 

And, fucking shit, Sanemi doesn't know what the fuck to do with himself with you take one step closer. There's a small voice in the back of his mind telling him to fucking run, telling him to escape this fate — because he's already in too deep, isn't he? He's drowning, and now you're holding his hand. You're going to be the fucking death of him. 

"Is this," he swallows tightly, "What you decided on?"

Hand holding?

"Am I allowed to ask for more, Shinazugawa?"

"Sanemi," he corrects under his breath, his pupils bouncing from your eyes to your mouth. It isn't an answer. 

You take another step forward, and your smile is slow.

"Sanemi," you nod and rectify yourself as you look up at the Hashira, "Am I?"

He looks terrified — and then your porcelain palm touches his cheek.

"I told you," you swear his voice shakes as he turns his cheek and pulls away, "I am not a patient man—"

"A kiss."

Lavender eyes widen, and Sanemi swears he fuckin' dreamt it. 

There's a beat of apprehension — like you're both staring down the precipice. Like you're both one step from hurdling head-first into the crashing waves below. There's only one moment of it though, and it's long enough for both of your breaths to be stolen by the leap.

He knocks the wind out of you.

You suppose there's something poetic about that, him being the Wind Hashira and all.

At first, the kiss is rough. It's as if Sanemi forgets what a kiss from another can be, what it's like.

It's desperate, you realize, as Sanemi's calloused hands thread themselves to cradle your face. His teeth knock yours and his nose butts your own and you all but gasp as you stagger on your getas. It doesn't matter, because you're in his hold — and he won't let you fall. 

Not now, not ever.

One step backward, and then another. And another.

Your back meets the bark of the wisteria. 

The moon finally kisses the sun.

His chest heaves as his hand lands above your head, bracing himself over you. His other hand doesn't dare leave your cheek. It threatens to creep into your hair, to wind your further, to see you undone. 

When he pulls his eyes open, he realizes he has achieved it. 

Finally. Fucking finally. 

Your kimono has slipped further down your shoulder, your obi loosened by the act of being pinned to the tree. Your hair is mussed, your lips parted and near bruised. 

To Sanemi, you're more perfect than you've ever looked like this.

He kisses you again.

And this time, it's nearly chaste.

You sigh into the kiss, and your fingers shake as they come to settle over the patch of bare, scarred skin on his chest. 

His lips are nimble and the pad of his thumb traces the curve of your cheek. It's a gentleness you never thought possible of Sanemi Shinazugawa. You never expected it. 

He is like the wind, then.

Biting and harsh, or soft and beautiful.

You kiss him for a long time, there, beneath the wisterias in the growing dark — like teenagers, like these were moments you were never afforded. There are hardly any words shared, only breathless little laughs between bitten lips and wandering hands. 

It's when the lanterns are lit that Sanemi finally pulls himself away.

You're smiling — and you're a mess.

Soft and disheveled and twining your fingers with his.

That's when someone's voice cuts across the courtyard, calling for curfew.

[hotchnersangel]

FAMILY

Aaron Hotchner.

cw; bau dynamic, holiday setting, relaxed hotch, touchy hotch, mention of nudity, teasing from the team, established relationship

It was an accident. It was an accident when the team finished a rough case earlier than they should have. It was an accident when you made a passing comment about wanting to stay in Hawaii for a few more days. It was an accident when Aaron Hotchner arranged for three days off for the team and scheduled a flight back home in said three days.

So, you were in a lavish five star hotel being treated with the utmost royalty and respect for saving their customers, their business, their reputation from the dumps.

You and Aaron had been sharing a room, being in a relationship and all. The team were yet to see you touchy- feely with one another, naturally as you only see them usually in a work setting so it would be inappropriate to participate in PDA at the hands of trauma.

But, as you sat on the edge of the pool kicking your feet in the water, you watch Morgan, Aaron, Emily and Spencer in the pool. Aaron was just sort of doing his thing as you watch from a distance. You were sat closely by JJ and Rossi who were on the sun loungers as they sunbathed.

“I like seeing the team like this.” You say with a relaxed smile and sunglasses perched on your forehead.

“What, half naked?” JJ jokes with a teasing smile on her face.

“my-my mi amore, Aaron come get your girl.” He teases and waves him over to which Aaron obliges happily. He looks up at you as he swims over and sort of lols around, relaxed.

“What is going on over here then?” He smiles and inquires to us all, his hands gripping the side, caging your legs between his arms. He then rests his hands over your thighs, propping his chin up on top of them, staring into your eyes softly.

You grin down at him and rest your hand on his cheek, seeing him squinting from the sun blazing behind you.

“I believe your girlfriend has just tried to hit on us, Hotch.” JJ jokes and smirks, pulling her sunnies off to look over at him and you.

Hotch sighs playfully and shakes his head, looking back up to you as his hands continue to rest over your thighs.

“Hey, it was not like that!” You defend yourself with a smile, running a hand through your hair and pulling your sunnies off of your face and onto Aaron’s. You then run a hand through his hair.

“You don’t love me, I get it.” He teases you, grinning up to you, through the tinted spectacle.

“You know that is far from the truth.” You giggle as you look down at him.

He sighs relaxed, hearing the distant chatter from the team and members of the public. His head resting over your thighs fully now like they were his personal mobile pillows, his hands moving to grab the backs of your calves and squeeze them to reassure you of his presence- or reassure himself of yours.

You are leant forwards, resting one hand on Aaron’s back and the other on his head, you sit and both simply watch the others.

“Hey mom, dad can we get an ice pop?” Morgan shouts jokingly at us and you laugh, shaking your head.

“No honey, you’ve already had one today.” You play along with the joke echoing a chorus of chuckles.

“I’ve never known boss-man to be so… soft.” Emily teases and you roll your eyes in good nature.

“Hey, he isn’t so tough all the time.” You shrug and rub his hair.

“It’s good to see you both open up- usually couples who share employment find it difficult to open up to their coworkers because they fear judgement or their reputations being faltered because they show affection to someone similar to them- though it fascinates me that people in separate relationships can do so freely with little judgement-“ Spencer rambles from his position, him mirroring your position, with his feet in the water now.

“I agree, it’s good to see my man getting his girl.” Morgan smirks and hollers at the couple.

“You all have five more files in your pile when we get back.” Hotch smirks and you giggle, feeling his smirk against your thighs as a yawn erupts from your throat. You rub your hand over Aaron’s arm and shuffle slightly. You smile gently, taking in how perfect this very moment feels and how at peace you feel sharing it with your family.

[onlyquinns]

Hiii!!!

First Your Jack Hughes fics im actually obssessed so I was wondering if you could write a fic about when Jack reinjured his shoulder. Like youre watching in the crowd and you rush down to the rooms to see him in pain and so upset and like him after the surgery. Him being all clingy but also really upset and moody yk.

Anyway just an idea!! But thank youuuu

you’re seated next to two of your friends, giddy in your seat as the three of you look down at the t-mobile arena ice rink. you’re dressed in a cute, little leather jacket that jack had bought you as a gift, his initials and number stitched into the cuff.

it’s been a while since you’d found time to watch one of jack’s games, far too caught up with work, and your friends knew that. the two of them had schemed together, finishing your work on top of theirs at the company the three of you worked at so you could finally find a day to fly out and attend a game. you were so excited, having thanked your friends with a girls night out and a fancy dinner as repayment—which really wasn’t necessary, since the three of you always said that you basically shared a floating twenty, even if the total cost was most definitely over twenty bucks.

as the arena lights dim, the crowd begin to shout and holler, a clear sign that the game is about to introduce the home team. your friend to the left, sarah, grabs your arm and squeals, shaking you with excitement as you excitedly point out jack to your two friends. they giggle with you, fully happy for you, and glare at the middle aged man who glares at the three of you.

maddie, your friend to the right, scoffs in your ear. “don’t let him ruin your night, girl,” she tells you, but you already had forgotten the nasty look he’d gave your little group, eyes drawn to jack’s tiny figure on the ice as you slowly rise for the anthem.

when the opening stuff is finally over, you watch with rapt enthusiasm as jack’s figure skates across the ice. he zips like lightning, moves calculated and controlled. you nibble on your nails, body positioned at the edge of your seat, as your boyfriend bullies his way across the ice and shoots.

as the game continues, score still zero for both teams, your anxiety builds. it’s the third period and you feel antsy, far too invested in the game. your knee bounces, and sarah reaches over to place a steadying palm to your leg, her fingers squeezing against the jeans you’re wearing. you give her a grateful smile and quietly sip your beer, hoping someone will score.

suddenly, the crowd cheers and several people shoot out of their seats. you quietly groan as the knights make a goal—the first one of the night—and listen to the loud horn that fills your ears and the arena.

“it’s okay,” sarah says, “they’ll get the next one.”

you nod in agreement and settle back down, watching as the two teams meet in the center for the puck drop.

it’s near the end of the third and the devils are losing 0-2. your heart feels heavy in your chest, but lightening just a little as jack comes back onto the ice. he skates like his life depends on it, rushing for the puck.

“woah,” maddie says later in the night, a beer in one hand. “jack’s really fast, it’s impressive.”

you nod, smiling a little with pride, because that’s your boyfriend. you’re about to respond, when jack’s body is slammed into the boards during a breakaway.

a gasp leaves your lips, hands flying to cover your agape mouth. he doesn’t move as he lays there, not even when another player jostles him and pulls him into a hasty recovery position.

“oh, my god,” you breathe, watching as he suddenly wakes back up.

without warning, you get out of your seat and run through the seats, quick apologies tumbling from your mouth. your friends call for you as you stumble down the steps, their voices dimming as you leave the stands. you can still hear the announcers as you skirt through the arena, finding the hallway that leads to the players locker rooms.

the security guard takes a look at you and steps aside. “he’s in medical,” he says as you whizz past. “to the left.”

“thank you!” you say as you make your way through, only stopping when you find a room labeled with medical in big, white letters.

when you push the door open, several people turn to usher you out, but you don’t care. you shove past them until you reach jack, his body propped up on an exam table. he’s still in his gear, except for his upper half. his hair is damp with sweat as he listens to the medical staff in front of him, face crestfallen as he takes in their words, a hand pressed to his hurt shoulder.

“are you okay?” you ask, grasping his face in your warm hands. jack’s surprised look quickly melts away as he registers your presence, his face suddenly shifting to something stronger and braver.

he chuckles, but it’s not his usual laugh. “of course i am, baby,” he says, smirking a little.

tears brim your eyes, “bullshit!” you turn to the team in front of you, eyes wild, then turn back to jack. “what—what happened? please, tell me.”

jack looks down at his lap and your hands slip from his face. he holds your hand tightly in his, and sighs. the medical team clears out, leaving the both of you together.

“i… i need to get my shoulder worked on again. hit the boards too hard and knocked out.” he looks up at you and gives you a painful smile, “lucky i still have all my teeth, huh?” he jokes, but you don’t laugh.

you frown, aware of how he might be feeling. “when are you flying out?” you ask, squeezing his hand in yours.

jack gnaws on his lip, “soon. come with me?”

you nod, “i’m always going to be by your side, jack.”

and you do.

you pick him up at the hospital after he’s discharged from his surgery, arm planted in a dark sling. you have a pillow in your car for his arm to rest on, his water bottle tucked in the cup holder for him to sip on, and advil tucked into your glove box. jack praises you as you drive the two of you home, snorting as he exaggerates his gratitude.

“oh, my god—you’re like an angel,” jack says as you pull into the parking spot of his apartment. “i can literally see the halo in your hair, baby!”

you laugh as you help him out of the car, listening to his teasing words as you walk through the lobby, as you ride through the elevator, and as you finally walk into the apartment with him.

“i’m going to change, okay?” you say, pulling your hair off your neck and clipping it up with a giant claw clip. you’re about to walk down the hall to jack’s room when he whines.

you look over at him, amused to see him laying on his back on the couch and his feet thrown over the arm rest. he dramatically kicks his feet, knowing it’ll make you laugh.

“cuddle with me!” he says. “it’s doctors orders!” he says dramatically, smirking a little when you relent and walk over.

“jacky, we won’t fit on the couch,” you say with your hands on your hips. jack admires your figure in your work clothes, hips looking soft and full in your black slacks.

“well… you said that last time but we still made it work,” he responds slyly.

your face heats at the insinuation, “that’s not what i meant!” you say, voice filled with indignation. “i meant that i’ll cuddle you in bed!”

jack grins and jumps up, “okay!” leaving his lips as he rushes down the hall and into his room. you sigh and follow after him, finding him in his boxers and shirt.

you walk over to him and gently maneuver his arm free from the sleeve of his t-shirt, tossing it into the hamper as he gets comfy in bed. you follow suit, stripping down to your underclothes, and laying in bed next to jack. you pull the thick comforter over your bodies, smoothing the fabric so it lays flat against your skin. jack hums as you tuck yourself into his side, tangling your leg into his and slinging an arm across his chest.

“i’m sorry you can’t play the rest of the season,” you murmur against his chest, lips brushing against soft skin.

jack shrugs, “it’s okay,” he says in an attempt at convincing you and himself. “at least… at least i get to spend more time with you,” he whispers, turning his face into you. long curls brush against your hair. “and even if the whole injury thing is the worst case scenario, i’m making the best out of it.”

you smile against his skin, “yeah… i suppose you’re right.”

jack hums in agreement and lays with you in comfortable silence, his arm forgotten and his mind on just you—you tucked into his body, skin to skin, and filled with an immeasurable amount of love for him. just him. just jack hughes, your boyfriend—not jack hughes, the hockey player.

[sunnypopoki]

━ 𝐌𝐔𝐙𝐙𝐋𝐄 : P.6

(Yandere Mafia Husband x Female Reader)

SYNOPSIS: Your husband has been suspicious lately. Going out for days on end, answering suspicious phone calls, being extra clingy when he can... is he cheating on you?

ᴛᴡ: ɪɴꜱᴇᴄᴜʀᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ ꜰᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ꜰᴏᴜʟ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ᴍᴀʀʀɪᴇᴅ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ, ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ, ᴏᴠᴇʀᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴀꜰᴀʙ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴇᴛᴄ.

ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ʜᴀꜱ ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɪɴ ɴᴏ ᴡᴀʏ ᴀ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄɪᴢᴇ ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇꜱ, ꜱᴏ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴅᴏ ꜱᴏ ᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ. ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴏᴘᴏᴋɪ ᴏɴ ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ, Qᴜᴏᴛᴇᴠ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ.

Р.5 / Р.7

"Leovana Co?" you echoed, almost dumbfounded to hear the name. "Are you talking about that one billionaire company that deals with communication?"

Danny looked like a kid on Christmas. His chest swelled with pride and he held his chin high, looking down at you from the edge of his nose. You noticed the way his eyes glittered. It was the same pride he used to get each time he got a perfect score on his tests in school. His pearly white teeth gleamed when he smiled.

"Yes! As cheesy as this sounds, Leovanna is a place where dreams really do come true. When I started working there, I wasn't anything, but look at me now!"

That wasn't that convincing. From what you can see, Danny acted like a lesser version of himself compared to how he used to be. It was as if all the good stuff was zapped from his body the moment he found a decent job and started getting a good income. Money truly was a game changer and while you weren't one to judge, you couldn't help but see him in a different light when he was acting so, well, snooty.

You didn't understand why he wanted to hire you. Leovana was only founded a couple of years ago yet it rose up the ranks incredibly fast, toppling over any other competition in its path. Frontier, T-Mobile, and even Apple—this new company was devastating to their charts. Just recently they came out with a new phone that had far more data space than most other phones out there, showing off their new and improved features that to you, seemed like it was out of a movie.

It was hard to believe that artificial intelligence was getting so far out there. And Leovana was taking it by force with how far they've thrown themselves into the field.

Though, didn't he understand how suspicious it was to just give job opportunities out of the blue? Yes, you trusted him more than most people, but your gut was telling you that there was something off about the whole ordeal. You couldn't quite place it.

Kieran moved his hand from yours and placed it behind your head on your seat. He seemed to be deep in thought before asking, "I hope you're not going to drop a ball on us and tell us you're the CEO."

Danny snorted. It almost sounded mocking. "Ah, no. I work under the CEO with a team of secretaries. If (Y/N) joined us, she would be working under him too, though I would also be her supervisor."

He raised an eyebrow. Glancing over at him, you noticed the subtle tensing of his jaw. A feather of a muscle in his jaw twitched and he licked his teeth slowly, he looked back at saber. He wasn't looking at Danny as if he was a long lost friend; instead he viewed him to be a nuisance, like a steaming pile of shit on the side of the sidewalk.

It seemed you weren't the only one affected by Danny's rambling. Your stress was most likely rubbing off on Kieran too.

"So you work for the CEO? And you see him regularly?" Kieran asked unblinking. "And that gives you authority to hire whoever you want without repercussions towards the CEO, who is your boss? If it's team his of secretaries, shouldn't he have a say in who you hire?"

Danny was missing all of the social cues. He couldn't sit still, continuing to squirm in his seat, still beaming like the sun. "The CEO is a friend of mine, as well as my employer. He trusts me with hiring, plus, he's far too busy to look into every person who tries to get into such a position. He leaves that work to the people below him."

You rubbed your forehead. All of this was confusing.

Danny continued to blabber. "I mean, Kieran, if you also want to work there, I can look for—"

"No."

Danny was rendered speechless. Kieran raised an eyebrow in response. You wanted to shrivel up and hide.

"O—Oh... apologies, I thought you were interested. Since you were asking so many questions, I suppose I got a little excited."

With how many times you rubbed your face, you wouldn't be surprised if you broke out in the next couple of days because of it.

Taking a deep breath, you forced your hands back to your lap. You had a ton of questions. But where to start with all of them? You wanted to ask about what he wanted, what his goal was, why he was acting so weird, if he truly wasn't working for your father. Half of them were accusatory, but in that moment, you didn't care.

It was always best to start small and then work up to the bigger questions. "...Danny, can you tell me why you're asking me this? Like, what's your goal from all of this, because I don't understand."

He raised an eyebrow and nodded. "Well, I—"

Ring! Ring! Ring!

You paused when Kieran's phone started humming from his pocket. Danny stopped talking and recoiled when Kieran cursed. It was in Russian so the both of you had no clue what he said, but based on the foul scowl he was carrying, it wasn't good.

Of course his phone was ringing now. You couldn't read the screen from how he held the phone, but you could only guess it was another unknown number. A metallic taste formed under your tongue.

Who knows, maybe it was Sam! You wanted to gag and hurl at the thought. Anxiety was at an all new high for you now.

"Do you need to take it?" Danny asked politely, smiling softly.

"Ah... yes. Sorry my Котик, I need to take this. I'll be right back, it won't take me long." His voice was a little snippy. That phone call seemed to make his mood look ten times worse, whatever it was about, whoever it was.

It felt like a punch in the gut. Sure, his phone just HAD to ring, but he also HAD to answer a phone call? When you were stressed as fuck, stuck in an uncomfortable situation, and anxiously sick? He got up before you could protest (not that you had the guts to do so) and walked away from the table to find somewhere more private.

There was a solid lump in the center of your throat. Like a lodged rock from a creak, you felt like you were choking. The light flickered above the table. Turning back around, you let your head fall into your hands. Manners be damned!

Danny was quiet for a little bit. When he did speak, it was a much smaller voice than before.

"...Did I do something?"

"No."

It came out harsher than you intended. Aggravated for Kieran having another phone call, stressed about the situation, and dissociating from the entire planet was a lot to take at once. You did your best to focus on the table. Counting the amount of lines you could see, noting the glossy reflection of the overhead light, and the cool touch of the wood.

You wanted to go home. But now Kieran was off somewhere to talk to who-knows-who! Normally, you wouldn't be bothered being stuck with Danny, but it wasn't like he was the same guy you used to talk to in school. He was now an annoying pest. The said man took a sip of his wine and placed it down. There was a couple of seconds before he spoke again.

"Are you sure? I feel like—"

"I said no, Danny! Do you know what the word 'no' means? Use that big brain of yours and figure it out!" you snapped, turning your glare to him.

He froze. His hands fell into his lap and he pursed his lips.

You felt a tad bit of guilt when you saw his face, but you quickly pushed it down. He was the one sticking his nose where it didn't belong.

You groaned and rubbed at your forehead, swallowing the rock in your throat. The lights were bright, the smell of food was so strong it made you want to gag, and the seat was uncomfortable. The world shifted and you clenched your eyes shut. It was as if someone decided to stuff cotton inside your skull around your brain, making it a soft pillow to rest. But at the same time every detail felt blinding.

Why did you want to cry? It wasn't like you were sad. Rubbing at your eyes, you prayed for the ache behind your eyelids to go away. Danny continued to bounce his leg up and down, making you even more annoyed.

Where is Kieran?

Who is he talking to?

Is it Sam?

"Uhm, (Y/N)..." Danny started, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He was a little naïve, but he wasn't dumb enough to miss you spacing out. He tilted his head when he noticed your blank stare at the table. "Are you okay? Can I talk to you about something?"

Maybe dad was right.

Maybe I'm only meant for business.

What if dad finds me?

Will he force me back?

Danny shuffled in his seat and leaned forward, his brows furrowing ever so slightly in concern. He didn't know what to do. Kieran was the one who always knew how to help you, not him! He debated on poking you or something, but refrained from using his hands to get your attention. "(Y/N)?"

I should at least talk to him, to see what he wants.

Wait, no, that'll just be playing into what they want.

Fuck. What should I do?

Maybe I—

A soft, fragile hand touched yours. You jolted and your eyes snapped open to see Danny tenderly reaching out to you, his fingertips barely brushing your hand out of fear that you didn't want to be touched. He quickly pulled back when he gathered your attention and cleared his throat.

"Sorry. I—uh, I didn't know what to do," he cleared his throat.

"What do you want?"

It was unfair of you to take your anger out on someone who didn't know how to read your thoughts. It was your fault for expecting him too, but hey, if he was so fucking smart, maybe he could learn to read the room!

Danny shuffled in his seat and lowered his head. Danny was always a bit slow when catching up to things and stuff often went over his head, but he always managed to catch up in the end. Based on his reaction now, he finally realized you were upset and Kieran was too. Good. He finally noticed the obvious, even if it took your snapping at him for him to realize.

"Shit. Uhm—I'm sorry... if like, I upset you. I didn't mean to. I'm just," he sucked in a sharp breath, "I don't know what to say. I just... wanted to impress you guys. But I guess I went about it the wrong way."

"You think?"

Danny bit his lip. "Sorry."

He seemed to shrink in his seat and you rolled your eyes.

Danny scratched the back of his neck and glanced around the restaurant. He looked ashamed of something. You were hoping he left the conversation be, but he opened his mouth again. "If you want, I can walk you out to your car."

"I'd rather not," you muttered sourly.

"Okay... do you want—"

"It's fine."

"Why are you acting so mean?" Danny blurted, his tone not as accusatory as the question sounded. He sounded calm, albeit a little hurt and confused, but calm nonetheless. He was never the type to explode.

Your lips zipped shut.

It was easy to forget you weren't kids anymore. There was nothing holding you back from actually having a conversation. You found it easier to tell Danny what you were thinking compared to anyone else, maybe because he's known you for such a long time, or maybe it was because his parents were also pieces of shit. Even if that also meant being a complete dick to him.

It came back again, that spark of guilt. It wasn't smothered this time. Instead it was fueled by your overwhelming senses and you bit the edge of your tongue.

"I..."

"What did I do to make you act like I'm the worst human being to exist?" Danny asked, his lips pulling into a soft frown. "You're treating me like I'm gum you just stepped on."

What?! No you weren't! You were treating him the same way he treated you the entire outing. Defiance raged through your body.

"Well, the entire time you were looking down on us—"

"Really? And you knew this how?" he asked, his voice tightening. Now he was getting a little angry. He was starting to understand what you were thinking, little by little, based off the small bits of info you were giving him. "Because you assumed? You guessed?"

Just like you, he had every right to be upset, especially since you just lashed out at him after a genuine apology. You just assumed the worst. Off of what evidence? Your gut? Ha, as if that's evidence! Half the time, your gut is just your brain trying to avoid situations that make you uncomfortable. Your gut was telling you Kieran was cheating on you, your gut was telling you that you were a bad wife, your gut was telling you that you didn't deserve happiness.

What the hell did your gut know?

Danny slid out of his seat and smoothed out the wrinkles in his suit. The silence was loud. You knew you should have apologized, for snapping at him, for taking out all your frustrations on him, but you stayed silent. You smothered your guilt until it was buried underneath you.

It was fine. Everything was fine. It wasn't like you were in the wrong, he was the one who made rude comments throughout the entire time they were sitting down. Just because he apologized for his bad behavior didn't mean you had to accept it.

"Here's my card with my personal number on the back. Call me if you want to talk again, (Y/N). I'll pay for your everything up front and I hope you have a good rest of your day."

There was nothing you could say. He placed the card next to your phone and left. Just like that, he was gone, and you were stuck with by yourself. The waitress didn't come over to ask anything if she saw you slump down further into your seat. Maybe she was avoiding you because of the heavy scowl you had on your face.

You don't know how long you sat there by yourself.

All you could think about was your parents. While Kieran worried you a lot, there were some things that made your entire body turn cold. Danny mentioned that he didn't take any ideas from your father and he wasn't working for him, but when it came down to your parents, you hated knowing that they could pretty much persuade anyone if they put their mind to it.

The mention of Dominic left your throat tight. He was a mastermind, cruel, and someone you wouldn't even touch with a ten foot pole. He had to be planting seeds of information and ideas into your father's head if your father was brave enough to call one of your old friends from school.

If they want me to come back into the family again, that means they're up to something devious. There was nothing else it could be. It wasn't like your family enjoyed your presence or liked you at all, so believing they had a random change of heart was a possibility that had to be thrown out the window. Let's say even if they did, you wouldn't have forgiven them for all the things they did.

Dominic had a lot of power. Enough power to make anyone think twice, even Danny, and that alone made you anxious.

When you were younger, any interactions you had with Dominic was limited. He was your cousin but he never attended any family gatherings unless your father was also in attendance. The times he talked to you were the times he was stuck inside a room with you alone, whether it be waiting to talk to your father, or he was left unattended in the manor.

Your nails picked at your skin. What was your father thinking? He brought up an arranged marriage to Danny, but why? Was he hoping you got married to him instead? It left a bitter taste in your mouth. Danny was handsome but not husband material, not for you at least.

God, Danny. Maybe you did mess up? He was right, you guessed what he was thinking and assumed everything, but wasn't he the one giving social cues that he was thinking that? Sure, he apologized, but you couldn't read minds. It wasn't like you knew that apology was sincere or not.

Wasn't it his fault?

Danny was the one acting like your father, not you.

Maybe that was where all of your annoyance stemmed from. Danny's blue tie, his position in work, where they sat; it reminded you far too much of your father for your liking. Even if the two of them were completely different men in both personalities and looks.

"Fuck," you whimpered, head falling into your hands. You wished you could go back in time and redid things with your family differently, maybe then they'd leave you alone.

"Котик, I'm back. Sorry that took me a moment, I..."

Kieran trailed off when he came back from his phone call. Tired and a tad bit sluggish, he looked around and brushed down his clothes. Bits of his hair were sticking out in odd angles.

"Where's Danny? Did he go to the bathroo—"

You shoved up from the table. Every thought was spinning inside your head over and over again. But mostly, you were angry. Angry at Kieran, angry at Danny, angry at your father. Your fingers brushed at your throat to soothe the painful knot there.

"Let's go home," you hissed, grabbing his wallet and slapping a tip down on the table. "Danny said he paid for us up front."

Kieran's eyes hardened. You weren't in the mood to play the "guess what he's thinking" game in that moment, so you stomped past him to head for the front doors. He didn't say anything and you were glad that he also wasn't in the mood to ask about what was making you so upset. It wasn't like you knew either.

The waitress smiled ear to ear when she saw the two of you leaving. Saying something about coming back, you ignored her and beelined for the door. Home. Fuck, all you wanted to do was get home.

The cold clawed at your skin the moment you stepped outside and stomped back to the car. It was amazing how someone's feelings could change so fast. One moment you were walking inside the restaurant with a hopeful smile, the next you were walking out with a bitter frown.

By default, you started thinking about what Kieran was possibly thinking. He was in a worse state now than he was earlier because of his phone call. There were only a certain handful of theories you could go through before you started to sound delirious.

What did the person on the other side tell him that made him so annoyed? Did it have something to do with the messages you saw on his computer between him and Sam? You hugged yourself tighter against the cold wind.

The cut on his face and busted knuckles flashed to the forefront of your mind. Maybe the phone call had to do with that? You didn't want to think about him being in debt or in some gang.

I'm going to have to snoop, aren't I? Every day was another day you were getting closer to giving up on being polite. If his privacy was the reason he was coming home cut up and late, you didn't give a shit about what he wanted. You had to make sure he wasn't being stupid or in a dangerous situation alone.

The car door slammed behind you. Kieran slipped in and turned the ignition. It roared to life and he messed with the controls up front.

The car was dead silent except for the pitter patter of icy rain falling from the sky, the hum of heat blasting through the vents, and the squeaking of leather when you shifted in your seat. Kieran inhaled and his hands flexed out on the steering wheel.

You didn't know what to say and if you had to be honest, you didn't want to speak. You enjoyed the silence.

Ring! Ring! Ring!

Fucking hell. Again? Wouldn't you ever get a break from that noise? It was one thing after the other at this point!

His phone buzzed in his pocket for the umpteenth time that week. The lump in your throat formed at the sound, as if a phone was about to break that small thread of will you had left to not cry in the car. Kieran started grumbling under his breath, making your headache worse

It was just your luck that his phone started ringing again the moment you wished for it to stay quiet. You were starting to believe that you weren't allowed to have a peaceful life, not even a single moment where you were allowed to unwind.

"Hey... can you not answer it right now?" you asked weakly.

Kieran didn't hear, his head so stuck above the clouds in his own little world to think about reality. He took his phone out and read the screen. You caught a glimpse of unknown numbers. You sighed.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Sorry," he responded absentmindedly. His eyebrows were furrowed in a specific way that cause a worried crinkle on his forehead, his eyes lidded in annoyance. "чего они хотят сейчас?"

"Kieran."

He didn't respond, his thumb hovering over the answer button. The patience you felt thinning throughout the entire day snapped.

"Kieran!"

He flinched. At the speed of light, his head whipped around to face you, eyes wide as saucer places. The ringing phone in his hand stopped when he failed to answer it on time, leaving the car in tense silence. He looked like he just got slapped.

A guttural sigh ripped through your throat. Fuck. You didn't mean to raise your voice, or maybe you did, you didn't know what you meant anymore. Your brain was messy and staticky. Like someone just rubbed a balloon and kept shocking your brain over and over again.

"Just—can you not answer the phone for one fucking day?" you rubbed your face and hunched in the seat, voice cracking. "That's all I ask. One day. I just want to go home and lay down, okay? No phone calls, no shitty networks on TV, no conversations. Can't we just lay down without any fucking distractions?"

He was quiet. Blood rushed to your ears and any feeling seemed to leave your fingertips as you wrung them together. All you wanted was to lay down with him and sleep. You were tired, your brain was tired, and the ache in your heart was a craving to be held. It was an odd feeling; too tired to cry, yet too emotional to do anything.

"I..." Kieran fumbled, obviously at a loss of words, but shifted in his seat to move his hand to yours. You never yelled and he was stunned to be at the end of it. His head spun in circles before he managed to figure out what to say next without upsetting you. "Yes. We can go home and lay down."

"Promise me, Kieran. Please."

There was a pause. You heard a sharp inhale and then a tight, "I promise."

You should have left it be. That alone was enough, there was no reason for you to ask for more reassurance, but you did. Of course you did. Because who were you without the constant need for reassurance over every single thing? The only reason you felt special was because you were always wanting him to reassure you that you were. You blamed it on the emotions that coursed through your head like veins of poison.

"And you won't answer the phone?" you whispered, so quiet you almost thought he couldn't hear you. "Even if someone calls you, you won't answer it? Promise me you won't answer it."

His hand squeezed tighter. Dragging your fingers to his lips, he pressed a gentle kiss to your knuckles and then to your palm, then your fingertips. He whispered a promise to not do it again. But by the time his phone rang for a second time in a row, he glanced over at his phone, and cursed. He didn't answer it but a single glance told you that just like before, it wasn't a promise he could make.

Your ribs punctured your heart. Sighing, you took your hand away from his and pressed your cheek against the window.

Again, you expected too much.

LINKS:

- Wattpad (to read all my stories)

- Quotev (to read some of my stories)

- Discord Server (for exclusive access, updates, sneak peeks, community conversations, requests, and more)

- Buy Me A Coffee (just to support me and keep me awake)

[ Read Ch.7 Here / not yet released ]

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Pilot | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Eventual)

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore

Word Count: 4833

A/N: This is gonna be the slowest of burns. Every Saturday, these will publish at 3:00 PM CDT! I hope you all enjoy. Taglist/Requests are open!!

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

A trail of men disappearing spanning decades had brought you to Jericho, California. It seemed it would be a pretty standard hunt. From the moment you arrived, though, you knew this would be different.

You’d run into other hunters on jobs before, but none as strange and belligerent as John. John was all you knew him by. He was rough around the edges, and in all honesty, a complete dick. You had unintentionally gotten into an unspoken race with him to see who could finish the hunt first. Both of you refused to back off and go find another job; you just out of spite and him… you had no idea why a guy old enough to be your father was being so petty and territorial about this hunt. And perhaps that’s what fueled your fire to finish this hunt before John could. You thought maybe he knew something you didn’t about the hunt, and you were desperate to find out. But then… he disappeared. 

About a week into the “competition” you were having with John, he disappeared. You didn’t see him around Joseph Welch’s house, the Breckenridge Road home, or the Centennial Highway Bridge. It was completely puzzling. He didn’t seem like the type to up and leave in the middle of a job, but you brushed the unsettled feeling you had aside to keep pushing through your hunt. 

You had torched the body of Constance Welch the same night you guessed John left. You were just about to leave town, and then, Troy Squire ended up dead by what you assumed were Constance’s hands. 

You pulled up to the Centennial Highway Bridge in yet another stolen car. 

‘One of these days I won’t keep putting a neon sign on my back by stealing cars and actually find a way to buy one,’ you thought.

Almost as if on cue, another car pulled up next to yours. Except this car— a black 1967 Chevy Impala— was way nicer than the shitty sedan you’d copped for the time being. 

Two young men in the most layers you’ve ever seen anyone wear in the California sun stepped out on either side of the car. You pushed aside the thought of how attractive the shorter of the pair was and kept walking toward the taped-off part of the bridge where a few officers were milling around a crashed car. 

“Is that Troy’s? Oh, my God,” you shook your head, making sure the officers could hear you. 

“Ma’am, you are not supposed to be here,” an officer told you, trying to keep you from walking any closer to the car.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry, I just—” you sniffed, “—I’m his cousin. We were really close growing up, and I, uh, just had to see this for myself, um, do you have any idea what could’ve happened?”

“We were wondering the same thing,” a deep voice called from behind you, making you wheel around.

‘Fuck. The Impala dudes.’

“And who are you?” the officer you’d been speaking to asked.

“Federal marshals,” one said, flashing a badge.

‘Goddammit, more hunters.’ You held back an eye roll, doing your best to stay in character.

“You two are a little young for marshals, aren't you?”

The one you’d found attractive initially flashed a smile. “Thanks, that's awfully kind of you. You just had another one just like this, correct?”

The officer you’d been speaking to didn’t seem too convinced by their story, but replied anyway. “Yeah, that's right. About a mile up the road. There've been others before that.”

“Any connection between the victims, besides that they're all men?”

“No. Not so far as we can tell.”

“So, what's the theory?” the taller guy asked. 

“Honestly, we don't know. Serial murder? Kidnapping ring?” The officer seemed to remember you were standing there as he spoke. “Ma’am, I really do need you to go.”

“I was just about to—” you started, before the shorter guy cut you off. 

“What kinda crack police work are you doing; talking about sensitive information in front of townies?” He was cut off with a grunt; apparently the other guy had stepped on his foot. 

“Thank you for your time,” you told the officer, suddenly feeling very awkward. You turned on your heel, hurrying away. 

***

After the bizarre incident with the other two hunters on the bridge, you went down to a local diner to get something to eat. You were puzzled as to why Constance was still around after you torched her bones. You flipped through a few pages of your journal when you saw the two hunters from the bridge walking in with two goth chicks. 

‘What the fuck. First John, and now this.’

The shorter one of the pair caught the glare you threw their way over your shoulder. He had a smug look on his face you couldn’t quite read as he sat down in a booth with the girls and his partner. You did your best to listen in on their conversation as you sipped your drink. 

“I was on the phone with Troy. He was driving home. He said he would call me right back, and...he never did,” you heard one of the girls lament. 

You recognized the voice of the taller one. “He didn't say anything strange, or out of the ordinary?”

“No. Nothing I can remember.”

“I like your necklace.”

“Troy gave it to me. Mostly to scare my parents—” the girl laughed, “—with all that devil stuff.”

“Actually, it means just the opposite. A pentagram is protection against evil. Really powerful. I mean, if you believe in that kind of thing.”

“Okay. Thank you, Unsolved Mysteries,” the other guy’s voice broke in. 

You held back a small laugh. You hated to admit it, but he was pretty funny. 

“Here's the deal, ladies,” the pretty one said, “The way Troy disappeared, something's not right. So if you've heard anything… What is it?”

Your eyebrows drew together, your back still turned to the group.

“Well, it's just... I mean, with all these guys going missing, people talk,” a new voice chimed in. 

“What do they talk about?” the two boys said in unison.

It got a little harder to hear as one of the girls quieted her voice. “It's kind of this local legend. This one girl? She got murdered out on Centennial, like decades ago. Well, supposedly she's still out there. She hitchhikes, and whoever picks her up? Well, they disappear forever.”

‘Yeah, yeah, I already know that. They are way far behind me in the process.’

“Well, thank you for your time, ladies,” the voice of the taller one spoke amidst some rustling. You figured they were getting up to leave. 

You dropped a twenty on the table, let the door shut behind the group, and stood to follow the boys out. You hung back a little while you watched them head to their car. 

“I know you’re back there, sweetheart,” the pretty one called without turning around.

“I know you do. I was just testing you,” you said, walking closer. “Look, I’ve already got this one covered. You guys should find something else.”

“Not a chance,” the pretty boy replied. 

“Look, man—” you started. 

“We’re just looking for our dad,” the taller one cut you off. “We think he’s working this same job.”

“Wait, is your dad’s name John?” you asked, surprised. 

Both of them started toward you, their shock and confusion evident. “How do you—”

“Whoa, easy,” you giggled. “He was here a few days ago and then he just, pfft,” you imitated a puff of smoke, “disappeared.”

The pretty boy ran his hand through his hair, looking frustrated, while the taller guy continued talking to you. “Was he working with you?”

“Hardly,” you scoffed, “we were kind of in an unspoken competition to see who could smoke this bitch first when he disappeared. And then, Troy ended up dead a day later. I thought maybe he was connected to Troy’s death some kind of way.”

“I don’t think so,” the taller one answered. “I’m Sam, by the way. This is my brother, Dean.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m (Y/N),” you shook Sam’s hand. When you reached for Dean’s, though, he rolled his eyes at you without taking it. 

“Oh-kay,” you muttered. 

“Sorry about him,” Sam told you. “He’s—”

“A bit touchy?” you smirked.

“Yeah,” Sam laughed. 

“I can hear you two, y’know,” Dean snarked. 

“I know,” you quipped. “So, what’s your theory on your dad?”

“We have no idea,” Sam said. “We were hoping you might know.”

“I have nothing for you,” you shook your head. 

“Well, do you know anything about the case?” 

“A lot, actually. Chick’s name is Constance Welch. She’s a woman in white. She lives at the end of Breckenridge Road. I talked to her husband, and he definitely cheated on her. He buried her in a plot behind her house. I went there and torched her. I was just about to leave town when your dad disappeared, Troy wound up dead, and you two showed up.”

“Then, there’s gotta be something else keeping her here,” Sam told you.

“Okay, then what?”

***

“So this is where Constance took the swan dive,” Dean said. The three of you looked over the railing of the Centennial Highway Bridge. Sam had been nice enough to force his brother to let you tag along. 

“Okay, so now what?” Sam asked.

“Now we keep digging until we find Dad. Might take a while,” Dean responded.

“Dean, I told you, I've gotta get back by Monday—”

“What’s Monday?” you asked. 

“I’ve got an interview with law school.”

“Oh, shit, no way!” you smiled. 

Sam smiled back at you before Dean cut in. “Yeah, I forgot. You're really serious about this, aren't you? You think you're just going to become some lawyer? Marry your girl?”

“Maybe. Why not?” Sam cut back.

“Does Jessica know the truth about you? I mean, does she know about the things you've done?”

“No, and she's not ever going to know.”

“Well, that's healthy. You can pretend all you want, Sammy. But sooner or later you're going to have to face up to who you really are.” Dean kept walking down the bridge. 

“And who's that?”

“You're one of us,” Dean said. 

Sam hurried around him. “No. I'm not like you. This is not going to be my life.”

You felt really awkward doing what felt like intruding on a private moment. Your eyes began to scan the railing of the bridge opposite you.

“You have a responsibility to—”

Sam cut his brother off. “To Dad? And his crusade? If it weren't for pictures I wouldn't even know what Mom looks like. And what difference would it make? Even if we do find the thing that killed her, Mom's gone. And she isn't coming back.”

You were doing your best not to listen in on their conversation when Dean grabbed his brother by the collar and shoved him against the bridge railing.

“Uh, guys—” you started, your eye caught by what looked like Constance standing on the railing of the bridge.

“Don't talk about her like that,” Dean grumbled at his brother; ignoring you.

“Guys!” 

“What?!” Dean turned to face you, stopping when he caught sight of Constance. Constance then stepped off the railing. 

The three of you broke off in a sprint toward the spot she’d leapt off. You searched the water below. “Where'd she go?”

“No idea,” Dean answered. 

Your visual search was interrupted by a bright light coming on in the corner of your eye. Dean’s Impala’s headlights. 

“What the fuck—” Dean trailed off.

“Who's driving your car?” you asked him. 

He responded by pulling the keys out of his pocket and jingling them. 

“Oh.”

The car jerked to life, heading straight for you and the boys. You broke into a sprint yet again, doing your best to outrun the car; a task that proved impossible. 

“Jump!” you screamed, and the three of you threw yourselves over the side of the bridge. You thankfully caught a bit of the bridge that jutted out over the water and pulled yourself back up, groaning.

‘My arm’s gonna be sore as a bitch in the morning.’

“Dean?” Sam yelled down to the water below. “Dean!”

“What?” came his aggravated response. 

You looked down to see a mud-covered Dean crawling out of the water. You couldn’t hold back a laugh upon seeing him.

“Not funny, sweetheart,” he called up to you.

“My name’s (Y/N),” you answered. “Don’t call me sweetheart. It weirds me out.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

“Guys, you can argue later. You okay?” Sam called down to Dean.

“I’m super,” his brother responded.

You and Sam climbed back over the railing of the bridge while Dean made his way up to you. The car had stopped only a few inches from where the three of you dove over. Dean busied himself inspecting the engine while you sat with your back leaned against the passenger’s side door. 

“Your car okay?” Sam asked. 

“Yeah, whatever she did to it, seems all right now.” Dean shut the hood. “That Constance chick, what a bitch!”

You chuckled to yourself at his antics. “Alright, well, I don’t think the bridge is what’s tying her here. What now?”

Dean raised his hands in frustration, flicking mud off his hands in the process. 

Sam caught a whiff of his brother. “You smell like a toilet.”

***

Your next stop was a motel. When you went to check in, the clerk informed Dean that another man under the last name on Dean’s card had bought out a room for the whole month. And so, you and the boys went poking around John’s room. 

Every surface was covered in newspaper clippings, magazine articles, photos, hastily scribbled notes, and bits of red tape tying some of them together. 

“I knew John was weird, but this is a whole new level,” you commented, slightly in awe of the frantic scribblings covering the wall. 

‘'Don’t talk about him like that,” Dean grumbled. “I'm gonna get cleaned up.” He started toward the shower. 

“Hey, Dean?” Sam stopped him.

His brother turned around. 

“What I said earlier, about Mom and Dad, I'm sorry—”

Dean held up a hand, cutting him off. “No chick-flick moments.”

Sam laughed. “Alright, jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“You guys are strange.”

Dean rolled his eyes at you before disappearing into the bathroom. 

You started looking around John’s room. A closer look at the walls of information revealed pages on demons, witches, possession, and other bits of newspaper referring to mysterious deaths unlike anything you’d heard before. One was an obituary clipping from 1983; taking you aback. The picture was of a gorgeous blonde woman named Mary Winchester who died in a house fire. Her picture was surrounded by other house fire deaths and linked by red thread to multiple of the demon and witch articles. You walked over to his dresser where there was a picture of a much younger John holding two boys who you assumed were Sam and Dean. 

“You guys were cute kids,” you told Sam, showing him the picture.

He smiled sadly at it. 

After a brief melancholy pause, you spoke up. “So, what’s your deal? College? Law school? Part-time hunter? That doesn’t add up.”

“My, uh, my dad raised us as hunters after my mom passed,” he explained. 

“I’m sorry,” you told him, sitting on the bed next to him. “Was her death the reason your dad became a hunter?”

“Yeah. I’m not exactly sure what happened; I wasn’t even a year old yet. Dean remembers way more than I do, but he said our dad was never the same. Anyway, two years ago, dad and I got into a fight. I wanted to go to school, and he wanted me to stay and hunt. So I left.”

“Dean said you got a girl now? Was that the voicemail you were listening to a few minutes ago?”

“Yeah, actually. Jess. She’s— she’s amazing. I’m excited to get back to her.” You could see how much he loved her just in how his face lit up talking about her.

“I’m sure you are,” you smiled. 

“So, what about you? What’s your story?” he nudged your shoulder with his. 

“Meh, not much to tell.”

“Aw, come on—” Sam rebutted. 

“I’m serious!” you laughed. “I’ve just always hunted. Never knew anything different.”

“I know that’s difficult.” His tone became serious again. 

“Nah, it’s not so bad. I enjoy it. Brings me a little peace, y’know?” you shrugged.

“You sound like Dean.”

“Speaking of which, he’s taking forever and a day in the shower,” you joked. You bounced over to the bathroom door, leaning your ear on it about to knock. “Hey, princess—” 

You were cut off by the door opening and stumbled into Dean’s chest. 

He caught you by the shoulders. “You were saying?” 

You shoved off him, annoyed by his smug smile and quirked eyebrow. “Sorry.”

“Anyway,” Dean began, “I'm starving, I'm gonna grab a little something to eat in that diner down the street. You want anything?”

“No,” Sam said.

“A burger would be great,” you told him. 

“Wasn’t asking you,” Dean said. 

You stuck your tongue out at him. “Aframian’s buying, anyway, so what difference is it to you?”

“Nothing, it’s just fun to rile you up.” He winked and smiled at you, amused at your aggravated expression before closing the door behind him. 

You shook your head. “Dick.”

Sam laughed. “You get used to him.” He went back to his phone, relistening to his girlfriend’s voicemail. He furrowed his brows before pressing it to his ear. “What?” He stands up, catching your attention. “What about you?” He huffed when he hung up the phone, rushing over to the closed curtains to peek out. 

“What, what is it?” You crossed your arms.

“Police got Dean. We need to leave.”

“Shit.”

Sam quickly pulled away from the window which you understood meant you had company. You hid under the bed, anxiously waiting to see the officer’s boots make their way into the bathroom. You began scooching yourself out from under the bed frame, and when he’d slammed the door to the bathroom open, you and Sam snuck out of the room. Thankfully, Sam had Dean’s keys, and the two of you sped away from the motel in Dean’s Impala.

“Well, shit,” you breathed, your heart still beating quickly.

Sam huffed out a laugh, still recovering from the adrenaline.

***

You and Sam were headed to Breckenridge Road to hopefully figure out how to stop Constance. Since you had torched the body, then maybe something in her house was keeping her alive. 

After Dean’s arrest, the two of you were intent on getting Dean and getting the hell out of Jericho before anyone else had a run-in with the cops. 

Sam’s phone rang, and he answered quickly. “Hello?” He tossed a look your way. “Actually, it was (Y/N)’s idea.” You had no doubt he was referring to the fake shooting you’d called in to the police department so Dean had an opportunity to escape. You motioned for him to give you the phone.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” you told him once you had the phone to your ear. 

“Yeah, whatever, sweetheart,” Dean’s gruff voice responded.

“I told you not to call me that.”

“And I’ve made it pretty clear I’m not going to listen. Hey, give the phone back to Sam. I gotta talk to him.”

“And why can’t you tell me? Don’t you trust me? I’m offended, babe,” you quipped. 

“Don’t objectify me.”

“Hey, you started it with the whole ‘sweetheart’ thing.”

“C’mon, (Y/N), give him the—”

“Shit!” you screamed, dropping the phone as the car came to a screeching halt. “What the hell, Sam?”

“Constance,” he replied coolly. He kept a level head despite the tense situation. 

You looked up at the rearview mirror to see her in the backseat. “Fuck.” 

Constance’s hauntingly beautiful voice melodically flowed from the backseat. “Take me home.”

“No,” Sam answered. 

You saw her glare as the doors started to lock themselves. You whipped around to start trying to reopen them. The car began jerking forward. 

“What the hell, Sam? Stop!” you told him. 

“It’s not me.”

You looked over to see him holding his hands up. The steering wheel was moving itself. You turned back to the door, struggling to get the lock open. Eventually, you wound up at Constance’s abandoned Breckenridge Road house. The car’s rumble quieted and the headlights turned off. 

“Don't do this,” Sam pleaded, still holding his hands up. 

The ghost flickered, sounding sad. “I can never go home.”

‘That’s it.’

“You're scared to go home,” you realized. When you turned around to look at her, she had disappeared. Before you could even turn back around, you felt the bench seat reclining forcefully. 

“Sam!” 

Constance sat atop him, begging him to hold her. 

“You can't kill me. I'm not unfaithful. I've never been!”

“You will be,” she hummed. “Just hold me.”

You fumbled for your gun hidden under your top. Before you could fully aim at her, you felt your back make brief contact with the Impala’s door before flying through the air. You barely registered Sam yelling your name as you groaned in pain on the dead grass beneath you. 

You rolled around, trying to regain your wits and recover when you heard the sound of multiple gunshots. 

“Sam!”

“It’s me, (Y/N), stay down!” Dean yelled. 

Suddenly, Dean’s car burst through the front of the abandoned house. You pushed yourself up off the ground; your joints and back aching in protest. 

“Sam! Sam! You okay?” Dean called after the car. 

‘I’m fine, Dean, thanks for asking,’ you thought. 

The two of you climbed over the rubble to the passenger’s side window. 

“I think,” Sam responded weakly. 

“Can you move?” you asked.

“Yeah. Help me?” He reached out to his brother. 

Dean pulled Sam through the window of the car. “There you go.”

You turned to see Constance looking sadly at a picture she was holding before slamming it to the floor. She glared at the three of you harshly, forcing a bureau across the floor to pin you to Dean’s car. 

You groaned in pain once again as Dean struggled to push the furniture off. You stopped your struggle at the lights flickering and the sound of water rushing down the stairs. 

“You've come home to us, Mommy,” the echoey voices of Constance’s children sang. They appeared behind her, hugging her as she screamed. In a surge of energy, Constance and her children began melting to the floor. Constance’s resounding scream seemed to get louder and louder with each passing moment, the flickering of the lights becoming more and more intense. You squeezed your eyes shut until the screaming subsided, suddenly feeling the pressure on your stomach relieved. All that was left of Constance and her children was a puddle of murky water on the floor. 

“So this is where she drowned her kids,” Dean said while you rubbed your stomach, recovering from the pressure of the bureau. 

Sam nodded. “That's why she could never go home. She was too scared to face them.”

“You found her weak spot. Nice work, Sammy.” Dean slapped his brother on the chest where he’d been injured by Constance.

Sam laughed despite the pain. “Yeah, I wish I could say the same for you. What were you thinking shooting Casper in the face, you freak?”

“Hey. Saved your ass,” Dean commented, starting to look over his beloved Impala. “I'll tell you another thing. If you screwed up my car? I'll kill you.” 

You giggled at Sam and Dean’s banter. Sam and Dean started to get back into the car, and you idled awkwardly. 

“Whatcha doin’? Let’s go.” Sam looked at you expectantly. 

“Go where?” you asked, feeling stupid. 

“I think we make a pretty solid team. You should tag along.”

“What?” Dean asked while you started shaking your head. 

“No, no, I shouldn’t—” 

“You should. I’m going back to school, and I know Dean’s gonna be lost without me trying to find my dad.”

A slow smile crossed your face. “Thank you. That’d be nice, actually.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything to the contrary. And with that, the three of you set off to drop Sam back off at college. 

***

The thing Dean so desperately wanted to tell Sam that he couldn’t tell you earlier was that his dad had left coordinates to a place called Blackwater Ridge, Colorado in the journal he’d left behind in Jericho. John was getting weirder and weirder by the minute. 

“AC/DC. I like it,” you said from the backseat. 

“Thanks.” Dean cracked what seemed like a genuine, lopsided smile at you for the first time in the rearview mirror. “Sam thinks it’s mullet rock.”

“Yeah, well, it’s better than Kiss and Poison.”

“True that.” Despite the fact that he was agreeing with you about something as mundane as music, his tone was still guarded.

“How far is Blackwater Ridge?” you asked Sam, who was looking over a map. 

“About 600 miles,” he answered.

“Hey, if we shag ass we could make it by morning,” Dean cut in. 

Sam suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Dean, I, um…”

The older brother deflated. “You're not going.”

“The interview's in like, ten hours. I gotta be there,” Sam tried to reason.

Dean nodded, disappointed, and returned his attention to the road. “Yeah. Yeah, whatever. I'll take you home.”

The mood in the car had turned tense, awkward, and sour, and remained that way for the rest of the drive back to Sam’s college.

“Dude, you go to Stanford?” you asked incredulously.

“Yeah,” he nodded, sheepishly.

“Alright, smartass, look at you.” You nudged his shoulder with your balled fist. 

Dean rolled to a stop in front of Sam’s apartment complex. 

You and Sam got out of the car. You gave him a quick hug goodbye before climbing down into the front seat. 

Sam leaned into your rolled-down window. “Call me if you find him?”

Dean nodded. 

“And maybe I can meet up with you later, huh?”

Despite Sam’s chipper tone, Dean’s disappointment was clear. “Yeah, all right.”

Sam patted the car door twice before turning away. 

“Sam?” Dean called before his brother could get too far. “You know, we made a hell of a team back there.” 

You felt a pang in your heart at Dean’s indirect attempt to try to convince Sam to stay. 

Sam nodded with a half-hearted smile. “Yeah.” 

Dean then began to drive off. 

The two of you didn’t get any more than five minutes down the road before you felt something was off. You could no longer hear the steady ticking of Dean’s watch breaking through the almost awkward silence. Sure enough, when you looked over at the wrist he had perched atop the steering wheel, the watch was stopped. 

“Dean,” you said. You tapped his watch’s face with your fingernail. 

He matched your worried glance, immediately turning the car around.

The car had barely stopped before you and Dean were leaping into action. You let Dean take the lead in rushing up to Sam’s apartment. 

Dean kicked the door to the apartment open, calling out to his brother in the process. You gasped when you caught sight of flames licking at the ceiling coming out from what you assumed was Sam’s bedroom. 

You heard Sam’s voice weakly calling his girlfriend’s name as you rushed to get him out of the smoldering room. You just barely caught sight of a body bleeding from the stomach burning on the ceiling before you and Dean dragged a screaming Sam out of his bedroom and away from the fire. You fought him every step of the way out of his apartment complex. 

It didn’t take long for the fire department to show up and the police to start asking questions. A small crowd had gathered to gawk at Sam’s smoldering apartment. Your face was steely as you watched the firefighters carry Jess out in a body bag. You and Dean took the brunt of the questions the police had, allowing Sam as much space as he needed. 

You and Dean soon headed over to the Impala where Sam was packing up the weapons cavity of the trunk. Both of you seemed too scared to ask Sam what was running through his head, and neither of you had any idea what to say. 

Sam threw a shotgun into the weapons box before muttering, “We got work to do,” and slamming the trunk shut.

You threw a look at Dean, who shook his head in response. Biting the inside of your cheek, you followed the boys into the car. As the three of you left Sam’s apartment in the rearview mirror, you realized the course of your formerly relatively boring life was changing very quickly. 

‘Damn you, John. Wherever you are.’

[gremlin-girly]

Grass

Part of the Green collection

Curtis Everett x f!Roommate! Reader

Banner by me, made in Canva w/ Curtis' pic sourced on Pinterest. Dividers by @/kodaswrld and MDNI/Reblog Banners by @/saradika-graphics

WARNING: This fic not only contains smut but also consumption/use of marujuana. If that's not your bread and butter (or if you are a minor) please do not read.

Additional tags/warnings: roommates to lovers (back with this again ik), blowback, use of a bong, inexperienced reader (with the bong lmao), making out, p-in-v (wrap it), creampie, inebriated fucking/fucking while high, sex while standing, standing carry, fucking in the kitchen, mutual masterbation, post-sex cuddles, petnames (sweetheart, bunny)

Not beta'd and I do not give permission for my work to be reposted, copied, translated or put through an AI machine.

Summary: Your roomie convinces you to take a hit, leading to some fun in the kitchen.

Word count: ~3k (on mobile sorry)

A/N: sorry it took so long! I had ideas for two other fics while doing this one but there's going to (hopefully) be a double whammy of the Green Collection this weekend 👀

Green Collection | Curtis Everett Masterlist | Navigation

Coming home from a long day at work was nothing short of bliss, especially knowing your roommate was home. Curtis was a perfect roommate, an all-round great guy too, which was why you enjoyed spending time with him when you could.

Curtis worked odd hours, which meant that on your days off he could either be sleeping or at work, however, you both had a system that benefitted you both; he cleaned, you cooked and prepped lunches, both of you would take turns to do laundry. This meant that you didn't have to worry about anything pile up of dishes and Curtis didn't have to eat noodles five days a week and take out on weekends.

The times that your days off synched up, you'd usually do something together. Be it shopping, or a movie, it didn't matter. The only thing you could possibly think of that would make Curtis a bad roommate was the fact he smoked grass on his days off.

He was kind enough to light a candle or to smoke in his room if you were home, and despite the smoky smell, you didn't mind. He had a high-stress job so it was nice to see him relax at least once a week. You couldn't blame him for wanting to take the edge off.

On your way home this particular day, one of your best friends called you up, asking for you to join them for cocktails at a bar across town.

"Can't," you say, fishing in your bag for your keys. "Curtis is off and we've already agreed to watch a movie."

You can hear the groan on the other end of the line.

"You mean your boyfriend?" Your best friend sneers.

"He's not my-" You begin defensively before backing down. "We made plans last week. I can't just ditch him."

"If he's not your boyfriend, you can."

You want to snap at her that you can't; you made a commitment to Curtis first... but part of you knows she's got a point. Even it is a miniscule point. Curtis was a great roomie. Reliable. Fun to be around.... hot.

You shake your head as you pull your keys out. "I can't."

"Alright," she chuckles. "Have fun with your hot roommate. And tell me if anything juicy finally happens."

You frown at your phone as the line goes dead, cheeks warming as you open the door to the apartment. Curtis is leaning against the kitchen counter, grinder in hand, bong already set up beside him.

"Hey," He greets with a short nod.

"Hey." You reply, feeling your chest tighten. He's in his cosy clothes but, sweet mother almighty, he looks delectable. Baggy, dark wash wash jeans that hang low on his hips, tight white t-shirt with a light oversized grey patterned hoodie with a deep v-neck over it and, of course, his signature black beanie. You wished he didn't look so hot; it would give your best friend less ammunition saying he was the reason for your lack of a boyfriend.

"Leftovers were good." Curtis says watching you unload your bag and place your dirty tupperware in the sink. "Thanks."

You can hear the grinding of metal on metal as Curtis twists his grinder.

"It's no problem." You grin, turning on the sink tap and unloading an ungodly amount of dish soap into the bowl. "You need to stop thanking me for it though, Curt. I've been doing it for months."

"Yeah, I know." He grins back at you and you have to steady yourself against the sink so your legs don't give out. "But I want you to know I'm always grateful for it."

Stomach full of butterflies you turn back to the sink, dipping your hands into the hot suds and wishing whatever God was listening to throw you a boon. The flick of a lighter and the bubbling of the bong snap you from your explicit thoughts and you're lucky enough to catch Curtis blowing smoke rings before the smoke disperses.

Fuck me.

You don't know if it's a curse or a wish at this point. Curtis catches your gaze and offers you the bong, large hand over the mouth of it trapping white smoke in the chamber. You shake your head and hold up a soapy hand.

"No thanks."

"Just one drag. Try it." He wiggles the bong at you with a sweet, begging expression. "Please?"

Pursing your lips you consider your options. You'd never done it before, so the opportunity to try it in a safe environment with a 'professional' was a good start. On the other hand, you didn't know how weed would affect you. Would you be a drooling mess? Would you not remember a thing? Would you, as your best friend had described, be so fried out of you mind you would just lie on the sofa and have a minor existential crisis?

You can't lie and say you hadn't been tempted before now but Curtis made it look so easy. The thought of embarrassing yourself in front of him nagged at your brain but the want of the experience under your belt won out. You'd be safe with Curtis. Existential crisis and drooling be dammed.

"Fuck it. Fine." You sigh, taking the bong from him and holding it awkwardly; scared to drop it and unsure how to hold it correctly.

"Hold the top and the base." Curtis instructs with a smirk, watching you frown worriedly as you changed your grip. There's something phallic in the entire procedure that makes your cheeks heat and you feel entirely stupid for thinking it.

"Put your lips on it." Curtis' voice sounds low and breathy, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to steel your thoughts.

You move to do as he instructed but you're obscured by a stray piece of hair that won't move out of your way no matter how much you shake your head. Curtis chuckles and you can feel warm fingers brush along your forehead, removing the stubborn piece of hair, and tucking it behind your ear. His eyes meet yours as you peek up through your lashes, bottom lip pouting against the lip of the bong. The kitchen suddenly feels a lot hotter and you don't know if Curtis can feel it too.

"Try again." He says quietly, trailing his fingers through your hair as he pulls his hand away. You hadn't even noticed his fingers lingering against your skin but now that they were gone, you wanted them back.

Placing your lips into the mouth of the bong, holding it tight, you meet Curtis' eyes expectantly. Curtis' lighter flickers to life as he burns the ground weed on the other side and after a few seconds, instructs you to suck in as much air as you can.

You try, you really do, watching the smoke twist in the chamber and burn your lungs as you take the deepest breath you've possibly ever taken.

But it still ends with you coughing and sputtering.

"You need to take it into your lungs." He says, patting your back softly. "You don't have to do it quickly. Just like taking deep breaths."

You nod your head as he flicks his lighter again, waiting for your signal (another nod) to light it again.

"Now, inhale."

You breathe in and the bong bubbles angrily, putrid smoke invades your lungs and makes your mouth drier than a desert. Your lips break away from the bong and you cough hard, your lungs screaming at you as you try to breathe. You try to suck in as much air as possible, feeling lightheaded as you continue in your coughing fit, letting Curtis remove the bong from your grasp. Once your breathing is finally steady, Curtis is already blowing another smoke ring smirking over at you.

"You did alright for your first time." He chuckles.

"Show off." You whisper hoarsely, giving him a watery eyed glare.

Curtis clicks his tongue dismissively and lifts your chin gently with one hand, thumbing tears from your cheeks. His thumb lingers a moment, brushing the softness of your skin before he moves his hand away to light the bong for another hit.

"You'll get better with time." He says nonchalantly, sucking in smoke. You're still trying to wrap your head around what just happened. Maybe there was a God offering you a boon.

"I don't wanna do that again," you grumble, your voice still raspy. Curtis exhales slowly, no smoke ring this time but he looks over at you curiously, as if contemplating asking you something.

"What?"

"I could always give you secondhand smoke?" Curtis suggests, inhaling the smoke again. When he breathes out, he pushes the smoke towards you, but you srunch your face at the smell. Curtis laughs at your cute expression.

"You've got to suck in the smoke."

"But it smells gross." You whine. "Is there another way we could try?"

"Actually..." Curtis' eyebrows raise as an idea forms and he beckons you closer. You shuffle forward, an inch or so between you.

Curtis lights up the bong again, and holds the smoke but before releasing it, he takes your chin in his hands delicately and kisses you. You gasp in surprise and Curtis takes the opportunity to blow the smoke into your mouth; you cough and sputter less this time but your lips tingle from the kiss. Curtis watches you closely, waiting for your reaction.

Your mind draws a blank; fuzziness setting in and you don't know if it's him or the contact high but your smiling up at him regardless.

"Could we keep doing that?"

Curtis breaks into a radiant grin. "Yeah. Of course."

The kisses start gentle and tender; sweet pecks that make your body feel tingly and light. It works well; after every kiss you inhale the smoke he blows into your mouth, slowly getting used to the feeling of his lips against yours and having him so close.

Then one kiss lingers for longer than a moment.

You're both a little breathless, only millimetres apart when you break for air, and it takes one millisecond more for your eyes to meet before the floodgates open. Curtis' lips crash into yours, and you welcome them, his arms wrapping around you in a crushing embrace. Your hands rip his beanie from his head and toss it somewhere on the floor, raking your hands through the short, soft buzzcut. Curtis rumbles a chuckle but doesn't stop kissing you.

There's a harsh clink as Curtis sets down his bong and his hands begin to freely wander up and down your sides. Mimicking his actions, you allow your hands to feel along his chest and collarbone. It's harder than you expect; thinking there'd be a slight softness under all his jumpers, not that you care either way. Your hands slip under the layers of his jumper; mapping out every defined muscle your fingers trailed moments before. Muscles twitch under your touch and Curtis sucks in a sharp breath, hands squeezing at your hips.

"This okay?" You ask quietly, gently running your palms downwards against his hot skin, stopping above his belt. Your gaze flickers to his, waiting for confirmation to continue. Which it does - in the form of a low groan as he cranes his neck to kiss you quickly.

"It's more than okay."

Your head's already starting to feel heavy but you can't tell if it's because your being kissed senseless or if the smoke has finally hit you. A large hand knots in your hair, the other making quick work of unbuttoning your jeans, a thick finger dipping under the fabric of your panties to rub tight circles against your clit. You gasp in surprise, your own hands fumbling with his belt as you try to concentrate, but that's all that Curtis needs to push his tongue further into your mouth, deepening the kiss. Curtis' tongue is hot and tastes like the smoke that made you gag not five minutes ago but you don't care; taking a hit of him is better than any bong.

"Already wet for me, huh?" He murmurs against your lips, index finger swirling your clit with your own slick. A moan hitches in your throat making him chuckle, peppering more kisses along your cheek. You can feel your pussy squeeze around nothing, a familiar sensation building between your legs.

His kisses are sloppy but no less passionate. Curtis chases your mouth with his at every pathetic whimper you make in an attempt to keep yourself quiet. You, on the other hand, are a breathless mess as you manage to undo his belt and jeans. Palming over his cock teasingly gets you a firm press against your clit that makes your thighs squeeze around his fingers.

"Don't tease, bunny." Curtis murmurs, nipping along your jawline, making you shiver. "That's not fair."

"Eager?" You tease softly but Curtis pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His pressure and swirling against your clit pause and you grind your hips slowly for some relief.

"Maybe. Is... Is that a problem?"

"You know damn well it's not." You huff impatiently.

Curtis' nostrils flare and he curses, tugging his hand from your jeans and removing his jumper and white tee in one movement, discarding them to the floor before moving to shove his jeans down. You quickly follow suit, adding your shirt to the pile as you wiggle out of your jeans. You don't have time to react when Curtis' mouth finds yours again, more feverent and desperate than before. His fingers tug your panties down your legs and you shyly step out of them, allowing his fingers to slip between your folds and caress your now-aching clit.

You inhale sharply when his thumb grazes your clit, two thick fingers teasing and your cunt's entrance. Curtis' other hand grips the back of your neck, holding you steady when your legs start to tremble and you mewl his name so breathlessly.

Your hands tug his boxers freeing his cock; eager to touch him - finally - and eager to please him. One hand pumps in rhythm to his stroking fingers, the other gently cupping at his heavy balls while your own thighs clench like a vice around Curtis' fingers; struggling to stay standing at the attention he's giving your clit.

"Look at me," He says firmly, voice strained, blue eyes locking with yours. "Look at me when you cum."

"Fuck fuck fuck." Each curse becomes higher in pitch before you let out an airy sigh as your first orgasm ripples through your body. Your eyelids are heavy but you keep your eyes fixed on Curtis' face, a smirk of satisfaction on his swollen lips. His thumb swipes your clit slowly as your body comes back from the orgasm-high. You feel extra elated. Your body feels like every nerve is alert but your muscles are entirely relaxed.

There's a kiss to your forehead that leaves tingling ripples across your skin. Then another to your cheek. Then to your neck...

Your skin prickles to gooseflesh, breath hitching again, dragging your thumb over the tip of Curtis' cock to coat it in his own precum. Curtis' moan is so close to your ear and it's lewd. You'd never have guessed he'd be loud during sex. Curling your head into his neck, you nip along the prominent vein, illiciting more and more filthy noises from Curtis until he slips two fingers into your dripping pussy.

"Oh shit," you whine as your walls clench around his fingers. The stretch isn't painful by any means, but the fullness as his fingers move and curl is euphoric. But any further moans are smothered by his mouth on yours, his fingers spreading you open easily to explore your pussy.

"Curtis," You pant when you're finally granted a gasp for air, trying to focus on pumping his cock and holding off your orgasm. "Bedroom?"

"No." Curtis growls. "'M too impatient. Here will do."

Before you can ask him what he means, he squats down and wraps his muscular arms under your knees. He peeks up at you, placing a gentle kiss to your stomach that makes you shiver and your heart thud violently.

"Hold on to me, sweetheart."

That's the only warning you get before your feet leave the ground. With a yelp, you fling your arms around his neck, holding on until Curtis is back at full height and supporting you in his arms like it's no big deal. You can feel another rush of arousal as you watch the veins in his arms twitch under the strain and the brush of his leaking cock against the backs of your thighs.

Your knees are bent, legs dangling over Curtis' thick arms helplessly, with his large hands groping your ass as he repositions you over his cock. You've never been fucked like this before and you know damn well that gravity is about to work wonders with skewering you onto Curtis' cock and let out a shaky sigh of contentment.

"You ready bunny?" Curtis asks, the fat head of his cock pushing against your dripping cunt ever so slightly. "Because once I start fucking you, I'm not stopping."

"Yes," you nod, biting at your lips to contain a whorish moan. "Fuck, Curtis, please."

Curtis lowers you onto his cock slowly, watching your lips part is ecstacy as his cock slides into your cunt with welcomed ease. Your moans of need are sweet and sultry as he splits you open in the middle of your shared kitchen, toes curling as gravity helps his twitching cock nestle deep inside you.

Once buried to the hilt, Curtis sighs in delight, your walls fluttering around his cock like he'd always imagined. His large hands grope at the flesh of your ass, kneading the muscles as he flashes you a panted grin. You shift in his grip with a shy smile and squeeze his hips with your legs.

"You feel like heaven, bunny." Curtis murmurs, canting his hips upwards into you. Your ass bounces against his thighs, your arms straining as you try to hold onto his neck. Your maneuvered quickly in his grip, your body moving upwards so you can pretzel your arms behind his neck, fingernails clawing at his shoulders, his cock never leaving the warmth of your cunt. Once anchored to him properly, Curtis begins to cant his hips frantically, fucking you into oblivion while you whimper and moan as you cling to him.

"Look at me, sweetheart." Curtis pants and through your fucked-out haze you manage it. There's the satisfied smirk again, his eyes red-rimmed and blown wide but sparkling nonetheless. Your lips are wet and swollen from the kissing, from biting back moans, and Curtis loves to see it. To be the cause of it.

Wet slaps echo against the kitchen walls and your starting to lose control, moaning his name louder, your pussy constricting tighter and tighter, splashing your delicious cum over his legs, balls and cock.

"You look so good getting pounded like this." He muses, watching you hiccup another moan. His eyes trail to your tits, watching them bounce in time to thrusts, loving how you milk his cock so eagerly. He wished you'd smoked sooner or at least wished he'd made a move sooner, had he known that you'd be just as eager for him as he was for you. His eyes flit back to your face. Every part of your face is contorted in pleasure; eyes red, glazed and half-lidded, lips slightly parted and your eyebrows that in-between of surprise-frown as you try to withhold coming again.

"C-Curtis - I - I'm-" you breathing is heavy, you can't even form a thought as he bounces you on his cock and it makes Curtis' balls tighten.

"So am I bunny." He grunts out quickly, fucking your tight pussy harder. More slapping sounds coupled with your half-scream of pleasure echo through the apartment. "You just hold tight okay? Don't think of anything else but this cock."

You hum and nod - barely - you're already too lost to pleasure to even care. Curtis curses when your nails dig into his shoulders. He can feel your cunt convulse desperately as your orgasm begins to rip through you and you shout his name almost in a panic.

"I got you," He coos, his thrusts slowing only slightly as he tries in vain to postpone his release for a few moments longer. Soaking his cock again sends him over the edge and he cums hard when you softly whisper his name repeatedly as you go limp in his grip. His cum is warm and sticky as it slowly drips from your pussy but you're too busy drowning in post-orgasmic bliss to care.

Your head rests against Curtis' shoulder as you catch your breath, the kitchen now quiet apart from your breathing. Your legs wobble when Curtis sets you down gently, wrapping those strong arms around your waist once more, fending off the chill of the kitchen for a few moments longer and placing tender kisses to your neck and shoulders. The silence is comfortable and you push away thoughts that could potentially ruin your night; what did this mean for you both? Was it a one time thing? Did you want it to be a one time thing?

"You were..." Curtis begins but trails as his head buries itself into your neck. "Fuck, that was amazing."

"Speak for yourself." You breathe out, arms still wrapped around his neck as you lean into him, desperate to stay as close as possible before reality kicked in.

You liked Curtis. You knew Curtis. And clearly, your little crush wasn't one-sided otherwise you wouldn't be standing in the kitchen naked right now. However, from the depths of your mind, slow worries began to rear their ugly heads; telling you a relationship with Curtis could still blow up in your face, especially since you already lived together. That seemed like speed-running the dating process just a tad.

Curtis' snort startles you from your thoughts and you glare up at him.

"You're thinking too loud, bunny." He smirks and then, as if it were second nature, lifts his head to capture your lips in a quick peck.

You'd only just regained your breath and it had been stolen all over again. You lean into him more, letting the kiss linger like the one that had kick-start this whole thing. His lips are warm now, not searing like they had been, and you're drawn into him, chasing his lips as he retreats his head.

"Sleep in my bed tonight." He murmurs, giving you a squeeze. His eyes twinkle in the light and the faint smirk he still wears makes your pussy throb all over again. "I'd like to wake up next to you at least once before we decide on what to do next."

"If my legs work." You joke half heartedly, your heart fluttering wildly against your ribs. You're not happy at the squeak that escapes you as Curtis lifts you easily again, half over his shoulder as he pads to his room before throwing you onto the bed. You bounce along the mattress with a laugh, wrapping yourself around Curtis when he crawls over you to pepper kisses over your face again. His eyes are still glassy, but there's a sweet look that sends shivers of desire throughout your body.

"I was doing all the heavy lifting," Curtis teases into the crease of your neck. "My legs are all achy."

"Aw, want me to kiss 'em better?" You tease back, squealing when he rolls you on top of him, gasping when you feel his cock twitch between your thighs.

"Nope. I want to watch you do all the work this time, bunny." Curtis grins up at you with a squeeze of your hips.

Despite your brain swirling lazily with questions, your high brain was far more interested in round two.

At least you'd have some very juicy updates for your best friend tomorrow after all.

End

Taglist

Tag yourself here

@stargazingfangirl18 | @bridgetina | @irishhappiness | @looking1016 | @awkwardgiraffe726

[alexanderlightweight]

If you're feeling in a dragon-y mood how about more 'Like real people do' I'm presuming eventually either they're going to have to leave Alicante or someone is going to send Magnus a message to check on him. Hope you have a great Wednesday! (and that the migraine lets up)

i am always in a dragon!mood tbh no matter who the dragon is. its just sometimes the other verses end up wanting to be written or easier to get down on text

it is down to fluctuating between a 5-6!!! I am mobile around the house and can do things like make tea and empty the dishwasher or start laundry which is big. and I can eat again, and should be able to drive again soon which is amazing. thank you for checking in <3

i hope you enjoy!

~ lumine

-

like real people do

Magnus has succumbed to Alicante’s traps.

Not the treasure trove of wonders and the hoard of knowledge, but the mere existence of Alexander has lured him close and kept him sated despite the deadline Magnus is racing against.

It leads to things like this, where instead of spending time in the ice library, he’s instead in the steamy caves of hot mineral pools with Alexander.

“Do you trust me?” Alexander asks, a soft grin on his face as he walks into one of the largest pools, the hot spring that he sometimes lays in while shifted.

“Of course, treasure,” the words fall off of Magnus’ tongue, honey-sweet with sincerity.  Magnus trusts Alexander in a way he thought impossible once, but that now seems natural.

“Good, you’ll need to.”

The perfunct words don’t match the pleased flush on Alexander’s face or the smug glint in his eyes before he shifts.

A wing stretches out and Magnus understands immediately the honor being offered him and the trust he needs to extend in turn.

The joints of Alexander’s wing offer a ladder to heaven as Magnus finally climbs up to the point between two joints of bone spines and lets his magic-wreathed fingers linger as he climbs.  Delighting in the rumbling purr it earns him, feeling how it reverberates through Alexander’s entire body until small waves are lapping at the edges of the pool.

Alexander is cold beneath him, when Magnus finally seats himself.  A stark and soothing contrast to the thick steam and then without further ado, they are plunging down.

The pool that Magnus once thought merely wide now seems incomprehensibly deep as Alexander’s wings and tail propel them through the water. A torpedo twinning down and down until it’s only the sheer mass and relief of Alexander’s ice nature that make the journey bearable. 

Alexander’s magic ensures that Magnus can breathe — and Magnus' own magic would have worked, he knows enough spells — with a cold layer of frost around his face. 

They surface into a cave of clear and vibrant green and blue minerals.  The crystals thrumming with something unheard but instead felt.

Here too is a library.  One with strange books made and bound with reeds and shells and the thick kelp they passed by. 

Magnus’ heart stutters, breath catching as Alexander shifts, drying them both with a shake of his hair and then proudly motioning Magnus towards a stack of books.

“I wanted to be sure it was worth it, to bring you all the way down here.”

The experience alone would be worth it, Magnus wants to tell him but his attention is riveted, captured by the books.

There are a series of runes rather than titles, a lost collection of rituals to tame the sands of Edom that has only ever been mentioned in myth.

“Treasure—” Magnus’ fingers tremble as he reaches out, carefully touching the perfectly preserved pages, the texture almost fluid beneath his fingers as he opens the first book.

Beyond his wildest hope, he’d never imagined such a thing to still exist, if it ever had.

Nothing else is said as he feather-quick looks through the books, his back braced by Alexander’s body as his dragon reads and watches over his shoulder. Supporting Magnus with his presence and the steady hands on Magnus’ hips that lend him strength.

It’s in the third book that he finds the answer.

A beautifully elegant but horrifically devastating ritual that will tear a Greater Demon apart without their power going berserk upon annihilation.  Without the backlash of Edom causing severe damage on the realm that tore a part of her away, and with a list of ingredients that make Magnus wonder if he’ll need to find yet another answer.

He’s sure he can, that it would be possible to find another answer in the books he has yet to read.  Yet this one would be the best, he can tell from the way his magic responds to merely reading the word in his mind.

“Half of these will be nearly impossible to find without copious amounts of time and effort—” he mutters to himself. Already searching through his mind on how to delegate such an endeavor. 

“Magnus.”

Alexander rarely interrupts him and Magnus turns, abandoning the open book and his thoughts without regret. 

Realizing that in his fervor, he’s neglected the very being who brought him here. An apology is on his lips, but Alexander isn’t looking at him, instead his pupils are wide and dark, swallowing up his irises as he finishes reading the page Magnus set down.

“I already have all of those things.”

“What? Darling, what’s required is far more than just books and scrolls or jewels and some rare potions.”

Alexander blinks slowly at him and then something soft crinkles the corners of his eyes and he huffs out a frosted breath.

“I’m a dragon, Magnus. I may prefer finding abandoned or lost hoards, but I collect things all the same. If it has value to it, I have some type of it somewhere in Alicante.  Or did you think I would limit myself to knowledge and trinkets?”

Truthfully, Magnus hasn’t really bothered considering what Alexander hoards, beyond being honored that he’s been allowed full reign of a dragon’s lair.  Now it makes something spark in his chest, something he snuffs out immediately. 

Alexander is temptation incarnate as it is and if Magnus allows himself to indulge, even just one more quick taste, he may not have the willpower to leave.

Even if his departure is only temporary. 

“How am I going to leave you, even if only for a moment.” The words are pulled from him regretfully, remorse churning in his belly, already feeling a longing to be reunited even though they’ve yet to part.

“What do you mean, leave?” Alexander’s brow is furrowed and the scales on his jaw expand, shifting and rippling as they cover his cheekbones and the ridge of his nose, the corners of his eyes and his brow.  

“I can’t do the ritual from here, Alexander.” 

“Then you can send the ingredients and instructions through a portal. I’ll give you permission, give them to you entirely so they’re more yours then mine. And you’re already able to portal throughout Alicante, if you tap into the wards with a keystone then you can portal them to wherever you want. The other warlocks you’ve said are out there can complete it.” Alexander seems convinced, clearly thrilled by the solution he thinks he’s discovered.

“Thats—” Magnus hesitates and then smiles, soft and disarming, “the bloodline of Edom, the blood of Royals that I carry, is needed, Alexander.  It will ensure the ritual is at full strength. This fight will need every advantage possible.”

Alexander processes that, clearly displeased but trying to understand and then he nods, accepting reality so quickly it relieves Magnus.

“Then we’ll both go.”

Magnus falters for the first time, fingers tight around Alexander’s own and keeping his voice deliberately calm asks, “both of us, treasure?”

Absolutely not.

The very thought of Alexander’s first introduction to the outside world being amid the current chaos and destruction is incomprehensible. 

No, Magnus needs to see this through and finish it.  

Once and for all.  

No one will be surprised if he takes a leave of absence as a High Warlock after this.  In fact, the Labyrinth will almost certainly declare a mandatory sabbatical for the warlocks on the frontlines.

So Magnus will do what he needs to and return.

He promises this even as he plans how to ensure it.

—

Everything is gathered now, tucked into the rings holding Magnus’ pocket dimensions.  Every priceless thing needed for the ritual has been sealed with magic that will allow them to leave their keeper’s hoard without inviting a curse.

“This is for the best, darling—” Magnus promises, soothing Alexander with magic and words, desperate to linger for just a moment longer, even though his heart lies already deep in sleep.  He dressed Alexander warmly, made a nest of the bed with furs and silk, quilts and feathered stuffed blankets that should be more comfortable than a stone floor with some furs. “I’ll be back before there’s time to even consider it a true dragon nap, just a few weeks at most.”

Perhaps it’s cruel to trick him so, to use the very gifts and privileges Alexander has given Magnus over the weeks they’ve spent together.  Magnus loathes locking him back into the same magically deep slumber Magnus woke him from, but it's the only way to keep him safe.

Here in Alicante where even Lilith cannot stray.

It’s torture, to tear himself away from Alexander’s side and leave him there.

Yet only here will nothing touch him.

Magnus knows that. 

Proof of it is how Alexander’s magic is in every aspect of Alicante and the hoard itself revitalizes him even as his magic cloaks the entirety of his realm.

But Alexander will be alone again, even if he remains asleep.

Magnus will be leaving him, if only for a little while.

It breaks a part of him to do this, but Alexander hadn’t understood the concept of Magnus leaving his side and Magnus can’t take Alexander with him.

Not when Alexander would be a target, perhaps not truly defenseless but Magnus can easily imagine how quickly his treasure would be taken advantage of.

Too many would see the curious, almost innocent gleam of Alexander’s eyes as he’s introduced to a new world and they’d want to use him.

Magnus has left layers and layers of his magic across Alicante by now.  

Despite the distance between them, Alexander will sleep under his embrace and when Magnus returns, he will wake his dragon with apologies and kisses and promises that he will be able to keep, next time.

Magnus doesn’t hear the agonized, aching roar of fury that echoes across Alicante as the portal closes, or how the calm peace shatters as wingbeats shake the very air with thunder.

The sky turns black, the sun blotted out before the world of Alicante flips upside down as a dragon falls.

—

AN:

Alec is fine, i don’t think anyone deserves the anxiety of cliffhangers in this economy so just so you know he is throwing a (well deserved) giant dragon tantrum.

He let himself get as big as possible and then let himself fall into his own damn lake when he realized that no, he really can’t feel magnus anymore. Magnus left.

He’s going to take a nap at the bottom of it in heartache and he’s going to be sulking the entire time magnus is gone. Magnus left like, everything except himself that alec could track and while alec will eventually plan on how to go get magnus. He’s allowing himself to recover because he’s really upset right now and not dealing with that well and magnus had told him his presence would only put him in danger (a lie but magnus was out here trying to play 5d chess with alec who thought they were playing footsie) so he’s not going to risk that. He’s just really upset right now okay? He’s really out here going: if id eaten him he couldn’t have left me... but then i still wouldn’t have him next to me. i don’t like this. If magnus wanted me to sleep then i’ll take a nap and ignore him. See how he likes it. Then i’ll show up when he least expects it. Waking me up just to put me to sleep again, like a book put back on a shelf when you’re done reading it.

Magnus. You really thought you could take a dragon’s heart away and just use sleeping magic to keep him unaware???? 

Magnus: im not taking anything alexander hasn’t given me. So i’m not stealing from his hoard. 

Magnus taking himself, which is Alexander’s and who has certainly not given permission for his hoard to leave

Alec waking up with Magnus gone: ... i see. So it’s true you can’t trust anyone. 

Please remember magnus has only ever interacted with alec and him. Like he’s never seen alec meet people and he thinks alec mostly kills people because they intrude on his hoard.

He has NO fucking clue that his oblivious, gullible (to him) sweet little isolated dragon who must be protected is actually at nature a very asocial and insular dragon who (once he meets people) finds himself 100% grateful that he was isolated because he doesn’t think he could handle people without magnus. No matter how tasty the treats Magnus introduces him to are.

Like Alec is happy he waited and didn’t have them for centuries. They’re probably tastier since Magnus is feeding him anyways. 

Magnus: i can’t take him with me, he’ll be taken advantage of the moment i turn my back to take care of lilith 

What actually would have happened is a very large angry dragon coiled around Magnus, protecting him and sharing magic with him while he did the ritual.

Magnus is not the bad guy in this situation!!! 

No one would consider taking the person they love (someone they consider a very vulnerable personality because of evidence) who doesn’t have any experience in the world to a war zone. Magnus is going to be busy and everyone he trusts is going to be busy too.

But also

Alec: i’ve been pawbandoned

Alec in a little ice bubble in the button of the lake (i loved and i’ve loved and i’ve lost him) 

[just-french-me-up]

Psst psst psst yap about Jayce and Viktor pls give into the yapping desire

consider this my official jayvik greenlight, i shall yap my heart's content!

Jayvik | T | 560W | Post-canon fluff | Domestic | Slice of Life | Cottage by the Stream Minus the Four Kids (for now) Jayce doesn't use his brand new cane much. Viktor has noticed.

Spring was settling in, sunlight spilling in through the ivy framed windows of their house, tickling Viktor awake earlier and earlier every day. He didn't mind. He found it stimulating, if anything. Witnessing the garden in bloom, life returning after long months of dormancy, was nothing short of inspiring. As the grass grew dotted with colours, ideas took root. A brand new hydraulic system to power the heaters more efficiently. An automated watering circuit for fickle crops. A better designed kettle.

Viktor's mind wandered as he cracked another egg in the pan, drawing schematics out of thin air, debating what material was better suited for this or that. There was some scrap metal left in the cellar, it was only a matter of sorting out what could be repurposed and─

A door opened. The sound of uneven steps on the creaky wood floor. In his mind, the schematics stood still, left to revise later. For now all Viktor could focus on was the warm body pressed against his back. Gods, Jayce always brought the forge along with him.

It was a delight. Not that Viktor would ever admit that out loud.

"G'd morning," Jayce sighed sleepily against his neck, wrapping his arms around Viktor's middle.

"Good morning."

Viktor flipped the mushrooms and eggs in the pan, expertly assessing the Maillard reaction on the edges of their soon to be breakfast. He'd never been much of a cook before. He'd found he rather enjoyed mastering the chemistry of it.

"A shame you went through all that trouble making yourself a cane not to use it," he told Jayce, his voice even.

Jayce groaned against him.

"I use it."

Viktor shot him a skeptical look from the corner of his eyes.

He'd never known a time when he did not have some kind of support. For as long as he could remember, he had always been holding something. Reaching for his cane barely required thought. But Jayce... Jayce was stubborn. He favoured his leg brace, even when it dug painful grooves against his skin after a long day, especially in winter. He had taken to leaning over furniture around the house, supporting himself against any surface he could when the brace was off, exerting himself while waving it off, invariably regretting it later lying in bed, sore.

The coat of varnish he'd applied on the oak parts of his cane was spotless and shiny from disuse.

"Thank you for breakfast," Jayce said, hoping to stir the conversation elsewhere.

"Unfortunately it is only for handsome men who make a reasonable use of their mobility aids."

He could almost hear Jayce's eyeroll.

"Mmh. So we're resorting to bribery, then?" There was a smile there, too.

"Positive reinforcement," Viktor shrugged, flipping the eggs one last time.

Jayce muffled a chuckle against his shoulder, gently rubbing Viktor's sides.

"Oh, I see. What else is there in it for me?"

"I'm told the village's hot springs are very nice this time of year."

Jayce hummed in Viktor's ear, his hands teasing the hem of his pajama bottoms, thumbs playing against his hip bones.

"Oh, really?"

"Breakfast, Jayce," Viktor warned, more than aware things would start burning should hands stray any lower.

There was another chuckle against his neck, a kiss, and Jayce's hand slipped away, lingering warmth imprinted on Viktor's skin like a soft brand.

"Fine. I'll get the cane, then."

Send me a domestic Jayvik prompt? ♥

[drarryspecificrecsdaily]

2024.10.11

Complete fics posted on AO3 this day

1. The Banned Pasta by @hoko-onchi-writes [T, 1k]

“Draco keeps cooking for me. Weird, right?” “Well, not really,” Ron says, “because you’ve been dating for the past year. Haven’t you?” [...]

2. Come, Sweet Death by EvilDime [E, 27k]

When Draco's ancestor passed on the mantle of Death to him, he failed to mention that the Deathly Hallows had at long last found a Master.

3. I Can Hear Your Smile in the Dark by Ace_Phoenix [E, 2k]

Draco wasn't the biggest fan of Muggle things, but when Harry insisted that he get a mobile phone so they could always contact each other, Draco relented. The first time they call, things take a turn neither of them could object to.

4. Nostalgia Can Be a Turn On by Devious_Muffin [M, 1k]

Harry doesn't understand why Draco would keep his old Hogwarts robes, and Draco has fun explaining it.

5. Raising Hell! by @wolfpants [E, 21k]

Harry and Draco are sent undercover as a married couple to investigate a dodgy Muggle love cult. Something evil is lurking in Glastonbury… but to get to it, the reluctant partners must be initiated first. And this is, after all, a love cult…

---

Fest/Exchange

1. At a Glance by Anonymous [G, 2k]

Stripped of his magic, Draco has settled nicely into the muggle world. He goes to university, has muggle roommates, and enjoys his afternoons drinking coffee in the local café. That is until Harry so happens to pass by the café window. ★ 2024 H/D Muggle Fair | @hd-fan-fair

2. But Don't Miss by Anonymous [M, 15k]

After a mysterious attempt on Draco's life, Harry reluctantly allows Draco to stay with him until the culprit is caught. Draco's insistent questions about Harry's muggle flat, and Harry in general, push Harry to the edge, and then over it. ★ 2024 H/D Muggle Fair | @hd-fan-fair

[on-a-lucky-tide]

absolutely feel free to ignore this if you don’t feel like babying me through it lmaoo but i’m trying to get back into my physical therapy and picked up my dad’s old hand weights. i’ve never lifted a thing in my life and i’m severely chronically ill and deconditioned (hence the pt lmao) and i was just wondering if you had any tips for absolute beginners or things i should really avoid bc i have no idea what i’m doing and have no one to ask 😭😭

Yo, T, this is great news.

If by "hand weights", you mean those like... baby dumbbell thingies? Then absolutely I can help.

Top tips:

Form is more important than weight. You need to get the movement right to build strength without injury. So, don't be ashamed to start as light as you can at first. Ensure you get full range of motion (e.g., if you're gonna do a bicep curl, then all the way down, all the way up; slow, controlled).

You'll need to warm up first. You can do this by lifting lighter weights before moving to heavier in exactly the same movement you intend to do (e.g., I'll always lift an almost naked barbell for my first set, or with very few weights, just so my joints can uh... crunch their way into motion). Some people do some band work.

Don't be me; listen to your body. If things start to bubble, pop, grind, crunch or, my personal favourite, stab you in the nerve endings, stop. Pushing through leads to injury. If you are consistent and patient, you will get better.

I recommend downloading the free app 'FitBod'. It has .gifs and videos showing you how to do hundreds of exercises. The free version won't let you 'log workouts', but you just need a pen and paper for that tbh.

I'd suggest starting seated in a dining room chair. This will stabilise you. Once you get confident, you can begin to do standing exercises.

Supplement the hand weights with body weight movements, such as shallow squats, crunches, push ups on knees (or, push ups against the wall, against the edge of the sofa).

Do mobility work. A good app for this is Pliability. Although I do shit like the Weatherman push up challenge 'cause my brain is spicy and gets bored with shit like the frog pose.

There's a link in my pinned for a workout split if you want it. Good luck, stay safe! 💪

[ohalleyrose]

2am · @taylorswiftmicrofic · hair · @black-brothers-microfic · rosestarkiller · word count: 724 · mention of addiction

When Evan returned to their flat after work at 2 am, he found Regulus lying on his stomach on their bed playing some silly game on his mobile phone while Barty tried to get his attention.

“Just let me finish the game,” Regulus complained, focused on his phone as if his life depended on the well-kept condition of his virtual farm and the little animals he looked after there.

When Barty managed to take the phone away from him, Regulus sighed and extended his hand in his direction.

“Give it to me.”

Barty tucked the phone down his trousers and grinned.

“Come and get it.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but soon cast a smile not at Barty's words, but at the sight of Evan coming up behind him.

“Welcome home,” Regulus greeted him.

Before Barty could turn around, Evan wrapped both arms around his body and rested his chin on his shoulder.

“Hmm, are you two at it again?” He reached under Barty's trousers and pulled out Regulus' phone. He glanced at the screen. “You know, Regulus, I think you have an addiction problem.”

Regulus snorted. He looked the cutest with his messy curls and and one of Barty' t-shirts that was rather loose on him.

“Says, who?”

“Don't give it to him, Evan,” Barty said as he placed both hands on his and stroked them lovingly. “He's really getting on my fucking nerves with the bloody phone.”

Evan tossed the phone towards the couch beyond the bed. He didn't need to ask Regulus to know that was true.

“You're so dramatic,” Regulus groaned.

“Who'd I get it from?”

Evan cupped Barty's cheek gently as he turned his face towards him and pressed their lips into a short but sweet kiss.

‘’Clingy today, aren’t we?” he smirked against his lips.

Barty nodded his head.

“I can take care of that,” he kissed his lips one last time before sitting on the edge of the bed. “Since Regulus prefers his crappy game, it'll just be you and me tonight,” he added as he kicked off his boots, soaked by the puddles he had accidentally stepped in on the way home.

He heard Regulus mumble under his breath.

“Something to say?” Evan inquired.

Regulus raised his chin and folded his arms as he watched Evan remove his street clothes.

“No, do whatever you want, I don't care,” he muttered in annoyance and attempted to get out of bed, only for Barty to yank on his leg, causing him to fall onto his stomach back on the mattress. “Fucker!”

Barty's response was to bite him on the butt and Regulus whined just before rolling over and lunging at him in order to bite his cheek back. Barty chuckled and grabbed his face to lovingly kiss him, instantly feeling Regulus relax under his touch.

“You’re so stupid,” Regulus flashed him a tiny warm smile.

They never got seriously mad at each other because that was how their dynamic worked, both bickering over the silliest of things and making up through kisses and caresses filled with the greatest of affection.

“I know,” Barty grinned and left a peck on his lips.

Evan, who had changed into his home clothes —which consisted of an oversized t-shirt and a pair of worn-out sweatpants— lay down on the bed and sighed deeply. He was exhausted.

Both Regulus and Barty knew what Evan needed even when he wouldn't voice it out. Thus, Barty settled onto one arm of Evan's, hugging it tightly. Regulus rested his head on his chest and proceeded to draw random patterns there with his index fingertip absentmindedly. One of Evan's arms automatically travelled to Barty's dark hair and the other to Regulus' back, both of which he started to stroke in slow and tender motions.

Playing the middleman between wankers who wouldn't listen to reason was taking its toll on him. However, Evan hardly ever talked about work. When he was at home, he preferred to forget about it and instead devote all his attention to the two men who didn't hesitate to recharge his batteries and brighten his day whenever he came home feeling down. Barty was watching him adoringly and Regulus was offering him soft touches that warmed his heart.

Yeah, his job sucked, but Barty and Regulus were the joy of his life and that was all that mattered.

[w3haw3ll]

Velvet Trigger (Extended Epilogue)- MV1

Domestic romance x Mafia past x Soft angst

3.4K Words (Masterlist)

A follow up on what had happened previously in Max and Y/N's life. Finding new and arguably more difficult challenges.

TW: Weapons and wounds, Kidnapping

The villa was soaked in afternoon light — golden and warm, slanting through the tall windows and pooling across the stone floors like honey. The scent of rosemary wafted in from the garden, mingling with the soft crackle of the fire that burned low despite the spring heat. 

Y/N stood in the nursery, one hand resting on her rounded belly, the other gently smoothing the edge of a pale green curtain. She was in Max’s oversized shirt again — one of the many he'd lost to her over the years — and her bare feet padded across the floor as she moved slowly and carefully. 

The room wasn’t finished. 

There were half-assembled pieces of furniture, a rocking chair still missing a screw, a mobile of stars dangling over an empty crib. Books stacked on the windowsill. A plush rabbit missing an ear sat lopsided on the changing table. It was chaos — soft chaos. The kind she’d always dreamed of having. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” she murmured to the rabbit, smiling faintly. “You’re not the only one a little unfinished right now.” 

From down the hall, she heard footsteps — heavy, deliberate, familiar. She didn’t turn. 

Max stepped into the doorway, dressed in grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt, hair messy from his morning run. His eyes were tired but soft, trained on her like she was the only thing in the room worth noticing. 

“How long’ve you been in here?” he asked, voice low. 

“Twenty minutes,” she said. “Or an hour. I lost track.” 

He walked toward her slowly, the way he always did now — like every movement was measured, like touching her too quickly might undo him. He stopped behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his forehead to the back of her head. 

“I missed you in bed this morning,” he said. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” she murmured. “She kept moving.” 

He lowered one hand to rest over her belly. 

“Still doing flips in there?” 

“Not flips. Kicks.” She smiled, leaning into him. “Strong ones.” 

Max was quiet. She could feel the way his breathing slowed, his hand pressed a little firmer against her bump. 

“You want to feel?” she asked. 

“I always want to feel.” 

She took his hand and guided it lower, to the place where their daughter liked to make her presence known. 

And then—there it was. 

A sharp little kick, like a tiny foot saying I’m here. 

Max froze. 

And then, slowly, he sank to his knees in front of her. 

His hand never left her belly. His other one came to rest on her thigh, grounding him. He pressed a kiss just above her navel, then another. And another. 

“I still don’t believe this is real,” he said, voice rough. 

She threaded her fingers through his hair. “It is.” 

“I used to think I wasn’t made for this. That I’d only ever be good at taking things apart — not building something. Not… her.” 

“You didn’t build this alone,” she said gently. “And she’s not a weakness, Max. She’s your strength now.” 

He looked up at her, eyes shining with something unspeakable. 

“She’s you,” he whispered. “She’s both of us. And I swear, Y/N… I’ll protect her. I’ll protect you. Even if the world tries to take it all again.” 

Y/N knelt down with him, pulling his face to hers. 

“You already do,” she said. “Every day you wake up and stay. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

They sat like that for a while, tangled on the floor of the nursery, quiet and wrapped in a love forged in fire and softened by time. 

Later, she found him in the study with a journal — the one she’d seen him scribbling in lately. He closed it when she entered, but not before she caught a glimpse of the words on the page: 

“I don't know how to be a father.  But I know how to love.  And I think… maybe that’s enough.” 

She said nothing. Just kissed his temple and curled up beside him, their hands over the smallest heartbeat between them. 

-- 

It started with a letter. 

There was no return address. No stamp. Just a single name scrawled across the front of the envelope in handwriting that hadn’t haunted Max Verstappen in years. 

"Hamilton." 

He stared at it on the counter for almost ten minutes before touching it. Like the paper might catch fire if he breathed wrong. Like the ghost of his past might step straight through the front door and ask for a seat at the table. 

Y/N came in from the garden, brushing dirt from her hands, cheeks flushed and soft from the sun. “Hey, Max, can you—?” 

She stopped. 

He still hadn’t moved. 

“What is it?” she asked. 

“Nothing,” he said too quickly, voice too low. 

She crossed the kitchen and reached for the envelope, but he turned his body just slightly — not enough to be aggressive, just enough to block. 

That was the first warning sign. 

Y/N blinked. “Max.” 

He met her eyes. Cold. Guarded. Not cruel — but not soft either. 

That was the second. 

She stepped back, folding her arms. “Tell me what’s in it.” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“If it didn’t matter, you wouldn’t be looking at it like it’s a landmine.” 

A muscle jumped in his jaw. 

And then — without opening it — Max walked to the fireplace, struck a match, and dropped the envelope into the flames. 

The paper curled and blackened. His name — that name — disappeared in smoke. 

He didn’t look away until it was ash. 

--- 

Y/N sat on the edge of their bed, watching him move through the house like a shadow — checking locks, walking the perimeter, muttering something to himself in Dutch. 

She waited until he slid under the sheets beside her, still rigid, before she said quietly, “You promised me.” 

He didn’t respond. 

“You said we’d talk. That we’d never go back to secrets.” 

Max exhaled hard through his nose. “It’s handled.” 

“No, Max. It’s burned. That’s not the same thing.” 

“I’m protecting you,” he said, voice low and sharp. 

“I didn’t ask for that kind of protection. I asked for honesty.” She sat up straighter, her hand on her belly. “You don’t get to carry this alone anymore.” 

His eyes flicked to her bump — the growing curve of their daughter, kicking against the fabric of her nightgown. 

And just like that, something in him softened. Cracked. 

“He was one of ours,” he admitted, finally. “An old contact from Marseille. Said he needed to talk — called it a courtesy visit. But you don’t send a letter like that unless it’s a warning.” 

Y/N’s throat tightened. “You think they’re watching?” 

“I know they are.” 

Max got up, crossed to the window, and stared into the dark hills. His reflection in the glass was someone else for a moment — not the man who grilled peaches on Sundays and kissed her shoulder when she was half asleep. 

But the man who used to make people disappear. The man who wasn’t afraid to burn entire kingdoms to protect what he loved. 

“I left that life,” he whispered. 

She rose and joined him, resting her head against his shoulder. 

“That life didn’t leave you,” she said, repeating what she’d known for years. “But I did.” 

Max closed his eyes. His arm slipped around her waist. One hand splayed across her stomach again, always drawn back to the place that reminded him what he was fighting for now. 

“I can’t let her be touched by any of it.” 

“She won’t be. Not as long as you’re here. Not as long as we’re together.” 

He turned to her — and there was something in his eyes, that same fierce promise from the night they left Monaco, buried deep beneath the calm. 

“I’ll kill them if I have to.” 

She didn’t flinch. 

She just nodded, reached up, and kissed him — slow and deliberate. 

“I know.” 

--- 

It happened in the softest part of the morning. 

The sun hadn’t fully risen, and the sky was still painted in quiet lavender and blush. The birds hadn’t started their songs. Max had gone out early, walking the vineyard rows like he always did when his mind wouldn’t stop spinning. 

When he returned, the front door of the villa was open. 

The coffee pot still sat half-full. A trail of flour dusted the counter — she’d been making bread. The baby monitor was on the table, a lullaby playing softly in the background. 

But Y/N was gone. 

And there were no signs of struggle. 

Which was worse. 

Which meant someone had come quietly. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing. 

Max froze. 

For the briefest second, his chest locked and his knees almost buckled. 

Then he moved. 

--- 

Within minutes, the security feed was up. One of the backup cameras at the far edge of the vineyard had caught a black sedan. No plates. No face. Just one frame of Y/N being guided into the backseat by someone tall, gloved, and calm. 

Max’s hands shook as he watched it again. And again. 

Then they went still. 

His face turned cold. Expressionless. 

He hadn’t been that man in years — the one who knew how to break someone piece by piece, who could clear a room without raising his voice. 

But today? 

He would burn the world to the ground. 

--- 

Max called a number he hadn’t touched in five years. It rang once before the voice answered. 

“You said you’d never call again,” the man on the other end said. 

“I lied,” Max growled. “They took her.” 

There was a pause. 

Then: “Where do we meet?” 

Within hours, he was in a borrowed car heading toward Marseille. Every mile brought back pieces of who he used to be — the precision, the focus, the ice-cold fury. 

He traced the movement of the car from the footage. Dug through old contacts. Paid off the right rats. Threatened the wrong ones. 

And finally, someone talked. 

“She’s being held in an abandoned chateau. They’re trying to lure you in. Said it was time you remembered who made you.” 

Max smiled — and it wasn’t kind. 

“They made a monster.  But they forgot I never needed a leash.” 

--- 

She was tied to a chair in the center of a dark room. The ropes weren’t tight — they didn’t need to be. They knew she was pregnant. Knew she’d be careful. Knew hurting her would be the quickest way to hurt Max. 

Y/N wasn’t afraid for herself. 

She was afraid for the baby. 

But she was angry, too. Angry that someone thought they could use her like a pawn. Angry that Max would come and do something stupid and beautiful and reckless. 

And above all — she was furious because they had underestimated her. 

--- 

Max hit the compound like a storm. 

Silent. Focused. Relentless. 

Three men taken out before they could raise a gun. Two more left bleeding and begging. 

He reached the door of the chamber and didn’t knock. Just kicked it in. 

Y/N lifted her head — eyes wide, breath catching — and whispered, “Max.” 

And for a moment, he broke. 

He dropped to his knees beside her, hands trembling as he cut the ropes, pressing his forehead to hers, breathing her in like she was oxygen and he’d been drowning. 

“Are you hurt? The baby? Y/N, talk to me—” 

“I’m okay. We’re okay.” Her fingers tangled in his collar, gripping tight. “But if you don’t get me out of here in the next two minutes, I’m going into labor from sheer rage.” 

He laughed — hoarse and wild — and swept her into his arms. 

Gunfire echoed in the distance. Max didn’t flinch. 

“Let them come,” he whispered. “They already lost.” 

-- 

Back at the villa, Y/N curled up in bed, her cheek against Max’s chest, his arms wound so tightly around her he might never let go again. 

He hadn’t spoken since they returned. Not really. 

Just kept touching her — brushing her hair back, running his fingers over the swell of her belly, holding her like he was afraid she’d vanish again. 

“Max,” she said softly, “we’re safe.” 

His jaw clenched. “I should’ve been here.” 

“You were here. You never left me. Not really.” 

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. Then her cheek. Then the spot just below her ear that always made her shiver. 

“If they ever try again—” 

“They won’t,” she said, voice steel. “Because next time, I’ll shoot first.” 

His breath caught — half in fear, half in awe. 

And then he kissed her — slow and fierce — like she was his anchor and his salvation and his reason for breathing. 

Because she was. 

--- 

The contractions began in the dead of night. 

Y/N tried to stay quiet at first, not wanting to wake Max. But the pain came sharp and fast, wrapping around her spine like barbed wire, and the low cry that left her lips cracked through the silence. 

Max was out of bed instantly. 

“Y/N?” His voice was thick with sleep, but panic bled through the edges. 

She gripped the headboard, eyes squeezed shut, teeth clenched. 

“Hospital. Now,” she hissed. 

Max’s heart thudded so loud in his ears he could barely think. He moved like a machine—bags, keys, phone. He half-carried her to the car, hands shaking every time she groaned in pain. 

And underneath all of it, something cold coiled in his chest. 

This was it. 

This was the moment he couldn’t control, couldn’t fight his way through.  This was the one thing in his life that terrified him more than anything else. 

Because this was love in its most fragile form. 

--- 

Y/N had never seen Max like this — not in the years they'd lived quietly, not even in the days of blood and fire. 

He hovered like a ghost, refusing to sit, pacing the corners of the room like a trapped animal. His fingers trembled every time he touched her, and his jaw was so tight she thought it might break. 

But when she cried out — he was there. 

Holding her hand. Whispering her name. Pressing his forehead to hers and muttering, 

“You’ve got this, schatje. Just breathe. Just one more time. I’m right here.” 

She cursed. She pushed. She screamed. 

And then, with the first light of dawn bleeding through the window —  a sound shattered the tension. 

A newborn’s cry. 

Raw. Pure. Alive. 

Y/N sobbed, collapsing back into the pillows. 

But Max? 

Max stood frozen. 

Staring at the tiny, pink, screaming miracle that the nurse gently placed in his arms. 

He didn’t breathe. He didn’t speak. 

Just looked down at his daughter like the world had narrowed to this single, impossible moment. 

“She’s… real,” he whispered, voice broken with awe. 

Y/N watched him. Tears streaming down her face. 

“Of course she is, Max.” 

He sank into the chair beside her, still clutching the baby to his chest like she might dissolve if he blinked. 

And then the tears came. 

Not loud. Not ugly. 

Just quiet, unstoppable tremors of emotion he had no words for. He kissed his daughter’s forehead. Kissed Y/N’s hand. And for the first time in a long, long time… 

Max Verstappen broke in the best way possible. 

--- 

1 Week later. 

They named her Elena. 

Tiny. Fierce. Already with Y/N’s eyes and Max’s temper, if the wailing fits were anything to go by. 

Max didn’t leave her side. Not once. 

He installed new security systems. Rebuilt the gate. Rerouted the alarm lines and placed two men on rotation to patrol the perimeter. 

“You’re overdoing it,” Y/N said one night, curled on the sofa, Elena asleep in her arms. 

Max sat still reviewing footage on his tablet. 

“We’re home now. She’s safe.” Y/N continued. 

Max looked up at her. His eyes weren’t cold. They were scared. 

“What if I can’t keep her safe? What if someone still out there wants to hurt us? I can’t — I can’t let anything touch her. Or you.” 

Y/N shifted, gently laying Elena in the bassinet. Then she crossed the room and cupped Max’s face in her hands. 

“You’ve already saved us,” she whispered. “Not by building walls. Not by hiding. But by being here. Present. Real. Loving her.” 

Max leaned into her touch. 

“I don’t know how to be a father.” 

“You didn’t know how to love, either,” she said. “And look where we are.” 

His hands slid to her waist, pulling her against him, forehead resting against hers. 

“You are everything,” he murmured. “You, and her. I’d burn the world for you both.” 

“You already did,” she whispered back, brushing her lips over his. “Now you just have to live for us.” 

--- 

Later that night, with Elena asleep and the world finally quiet, Max lay in bed beside Y/N. His hand rested protectively over her hip, their fingers entwined. 

“Promise me something,” he said into the dark. 

“Anything.” 

“If anything ever happens… If you ever feel unsafe — don’t wait for me. Take her and run.” 

Y/N rolled over to face him, eyes shining in the dim light. 

“I’m not running, Max. Not anymore.  You’re the safest place I’ve ever known.” 

He kissed her, slow and reverent. 

And for the first time in his life, Max Verstappen stopped waiting for the world to take something from him. 

He started living like he deserved it. 

--- 

Two years later, the world was quiet in a way Max Verstappen had never known. 

The vineyard behind the villa was full and green, sloping in soft waves toward the sea. The cicadas chirped lazily in the late afternoon heat, and a breeze carried the scent of lavender and lemon blossoms through the open windows. 

Inside, the house was filled with soft noise — not chaos, but life. 

Tiny footsteps padded down the hallway, chasing a wooden car across the tiles. Elena’s giggle rang out like a bell, pure and delighted. 

Y/N followed behind her with a basket of folded laundry tucked against her hip, the hem of her dress brushing her ankles, barefoot and golden from the sun. 

She paused in the doorway to watch them. 

Max was on the floor, one knee bent, the other leg stretched out as he assembled some elaborate racetrack that curved around blocks and stuffed animals and an overturned bowl of snacks. 

Elena had his curls, dark and messy, and her mother’s fire. She was fearless — always climbing, always talking, always moving. 

“Go, papa, goooo!” she squealed as a tiny red car flew down the ramp. 

Max grinned — the kind of smile that used to be rare and hard-won, but now came easily in this soft, second life. 

“She’s got your driving style,” he said, looking up at Y/N with mock exasperation. “Zero patience. All throttle.” 

Y/N laughed, walking over and dropping a kiss on the top of his head before scooping Elena into her arms. 

“Tell your papa that not everything has to be a race,” she whispered to their daughter, who promptly tried to wriggle free and climb back down to finish her imaginary Grand Prix. 

Max stood slowly, arms circling Y/N from behind as he rested his chin on her shoulder, gaze fixed on the tiny girl who had become their entire world. 

“Did you ever think we’d get this?” he asked, voice low and soft. “Peace?” 

Y/N leaned back into him, fingers sliding over the wedding ring on his hand. “We didn’t just get it, Max. We fought for it.” 

He kissed her neck, slow and warm. “I’d fight for it a thousand times over.” 

--- 

Later, when the moon was high and Elena was asleep — her tiny frame curled under a blanket decorated with stars and red race cars — Max and Y/N sat on the patio, sharing a bottle of wine. 

The candlelight flickered, casting golden shadows across Max’s face. 

“Do you ever miss it?” Y/N asked quietly. “That other life?” 

He didn’t answer immediately. Just ran a thumb over her knuckles. 

“I miss the clarity,” he said at last. “When things were simple. Win or lose. Kill or be killed.” 

He looked at her. 

“But then I see her. And you. And I think… this is the clearest thing I’ve ever known.” 

Y/N’s eyes shimmered, and she reached up to cup his face. “You’re not the man you were, Max.” 

He turned his lips into her palm. “No. I’m the man you made me.” 

And then he pulled her close — kissed her like he still couldn’t believe she was real — and the two of them disappeared into the night, tangled in sheets and soft sighs and the slow rhythm of a love that had survived fire, blood, and war. 

In a sleepy villa on the edge of Monaco, the ghosts were finally quiet. 

And Max Verstappen, once a man forged in shadows, had found something far more dangerous than power. 

He had found peace. 

And he would protect it with everything he had.