#i do not want to try this in the real world

[pucksandpower]

The One Left Behind

Max Verstappen x Lewis Hamilton’s ex!Reader

Summary: your first love was a seven-time world champion with a chip on his shoulder who would stop at nothing to finally get that eighth … even at the expense of you. Your second (and last) love is a five-time world champion with racing in his blood who proves, once and for all, that he would give it all up for you without even being asked … and regret absolutely nothing

Based on this request

The rain taps softly against the glass walls of the penthouse. The lights of Monaco shimmer beyond the windows, reflections dancing across the polished floor like scattered stars.

You sit cross-legged on the oversized couch, Lewis sprawled beside you, his legs stretched out, an arm slung casually over the backrest. He’s scrolling through his phone, something about sector times and telemetry, but his attention isn’t fully there. Not tonight.

“Lewis,” you say, gently nudging his side with your foot.

“Hmm?” He doesn’t look up.

You nudge him harder, and this time he glances your way, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “What’s up?”

“I need you to focus for, like, five minutes.”

“I am focusing,” he says, holding up his phone as evidence. “Race prep.”

“On me, Lewis.”

That gets his attention. He sets the phone down on the coffee table, screen still glowing with data, and leans back, giving you his full, undivided gaze. “Alright, I’m all yours. What’s on your mind?”

You hesitate for a moment, fingers curling into the soft fabric of your sweater. The words are there, sitting heavy on your tongue, but saying them feels like stepping off the edge of something solid. Still, you’ve been together for almost six years. If you can’t have this conversation with him now, when can you?

“I’ve been thinking,” you start, your voice steady but quiet, “about us. About the future.”

Lewis tilts his head, curiosity flickering across his face. “What about it?”

You take a deep breath. “I want to get married, Lewis. I want to have a family. With you.”

His expression shifts, not into shock or annoyance, but something harder to read. He doesn’t respond right away, which only makes the silence stretch uncomfortably between you.

“I know the timing’s not perfect,” you add quickly, trying to fill the gap. “I know you’re in the middle of-”

“The most important season of my career?” He finishes for you, a wry smile softening his tone.

“Yeah, that.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Babe, it’s not that I don’t want those things with you. I do. You know I do.”

“Do I?” The question slips out before you can stop it, and you see the flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“Of course you do,” he says, his voice low, almost defensive. “Six years. That’s not nothing.”

“I know it’s not nothing. But sometimes it feels like we’re stuck in the same place. Like we’re … waiting for something that never comes.”

Lewis scrubs a hand down his face, the faintest hint of frustration breaking through his calm demeanor. “It’s not that simple, love. You know how much this season means to me. Winning an eighth title, it’s history. Legacy. Everything I’ve worked for my whole life.”

“And what about after that?” You press, leaning closer. “What happens when you get it? Then what?”

His eyes search yours, and for a moment, he looks almost … unsure. It’s a rare thing, seeing Lewis Hamilton unsure of anything.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I’ve never really thought about it. Not in detail.”

“Well, maybe you should,” you say, your voice soft but firm. “Because I have. And I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with just being … your girlfriend forever.”

Lewis winces at the word, like it stings. “That’s not what you are to me. You’re everything. You know that.”

“Then prove it.”

He leans back again, running both hands through his hair as he exhales sharply. “God, you don’t make this easy, do you?”

“It’s not supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be real.”

For a long moment, he just looks at you, his dark eyes searching your face like he’s trying to solve some impossible puzzle. Then, slowly, he nods.

“Okay,” he says, his voice steady now, resolute. “When I win this season — when I get that eighth title — I’ll retire.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

“You heard me,” he says, a small, almost mischievous smile playing on his lips. “I’ll retire. I’ll hang up my helmet, put a ring on your finger, and we’ll start trying for that family you’ve been dreaming about.”

You stare at him, equal parts stunned and skeptical. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“Lewis, you can’t just say that to shut me up.”

“I’m not trying to shut you up,” he says, reaching for your hand. His fingers are warm, steady, and when he looks at you now, there’s no hesitation, no uncertainty. “I’m saying it because I mean it. When I win, it’ll be the perfect ending. The perfect time to step away. And then it’s just us. No races, no travel, no distractions. Just you and me.”

“And a baby,” you add, because if you’re going to dream, you might as well dream big.

He chuckles, the sound warm and rich, and pulls you closer until you’re half in his lap. “And a baby,” he agrees.

It feels like a promise, one sealed with the way he presses a kiss to your forehead, his arms wrapping around you like they’re anchoring you to him.

But somewhere, deep down, a small, cautious voice whispers: what if he doesn’t win?

***

The suite is silent except for the faint hum of the minibar fridge and the muffled sounds of celebration filtering in from somewhere outside. It’s as if the entire world is rejoicing, but here, in the confines of this hotel room, everything feels like it’s crumbling.

Lewis hasn’t said a word since you got back. He walked in, dropped his helmet bag by the door, and slumped onto the edge of the bed, still in his team gear. His shoulders are hunched, his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly between his knees.

You stand a few feet away, arms crossed over your chest, unsure whether to approach him or leave him to his thoughts. The weight in the room is unbearable, pressing down on your chest until it’s hard to breathe.

“Lewis,” you say softly, testing the waters.

He doesn’t move.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

You take a tentative step closer. “I know it hurts-”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, cutting you off. His voice is hoarse, raw from the screams and protests he let out over the radio hours ago. He still hasn’t looked up.

You flinch but press on, refusing to let the conversation die. “I’m just trying to help.”

“There’s nothing to help,” he snaps, finally lifting his head. His eyes are bloodshot, his expression a mix of devastation and barely restrained fury. “It’s done. Over. What’s there to say?”

Your heart twists at the sight of him like this — so broken, so unlike the unshakable man you’ve always known. “I just thought-”

“Don’t you get it?” He interrupts, his voice rising. He stands abruptly, towering over you, his frustration bubbling over. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to sit here and dissect how it all fell apart. I want to forget.”

You step back, your own emotions starting to fray at the edges. “You can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. You need to face it.”

“And what good would that do?” He shoots back, pacing the room now like a caged animal. “Would it give me my title? My win? Would it change the fact that I got robbed tonight?”

His words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

“Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Me too.”

The silence stretches again, but this time it’s different. More fragile. You can feel it cracking under the weight of what you need to say next.

“Lewis,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. “About what we talked about. Before …”

He stops pacing, turning to look at you with a frown. “What?”

“A few weeks ago,” you clarify, taking a shaky breath. “You said when you won, you’d retire. That we’d start … building a life together.”

His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking as he stares at you.

“I know you didn’t win,” you continue hesitantly, “but does that really change anything? Can’t we still-”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, holding up a hand. His expression is hard now, a stark contrast to the vulnerability he showed earlier. “Don’t do this right now.”

“Why not?” You ask, frustration creeping into your tone. “Because it’s not convenient? Because it’s easier to bury yourself in racing than deal with what’s happening between us?”

“That’s not fair,” he snaps, his voice rising again.

“Isn’t it?” You challenge, taking a step closer. “You made me a promise. And now, what? You’re just going to pretend it didn’t happen because things didn’t go your way?”

He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “You don’t get it. You’ve never understood. Racing isn’t just something I do — it’s who I am. Walking away now, without that eighth championship … I can’t. I won’t.”

Your chest tightens, and you feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “So what about me? What about us? Do we just stay on pause forever while you chase this thing that might never happen?”

His face twists with something you can’t quite place — anger, regret, maybe both. “This isn’t just about you,” he says, his voice dangerously low. “I’ve given everything to this sport. Everything. And I’m not quitting until I finish what I started.”

“So I’m just supposed to wait?” You ask, your voice cracking. “How long, Lewis? Another year? Two? Five? When is it going to be enough?”

“I don’t know!” He shouts, the words bursting out of him like a dam breaking. “I don’t know, alright?”

The room falls silent again, the weight of his outburst settling over both of you.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters after a moment, shaking his head. “Not right now.”

Before you can say another word, he grabs his jacket from the back of a chair and heads for the door.

“Lewis, wait,” you plead, your voice trembling. “Don’t walk away from this. From me.”

He pauses, his hand on the doorknob, but he doesn’t turn around. “I just need some air,” he says, his tone clipped.

And then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that makes you flinch.

You stand there for a moment, frozen, staring at the door as if willing him to come back. But the only sound is the muffled celebration outside, a cruel reminder of everything that’s been lost tonight.

Finally, your legs give out, and you sink onto the edge of the bed, burying your face in your hands as the tears come. They’re hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks as sobs wrack your body.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. None of it. You were supposed to be celebrating together, planning your future, looking ahead to the life you’d been dreaming of for so long.

But instead, it feels like everything is slipping through your fingers, and no matter how hard you try to hold on, it’s all crumbling around you.

You don’t know how long you sit there, crying into the silence, but when the tears finally stop, you’re left with an emptiness that feels even worse.

And for the first time in six years, you wonder if maybe Lewis Hamilton isn’t the man you thought he was. Or maybe he is, and that’s the problem.

***

One Year Later

The glass facade of the clinic looms above you, pristine and intimidating. Every time you glance at the sign — Centre de Fertilité de Monaco written in bold looping letters — your stomach churns. You’ve been standing outside for almost fifteen minutes, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, arms crossed tightly against the chill in the air.

The city is alive around you, luxury cars humming down the streets, the faint sound of waves crashing against the marina in the distance. But you feel like you’re in a bubble, trapped in your own swirling thoughts.

This is what you want. You’ve thought about it a hundred times, planned every detail, read every article, and filled out every form. And yet, your feet refuse to move.

“Just go inside,” you whisper to yourself, though the words feel hollow.

You take a step toward the door, but your hand falters just shy of the handle.

“Y/N?”

The voice is familiar, low and slightly accented, and it stops you in your tracks. You turn to see Max Verstappen standing a few feet away, a look of surprise etched across his face. He’s dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans, but there’s no mistaking him.

“Max,” you breathe, startled.

He takes a step closer, his brows knitting together. “What are you doing here?”

You glance at the clinic sign and then back at him, your heart hammering in your chest. “It’s, uh … personal.”

Max’s eyes narrow slightly, curiosity and concern mingling in his expression. “Personal enough that you’re standing outside looking like you’re about to throw up?”

Your face heats, and you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself, as if that could shield you from his gaze. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” He pauses, studying you. Then his eyes flicker to the sign again, and something seems to click. “Wait … are you-”

“Yes,” you blurt, cutting him off. There’s no point in pretending now. “I’m here to get artificially inseminated.”

Max blinks, clearly not expecting that answer. “Oh.”

You look away, embarrassed. “It’s not a big deal. Lots of women do it.”

“Without anyone here to support you?” He asks, his tone soft but pointed.

You shrug, your voice defensive. “It’s my decision.”

Max doesn’t respond right away, and when you finally look back at him, he’s frowning. “Why?”

The question catches you off guard. “Why what?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want a baby,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“And you can’t … I don’t know, meet someone?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Right, because it’s that easy.”

Max shifts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re serious about this?”

“Yes, Max,” you snap, your patience wearing thin. “I’ve been serious about this for a long time. Just because my relationship didn’t work out doesn’t mean I should have to give up on what I want.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then he says quietly, “So you and Lewis really broke up.”

You nod, swallowing hard. The mention of Lewis still feels like a punch to the gut, even after all this time. “Yeah. A while ago.”

Max hesitates, his hands shoved into his pockets. “And now you’re just … what? Picking a random donor from a catalog and hoping for the best?”

The words sting, and you glare at him. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” He presses, his voice still calm but insistent. “You deserve more than that. You deserve more than a child fathered by some random man you only know as lines of descriptions on paper.”

That’s the moment you break. The tears you’ve been holding back for weeks, maybe even months, come flooding out. You cover your face with your hands, trying to stifle the sobs, but it’s no use.

“Hey,” Max says quickly, stepping closer. “Hey, don’t-”

But you can’t stop. It’s all too much — Lewis, the clinic, the choices you’ve had to make on your own.

“I just want-” you choke out, but the words dissolve into another sob.

“Come here,” Max says softly, wrapping an arm around your back and gently tugging you closer. You collapse against him, your face buried in his shoulder as the tears keep coming.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just holds you, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles over your back. His hoodie smells faintly of cologne and something clean, like fresh laundry.

After a while, your sobs start to quiet, and you manage to pull back, wiping at your face. “I’m sorry,” you mumble, embarrassed.

“Don’t be,” Max says, his voice low. He tilts his head, his blue eyes soft but serious. “You’re clearly not in the right state of mind to be making life-changing decisions.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off.

“Look,” he says, “I’m not saying you shouldn’t do this. I’m saying maybe today isn’t the day. You’re upset. And I don’t think you should do something this big while you’re feeling like this.”

You hesitate, his words sinking in.

“My apartment is just around the corner,” he continues. “Why don’t we go there? We can talk, or not talk. Whatever you want. But at least give yourself a little time to think.”

You hesitate, glancing back at the clinic. The weight of the decision presses heavily on you, but so does the thought of going through with it now, like this.

“Okay,” you whisper finally.

Max nods, a small, reassuring smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Come on.”

He keeps his hand on your back as he guides you down the street, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel entirely alone.

***

Max’s apartment is modern, sleek, and surprisingly warm. The large windows overlook the Monaco skyline, the twinkling lights of the city reflecting off the sea in the distance. You sit on the plush gray couch, clutching a mug of tea Max handed you just moments ago. The ceramic is warm in your hands, grounding you as the weight of everything presses down on your chest.

Max settles in the armchair across from you, his long legs stretched out, one elbow resting on the armrest as he watches you carefully. He hasn’t said much since you got here, and you’re grateful for it. But now, with the tea steeping between your fingers and his steady gaze on you, you feel the urge to fill the silence.

“I don’t even know where to start,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max shrugs lightly, a faint, reassuring smile tugging at his lips. “Start anywhere.”

You exhale shakily, staring into the dark liquid in your mug. “Lewis and I were together for six years. Six years of my life … and for a long time, I thought we wanted the same things.”

Max’s brows knit together, but he stays quiet, letting you continue.

“I thought we were building something together,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “I wanted to get married. I wanted kids. He said he did, too. But there was always something in the way — another season, another championship, another goal. And I kept waiting because I believed in him, in us.”

Your voice cracks, and you take a sip of the tea, letting the warmth soothe your throat. Max leans forward slightly, his blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that’s both comforting and unnerving.

“And then last year …” You pause, trying to steady your voice. “He promised me that if he won his eighth title, he’d retire. That we’d finally start the life we talked about. And I believed him. I really believed him.”

Max’s jaw tightens, his knuckles pressing against his chin as he listens.

“But he didn’t win,” you continue, the memory still fresh, still raw. “And instead of keeping his promise, he said he couldn’t walk away. Not without that eighth.”

“Unbelievable,” Max mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

You glance at him, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “I thought maybe I could wait. Maybe I could put my dreams on hold for him a little longer. But it wasn’t just about the title — it was about him always choosing racing over me, over us.”

Max leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “So you broke up.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you say, your voice trembling. “I couldn’t keep waiting for someone who would never choose me.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unspoken. You’ve said them to yourself before, in the quiet of your bedroom, in the midst of sleepless nights, but saying them out loud now feels different. More final.

“And now you’re here,” Max says after a moment, gesturing faintly toward the direction of the clinic outside the windows.

You nod, tears pricking at your eyes again. “I still want a family. I’ve always wanted that. And after everything with Lewis, I realized I can’t keep putting my life on hold for someone else. If I want a baby, I have to make it happen myself.”

Max stares at you, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I get it,” he says finally. “I do. But … I don’t know. It just feels wrong. Like, you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

“I don’t have a choice,” you say, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “Not everyone gets a happy ending. Some of us just have to make do with what we have.”

He shakes his head, leaning forward again. “That’s not what I mean. I mean someone like you shouldn’t have to settle for this. You’re smart, beautiful, caring. Any guy would be lucky to have you. Hell, if it were me-”

He stops abruptly, his face coloring slightly as if realizing what he’s about to say.

“If it were you, what?” You ask, your voice softer now, curious.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “If it were me, I wouldn’t have made you wait. I wouldn’t have let you go, period. I would’ve dropped everything the second I got out of the car in Abu Dhabi.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut — not because they hurt, but because they’re so unexpected, so honest.

“You don’t mean that,” you say quietly, though your heart betrays you, fluttering in your chest.

Max’s gaze is unwavering. “I do. You deserve someone who sees you as their priority, not as something they’ll get to when it’s convenient. If I had someone like you …” He trails off, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t need anything else.”

The room falls silent, and you don’t know what to say. Your hands tighten around the mug, and you feel your cheeks flush under his intense stare.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment, leaning back. “That probably crossed a line.”

“No,” you say quickly, surprising even yourself. “It’s … nice to hear. I guess I just don’t believe it.”

“Why not?” He asks, his brows furrowing.

“Because if that were true, Lewis wouldn’t have left,” you admit, your voice breaking. “If I were really worth all that, he wouldn’t have walked away.”

Max shakes his head vehemently, leaning forward again. “That’s not on you. That’s on him. He couldn’t see what he had. That’s his loss, not yours.”

You blink back tears, his words cutting through the doubt and self-blame you’ve been carrying for so long.

“Look,” Max says softly, his voice gentle now. “You’re not alone in this, okay? I know it feels like it, but you’re not. And whatever you decide to do, just … don’t rush into it because you think you have to. You’ve got time, and you’ve got people who care about you.”

The sincerity in his voice almost breaks you all over again. You nod, unable to speak, and Max offers you a small, reassuring smile.

“Finish your tea,” he says, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab us something stronger. Tea’s good for a talk, but this feels like a whiskey kind of conversation.”

You laugh softly, the sound surprising you. For the first time in a long time, the weight on your chest feels just a little bit lighter.

***

The first time you showed up at Max’s apartment unannounced, it was a particularly bad day. The ache in your chest had been unbearable, the quiet of your own place suffocating. You hadn’t even thought twice before texting him: You home?

His response came within seconds. Always. Door’s open.

You found him lounging on the couch, his two bengals sprawled out lazily beside him. When he saw you, he didn’t ask questions. He just stood, grabbed two Red Bulls from the fridge, and let you curl up on the floor to play with Jimmy and Sassy while he sat nearby, chatting about nothing in particular until the knot in your chest loosened.

It became a ritual after that. On the days when life felt too heavy, you’d make your way to Max’s. Sometimes you’d talk, sometimes you wouldn’t. But more often than not, you’d end up on the floor with the cats while Max watched with quiet amusement.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Jimmy pounces on the feather toy you’re dragging across the rug, his sleek body moving with a precision that reminds you of Max on the track. Sassy, the more aloof of the two, lounges nearby, watching her brother with disdain until she decides to join in.

You’re lying on your back now, laughing as the two cats leap over you, chasing the toy you’re holding above your head. It’s the first time you’ve laughed all day, maybe all week, and it feels good.

“Careful, Jimmy,” Max calls from the couch, his voice warm with affection. “She’s not a scratching post.”

You tilt your head to look at him, still holding the toy above you. He’s sitting sideways, one arm slung over the back of the couch, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Jimmy would never hurt me,” you say, grinning as the cat lands lightly on your stomach before darting off again.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Max warns, shaking his head. “He’s a menace.”

“He’s perfect,” you counter, turning your attention back to the cats.

Max chuckles softly, but he doesn’t respond. You’re too distracted by Sassy’s sudden burst of energy to notice the way his gaze lingers on you, the way his smile fades into something softer, something deeper.

After a while, you sit up, your hair slightly disheveled and your cheeks flushed from laughing. Jimmy jumps into your lap, purring contentedly as you stroke his fur.

When you look up, Max is staring at you.

“What?” You ask, your brow furrowing.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are warm, almost tender, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room.

“Nothing,” he says finally, his voice quieter than usual. “You’re just … happy. I like seeing you like this.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you glance away, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s the cats,” you say lightly, trying to brush it off. “They’re good for my mental health.”

“It’s not just the cats,” Max says, and there’s something in his tone that makes you look at him again.

He’s leaning forward slightly now, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze locked on yours. You feel your breath catch, the air in the room shifting, thickening.

“Max …” you start, but you don’t know how to finish the sentence.

“You don’t see it, do you?” He says softly, his voice almost reverent.

“See what?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“How incredible you are.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unshakable. You stare at him, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

“Max, I …”

Before you can finish, he’s on the floor in front of you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. He reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, and you don’t pull away.

“You’re amazing,” he says, his eyes searching yours. “You’re strong, and kind, and funny, and … God, Y/N, do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you forget how to speak.

“Max,” you say finally, your voice trembling. “This … this is a bad idea.”

“Why?” He asks, his hand still resting against your cheek.

“Because I don’t want to ruin this,” you admit, your eyes filling with tears. “You’ve been my rock these past few months. I don’t want to lose that.”

“You won’t,” he says firmly. “I promise you, you won’t. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this way.”

You’re silent, your heart warring with your head. But when he leans in, his lips brushing softly against yours, all your doubts fade away.

The kiss is gentle at first, hesitant, as if he’s afraid you might pull away. But when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand sliding into your hair as he pours everything he’s been holding back into the kiss.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other.

“Wow,” you whisper, your voice shaky.

Max chuckles softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Yeah. Wow.”

You stare at him, your mind racing. This wasn’t what you expected when you came here tonight, but now that it’s happened, you can’t bring yourself to regret it.

“Max,” you say softly, your voice filled with uncertainty.

“It’s okay,” he says, cutting you off. “We’ll figure this out, whatever it is. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. I promise.”

And to your surprise, despite the broken promises still shattered beneath your feet, you really do believe him.

***

The bedroom is bathed in the soft golden glow of the evening lights spilling through the windows. The Monaco skyline twinkles faintly in the distance, but you’re not paying attention to it. You’re wrapped up in Max’s arms, his warmth seeping into you as his fingers draw lazy patterns on your back.

You’re lying on your side, your head resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His free hand brushes through your hair, the motion slow and soothing. Every so often, he leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head or your temple, murmuring something sweet against your skin.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says, his voice low and gentle.

“I’m just … content,” you reply, tilting your head to look up at him. “This is nice.”

He smiles down at you, his blue eyes soft with affection. “Yeah, it is.”

His fingers trail up to your jaw, tilting your face up so he can kiss you. It’s slow and deliberate, the kind of kiss that makes your toes curl and sends warmth blooming in your chest.

When he pulls back, his lips linger near yours, his breath fanning against your skin. “You know, I could get used to this,” he says, a playful lilt in his voice.

“You mean you’re not used to it already?” You tease, nudging him lightly.

“I mean forever,” he says, and the sincerity in his tone makes your heart skip a beat.

You smile, your fingers idly tracing the lines of his collarbone. “Forever sounds nice.”

The silence that follows is comfortable, filled with the soft sounds of your breathing and the occasional distant hum of the city below.

After a moment, you glance up at him, your heart beating a little faster. “Max?”

“Hmm?” He hums, his fingers still trailing along your back.

“Have you ever thought about … kids?” You ask hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He stills for a moment, his hand pausing mid-motion before he shifts slightly to look down at you. “Kids?”

“Yeah,” you say, suddenly nervous. “Like, have you ever thought about having them?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his brows furrowing slightly as if considering your question. Then, to your surprise, he lets out a soft laugh.

“Honestly?” He says, his lips quirking into a small smile. “I’ve thought about it pretty much daily since I met you.”

Your eyes widen, and you push yourself up onto your elbow to look at him more closely. “Seriously?”

He chuckles, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. I mean, I wasn’t thinking about it before. But now? With you? I think about it all the time.”

“Max,” you whisper, your heart swelling at his words.

“I know it sounds crazy,” he continues, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek. “We haven’t been together that long, but … I don’t know. When you know, you know, right?”

You nod, unable to speak, your throat tight with emotion.

“And I know,” he says softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You’re it for me, Y/N. There’s no one else. There’s never going to be anyone else.”

Tears sting at your eyes, and you laugh softly, leaning into his touch. “You’re really something, Max Verstappen.”

“I mean it,” he says, his voice steady and sure. “So … what do you think? Would you want to have a baby with me?”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest. The question is so outlandish, so unexpected, and yet it feels right.

“You’re serious?” You ask, your voice trembling.

“Dead serious,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips. “You’re going to be an amazing mom. I can already see it.”

You laugh, covering your face with your hands as the weight of his words sinks in. “This is insane.”

“Maybe,” he says, pulling your hands away from your face. “But it feels right, doesn’t it?”

You look at him, at the way his eyes shine with hope and love, and you know he’s right.

“It does,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

He beams, his grin so wide it’s almost boyish. “So … is that a yes?”

You laugh, leaning down to kiss him. “Yes, Max. Let’s have a baby.”

He kisses you back, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you closer. The kiss is different this time — deeper, more urgent, filled with the promise of what’s to come.

When you pull back, you’re both grinning like fools, your foreheads pressed together as you laugh softly.

“This is happening,” he says, his voice filled with awe.

“It is,” you reply, your heart swelling with joy.

“And just so you know,” he adds, his hands sliding down to rest on your hips. “I’m not leaving this bed until we make it happen.”

You laugh, swatting at his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he counters, flipping you onto your back as his lips find yours again.

The night stretches on for what feels like forever, filled with laughter, whispered promises, and the kind of love that feels like forever.

***

The moment you see the two pink lines on the test, your heart stops. For a second, you don’t breathe, don’t blink, don’t move. Then, a rush of emotions crashes over you all at once — joy, disbelief, terror, excitement. You sit on the edge of the tub in your bathroom, staring at the test in your shaking hands, trying to make sense of it.

“Max,” you whisper to yourself, and the thought of him steadies you.

He’s in the kitchen when you step out, his back to you as he busies himself with something at the stove. The faint smell of eggs and toast fills the air, but you can barely focus on it. Your hand tightens around the test in your pocket.

“Morning,” he says when he hears your footsteps, glancing over his shoulder with a soft smile. “Hungry? I made breakfast.”

You don’t answer, your feet rooted to the floor.

“Y/N?” He says, turning fully to face you now. “Everything okay?”

You nod, though you’re pretty sure you don’t look convincing. Your chest feels tight, and suddenly, you don’t know how to say the words.

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”

His hands find yours, grounding you in the way only he can. You take a deep breath and pull the test out of your pocket, holding it up between you.

Max stares at it for a moment, his eyes wide.

“Is that-”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “It’s positive.”

For a second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Then, a slow, disbelieving grin spreads across his face.

“We’re having a baby?” He asks, his voice almost a whisper.

You nod, your own tears welling up as you watch his expression shift from shock to pure, unfiltered joy.

“We’re having a baby,” you repeat, the words finally sinking in.

Max lets out a breathless laugh, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you off the ground. “Oh my God, Y/N, we’re having a baby!”

You laugh through your tears, clinging to him as he spins you around. When he finally sets you down, his hands frame your face, his eyes searching yours.

“Are you okay? How do you feel? Do you need anything? Oh my God, we need to call the doctor, right? That’s what we do next?”

“Max,” you say, cutting him off with a laugh. “I’m okay. We’ll figure it all out.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding quickly. “Okay. But, wow … we’re having a baby.”

The way he says it, like he can’t quite believe it, makes your heart swell.

From that moment on, Max is all in.

***

Max surprises you at every turn. Where you once thought the worlds of racing and family couldn’t coexist, he proves you wrong with every thoughtful gesture, every sacrifice, every time he puts you first.

At first, you hesitate to bring it up. You know how important racing is to him, how much of his life has been dedicated to it. You don’t want to be a distraction, don’t want to pull him away from something he loves.

But Max is quick to shut down any of those thoughts.

“You and this baby come first,” he says one night, his hand resting gently on your still-flat stomach. “Always.”

You blink at him, your throat tight. “You don’t have to say that, Max. I know how much racing means to you.”

“And I know how much you mean to me,” he counters, his voice firm. “This doesn’t have to be one or the other. We’ll make it work. I promise.”

And he does.

***

You don’t feel ready to travel yet, and Max doesn’t push you. He understands when you tell him you’re not ready to face the paddock, to face him. It’s still too raw, too soon. Max doesn’t question it.

“It’s okay,” he says, kissing your forehead. “You don’t need to explain. You do what’s best for you. I’ll come to you.”

And he does.

Even in the middle of the season, when his schedule is packed and his commitments are endless, Max never misses a single appointment. He’s always there, whether it’s for the early check-ups or the first ultrasound.

“Can you believe that’s our baby?” He whispers during the first scan, his voice filled with awe as he watches the tiny flicker of the heartbeat on the monitor.

You can’t answer, your own emotions overwhelming you. Instead, you squeeze his hand, and he leans over to press a kiss to your temple.

***

The weeks pass, and soon it’s time for the big ultrasound — the one where you’ll finally learn the baby’s gender. Max is in São Paulo for the Brazilian Grand Prix, and you’ve convinced yourself he won’t make it back in time.

“It’s okay,” you tell him over the phone the night before. “You’ve got a race to focus on. I’ll record everything for you.”

“Y/N,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m not missing this.”

“But-”

“I’ll be there,” he promises. “Trust me.”

True to his word, Max walks into the clinic the next afternoon, still in his favorite set of sweats for traveling, his hair slightly disheveled from the flight.

“Max,” you say, standing up from your chair in the waiting room, your heart swelling at the sight of him. “You made it.”

“Of course I did,” he says, pulling you into his arms. “I told you I would.”

The ultrasound room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the machine and the occasional click of the technician’s keyboard. You’re lying on the examination table, Max sitting beside you, holding your hand tightly.

“Are you ready to find out?” The technician asks, her eyes crinkling with a warm smile.

You glance at Max, and he nods, his excitement barely contained.

“Let’s do it,” you say.

The technician moves the wand across your stomach, and a moment later, the screen lights up with the image of your baby.

“Congratulations,” she says, her smile widening. “It’s a girl.”

A girl.

Max lets out a laugh, his hand flying to cover his mouth as he stares at the screen. “A girl,” he repeats, his voice filled with wonder. “We’re having a girl.”

You laugh through your tears, your heart full to bursting. Max leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your nose, your lips.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

“For what?” You ask, your own voice shaky.

“For this. For her. For everything,” he says, his eyes shining as he looks at you.

You don’t have the words to respond, so you just squeeze his hand, your heart so full it feels like it might burst.

And in that moment, you realize: Max was right. Racing and family don’t have to be at odds. They can coexist, as long as you have someone who’s willing to make it work. And Max? He’s more than willing. He’s all in. Always.

***

It’s been a long start to the season, and the 2024 championship is already shaping up to be a nail-biter. The RB20 is much more unwieldy than its predecessor, the points gap narrowing with a DNF in Australia. The pressure is on, and you know it. Max knows it too.

But despite everything — the late nights, the media frenzy, the endless travel — he never wavers in his commitment to you and the baby. Even as the world watches him fight for the title, Max’s focus always returns home.

As your due date approaches, the Japan Grand Prix weekend looms closer on the calendar. Suzuka is pivotal, everyone says. The kind of race that could determine the championship. The team is counting on Max to deliver.

But Max doesn’t seem fazed by any of it when you bring it up one evening in bed, your hand resting on your swollen belly while his fingers gently trace circles over the skin.

“You know Suzuka’s right around the corner,” you say hesitantly, watching his expression.

“Hmm,” he hums, his eyes focused on your stomach, his lips quirking into a small smile when he feels a kick.

“Max.”

He glances up at you, his gaze softening. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitate, unsure how to phrase it. “I just … I know it’s an important race. And my due date is so close. What if-”

“I’m not going to Japan,” he says firmly, cutting you off before you can spiral.

You blink at him, startled. “What?”

“I’ve already told Christian and Helmut. They’re putting Liam in the car for the weekend.”

“Max,” you whisper, your heart swelling. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” he says, his voice steady. “This is our daughter we’re talking about. There’s no way I’m missing her arrival, not for any race, not for anything.”

Tears sting at your eyes, and you blink them back quickly. “But the championship-”

“Doesn’t matter as much as this,” he interrupts again, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Y/N, I love racing, but you and our baby? You’re everything. You’re my world. If I have to miss a race, so be it.”

You stare at him, your throat tight, and you can’t stop the tears this time. “I love you,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him.

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “I love you too. More than anything.”

***

When the weekend of the Japanese Grand Prix arrives, you’re still pregnant, and Max is at your side, refusing to let you lift a finger.

The race plays out on the television in the background while Max spends most of the day doting on you. He rubs your feet, makes you tea, and checks on the hospital bag for the millionth time, making sure everything is in order.

“Max, sit down,” you say, laughing softly as you watch him double-check the contents of the bag again.

“I just want to make sure we’re ready,” he says, zipping it up and placing it neatly by the door.

“We’re ready,” you assure him, patting the space next to you on the couch.

He finally sits, pulling you close and resting his hand on your belly. “You’re sure she’s not coming today?”

“She’s not on your schedule, Verstappen,” you tease, and he laughs, leaning in to kiss your temple.

***

But she does come.

Two days later, in the early hours of the morning, the first contraction wakes you. At first, you’re too groggy to register what’s happening, but when the second one hits, you gasp, clutching at the sheets.

“Max,” you manage to get out, shaking his shoulder.

He bolts upright, his eyes wide and alert. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I think … I think it’s time,” you say, your voice trembling.

Max is on his feet in an instant, grabbing the hospital bag and helping you out of bed with remarkable calmness for someone who was sound asleep just seconds ago.

“You okay?” He asks, his arm around your waist as he guides you to the car.

You nod, though your breaths are shallow. “Yeah. Just … hurry.”

***

The hours in the delivery room pass in a blur of pain and anticipation. Max never leaves your side, his hand gripping yours tightly through every contraction, his voice steady and reassuring as he encourages you.

“You’re amazing,” he says, brushing the hair from your sweaty forehead. “You’ve got this. Just a little more, liefje. You’re so strong.”

When the moment finally comes, and the sound of your daughter’s first cries fills the room, both of you dissolve into tears.

“She’s here,” Max whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “She’s really here.”

The nurse places the tiny, wriggling bundle in your arms, and you look down at her, overwhelmed by a love so powerful it takes your breath away. Max leans over your shoulder, his face close to hers, his tears falling freely now.

“She’s perfect,” he says, his voice breaking.

You glance up at him, your heart swelling as you see the pure adoration on his face. “She looks like you.”

“She looks like us,” he corrects, his fingers gently tracing the curve of her cheek.

***

When the nurse takes her to be weighed and cleaned up, Max stands frozen for a moment, watching her with wide eyes. Then, when they bring her back, he hesitates.

“You want to hold her?” You ask, smiling through your exhaustion.

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him the most precious thing in the world. “Can I?”

“Of course,” you say, carefully passing her to him.

Max cradles her in his arms, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving her face. He looks utterly awestruck, his tears still streaming down his cheeks as he rocks her gently.

“Hi, little one,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “I’m your papa. And I already love you more than anything.”

Your heart clenches as you watch him, the way he holds her like she’s the most fragile, most important thing in the world.

“You okay?” You ask softly, reaching out to touch his arm.

He nods, but when he looks at you, his expression is serious. “Y/N,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “If you or she ever said the word, I’d stop. I’d walk away from racing tomorrow and never look back.”

“Max-”

“I mean it,” he says, cutting you off gently. “I don’t need any of it. All I need is right here.”

Tears spill down your cheeks as you reach for his hand, your fingers lacing through his. “You don’t have to stop, Max. I don’t want you to. I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” he says, his gaze dropping back to your daughter. “You and her — you’re everything.”

The three of you stay like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other and the overwhelming love that fills the room.

And as you watch Max rock your daughter, his eyes shining with tears and joy, you realize that this is it — this is the life you always dreamed of.

***

The Australian Grand Prix marks the beginning of the 2025 season, and the paddock is alive with its usual chaos: reporters shouting questions, cameras flashing, and engineers rushing to and from garages. But for you, it feels like an entirely different world as you step onto the paddock with your daughter perched on your hip.

She’s bundled in a tiny Red Bull jacket Max had custom-made, her baby blue eyes wide as she takes in the flurry of activity around her. She giggles as a gust of wind tousles her fine blonde curls, and you can’t help but smile, brushing them back into place.

“Are you sure about this?” You ask Max, who stands beside you, his hand resting lightly on your lower back.

He glances at you, his expression soft but resolute. “You’re my family. I want everyone to know.”

Your chest tightens, equal parts touched and nervous. “It’s just … people are going to talk.”

“Let them,” Max says simply, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. Then he shifts his attention to your daughter, gently tickling her chin. “Aren’t they, prinsesje? Let them say what they want.”

Her delighted squeal pulls a laugh from him, and for a moment, your nerves melt away.

But the attention is immediate. As soon as you cross into the paddock, a ripple of recognition sweeps through the crowd. Photographers pause, their lenses snapping up. Team personnel do double takes. Whispers spread like wildfire.

You’re prepared for it — at least, as much as you can be. What you’re not prepared for is running into Lewis.

You spot him before he sees you, standing just outside the Ferrari hospitality area in conversation with Fred Vasseur. Your stomach twists as you consider turning around, but before you can move, Lewis glances up.

He freezes.

His gaze locks on you, then drops to the baby in your arms, and his expression shifts from shock to something darker. He mutters something to Fred and strides toward you, his movements purposeful and tense.

“Y/N,” he says, stopping a few feet away. His eyes flicker to Max, who hasn’t left your side, and then back to you. “What … what’s this?”

You take a steadying breath. “Hello, Lewis.”

He ignores the pleasantries, his attention fixed on the child in your arms. “Is that your-” He stops, his jaw tightening. “Is that his?”

Max steps forward slightly, his hand now firm on your back. “Yes,” he says evenly, his voice calm but unyielding. “She is ours.”

Lewis’s eyes narrow, his gaze darting between you and Max. “How long has this been going on?”

“Lewis, I don’t think-”

“How long?” He snaps, his tone sharper now.

You glance at Max, who gives you a reassuring nod. Turning back to Lewis, you say, “A little over two and a half years.”

Lewis exhales sharply, shaking his head as if trying to process the information. “Two and a half years. So, what? You moved on that fast?”

“Don’t do that,” you say quietly, your grip tightening on your daughter. “It wasn’t fast. You know that.”

“Do I?” His voice is bitter, his expression unreadable. “Because from where I’m standing, it sure looks like you didn’t waste any time replacing me.”

Max stiffens beside you, but you place a hand on his arm, silently urging him to let you handle it.

“I didn’t replace you,” you say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. “I moved on. There’s a difference.”

His gaze softens for a moment, flickering with something like hurt. But then he looks at Max again, and the hardness returns. “With him?”

“Yes,” you say firmly, your chin lifting.

Lewis laughs bitterly, running a hand over his face. “Unbelievable.”

“Lewis,” Max interjects, his tone measured but with an edge of steel. “This isn’t about you. It’s about her. And our daughter.”

“Your daughter,” Lewis repeats, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Right. And you think this is going to work? Bringing her into this circus?”

Max’s jaw tightens, but he stays calm. “It’s already working. She’s happy. We’re happy.”

Lewis scoffs, his eyes narrowing. “You think this is happiness? Dragging a baby into this environment? Do you even understand what kind of life you’re giving her?”

You step forward before Max can respond, your voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill. “Don’t you dare judge me. You don’t get to do that. Not after everything.”

Lewis falters, his anger giving way to a flicker of guilt. “I’m not trying to-”

“Yes, you are,” you interrupt. “I get it, okay? You’re hurt. But you don’t get to stand there and act like you know what’s best for me or my family. Not anymore.”

There’s a long, tense silence. Finally, Lewis looks away, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I just … I didn’t think it would end like this,” he mutters.

Neither did you. But you don’t say it. Instead, you adjust your daughter in your arms, her tiny fingers clutching at your jacket, grounding you.

“It’s not about how it ended,” you say softly. “It’s about how we move forward.”

Lewis looks at you, and for a moment, you see the man you loved — the man who promised you a future he could never give. His eyes drop to your daughter, and his expression shifts, softening in a way that makes your heart ache.

“She’s beautiful,” he says quietly, almost reluctantly.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Max steps closer, his hand finding yours and squeezing gently. “We should go,” he says, his voice low but kind.

You nod, giving Lewis one last look before turning away.

***

In the Red Bull motorhome, you sink into a chair, your emotions crashing over you. Max kneels in front of you, his hands resting on your knees as he studies your face.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice gentle.

You nod, though tears blur your vision. “It’s just … hard. Seeing him. The way he looked at me.”

Max leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “You don’t owe him anything. Not your guilt, not your sadness. Nothing. You’re here with me now, with our daughter. That’s all that matters.”

His words soothe you, and you reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek. “I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you too,” he says, his voice unwavering. Then he glances at your daughter, who’s dozing peacefully in her stroller. “And I love her more than anything.”

You smile through your tears, your heart swelling with gratitude and love. No matter what challenges lie ahead, you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

***

Nine Months Later

The final race of the 2025 season is a sea of chaos and celebration. The Yas Marina Circuit glows under the floodlights, the air electric with cheers as Max steps onto the top of the podium for the fifth time in his career. Champagne sprays from the bottles, glistening under the lights, but Max barely seems to notice.

His eyes search through the crowd, scanning the blur of faces until they land on you. There you are, cradling your daughter in your arms, her little Red Bull ear protectors sitting snugly over her head. She’s clapping her hands in that uncoordinated, infant-like way that makes his chest ache with love. And you — God, you. Your smile is soft but radiant, tears glinting in your eyes as you look up at him.

Max feels his heart tighten, his grip on the champagne bottle slackening. He’s been chasing dreams for as long as he can remember — titles, wins, perfection on the track. But now, looking at you and the life you’ve built together, he knows none of it compares to what he has waiting for him off the podium.

He knows what he has to do.

As the podium ceremony winds down, Max fumbles at the inside pocket of his race suit. His fingers brush over the small velvet box he’s carried with him for weeks, waiting for the right moment. This is it. There’s no better time.

Lando Norris, standing to Max’s right after clinching second place, notices his movement and raises a brow. “What are you up to?”

Max doesn’t answer, too focused on what’s coming next. His fingers close around the box, and his pulse quickens.

He steps forward, champagne still dripping from his suit, and motions to the crowd below. “Can we … can someone help her up here?” He calls, his voice cracking slightly with emotion.

You blink, confused, as several Red Bull mechanics glance at each other before moving to you. One of them gestures toward the podium. “Come on,” he says, grinning. “You’re part of this moment.”

“What? No, I-” you stammer, clutching your daughter closer. “I’m fine here-”

“Y/N,” Max says from above, his voice carrying across the noise. His tone is warm but insistent. “Please. Come up.”

Your heart races as you glance around, overwhelmed by the attention, but the mechanics are already helping guide you to the platform. Before you know it, you’re being hoisted onto the podium, your feet landing on the cool metal as you steady yourself.

Max steps toward you, his eyes locked on yours. His gaze is tender, but there’s a flicker of nerves there, too. The crowd’s roar dulls in your ears as he takes a deep breath, his focus entirely on you.

“Y/N,” he begins, his voice trembling slightly. He drops to one knee, the champagne bottle rolling away unnoticed. In his hand is the small velvet box, now open to reveal a sparkling diamond ring.

The crowd erupts.

Your breath catches.

“Y/N,” Max says again, louder this time, his blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I once thought winning a championship would be the best moment of my life. But then I saw you. Holding our daughter, looking at me like that, and I realized the best thing I’ve ever done has nothing to do with racing. It’s us. It’s you. It’s her.”

Tears blur your vision, your hand covering your mouth as you stare down at him.

“I love you,” he continues, his voice cracking. “I love you more than anything in this world. You’ve given me everything I never knew I needed. You’re my family, Y/N, and I don’t want to wait another second to make it official.”

He swallows hard, his hands shaking as he holds the ring toward you. “Will you marry me?”

For a moment, everything seems to stop. The crowd, the cameras, the other drivers — it all fades away. All you can see is Max, his face open and vulnerable in a way you’ve rarely seen. The man who’s always so composed under pressure, the fierce competitor, is looking at you with nothing but love and hope.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice breaking. Then, louder. “Yes, Max. Yes!”

The crowd explodes into cheers as Max lets out a breathless laugh, his face lighting up in relief and joy. He stands quickly, wrapping one arm around your waist while slipping the ring onto your finger with the other. It fits perfectly.

Before you can say anything else, Max cups your face and kisses you, his lips warm and urgent against yours. The kiss is met with an even louder roar from the crowd, but all you can focus on is him — the way his hands tremble slightly, the way he pulls you closer as if afraid to let go.

Your daughter giggles in your arms, and Max pulls back just enough to glance down at her. He grins, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “What do you think, prinsesje? Did Papa do okay?”

She babbles something incomprehensible, and the three of you laugh.

***

Later, in the quiet of his driver’s room, the chaos of the podium ceremony behind you, Max pulls you into his lap as you sit together on the small sofa. Your daughter sleeps soundly in her stroller nearby, her tiny chest rising and falling in rhythm.

Max toys with the ring on your finger, his expression thoughtful. “You know,” he says, his voice soft, “I’ve won a lot of things in my life. But this … this is my greatest victory.”

You smile, resting your forehead against his. “You’re pretty good at making me cry today, Verstappen.”

He chuckles, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Get used to it. I plan on spending the rest of my life making you cry happy tears.”

You hum, leaning into his touch. “Good. Because I plan on spending the rest of my life loving you.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, his arms tightening around you. “Deal.”

And in that moment, with Max holding you close and your daughter sleeping nearby, you realize that this — this is your podium. Your victory. Your forever.

***

The night is impossibly quiet for Abu Dhabi, the hum of the city dulled by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite. The celebrations are over, the crowds dispersed, and now it’s just the three of you. Your daughter sleeps soundly in her cot near the foot of the bed, her tiny face relaxed in peaceful dreams.

You’re wrapped up in Max’s arms, the weight of the day finally catching up with both of you. His chest is warm against your back, his heartbeat steady as his fingers lazily trace patterns on your arm. The ring on your finger catches the faint glow of the bedside lamp, a small, perfect reminder of the life-changing moment you shared hours ago.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur, shifting slightly to glance up at him.

Max’s gaze is soft, his blue eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. “Just thinking,” he says, his voice low and a little hoarse from the day’s shouting and champagne sprays.

“About?”

He pauses, his fingers stilling on your skin. You can feel the hesitation in him, the way his body tenses ever so slightly. It’s not like Max to be unsure — he’s always been decisive, charging into life with the same fearless determination he has on the track.

“Max?” You press gently, turning fully to face him now. “What’s on your mind?”

He exhales a long breath, running a hand through his messy hair. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he starts, his accent curling warmly around the words. “But after today … I think I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

His hand moves to yours, thumb brushing over the ring he gave you just hours earlier. He stares at it for a moment before meeting your gaze, his eyes clear and steady.

“I’m going to retire,” he says softly.

The words hit you like a jolt. For a second, you’re sure you misheard him. “Retire?” You repeat, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, his expression unwavering. “Yeah. I’m done.”

“Max,” you say, your brow furrowing. “You just won your fifth title. You’re at the peak of your career. Why would you …”

He shifts slightly, sitting up so he can look at you more directly. “Because I don’t need it anymore,” he says simply. “I’ve achieved everything I ever wanted in racing. More than I ever thought I could. But now …” He pauses, his gaze flicking briefly to the cot where your daughter sleeps. “Now I have something I want more.”

Your chest tightens, emotions swirling in a chaotic mess you can’t quite untangle. “Are you sure? I mean, Max, this is huge. Racing has been your entire life.”

“I know,” he says, his voice calm but firm. “And I’ll always love it. But I don’t want to spend the next ten or fifteen years chasing something I don’t need, not when it means missing out on moments with you. With her.” He nods toward your daughter, his face softening.

You sit there in stunned silence, trying to process what he’s saying. “But what about the team? And your fans? You love the thrill of it, the competition-”

“Y/N,” he cuts you off gently, reaching for your hand again. “I love you more. I love our family more. And I don’t want to be the kind of dad who’s always gone, always distracted. I’ve seen what that does. I don’t want that for her.”

His words hit you square in the chest, a wave of emotion crashing over you. Tears prick at your eyes as you search his face, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation. But all you see is love and certainty.

“You’re really serious about this,” you say softly, your voice trembling.

He nods. “I’ve thought about it for months. After last season, I told myself I’d give it one more year. One more title. And then I’d walk away. Today, seeing you and her in the crowd, knowing everything we’ve built together … it made me realize I’m ready.”

You reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over the stubble on his jaw. “Max … I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say you’re okay with it,” he says, a small, teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Say you’ll let me stay home and annoy you every day.”

A laugh escapes you, watery but real. “I think I can handle that.”

He leans forward, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because this is what I want, Y/N. You, her, our life together. That’s enough for me. More than enough.”

For a while, you just sit there in the quiet, wrapped up in each other. Your mind is still racing, but your heart feels full, overflowing with love for the man beside you.

“So,” you say after a moment, your voice lighter, “what’s the plan? Are you going to call Christian in the middle of the night and drop this bombshell on him?”

Max chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin. “I’ll give him a day or two to recover from the title celebrations first. Then I’ll tell him.”

“And how do you think he’s going to take it?”

“Oh, he’ll try to talk me out of it,” Max says, rolling his eyes. “He’ll tell me I’m too young, that I’ve got years left in me, that I can win even more. But I’ve already made up my mind.”

You smile, resting your head against his chest. “He’s going to miss you. They all will.”

“I’ll miss them too,” he admits. “But this isn’t goodbye forever. I’ll still be around — just not on the grid.”

“And me?” You ask, your voice teasing. “What if I’m not ready to have you home all the time?”

Max grins, his hand sliding around your waist to pull you closer. “Too late. You’re stuck with me now.”

As the night stretches on, the weight of the day starts to fade, replaced by a quiet sense of peace. Max lies back against the pillows, pulling you with him until you’re nestled against his side.

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice drowsy but warm, “I used to think racing was everything. That I’d be lost without it.”

“And now?” You ask, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest.

“Now I know it was just a part of me. A big part, yeah, but not the most important one. Not anymore.” He pauses, his hand brushing over your hair. “You and her … you’re my everything now.”

Tears sting your eyes again, but this time they’re tears of joy. “Max,” you whisper, your voice catching. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” he says, his words a soft promise against your skin.

And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, you know that no matter what the future holds, you’ll face it together.

***

The room buzzes with an electric energy, the kind that only the FIA Prize Giving Ceremony can create. It’s a night to honor champions, to toast to a season of victories, and to revel in the highs of motorsport. The crowd is a mix of drivers, team principals, engineers, and journalists, all dressed to the nines. You’re seated in the front row, a place reserved for the most important people in the room.

Max is on stage, holding his freshly polished World Championship trophy, the applause still roaring from the moment his name was called. His tuxedo fits him like a glove, and there’s a boyish grin on his face that makes him look impossibly proud — and a little nervous.

In your lap, your daughter wiggles, her tiny hands clutching at the hem of your sparkling gown. She’s too young to understand what’s happening, but the excitement of the room has her wide-eyed and curious. You adjust her slightly, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead as you watch Max step up to the microphone.

“Wow,” Max begins, his voice carrying over the hushed murmurs of the crowd. “What a year. What a … career.”

There’s a ripple of surprise at his choice of words. You feel it too, a sharp intake of breath as he pauses. He hasn’t told anyone outside of your family and a select few about his decision yet, and it hits you that this is the moment.

“I want to start by saying thank you,” Max continues, his accent thick with emotion. “To everyone who made this season possible. To my team at Red Bull — Christian, Helmut, GP, the engineers, the mechanics — every single person who has been part of this journey. We did this together. Five championships in the last five years … it still feels surreal.”

The room breaks into another round of applause, but Max raises a hand to quiet them.

“But tonight isn’t just about this trophy or this season,” he says, his voice steady despite the emotion creeping into it. “It’s about something bigger. About knowing when it’s time to close one chapter and start another.”

Your heart races, and you tighten your hold on your daughter as Max’s words hang in the air.

“When I was a kid, all I ever wanted was to race,” Max says, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. “I grew up at circuits, watching my dad, dreaming of being in Formula 1. And for the last decade, this sport has been my whole life. It’s given me everything. It’s taught me more than I ever imagined — about hard work, about resilience, about pushing beyond what you think is possible.”

He pauses, his eyes flicking down to where you’re sitting. The faintest smile plays on his lips as your gazes meet, and you see the love and certainty there.

“But these past two years,” he continues, his voice softening, “I learned something else. That as much as I love this sport, there’s something I love more. Someone I love more.”

The murmurs in the crowd grow louder, heads turning to you. You feel your cheeks flush, but you keep your focus on Max, your heart pounding.

“Last season, I became a father,” Max says, his tone warming with pride. “And it changed everything. It changed the way I see the world, the way I see myself, and the way I think about my future. I realized that as much as I love racing, I don’t want to miss the little moments … the things that really matter.”

The room falls completely silent, everyone hanging on his every word.

“So,” Max says, his voice unwavering now, “tonight, as I accept this trophy, I also want to announce that this was my last season in Formula 1.”

Gasps ripple through the crowd, followed by stunned silence. Your daughter squirms in your arms, oblivious to the magnitude of what’s just been said.

Max smiles faintly, taking in the shocked faces in the room. “I know it might seem sudden,” he says, “but this is something I’ve thought about for a long time. I’ve achieved everything I could have dreamed of in this sport. I’ve worked with the best team in the world, competed against the best drivers in the world, and I leave with no regrets. But now, it’s time for me to focus on the next chapter of my life. On my family.”

He glances down at you again, and this time his gaze lingers. “Y/N, you and our daughter … you’re my everything. You’ve given me a reason to look beyond the racetrack, and for that, I’ll always be grateful.”

Your vision blurs with tears, and you can’t help but smile up at him. The crowd erupts into applause, some people rising to their feet in admiration and respect.

After a moment, Max raises a hand again, signaling for quiet. “I want to thank the fans,” he says, his voice growing steadier. “You’ve been with me through every win, every loss, every crazy overtake and late-breaking move. You’ve pushed me to be better every single day. And while I won’t be on the grid next season, I’ll always be part of this sport. It’s in my blood, and it always will be.”

The applause grows even louder this time, the room filling with a wave of emotion and admiration. You clap along, your daughter bouncing slightly in your arms at the sound.

When Max steps down from the stage, he comes straight to you. The cameras follow his every move, the flashes almost blinding as he crouches in front of you.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

You nod, your throat too tight with emotion to speak.

He reaches for your daughter, lifting her into his arms with ease. She giggles, grabbing at the shiny lapel of his tuxedo, and Max laughs softly, the sound breaking through the tension in the room.

“We did it,” he says, his eyes locking with yours.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his. “We did,” you whisper back.

***

The rest of the night is a blur of congratulations, handshakes, and emotional farewells. But through it all, Max stays by your side, his arm around your waist or his hand in yours.

As the event winds down, you find yourselves back in the car, your daughter sleeping peacefully in her car seat. The city lights blur past the windows, and Max leans back against the seat, exhaling deeply.

“That went better than I thought,” he says, his voice tinged with relief.

“You were incredible,” you tell him, resting your head on his shoulder.

He glances down at you, his expression soft. “Are you happy?”

You smile, lacing your fingers with his. “More than I ever thought I could be.”

And as the car carries you through the quiet streets, you realize that this is just the beginning of a new adventure — the one Max always knew was waiting for him.

***

Two Years Later

Lewis doesn’t plan to be on this street. He’s never liked taking the busy Monaco thoroughfares, even after all these years of calling the principality home. But a morning run had turned into aimless wandering, and now he’s here, jogging along the promenade, music blasting in his ears, trying to clear his head.

The past two years since Max retired have been strange. No fierce wheel-to-wheel battles with Verstappen, no reminders on the track of the rivalry that defined his career for so long. And yet, Max still lingers in his thoughts — like an echo, a shadow, a specter. Every headline about the Verstappens pops up in his feed: Max is spotted at home with his family. Max is thriving in retirement.

But it’s not Max that Lewis thinks about most. It’s you. It’s always been you.

Lewis slows his pace as he nears the bakery that used to be your favorite. He has no idea if you still come here, or if Monaco even feels like home to you anymore. He shakes his head, chastising himself for thinking like this. You’re gone. You’ve been gone.

But then, he hears it. A child’s voice, high-pitched and sweet, chattering happily. He instinctively looks over, and his feet stop moving altogether.

There you are.

You’re walking hand-in-hand with Max. Max, who looks completely at peace, a little older but no less recognizable. Beside him, a little girl. She’s animated as she talks to him, her tiny hand curled securely around his. And then, there’s the stroller. A navy blue, high-tech design Lewis recognizes from catalogs. Inside is a baby boy, fast asleep, his chubby face serene as he snoozes against the soft fabric.

Lewis feels the air leave his lungs.

You don’t see him. You’re busy talking to Max, laughing at something he says. You’re dressed casually, a flowy sundress swaying around your knees, sunglasses perched on your nose. Your free hand rests on the stroller handle, the gesture almost instinctive. The sight of you like this — effortless, happy, and surrounded by a family — sends a sharp pang through Lewis’ chest.

It’s everything he could’ve had. Everything he pushed away.

His feet are rooted to the spot. He should turn around, jog in the other direction, forget he ever saw you. But he can’t. He watches, transfixed, as your daughter stops mid-sentence to look up at you. “Mama,” she says brightly, tugging Max’s hand. “Can I have a croissant?”

Max chuckles. “You already had one,” he tells her, his voice gentle.

“But they’re so good!” She says, throwing her head back dramatically.

Lewis can’t stop staring. The little girl is Max’s spitting image, but there’s something about her smile, the way her nose scrunches, that reminds him of you.

And then, she notices him.

Your daughter’s bright eyes land on Lewis, and she grins like she’s just seen a new friend. “Hello!” She says, waving enthusiastically with her free hand.

You glance up, confused at first, following her gaze. Lewis freezes.

But it’s not him you’re looking at. It’s a man unloading bags from his car in front of him, and you nod politely before turning back to Max and your daughter.

Lewis exhales shakily, a mix of relief and a pang of disappointment. He steps back, half-hidden by the awning of a nearby café, watching as you and Max resume walking.

The little girl waves once more, still beaming, before Max gently nudges her along. “Come on, prinsesje,” he says. “Let’s not keep your brother waiting for his nap to be over.”

Lewis stays there, unmoving, as you all walk away. He watches the way Max leans toward you, saying something that makes you laugh again. He watches the way your daughter skips a little ahead, still clutching Max’s hand, her voice bubbling with excitement as she points to a pigeon fluttering by. And he watches you look down at the stroller, adjusting the blanket over the baby boy who sleeps so peacefully, oblivious to everything around him.

It’s a picture-perfect scene. A life filled with love and joy, one that Lewis now realizes — painfully, completely — he could have been part of.

The memories flood in uninvited.

The nights spent on this same Monaco promenade with you, your hand slipping into his as you admired the lights reflecting off the water. The quiet mornings when you’d sit at the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and talking about what life might look like after racing. The promises he made and didn’t keep.

He thinks about the last time he saw you, about the anger and hurt in your eyes, about the way he walked out that night because he couldn’t bring himself to say the words you needed to hear. And now, here you are — walking down this same street with someone who isn’t afraid to put you first.

Lewis sinks onto a nearby bench, running a hand over his face. His chest feels tight, his breathing shallow. He thinks he’s moved on, that he’s made peace with the choices he’s made. But seeing you, seeing your family — it’s a wound he didn’t even realize was still open.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at the spot where you disappeared from view. Minutes? Hours? Long enough for his playlist to loop back to the beginning.

A group of tourists wanders past, laughing and snapping photos of the marina. Lewis doesn’t look up. He stays on the bench, shoulders slumped, the weight of what he’s lost pressing down on him.

By the time he makes it back to his apartment, the sun is setting over Monaco, casting the city in hues of orange and gold. He heads straight for the balcony, leaning heavily on the railing as he stares out at the water.

It should be a beautiful view, but tonight it feels empty.

For years, racing has been his everything. It’s been his escape, his purpose, his identity. But now, for the first time, he wonders if it was worth it.

Because no trophy, no title, no amount of glory could fill the space you once inhabited.

And for the first time, Lewis feels like the one who’s been left behind.

[suntails]

stalemate

[ivyues]

Reunited Moments: Stray Kids’ reactions to seeing their S/O after a long time

Bang Chan

The moment Chris sees you, his eyes widen in disbelief before softening with overwhelming emotion. A breath catches in his throat as he takes a step forward, then another – until he’s practically running.

"Y/N..." he whispers.

Before you can even respond, he pulls you into his arms, holding you close, as if making sure you're really there. His warmth engulfs you, and you feel the way his fingers clutch the fabric of your shirt, refusing to let go. His chest rises and falls unevenly, and when you tilt your head up, you notice the slight shimmer in his eyes.

"I missed you so much," he murmurs against your hair, his voice thick with emotion.

A tear escapes, but he doesn’t care. He kisses you gently, his lips soft against yours as though he’s afraid you might slip away again. His kiss deepens, letting himself believe that finally, finally, you're back in his arms.

Lee Know

As soon as Lee Know sees you, he freezes, his lips pressing into a firm line. His arms cross over his chest as he shifts his weight, trying to play it cool.

"Took you long enough," he mutters, looking away, but the way his fingers twitch at his sides gives him away.

You smile, stepping closer, and that’s when his façade cracks. Before you can even tease him, he sighs in defeat and pulls you into a tight hug, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“…Idiot. I missed you," he mumbles, voice barely above a whisper. His grip on you tightens for a second before he quickly pulls back. "Don’t disappear like that again," he adds.

Even as he tries to regain his composure, his hands linger on your waist, unwilling to let you go just yet.

The rest of the day, Lee Know doesn’t let you stray too far. No matter where you go, he’s right there, a little too close, always glancing at you like he’s making sure you’re still within arm’s reach.

Changbin

The moment Changbin lays his eyes on you, his face lights up with pure joy. "Y/N!" he shouts, already moving towards you at full speed. Before you can even react, he scoops you up, spinning you around in the air as laughter bubbles out of you.

“I missed you so much!” he exclaims. The world blurs around you, but all you can focus on is his bright smile and the way his arms feel so secure around you.

When he finally sets you down, he immediately pulls you into another bone-crushing hug, squeezing you so tight you can barely breathe.

"Binnie—I can't breathee!" you gasp, laughing while patting his shoulder.

"Shh, just a little longer," he mumbles against your shoulder, refusing to let go. You feel his arms tighten slightly as if he's afraid you'll disappear again. "I don't wanna let go yet."

And honestly, neither do you.

Hyunjin

Hyunjin stops in his tracks the moment he sees you. His eyes go wide, his breath hitching as he stares like he's seeing a ghost.

"No way…" he whispers, shaking his head in disbelief. He even blinks a few times before looking at you again. "Is this real? Am I dreaming?"

You laugh softly, taking a step closer. "I—I can't believe it," he says, voice trembling slightly.

You roll your eyes at his dramatics but smile nonetheless. "Yes, Hyunjin, I'm here. You can touch me if you want proof."

At that, he finally snaps out of it, rushing forward and pulling you into a desperate hug. His arms wrap tightly around you, his body molding against yours.

"I missed you so much," he murmurs, his voice quieter now as he simply holds you. 

You smile into his shoulder, squeezing him just as tightly. "I'm not going anywhere."

Han

The moment Han lays eyes on you, his expression shifts instantly – his playful smile falters, his lips part like he wants to say something, but no words come out.

The second he reaches you, he crashes into you, wrapping his arms around you so tightly it nearly knocks the breath out of you. His head buries into your shoulder, and that’s when you feel it – his quiet sniffles, the way his body trembles slightly against yours.

"You—" His voice cracks, and he grips you even tighter. "I was gone for so long…"

Your hands run soothingly through his hair as you hold him just as tightly, your own heart aching. Minutes pass, but Han doesn’t let go, as if making up for all the time spent apart.

“Just a little longer,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

You nod, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head. "As long as you need."

And so you stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms, neither of you willing to let go.

Felix

The moment Felix sees you, he completely freezes. His eyes widen, lips parting slightly as if he can’t believe you’re really there. Then, before he can stop it, his eyes glisten with tears.

You barely have time to react before the first tear rolls down his cheek. That’s all it takes for you to rush forward, closing the distance between you. The second your arms wrap around him, he melts into you, gripping onto you like you might disappear if he lets go.

A shaky sob escapes him as he buries his face into your shoulder, his whole body trembling against yours. “I missed you so much,” he whispers, his deep voice breaking with emotion. His hands clutch the back of your shirt tightly.

You rub his back soothingly, holding him just as tightly. “I’m here now, Lix,” you murmur, pressing a soft kiss to his hair asyou feel a wetness on your own cheek.

You pull back, gently wiping away a tear from your face. “Hey, no fair. Now you’re making me cry too,” you tease, your voice light but full of warmth, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

Seungmin

The moment Seungmin sees you, a playful smirk plays on his lips. But is gaze softens the moment he notices the glisten of tears in your eyes, replaced by an expression of concern.

You try to brush it off, sniffling and wiping your eyes. "Aren’t you gonna tease me for crying?" you ask, trying to laugh.

But instead of teasing you, Seungmin steps forward, his arms immediately enveloping you in a warm, reassuring hug. His grip is firm yet gentle, as if he’s trying to convey just how much he’s missed you without saying a word.

"Hey I'm not that mean," he murmurs softly, his voice quieter than usual. "I missed you, too, you know."

You rest your head on his chest, the warmth and comfort of his embrace enough to make everything feel okay again.

I.N

The moment I.N sees you, his entire face lights up with pure joy. His bright smile spreads across his lips, his eyes crinkling with excitement as he practically bounces towards you.

"Y/N!" he exclaims as he rushes to you without a second thought.

Before you can even react, he pulls you into a warm hug, his arms wrapping securely around you. There's no hesitation, no shyness – just the sheer joy of having you back in his arms. He rocks you slightly from side to side, his laughter bubbling up like he can’t contain it.

"I missed you so much," he says, pulling back just enough to look at you. "You have no idea how happy I am to see you again!"

Seeing him this cheerful makes your heart swell, and you can’t help but smile just as brightly. “I think I do,” you say, squeezing him again.

masterlist

[mythalism]

i think whats so interesting about the severe fumble of the dragon age elves is how i get the feeling that the devs underestimated how many people identify so strongly with them, even outside of the cultures they are most often cited as analogous to. you dont have to be indigenous or jewish to see yourself or your family or your people in their struggle. anyone who has ever experienced racism, xenophobia, religious persecution, or any sort of social and economic discrimination can find themselves reflected in the elves of thedas. anyone who has experienced poverty. anyone who has ever experienced the threat of sexual violence. perhaps not all of the experience would resonate but some aspect of it would. and even if they weren't so universally relatable, they should have been treated better for the way they do so clearly mimic real world experiences of genocide, racism and discrimination and the implications of veilguard's message to just "forget the past and move on" is frankly disgusting when viewed as an answer to the same questions faced daily by the real world cultures they reflect, and yesterday's anon showed that brilliantly.

but im also fascinated by the thought process behind how they just got so readily written off as an irrelevant monolith. it feels like they thought it would make no difference for players to lose this major point of connection to the world. epler's comment about how the "elves had their time to shine" haunts my nightmares. where are they getting these ideas from like genuinely? i dont understand where this conception of the players being sick of elves comes from. sick of solas, sure. even ancient elves. this is a widely expressed sentiment all over the internet and i don't blame people for it. but modern elves? city elves and enslaved elves and new dalish clans? are people actually saying this somewhere? or did they just conflate people being sick of how over-exposed solas and ancient elves were with being tired of elves as a people? did they think that requests for more dwarf and qunari lore meant people wanted the elves to be narratively absent? and did they really try to remedy that with giving titan/harding a throwaway line about how the elves have "thrived" while they suffered? and not actually really giving the dwarves or qunari anything substantial anyway? or did they fear criticism for writing them "wrong" and decided it was better to barely write them at all? did they think the players just wouldn't care? did they think at all?

[qqueenofhades]

Gotta say, it's heartening to see just how terrible a time these GOP chucklefucks are having. This administration and its cronies are even MORE disastrously incompetent than last time, and that's saying something. Yeah, the next several years are still gonna suck, but at least we can laugh at these shit-for-brains assholes continuing to run head-first into the brick wall of their own incompetence. And perhaps even prevent the worst outcomes.

Honestly, the biggest fear for everyone was that giving the fascists four more years to plan and actually write down all of Project 2025 would mean that they were focused, competent, stone cold driven, ready to actually work to change things for real, and otherwise buckle down and be -- well, if not something approaching competent, at least effective. Or the fear that the American public, being fickle and underinformed at the best of times, would just sit back and let them do it. Because, yknow. Half this godforsaken country did just somehow shrug and vote for the orange monster again, so.

But that said, as I pointed out earlier today, it IS fucking heartening to see that they're the same mean, stupid, chaotic shitbags as ever, they really decided to go for the shock-and-awe LOL WATCH US BLOW EVERYTHING UP!!! approach that has gotten them nothing except turbo-sued and enraged the entire country, they basically united the entire world against Russia and for Ukraine in literally ten minutes yesterday (hope you enjoyed that little clown show, Vladimir!) and furthermore, nobody is afraid of them, which is death to fascists. I often point out that fascists desperately want people to be afraid of them and think they're cool, competent, unstoppable, and suave. They also especially, incredibly, desperately hate being laughed at and mocked. They can't stand it.

As such, the fact that they're just the same as ever except worse, and are not magically more competent (in fact, much worse) and are their own worst enemies, does in fact bode well for our ultimate ability to get through this. They will break shit, they will needlessly alienate friends and allies, they will torment every vulnerable group they can just to be dicks, and all of this was just so avoidable... but. Nobody likes them for it, even the people who deluded themselves into voting for them. They're scared little chickenshits who are having a bad bad time that will only get worse, especially if they actually try to cut Social Security and Medicaid, which is basically the death knell of stupid things to do in American politics. Because they just can't help themselves, but this is really, REALLY not going to work out well for them. It just won't.

As such, when they're already running from the heat ONE MONTH into the Glorious Eternal Rule of King Donald, like the little pissbabies they are, it tells me that there is literally no way they're gonna manage four years of this. They just aren't (and Deo volente Trump will finally have an aneurysm and die facedown in a Big Mac before 2028). To say the least, the 2026 midterms are gonna be interesting, especially if the GOP keeps digging their own grave, and yes.

As I keep saying: things are bad. They will get worse. But these miserable jabronies are just as pathetic and beatable as they have ever been, they did not suddenly get magically competent at being pointlessly evil, the country is showing out with a spirited will to make them suffer immensely for every braindead numbnuts piece of Nazi performative cruelty they attempt and often fail, and in these dark times, every day that we can fight back matters a lot. It’s working and we have gotta keep doing it. Idk about you, but I feel energized by seeing it. So yeah, say it with me:

STAY! STRONG! AND! KEEP! THEM! SCARED!

The end.

[drchucktingle]

As an autistic person, did you struggle to make and keep friends? And have you found friends through the writing world? I ask because my mom always said i needed to find my people. I did finally find them (they are neurodiverse trans nerds, haha), but not until i was like 30. And i wonder if its true of other autistic people too. So i guess my question is: did you find your people, and when?

thank you this is good question. i have always had a LOT of CLOSE BUDS even from a very young age. i would actually say that i am unusually socially adept in my way and that it is partially BECAUSE of my autistic trot. LETS TALK ON THAT FOR A MOMENT

'BUT CHUCK YOU SAID YOU ARE ON THE SPECTRUM AND AUTISTIC BUCKAROOS CANNOT BE SOCIALLY ADEPT' some say. and sure it is UNUSUAL overall, technically speaking, but there is also an important reason we talk about this as a spectrum of buckaroos and not a monolith

when buckaroos ask me what it is like to be autistic i try to explain like this: there are certain cues and markers from the outside that serve as a sort of identification checklist but because of masking they are not always correct. instead i see it as question of WHAT IS IT LIKE INSIDE YOUR BRAIN?

internally my brain is different. its taking in way more information all the time, including the stuff that neurotypical buds block out, and that can become overwhelming. it is hard to navigate because i do not have that automatic neurotypical 'here is what is important here is what is not' function

so yes i can be easily distracted and zone out as i watch the patterns and fractals spin off. and yes i can miss certain things in social situations. in many autistic buckaroos this makes large groups overwhelming and the OUTPUT of behavior matches what we typically know as signs of autism

FOR ME however, same thing is going on inside, but i have managed to HARNESS that information. even from very young age i see that everyone is DOING THE HUMAN ACT but instead of rejecting that and shutting off i think 'well okay i am just going to do THIS because thats what they actually want'

in other words, most neurotypical buds say one thing that has a kind of spiraling social-cue-related OTHER MEETING (they do this ALL the time) and instead of rejecting that i have trained myself to be REALLY REALLY good at knowing the hidden meaning. it is EMPATHY but on a sort of LOGIC BASED level

and because i have always been pretty good at that, people like to trot around me and say 'wow this is a good friend they understand me'. now for ME that can be a little exhausting and there are things i need to do and stims and all that to release the effort, but overall it is worth it to me

OTHER THING is that i was a successful CREATOR AND ARTIST BUCKAROO from an early age which is socially seen as 'cool' especially when you are trotting around in your youth. it is not particularly FAIR but it is true that some level of fame makes buds treat you well even if you are 'weird'.

of course it can be a sort of FAKE 'treating you well' but as an autistic buckaroo it is still more of a chance than you might otherwise get. this timeline has sort of carved out a very special little sliver of social grace for the token odd artistic weirdo to have a seat at each cool kids table

ANYWAY that is the trot of my life. it is a unique trot that i dont get to talk on much but since you asked THERE YOU GO. every chance i get to say 'I LOVE BEING AUTISTIC' and talk on HOW MUCH IT HAS IMPROVED MY LIFE i try to take a moment and do that. when i was young i had few autistic heroes

and OF COURSE it can be difficult and overwhelming and we need to have space for those stories and voices, but i want young buckaroos who get this diagnosis to know there are ALL KINDS of stories and trots on the autism spectrum. MINE IS PRETTY DANG COOL and maybe yours will be too. LOVE IS REAL

[rafesbuzzcutseason]

chasing city lights

chapter 22 - every word

synopsis: you move to new york to start fresh, hoping to find comfort in the city’s atmosphere. that’s when you meet sarah cameron, where she takes you to a concert and you catch sight of the lead band member, rafe cameron. it only takes a moment for you to realize you’re captivated by him. as sarah helps you navigate your new life in the city, you start to get pulled deeper into rafe's world—the music, the fame, the chaos. the more you get to know him, the more you realise that rafe is not just the rock star he seems to be. he’s wrestling with his own demons, and the last thing he needs is someone like you getting close.

masterlist

cw: language, angst, sorry this is more fic i had to get it out

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you had just settled down for the evening, having spent the day with kie you were feeling happy and ready to unwind for bed, until you heard a knock on your door.

a wave of panic rushed over you, as the knocking only increased in desperation.

you got up and looked out the window, just to see:

rafe.

what the fuck was he doing here.

you stood there, frozen in your position with your heart hammering in your chest.

another knock. louder this time.

“y/n, please open the door.”

your fingers twitched at your sides, reaching for the door knob.

how fucking dare he show up here after everything?

you yanked the door open so fast he took a step back, eyes widening slightly at your appearance.

you looked good, and from the way his gaze flickered over you, you knew he saw it too.

“what the fuck do you want, rafe?”

his jaw tensed, hands clenching into fists at his sides. “y/n." he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his messy hair. “can we just—can we talk? please?”

“talk?” you scoffed, crossing your arms. "now you want to talk? after you've seen me doing good?"

rafe’s eyes darkened, his whole body tensing. “y/n, it’s not what you think.”

you shook your head, letting out a laugh. “it never is, is it?”

his jaw twitched, struggling to keep his composure. he wasn't expecting you to be angry. “that picture—”

“don’t.” you held up a hand. “i don’t want to hear it.”

he stepped closer, his voice dropping. “it’s not what it looked like.”

you let out a sharp breath, forcing yourself to meet his sad gaze. “you think that changes anything?” your voice wavered, but you steadied it. “you didn’t call, rafe. you didn’t text. not once.”

his lips parted like he wanted to argue, "you broke up with me. what was i supposed to do?"

“you let me sit in that heartbreak alone,” you whispered, voice laced with so much anger it nearly scared you. “you didn't even try. and then i wake up to you kissing another girl?"

rafe shook his head quickly. “i was drunk, y/n-"

“no.” you clenched your jaw, gripping the door like it was the only thing keeping you steady. “let me finish. you don’t get to show up here and act like you give a shit. you don't get to release this fucking song like it'll win me back."

his eyes searched yours, something breaking in his expression. “i do give a shit,” he said, voice softer now, almost desperate. “i still- that song, i meant every word.”

“no.” you stepped back, “i don’t want to hear it.” tears threatening to spill. "you didn't even fight for me." you whispered.

rafe's heart dropped at that, he took another step forward, his voice, desperate. “y/n, please. i messed up. i know i did. but you have to believe me, that song, that was real. we were real. everything you think happened, didn't happen. i only ever wanted you, only ever loved you. fuck, still love you.”

your chest ached, like he was physically pulling at the wound he left in you. part of you wanted to believe it. but another part, the part that still felt the sting of betrayal, the part that had spent weeks crying over him, knew better.

“i don’t care.” the lie tasted bitter on your tongue.

his face fell those words punching him in the stomach. “yes, you do.”

you swallowed, you couldn't look at him. “you let me go.”

his lips parted, but no words came out. he tried to step closer, take your hand in his. you almost let him.

tears started to well up in rafe's eyes, and the sight made you want to break.

"why did you kiss her rafe? did i mean that little?" you questioned, voice shaking.

"no y/n, that isn't it." he started.

"then what is it?"

"i was so drunk."

"i know you were, i've already told you that isn't an excuse." anger burning inside you again.

"no y/n, i kissed her because-" his breath catching in his throat.

"spit it out rafe." your frustration rising.

"i thought it was you."

and just like that, the anger disappeared.

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a/n: i'm not done breaking your hearts just yet

taglist: @hoefordrewstarkey @marleymarleymarleymarley @bee-43 @cherryhoneybabe @skye-44 @drewrry @drewrry  @yesterdaysproblemm @dylsdaily @rafeysworldim19 @valyrianflower @kaiparkerwifes@judesgfirl@4urvalidation@chillgal135 @drewstarkeyslover@yesshewrites1@amterasuu@babykhloutofthisworld@blushmimi  @moonywhisp3rs @rafeysworldim19 @marleymarleymarleymarley@sabrina-carpenter-stan-account@vcnillafairy@bambii1i @sammyrenae68 @kittenjujusblog @bambii1i @thesunflowersociety @wtfdudesblog @voidangxls @jjmaybankmylovee @munsoncultedits @emmiesummers @darlingstarkey @sassyvillaintrophy  @pogueprincesa @stylestarkey @sodapopwaldor @hannaa20002000 @stelleduarte @davinashifts333

[pbaz7]

FLIGHT 2136: PART 9

paige x azzi

word count: 7.3k

A/N: I don’t even know. I’m real iffy about this (i hate it) but a lot of people wanted it so here we are lol. This is honestly a random ass chapter and it’s a little all over the place. There’s at least a common theme throughout the chapter which is good I guess! Let me know what you think :)

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Paige has been chronically offline since the accident. Of course she still scrolls on her accounts but her social media presence was almost nonexistent—just a collection of sponsored ads and the occasional basketball dump that, knowingly to fans, was usually Azzi’s doing these days. If it weren’t for her teammates tagging her in posts, some people joked they’d forget she even had social media.

Because Paige was so inactive online, fans paid extra attention to her whenever she did show up. Every glimpse of her—whether it was a blurry background appearance in someone’s TikTok or a split-second cameo in an Instagram story—became something to dissect. It wasn’t just about what she was doing, but who she was always with.

Azzi wasn’t much better when it came to social media. She posted more than Paige, but that wasn’t saying much. Her feed was mostly basketball, occasional glimpses into her workouts, and sometimes a rare photo dump. But what fans noticed most was that, when she did post anything remotely fun or glimpses of her life, Paige was often in the videos.

It started subtly—Azzi posting TikTok trends with the team, Paige reluctantly included but always standing closest to Azzi. Then, she’d randomly post duets of them. Ones where Paige didn’t even try to hide her smile when Azzi pulled her into frame, or where she’d roll her eyes but still play along, because it was Azzi. Fans ate it up, stitching their videos with captions like Azzi is the only one who can make Paige do anything.

Then there were the off-the-court moments. Paige and Azzi getting caught whispering on the bench regardless of who was sitting in between them. The way Azzi’s hand would linger on Paige’s arm after huddles, or how Paige always seemed to turn to Azzi first when she was talking.

None of it was concrete. But to fans who had been paying attention, it was enough to start putting the pieces together.

The suspicion grew more on a random night after a game. KK, Aubrey, and Ice were piled in one of the team suites, Ice’s phone was propped up on live. They weren’t talking about anything in specific—just answering questions, talking about the game, and laughing about something they were trying to explain they saw from the bench.

In the background, Paige was in her own world, sitting on the couch, scrolling through her phone like she didn’t even know the live was happening. Which wasn’t unusual. Paige was rarely the one front and center in these kinds of things, and the fans knew it.

But that didn’t stop them from trying.

The comments flooding in.

Pls get Paige in the camera!

Can Paige come say hi???

Ice glanced over her shoulder. “Yo, they’re asking for you,” she told Paige, shifting the camera slightly to show the fans her reaction.

Paige didn’t even look up from her phone. She just shook her head, laughing. “Nah, I’m good.”

The comments started flying in:

SHE LAUGHED OMG

She always does this 😭

Why is Paige allergic to cameras but will be in every single Azzi TikTok?

KK snickered, reading the comments in her head but not saying anything out loud. She, Ice, and Aubrey went back to talking about what happened on the bench during the game, reenacting the moment that had them in tears. The chat kept moving at full speed, fans still begging for Paige to come into frame, but the three ignored it, too caught up in their conversation.

After about 15 minutes the door to the suite opened, and Azzi walked in with Jana.

When they stepped in, Ice perked up. “Look who it is!” she said, grinning.

“Come say hi to the live real quick,” KK said, motioning for them to get in frame.

Jana, always down, strolled right over and leaned into the camera. “What are y’all doing?” she said, reading some of the comments as they flooded in.

Azzi, on the other hand, didn’t fully step in. She just popped her head into frame, flashing a quick smile. “Hey, guys,” she said casually before popping back out.

With the addition of Jana, the energy in the room picked up again. Ice, KK, and Aubrey focused on interacting with fans. The chat was flying, a mix of people laughing along and still—relentlessly—begging for Paige to get in the camera.

KK was the first to notice. She shook her head and nudged Aubrey, who glanced at what KK was pointing at and laughing. Jana and Ice caught on next, and within a few seconds, the four of them silently reached an agreement.

They all turned toward Paige simultaneously, eyes wide, lips jutted out in exaggerated pouts.

Paige, still lounging on the couch, didn’t even have to look up to know something was off. They had gotten way too quiet. With a small sigh, she lifted her head—only to be met with four identical, pleading expressions staring directly at her.

She blinked. “That looks like a scene from a horror movie.”

KK snorted, but no one broke character.

Paige let out a long sigh before pushing herself off the couch. “Alright, alright, chill,” she mumbled, as she walked toward them.

The live chat exploded:

NO WAY SHE ACTUALLY GOT UP THE POWER THEY HAVE

We finally won 😭

She stepped into the frame and forced a tight smile. “Hello,” she said simply.

She looks like she’s being held hostage 💀

Someone check if she blinked twice

Paige glanced down at the screen, reading through a few of them which were definitely inappropriate and shook her head. “Y’all are crazy,” she mumbled.

Then, her attention shifted slightly—just past the camera.

Her lips curled into a small grin, subtle at first, but it grew when her ears tinged a faint shade of red. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked. Her voice was softer, more familiar, like she had completely forgotten they were on live.

The chat instantly reacted.

WHO IS SHE TALKING TO??

Wait, what’s happening?

Y’all saw that shift in energy?? HELLO???

Just then, another voice mumbled something from behind the camera. "You look cute when you’re all shy like that."

Paige’s smile deepened as she shook her head, a small huff escaping her lips. “Did I say I was shy?” she shot back, raising an eyebrow.

WHO JUST SAID THAT??

Was that Azzi???

NAH WHOEVER THAT IS HAS HER FLUSTERED

Paige is actually blushing. I’m sick, it's not me.

Azzi’s voice came again, a little clearer this time, but still low enough that it wasn’t obvious who was speaking. "You don’t have to say it. I can see it."

Paige bit her lip, eyes flickering downward for a second before shaking her head again. “Mhm,” she hummed, her amusement clear. “That’s crazy.”

Now the fans were in full meltdown mode, scrambling to piece it together.

HELLO???

WHAT IS HAPPENING.

WHO IS SHE TALKING TO??

KK glanced down at the comments, but she hadn’t been following the chaos leading up to them. All she saw was "Who’s behind the camera?"

“Oh,” she said, reaching for the phone. “It’s just Azzi Fudd Fudd.”

She turned the camera toward Azzi, who barely had time to blink before being on the live. Azzi gave a small smile, waving before KK propped the phone back in its original spot.

OH. MY. GOD.

IT WAS AZZI LMAOOO

THE WAY SHE WAS JUST STANDING THERE?? HELLO??

Paige, babe, be so real with us right now. Like be fr.

Paige, for her part, had already retreated back to the couch, stretching out with an arm over the backrest.

Eventually, Azzi wandered over, standing in front of Paige, who tilted her head up to look at her. The fans couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it didn’t matter because Paige had that goofy grin on her face—the one she only ever gave Azzi.

Paige picked up her phone, holding it out in front of her as she showed something to Azzi. Azzi took it, leaning down just a little closer, her eyebrows furrowing as she examined the screen. The fans could see her jaw drop in mock disbelief.

“Absolutely not,” Azzi said, shaking her head with a playful, incredulous tone.

Paige looked shocked. “Wait, what?” she asked, but before Azzi responded, she was turning to walk off frame, clearly trying to hide a grin.

Paige jumped up from the couch to follow her. The camera caught her moving quickly, her hand still holding her phone as she trailed behind Azzi, just as the two disappeared off-camera.

A moment later, a playful squeal is heard, followed by Azzi’s laughter. “Paige, stop!” she yells through her laugh.

There’s a bit of shuffling—movement that suggests a playful struggle—before Paige’s voice comes through. “You act like you don’t like it.”

After that there was a soft thud, like someone bumping into furniture, then the distant click of a door shutting.

KK glances toward the door before turning back to the screen, eyebrows raised.

As time passed and Paige and Azzi still hadn’t returned, the live became chaotic, with Ice and KK taking over, entertaining fans the best way they knew how—by arguing.

“Bro, you literally just said the opposite like five minutes ago,” Ice argued, pointing at KK.

“Girl boo. No, I didn’t,” KK shot back.

“Oh my God bro yes you did,” Ice insisted, shaking her head. “Somebody roll the tape.”

Then, someone finally asked:

Where did Paige and Azzi go???

KK glanced at the chat. “Prolly with they boyfriends.”

Ice turned her head, eyes widening before she let out a snicker, barely holding back her laugh.

GIRL BE SO FR RIGHT NOW.

WITH WHO???? NAME NAMES.

ICE LAUGHING CAUSE SHE KNOWS.

Paige and Azzi somewhere laughing at us rn.

KK YOU’RE NOT FUNNY (yes you are but still).

After that live, it seemed like the fans were watching their every move. It wasn’t like Paige and Azzi were hiding anything—it was more that they weren’t about to make any official announcements, nor were they ever planning on doing anything overt in front of the cameras.

Still, the speculation never stopped. Fans were divided—some adamantly claimed the two of them weren’t even gay, others argued they were just best friends, while a small group swore up and down that something was definitely happening between them. Despite all the chatter, Paige and Azzi never commented on it. And that, in itself, said enough.

There were no denials, no confirmations, just the two of them continuing on with their lives, the bond between them only becoming more obvious with time. It was clear to anyone who paid close enough attention that Paige and Azzi were something more than just teammates, more than just friends. But until they decided otherwise, everyone would have to keep guessing.

…

The podcast started, and the two of them were settled in front of the mics, the cameras already rolling. Paige looked a little stiff at first, clearly still not quite used to the whole “podcast” thing, while Azzi was a little more relaxed.

The Overtime WBB manager gave them a thumbs up, signaling for them to just start talking, telling them they’d chime in if they needed anything..

Azzi leaned into the mic first. "Hi, I’m Azzi Fudd."

Paige raised a hand, half-waving at the camera. "Paige Bueckers."

Azzi flashed a grin. "Um so, we’re partnering with Overtime WBB for a few podcast episodes, and honestly, it’s just gonna be a yap session. Nothing too serious. Just us talking and they’re going to clip whichever parts they like."

Paige chuckled at that. "Yap session? That’s one way to put it."

Azzi turned to her with her grin still in place. "Basically what it is. And yes, you have to participate."

Paige huffed as she leaned back in her chair. "I don’t know why I got picked for this.”

"You know exactly why you got picked for this."

Paige just shakes her head, picking up some of the cards they had in front of her, flipping through them absentmindedly. She wasn’t quite sure where to start.

Azzi raised an eyebrow, glancing at the cards in Paige’s hands. "So, how do you wanna do this?"

Paige looked up, smiling softly. "You can start."

Azzi leaned forward, giving Paige a look. "Just so you know I’m not running this whole thing. I’ll let you sit there being mysterious for a little bit though."

Paige laughed. "I’m not tryna be mysterious. I’m just… tryna figure out how to talk into a mic without sounding awkward."

Azzi laughed softly. "Just act like we're on the phone or FaceTime or something."

Paige gave her a look—one silently saying, you definitely don’t want us doing that.

Azzi caught the look and rolled her eyes slightly, laughing again. "Okay, maybe let’s not do that."

Paige nodded with a grin on her face. "Exactly."

Azzi shook her head, picking up the cards in front of her. She scanned through a few trying to find one that she knew would relax Paige a little bit. After a second she turned back to Paige with a grin. “Who's the best shooter on the team?"

Paige snorted. "Me."

Azzi raised an eyebrow "So, we're starting off the first episode with lying, huh?"

"Azzi, I’m a better shooter than you."

"Really? Do we wanna tell everybody what happened yesterday after practice?"

Paige sat up in her chair as she squinted her eyes at Azzi. "You mean when you cheated and threw your ball in the air on my last shot?"

Azzi grinned. "You still missed. Meaning you lost."

Paige shook her head. "You cheated.

Azzi’s grin only grew as she shrugged nonchalantly. "You're just a sore loser."

Paige shot her a glare. "I’m a sore loser? You still can't admit I beat you in a one-on-one."

"Because you didn’t win."

Paige threw her hands up. "Bro, I was up 18-17!"

Azzi’s grin only grew when she saw Paige getting riled up. "Exactly. It was win by two. So, no, you didn’t win."

Paige let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking her head. "Whatever."

Azzi laughed, leaning back in her chair. "I’ll let you be delusional today but we both know what's good."

Paige smirked a little at this but didn't say anything back. Just raised her eyebrows at Azzi before she looked down at her cards. After a moment, she picked one out and glanced up at Azzi.

"Would you rather be stuck in a room with me or Coach for 24 hours?"

Azzi snorted, her face lighting up with amusement. She pretended to think for a moment, tapping her chin dramatically before glancing at Paige with a grin. "I don’t know man...that’s a tough one...you’d get a little annoying after like hour ten."

Paige dropped her jaw in disbelief, looking at Azzi like she’d just been betrayed. "Wowww."

Azzi's eyes sparkled as she looked back at Paige. "Still…I’d rather be stuck in a room with you, Paige."

The way she said it and the way she looked at Paige as she tilted her head slightly, made the words hang in the air for a moment. There was a beat of silence, the slight tension between them clear to everyone in the room. Paige held Azzi’s gaze, and for just a second, neither of them said anything—too caught up in the weight of the moment.

Paige’s smile faded slightly, her heartbeat a little louder in her ears. Azzi blinked, breaking the spell, and leaned back casually in her chair, her grin returning like nothing had happened.

Azzi flipped to the next card, reading it over before glancing at Paige with a curious expression. “Who's the hardest player to guard in college basketball?”

Paige barely hesitated before answering, her voice smooth in the mic. “You.”

Azzi blinked, caught off guard for a split second before a slow smirk spread across her face. “Oh?” she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Go on.”

Paige rolled her eyes at Azzi’s reaction but continued. “You’re shifty, your release time is basically nonexistent, you can get to the rim, and you never stop moving. It’s annoying.”

Azzi grinned, clearly pleased. “Annoying, huh?”

Paige nodded. “Very.”

“So what I’m hearing is, I give you problems.”

Paige scoffed, shaking her head. “Alright I never said allat.”

Azzi turned to the camera, her smile still present. “You hear that, everybody? Paige Bueckers just admitted that I’m the toughest player she’s had to guard. Basically said she can’t guard me.”

Paige groaned, rubbing her temples. “See, this is why I don’t say nice things. Your head gets bigger than it already is.”

Azzi laughed, clearly enjoying every second of Paige’s frustration, before turning back to the camera. "I swear she’s a lot nicer to me when she isn’t in front of a camera."

Paige scoffed, tilting her head slightly. "That’s funny, ’cause I was just thinking the same thing about you."

Azzi smirked. "Oh yeah?"

Paige nodded, her eyes locked on Azzi. "Mhm. You act all innocent in front of people, but when it’s just us? Whole different person."

Azzi raised an eyebrow. "What kinda different we talkin'?"

Paige leaned forward, a smile forming on her face. "The kinda different when you’re all over me."

Azzi laughed, shaking her head. "You’re wild for saying that on camera."

Paige shrugged, her smile growing. "What? It’s not like I’m lying."

Azzi tilted her head, pretending to consider if she was going to play into this with Paige. "You’re the one who gets all soft when we’re alone. Acting like you don’t melt the second I touch you."

Paige let out a soft laugh. "I don’t melt."

Azzi smirked. "You do."

Paige and Azzi exchanged a look before breaking into quiet laughter, clearly amused by how quickly their conversation had derailed.

"Now look who's flirting on camera," Paige teased.

Azzi shook her head, feigning innocence. "They can cut it out."

Both of them instinctively glanced to the side where the Overtime WBB crew stood, watching. One of the staff members, who had been jotting down notes, simply nodded. "Say no more," she mumbled, scribbling something down—probably making a note to edit out that part.

The staff member finished jotting down notes and looked up at them. "Alright, we’re going to do a speed round of questions to see how well you two know each other which should give us enough to wrap it up for today."

Paige and Azzi both nodded, settling in. Paige glanced at the paper, huffing out a laugh when she saw the question. "What’s my go-to order?"

Azzi snorted. "Chicken tenders and fries."

Paige grinned, satisfied with the answer, but Azzi wasn’t done as she adds, "She eats like a toddler."

Paige gasped. "No, I don’t! They’ve just never failed me. Gotta stick with ole-reliable when I go to new places."

Azzi shook her head, laughing, before reading the next question. "What’s my pregame ritual?"

"You always have to poop right before the game."

"This is true."

Paige continued easily, describing Azzi’s pregame routine as if she had been Azzi’s teammate for years. "But other than that, we both listen to the playlist I made, you tie your shoes a certain way, right first then left, and then you stretch longer than everybody else so you can pretend like—"

Azzi cut her off, eyes widening. "Alright, alright, let’s not spill all my secrets!"

Paige chuckled saying, “What you got opps?”

Azzi mumbles out, “Probably.”

Paige just laughed, shaking her head. She glanced down at her paper again. "What’s one of my pet peeves?"

Azzi didn’t hesitate. "When people chew too loud."

Paige pointed at her. "Facts."

Azzi looked slightly toward the camera before turning back to Paige. "Any time somebody chews loudly, she physically looks like she’s in pain. She’s too nice to say anything, though."

Paige rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it. Instead, she moved on. "Alright, what’s something I always say on the court?"

Azzi laughed instantly. "‘That’s off’—you used to only do it when you shot and knew it was about to miss but you’ve started doing it when I shoot now too."

Paige laughed. "Cause you gotta rebound more so I’m tryna help you out."

"Yeah whatever."

Paige gestured for Azzi to go next.

Azzi glanced down at the paper in front of her, skimming a few of them before asking, "What’s my guilty pleasure TV show?"

Paige leaned back in her chair confidently. "Any Bachelor or Love Island spinoff. You swear you don’t care, but then you get way too invested every time."

Azzi playfully rolled her eyes but grinned. "Okay, fair."

Paige wasn’t done. "Then you force me to watch it with you every night and start asking questions like, ‘Why did he pick her over the other girl?’"

Azzi laughed, shaking her head. "Alright you’re just adding all the extra details to these questions. "

Paige gave her Azzi smile and shrugged. "That’s the game, right?"

Azzi exhaled, looking down to hide her blush before picking her next question. "What’s something random I love?"

Paige didn’t even blink. "The smell of fresh laundry. You always say it’s one of the best smells in the world."

Azzi raised an impressed eyebrow. "I’m surprised you got that one so quick."

Paige shrugged like it was obvious. "That’s because every time you do laundry, you take a deep breath and say, ‘That’s elite’ before you make me fold em."

Azzi covered her face laughing. "Okay, stop exposing me!"

Paige just grinned before asking the next question. "What’s something that instantly annoys me?"

Azzi hummed. "When people take too long to tell a story."

Paige pointed at her again. "Oh my god bro! If you have a five-minute story, please don’t take twenty minutes to tell it."

Azzi shook her head, smiling. "She gets so impatient when people don’t get to the point. I can literally see it on her face. Then she starts fidgeting around like a child."

Paige let out a dramatic sigh. "Because why are you dragging it? Just get to the point!"

Azzi laughed, nodding before glancing at her next question. "What’s one of my biggest fears?"

Paige’s smirk faded slightly as she answered the question softly. "Not reaching your full potential."

Azzi blinked, the playful air between them shifting just for a moment. Paige held her gaze, the answer coming too naturally—reflecting the long conversations and late nights the two of them shared talking about things like that.

Azzi nodded slowly. "Yeah," she said softly before clearing her throat and forcing a smirk. "That and spiders."

Paige let the moment pass and grinned. "Yeah, those too. You basically crawled up my back when there was a spider in my bathroom once"

Azzi laughed, shaking her head. "Alright, next question."

Paige smirked. It was clear she was enjoying herself. "What’s something I do when I’m overthinking?"

Azzi exhaled, already knowing the answer. "You play with your ring on your finger and if you’re trying to not be too obvious because I’m around you bite the inside of your cheek."

Paige stared at her for a moment before grinning because of course Azzi had picked up on the second one "Okay, stalker."

"I just pay attention to you."

Paige didn’t say anything for a second, just held her gaze with that small smirk of hers.

After a beat of silence—just the two of them smiling at each other—the staff member cleared her throat. "Alright guys thank you. I think that’s good for today."

Azzi turned toward them, flashing a polite smile. "Sounds good, thank you."

Paige, however, was still looking at her, that smirk lingering like she knew something Azzi didn’t.

Azzi stood up, stretching her arms above her head before mumbling under her breath, "Stop staring at me creep."

Paige leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms—eyes never leaving Azzi. "Not my fault you’re in my line of sight."

Azzi rolled her eyes but glanced over her shoulder, seeing which staff members were still lingering around. After a second, she seemed satisfied with what she saw and then turned her attention back to Paige.

She moved closer, standing between Paige’s legs, her presence drawing Paige's gaze upward. The smirk on Paige’s face never faltered.

Azzi tilted her head slightly, a glint in her eyes as she reached out to take Paige’s hand, fingers casually playing with hers. "What?" she asked.

Paige tugged gently at Azzi’s hand, pulling her down into her lap. "I like your hair like that," she said softly, her fingers playing with the ends of Azzi's curls as she settled her more comfortably.

Paige glanced up at Azzi, smiling up at her softly. "This okay pretty?"

Azzi looked around again, checking the room before her gaze returned to Paige. She nodded, her voice quiet. "Yeah," she replied, settling into Paige's lap.

As soon as she got confirmation Paige pulled Azzi into a kiss by her jaw. Azzi’s hand instinctively found its way to Paige's cheek, her fingers tracing her face as she kissed back, both of them losing themselves in the moment for a while.

When they broke apart, Azzi whispered softly, her breath still warm against Paige’s lips, "You did well. I’m proud of you baby."

Paige chuckled, her smirk returning as she leaned back slightly. "Thank you."

Azzi raised an eyebrow at Paige’s demeanor, her tone teasing as she asked, "Did you like it?"

Paige, still with that same smirk, shook her head playfully. "Nope."

Azzi laughed, her fingers gently running through Paige's hair as she leaned in again, clearly enjoying the playful tension between them. "You're cute," she mumbled affectionately, her lips brushing Paige's temple.

Azzi’s fingers gently continued to play with Paige’s hair, a soft rhythm as they both relaxed into the moment. Paige let her head fall back against the chair completely, closing her eyes, letting the peace of the moment wash over her. The warmth of Azzi’s presence beside her always felt grounding.

Azzi, always attuned to Paige’s needs, let her take the brief moment of quiet. She shifted slightly, resting her head against Paige's shoulder, her hand still lightly grazing Paige’s hair as she hummed softly when she smelt Paige’s cologne, content to simply be there.

But the stillness didn’t last for long. A soft voice broke the moment. "Hey, sorry to bother you guys."

Azzi blinked, her eyes opening to see a staff member standing nearby. She straightened up, offering a polite smile, though there was still a relaxed air about her. "No problem," Azzi said.

The staff member looked at both of them. "Just wanted to check in to see if there's anything else from the podcast you want to be taken out, besides that one portion we already talked about?"

Paige opened her eyes, glancing over at Azzi showing she fully expected her to answer it for them.

"I think we're good," Azzi said, giving Paige a quick look to silently confirm. "Just that one part...everything else should be fine."

Paige simply nodded in agreement before closing her eyes again.

The staff member made a quick note on her clipboard. "Alright, cool. Just wanted to check in before we wrap up. You can just message us if anything else comes up."

As the staff member walked off, Azzi shifted back into a more relaxed position, her fingers resuming their movements through Paige’s hair. She mumbled, "Kinda crazy how we spent our off day working."

Paige mumbled in response—her eyes still shut. "Tell me about it."

Azzi huffed out a soft laugh, amused by Paige’s tired tone. She leaned in and kissed Paige’s neck gently, the brief contact making Paige grin.

Pulling away just enough, Azzi sat up, looking down at Paige with a small smile. "Let’s get you back to the room before you pass out sleepyhead," she said softly as she helped Paige sit up.

Paige stretched slowly, a contented sigh escaping her lips as she finally met Azzi’s eyes, still smiling. "I’m not sleepy… just...happy I don’t have to talk."

Azzi grinned, raising an eyebrow. "Whatever you say," she replied. Her eyes softened when she noticed the way Paige’s eyes were starting to droop. "You’re gonna pass out the second we get back to the room, aren’t you?"

Paige didn’t answer right away, but the lazy smile on her face and the way she leaned slightly on Azzi as they began to walk was enough of an answer. Azzi shook her head in amusement, offering her a gentle nudge as she led the way toward the door. "I knew it," she mumbled with a grin.

Once small clips of the podcast were released, the attention on Paige and Azzi only grew. The fans were watching more closely if possible, dissecting every interaction, every glance, every touch.

The two of them didn’t mind. Paige who was still reacclimating to the overwhelming attention, was more reserved around fans in general. But one thing she never did was change how she acted with Azzi. Whether cameras were on them or not, Azzi remained within reach—adjusting Paige’s hoodie strings, fixing her chain, brushing something off her sleeve. Small gestures that didn’t go unnoticed because there was no one else on the team doing them.

It was ironic, really. Fans remembered Paige playfully yelling at Ice during a livestream, claiming she hated being touched after Ice bear hugged her. Yet, with Azzi, she never seemed to mind.

Some of the more in-tune fans noticed subtle shifts in their demeanor when they were in public versus when they were on lives or behind the scenes. Paige was usually the protective one—shooting glares at the team when they bothered Azzi, draping an arm around her when she was pouring about something. But when they were at games or events, surrounded by fans, the roles seemed to reverse. Azzi subtly became the protective one.

She was the one gently guiding Paige away from crowded situations, standing just slightly in front of her when fans ran over to them too quickly, placing a hand on her lower back when the attention became too much. People other than just fans were starting to notice.

"Have y’all realized that Paige acts all big and bad with the team but the second they’re in public, Azzi’s the one protecting her???"

"No, let's talk about it bc Azzi is always making sure Paige is comfortable in crowded spaces and I think I’m gonna cry."

…

The event was supposed to be simple—meet fans, take pictures, sign a few autographs. And if this had been two years ago, it probably would have been much calmer. But things had changed.

With the rise in popularity, the number of fans crowding the venue had grown, completely filling the space with excited chatter and eager energy. People called out players' names, some holding jerseys and posters, others just wanting a quick interaction. Paige, despite being a transfer, had been welcomed with open arms. And if there was any doubt before the event, it was clear now—these fans completely adored her.

Azzi was caught up in conversation, taking pictures, signing things, flashing smiles when she needed to, but every so often, her eyes drifted toward Paige.

At first, it was just out of habit—glancing over to check in, to get a quick glimpse of her girlfriend.

But then, the crowd around Paige continued to grow.

Azzi’s stomach tensed as she watched more people press in, everyone trying to get a moment of her attention. At first, Paige didn’t seem to mind. She was still smiling, still quietly answering questions.

But Azzi knew better.

She remembered one night, months ago, when Paige had admitted, almost offhandedly, “Since the accident I get really claustrophobic sometimes. Not all the time, but when too many people are around me, and I can’t move the way I want or go where I want, it just…gets to me I guess.”

Azzi hadn’t forgotten.

Which was why she kept glancing over now, watching the way Paige’s shoulders stiffened just slightly, the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes anymore. The way she was playing with the ring on her finger was always a clear sign of discomfort.

Azzi didn’t hesitate to make her way towards her after that. She didn’t rush, didn’t make it obvious—just started subtly making her way toward the crowd, offering a few more smiles, taking a couple more pictures along the way.

Azzi was nearly there when she saw Paige tensing as a fan wrapped an arm around her waist for a picture. It might have looked normal to anyone else, just a casual pose for the picture but the fan's arm was pressed securely around Paige’s torso, right where her scar was.

Paige didn’t say anything. She just offered a tight smile, her fingers still idly twisting the ring on her finger relentlessly.

Sliding smoothly into the group, Azzi greeted the fans with her usual warmth, her voice light. “Hey guys, how’s it going?”

The distraction was enough. The fan instinctively loosened her hold as she turned toward her, and in that split second, Azzi slid in. “Mind if I hop in for one?” she asked, flashing her grin. Before the fan could fully process it, Azzi gently moved their arm away from Paige, positioning herself in the middle instead. The way she did it was subtle—done so effortlessly that no one would think twice about it.

The picture was taken, and Azzi smiled at the fan before signing something for her.

After that she turned toward the group smiling as she said, “Sorry, guys, I need to steal her for a second,” already reaching for Paige’s hand to tug her away from the group.

Azzi guided Paige toward the exit, her hand resting lightly on Paige’s back as they weaved through the maze of people. As they neared the door, Azzi caught CD’s questioning look from nearby. With a simple glance, CD silently asked where they were going.

Azzi mouthed, Just taking a quick break.

CD gave a small nod of approval, trusting them both, before turning back to the chaos of the event.

Azzi led Paige toward the team's coach bus, still parked out front. The cool air was a welcome contrast to the heat of the packed venue, and the moment they stepped onto the empty bus, Paige exhaled deeply. They slid into a random seat, and as soon as she was sitting, Paige dragged her hands down her face, finally letting herself breathe.

Azzi didn’t say anything at first. She knew Paige needed a moment to gather herself. Instead, she just sat beside her, letting the quietness settle between them.

But when she noticed Paige starting to zone out, her eyes becoming unfocused, her fingers idly twisting the ring on her hand again, Azzi reached over and gently took her hand.

“What’s going on in that pretty head?” she asked her softly.

Paige let out a quiet breath, giving Azzi a small, appreciative smile before shaking her head. Her voice was barely above a whisper when she admitted, “I don’t know if I can do this, Az.”

Azzi’s brows knitted together as she turned toward Paige. “What do you mean?”

Paige let out a slow exhale, her fingers still playing with the ring on her finger. "I don’t know how to do this whole public figure thing anymore," she admitted, her voice quiet. "Before the accident, it was easier. Even though it was hectic, I could handle it—I loved it. But now… everything’s just harder. Social media, interactions, all of it."

Azzi frowned slightly, wanting to ease her worries. "You don’t need to be a public figure to be a basketball player P."

Paige simply gave her a look—one that silently told Azzi they both knew that wasn’t true.

Paige took a deep breath before continuing, her tone filled with frustration. "How am I supposed to be a face of a league team when I can’t even handle a crowd at a damn bowling alley?"

Azzi sighed softly before adjusting, hooking her arm through Paige’s and leaning her head against her shoulder. She reached down, replacing Paige’s hand with her own as she began absentmindedly playing with the ring on Paige’s finger, both of them staring ahead in silence for a moment.

Then, after gathering her thoughts, Azzi finally spoke. "You’re going to be perfectly fine, baby."

She paused, knowing she needed to explain why in a way that made sense to Paige. After a brief moment, she continued, her head still resting against Paige’s shoulder. "You’re so easy for people to love, to root for, to gravitate to."

Azzi lifted her head slightly, glancing at Paige before leaning down and continuing. "The moment you announced you were transferring to UConn, your name was everywhere. Every sports outlet, every social media page—everyone was talking about the return of Paige Bueckers." She paused, her fingers still gently twisting the ring. "You didn’t even have a social media presence and brands still threw the craziest deals at you."

Paige listened quietly, her chest rising and falling steadily as she took in Azzi’s words.

"You went from not being mentioned on draft boards to jumping into the first round after what…four games?" Azzi tilted her head slightly before laughing at herself. "I started rambling and kinda lost my train of thought."

Paige chuckled softly, the sound warm as she kissed Azzi’s head before leaning her own against Azzi’s.

Azzi smiled before letting out a quiet breath. "I guess my point was, I’m saying all of this to remind you that despite everything you went through, despite how much it still weighs on you. How much you still want to work on…you’re a light for everyone else. You’re a genuine person, you have the sweetest soul of anyone I’ve ever met. You’re talented, honest, and just…” Azzi pauses to gather her thoughts, silently thanking the universe for giving her someone like Paige. She continues saying, “You’re just an amazing human baby. And people don’t see that a lot in public figures these days."

Paige closed her eyes for a moment, letting the words settle.

"You could never post on social media again, you could hire a social media manager to handle everything, and people would still love you," Azzi continued. "They love you even when you don’t interact with them. Just being in the same room as you is enough for some of them. Just getting a glimpse of you—I don’t know if I’m cut out to make the decisions but if I was a GM that sounds like a damn great person to build my team around.”

Paige swallowed, her fingers curling around Azzi’s. She didn’t say anything right away, but the tension in her shoulders slowly began to ease.

Azzi squeezed Paige’s hand gently, grounding her before she continued. "No, you might not be the same Paige from high school—the one who filmed TikToks with kids after games and didn’t mind when hundreds of people waited for her and warmed her." She glanced up, making sure Paige was listening. "But this version of you? This perfect version of you that I love more than anything in this world. You still find time to make people’s day, even when you don’t realize it."

Paige exhaled softly, her body relaxing against Azzi.

"It’s gonna take time to get used to it again," Azzi admitted. "And that’s perfectly fine. Until then, just doing it in small bursts is enough." She played with the ring on Paige’s finger again. "And just so we’re clear—you are not obligated to give your time to anyone."

Paige let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking her head slightly.

Azzi raised an eyebrow, a smile forming. "What?"

Paige turned to her, her blue eyes soft and filled with something Azzi recognized instantly. "I just love you," she whispered. "And I’m so thankful that God brought you into my life."

While Paige was saying this, Azzi's brown eyes were locked onto Paige’s blue ones the entire time. Her heart swelled, a slow smile forming as she whispered, "I love you too beautiful."

Azzi held Paige’s gaze for a moment before suddenly perking up. “One sec,” she said, standing up before Paige could question her.

Paige watched in confusion as Azzi walked toward her actual seat on the bus, rummaging through her bag. “What are you doing?” she said, brows furrowing.

“Hold on,” Azzi replied, focused as she finally pulled something out. She turned back, making her way toward Paige again, a small box now in her hand.

When she reached her, she held it out. “Here,” she said. “Open it.”

Paige looked at the box, then back at Azzi, suspicion flickering across her features. “Azzi…”

Azzi groaned, already anticipating the resistance. “Don’t be difficult.”

Paige huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking her head before finally lifting the lid. Her breath hitched when she saw the delicate silver necklace inside, a heart-shaped locket resting in the center. She blinked, stunned, before looking back up at Azzi, who was watching her with a soft smile.

“Open the locket,” Azzi said gently.

Paige carefully lifted the necklace from the box, her fingers grazing the cool metal as she unclasped the locket. Inside there was a small picture staring back at her—one of the first pictures they’d taken together. The memory was still so clear even though it seemed like two different versions of them.

A lump formed in Paige’s throat as her fingers trembled slightly, tracing the edge of the locket. No one had ever given her something like this before—something so thoughtful.

Azzi shifted beside her, watching her reaction closely. “You always say I make crowds and things like that easier,” she rambled. “So, I wanted to give you that—so you know I’m always there, even when I can’t be physically next to you.”

Paige took a long exhale, her chest tightening in a way she couldn’t quite explain. Slowly, she looked back up at Azzi, her blue eyes glistening.

“Baby…this is beautiful,” she whispered, her voice almost lost in the empty bus.

Azzi smiled and reached for the locket. “Here, let me put it on.”

Paige turned slightly, pulling her hair to the side as Azzi unclasped the necklace and carefully fastened it around her neck. Her fingers lingered for a moment, rubbing the back of Paige’s neck gently which only made her chest fill with more warmth.

When Paige let her hair fall back into place, her fingers found the locket resting against her shirt. She held it lightly, rubbing her thumb over the surface. “I love it,” she admitted, her voice softer than before, more vulnerable. “I love you.”

Azzi grinned, nudging Paige’s knee with her own. “I know.”

Paige rolled her eyes, a chuckle escaping her lips. “Bro you’re annoying.”

Azzi laughed, nudging her one more time. “I love you too, big head.”

They sat there for a moment in comfortable silence, both knowing they needed to head back inside. With a shared sigh, they stood, their fingers brushing briefly before Azzi stepped toward the door.

Just before they stepped off the bus, Paige gently grabbed Azzi’s wrist, stopping her in place. Azzi turned, a silent question in her eyes, but before she could say anything, Paige tugged her in, pressing a delicate kiss to her lips.

Azzi, of course, kissed her back, her hand resting on Paige’s hip, rubbing a few circles against her skin before she pulled away slightly. “You ready to go back to the chaos?”

Paige huffed out a laugh, shaking her head. “Not really,” she admitted.

Azzi grinned. “Too bad. I gotta go be the people’s princess.” With that, she grabbed Paige’s hand, giving it a quick squeeze before pulling her off the bus. As they neared the entrance, they made sure to drop their hands, slipping seamlessly back into the world that was waiting for them.

This time, though, Paige felt much better about everything.

[sinsinewave]

my interpretation is that it's both in a sense first off, the part about wanting people to like him keeping with the school analogy from the "unpopular in high school" complex; he doesn't want to be liked in the way a kind and caring person is liked, he wants to be liked and popular like the class clown is popular he keeps trying to be relatable with bad often offensive jokes and getting really into old memes, trying to imitate a reddit-y or *chan-y style of shitposting when people criticise him and his antics for being in poor taste or just offensive, he sees the critics as essentially the snitching goody-two-shoes who gets the class clown in trouble for a harmless joke or prank hence the fascism: the fascists like his antics, so he gets the popularity he craves from there --- although i do also think he has a massive superiority complex, he wants to also be seen as a real-life tony stark: a billionaire genius saving the world from supervillains using his intellect, wealth, and engineering skills and of course he sees the "class snitch" as the supervillain of his life --- although obviously that's all just my interpretations, i could be wrong or right, and honestly i don't care which it is because i've already thought of what goes on that nazi's head more than i'd've liked to

[thealchemistbae]

Random Astro Observations 🚀⭐

Disclaimer: This post is for entertainment purposes only.

thealchemistbae © do not copy, redistribute, or edit my content.

If you enjoyed this post, you can leave me a tip via PayPal at goddessguapa@gmail.com or via Venmo @goddessguapa. Thank you.

🚀: People with Venus at 23° or 29° tend to have "iconic" beauty that gets more legendary with age. 23° brings an edge (think unforgettable features), while 29° gives them an almost fated aesthetic that people try to imitate but never quite get right.

🚀: Mercury in 8H natives can literally read minds. They don't hear what you say...they hear what you don't say. These are the people who catch on to the subtext and hidden intentions behind every conversation.

🚀: Mars in 12H (especially in a fire sign) can struggle with repressed anger, but once they unlock their assertiveness, they become unstoppable. They often have dreams where they're fighting, running, or winning in ways they can't in real life (yet).

🚀: Neptune in 5H people are the definition of "method acting" in their own lives. They don't just experience emotions...they become them. Their childhood fantasies and imaginary worlds were so real to them that sometimes they still feel like they live in a dream.

🚀: Jupiter in 3H natives might be the fastest learners you'll ever meet. They could pick up a new language in months, teach themselves a skill overnight, or randomly know a ridiculous amount of fun facts about everything.

🚀: Pluto in 4H (or conjunct IC) people go through deep transformations in their home life. Their childhood could've felt like a survival mission, but as adults, they build a home environment that is entirely theirs...even if they have to burn everything down to start over.

🚀: Saturn in 2H isn't just about struggling with money...it's about mastering it. These people often feel like they're "always working", but once they learn the system, they become undeniable in wealth building. A slow start, but when they win, they win big.

🚀: People with their Midheaven ruler in 12H often have an "invisible" reputation. People know of them, but not about them. They might be mysterious public figures or work behind the scenes in a way that makes them way more powerful than they seem.

🚀: Venus sextile or trine Neptune people are living in their own love story. Their romantic ideals are so strong they often manifest exactly what they want in love...whether that's good or bad. These are the people who say "I dreamed about my soulmate before I met them" and actually mean it.

🚀: Uranus in 6H makes people allergic to routine. The moment their daily life feels predictable, something unexpected happens. These people thrive when they create their own work schedules and often attract jobs that are unstable or ever changing.

🚀: Chiron in 10H natives may go through public failures before they get the recognition they deserve. Their career path hurts before it heals, but once they embrace their unique purpose, they become living proof that setbacks don't define you.

🚀: Asteroid Fama (408) in 1H or 10H = someone who was born to be talked about. Even when they're not trying, people notice them, their name randomly pops up in conversations, on social media, or in circles they didn't even know existed.

Do you have any of these placements? Let me know below.

thealchemistbae © do not copy, redistribute, or edit my content.

I’m sure there is more but honestly this is all I have for now. Enjoy ⚡️

If you enjoyed this post, you can leave me a tip via PayPal at goddessguapa@gmail.com or via Venmo @goddessguapa. Thank you.

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗜𝗙 𝗜 𝗖𝗢𝗨𝗟𝗗 𝗚𝗘𝗧 𝗢𝗨𝗧 𝗢𝗙 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗦 𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗖𝗘 max verstappen x  fem! lawyer! reader (angst) fic summary . . . when max meets with a lawyer to try and fight back against the FIA for getting community service fines, he discovers he might have accidentally swapped dreams with someone (704 words)

( main master list | more of max verstappen ) ( requests )

The restaurant was dimly lit, the kind of place that was meant to look expensive without actually trying too hard. Max shifted in his seat, fingers drumming against the table as he watched you skim through the document in front of you, your brows slightly furrowed.

This was awkward.

He wasn’t sure what was worse—the fact that he had been fined for swearing in a press conference again or the fact that the FIA had thrown in community service hours like he was some reckless teenager caught speeding in a school zone.

Lando had laughed when he found out. "You’re gonna need a lawyer if you wanna fight back, mate," he had grinned, not even trying to hide his amusement. "I know someone. She’s brilliant. I’ll send you her number."

And now here you were, sitting across from him in a restaurant in Monaco, having driven over from Nice to help him deal with his punishment.

"So," you finally said, flipping the page. "Two hundred thousand euros and twenty-five hours of FIA-approved community service before December 31st."

Max exhaled through his nose. "I only said one bad word."

You looked up, amusement flickering across your face. "As soon as I went into qualifying I knew the car was fucked . . .  Max, you swore at your own car."

"Because it was fucked." He reasoned, shrugging at the topic like it was the most obvious and normal thing.

You chuckled, shaking your head before jotting something down in your notes. Max watched, taking a sip of his gin toic, not quite sure what to say next. He wasn’t used to lawyers. He wasn’t used to needing lawyers.

"You know," he starts, voice low, almost swallowed by the hum of the piano in the background. "If my dad hadn't pushed me to stay in karting, I think I would've been a lawyer."

You huff a laugh, one that tastes like irony. "Yeah? If my parents hadn’t forced me to finish school and go into law, I think I would've been a driver."

Max blinked.

Your sour words made him look up from his glass. His blue eyes—fierce in every race replay you've ever forced yourself not to watch—are softer here, dimmed under the low lights of a restaurant that neither of you belong in. "Seriously?"

You nod, taking a sip. "Yeah. I wanted it. The speed, the competition, the whole thing. Wanted to move up into single-seaters, F1 eventually, you know? The dream. But my family . . .” You exhale. "They thought racing was a hobby. Law was the real future."

“I’m in Formula One,” Max stated, looking at you with his head tilted. He felt it was as if he stole your dream.

“I can see that, Max,” you chuckled, lifting the file the FiA had given him as proof.

Max leans back, shaking his head with a smirk that's more tired than amused. "Funny. My dad thought law was stupid. Racing was the real future."

The piano plays on, and neither of you say anything for a moment. It’s not awkward. Just . . . heavy. Like you're both listening to ghosts of the past, telling you how things should have been.

"You still watch?" he asks eventually, his voice careful.

You shrug. "Not really." A lie. You watched enough to know his career, his wins, the way he makes magic out of machinery. "You still read about law?"

His lips press together, considering. "Sometimes." A lie. You bet he still thinks about it when he reads contracts, when he argues with his team, when he wonders if he could've been just as ruthless in a courtroom as he is on a track.

"Do you ever think about it?" you ask. "If you'd had the choice?"

Max smiles then, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "All the time."

The music plays on. The waiter refills your glass. Outside, the world moves forward, fast as ever, like it never had to choose between two lives. But here, in this quiet little nowhere, you and Max sit with your what-ifs, sharing a quiet conversation about what to do moving forward and how to get rid of the fine and community service fine, the ghosts of who you could've been watch over your shoulders.

[alinathinkstoomuch]

Heels of Dreams

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader summary: you wear heels for a fancy dinner, but in the end, it’s not your shoes that carry you home. warnings: suggestive, fluff, hotch being the perfect man once again by carrying reader home and taking off her heels, age gap implied, reader giving hotch a hard time about being old. (all i hear is hotch is a boobs man, hotch is an ass man no! hotch is a legs man! he told me himself!) word count: 2k ✧ masterlist

Your feet ached – so much so that you weren’t even surprised when Reid, probably fed up with your quiet whining, casually mentioned over dinner that high heels were originally invented for men. And honestly? That made perfect sense. Only creatures that ridiculous would willingly subject themselves to this kind of torture.

He had then launched into an explanation about how, somewhere in the eighteenth century, heels became associated with women’s fashion, but by that point, you were far too focused on two things to pay attention: the persistent throb in your feet and the slow, deliberate movement of Aaron’s hand as it slid over to rest on your thigh.

That had effectively wiped out any interest in Reid’s history lesson.

It had been a small dinner, one of those rare nights where the girls – Penelope, really –  insisted on dressing up. She had made a reservation somewhere far fancier (and significantly less sticky) than your usual bar, declaring it a much-needed change of scenery.

So, you had picked out the prettiest pair of shoes you owned – the ones you knew Aaron liked because he had insisted on buying them for you. He hadn’t even flinched when the price climbed high enough to require a comma, just given you that quiet, unwavering look that made it clear he wasn’t taking no for an answer.

And now, after hours of balancing on them, you were really hoping that look extended to carrying you to the couch.

“Regretting your choice of footwear?”

You huffed, dramatically shifting your weight onto one leg. “I regret your choice of footwear.”

His brow lifted. “Mine?”

“You picked these out, remember?” You gestured toward your aching feet, the expensive, unreasonably gorgeous shoes peeking out from beneath the hem of your dress. “You practically demanded I get them.”

Aaron hummed, slowing his pace just enough to make you aware of how much effort you were putting into keeping up. The ass. “I don’t recall any demanding,” he said, tone far too innocent. “I seem to remember you trying them on and looking at me like you were hoping I’d tell you to buy them.”

You gasped, stopping in your tracks. “That is not what happened.”

He turned to face you, his expression unreadable – except for the glint in his eyes, the one that only appeared when he was in the mood to toy with you. “No?”

You narrowed your eyes. “No.”

He paused for a moment before asking, “Which one is it going to be?”

“Huh?

“Do you want to walk home in my shoes,” he clarified, like he was offering you something as normal as his jacket, “or am I carrying you?”

You stared at him, trying to gauge whether he was actually serious. “You can’t just carry me,” you argued, crossing your arms.

Aaron arched a brow and before you could react, he took a deliberate step forward, closing the space between you. “You underestimate me,” he said and suddenly, you were very aware of how close he was.

“Oh, I don’t doubt you can – I just don’t think you should.”

His lips twitched, like he was holding back a smile. “Why not?”

“Because it’s ridiculous.”

“You’re limping,” he pointed out, not unkindly. “And you’re already dramatic when you’re comfortable, I can’t imagine how much I’ll have to hear about this tomorrow if I don’t carry you.”

“Jeez, you’re making me sound like a real catch.”

His smirk deepened just enough to make your breath hitch. “You are,” he said simply, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “That’s why I’m carrying you.”

And before you could even form a protest, his arms were around you, lifting you effortlessly off the ground.

A surprised yelp escaped your lips as he adjusted his hold, settling you securely in his arms, carrying you like you were weightless. The absurdity of it all – his confidence, the way he did it without hesitation, the sheer ridiculousness of being carried down the street like some sort of Disney princess – sent you into a fit of laughter.

“This is silly,” you managed between giggles, clinging to his shoulders. “Baby, put me down, I’ll walk barefoot.”

“Not happening.” His grip on you tightened, as if the very thought of letting you go was out of the question.

You let out another giggle, looping your arms around his neck for balance – not that you needed to, because Aaron held you like you were made for this, like carrying you home was just another part of his routine. Like it didn’t even require effort.

“Well, at least it’s not too far,” you mused, mid-yawn. “Wouldn’t want you throwing your back out.”

Aaron huffed out a laugh, the warmth of it brushing against your temple. “My back is fine. I think I can manage a few blocks.”

You tilted your head up to look at him, a teasing smile curling at your lips. “You think you can manage? Should I be concerned?”

“I should drop you just for that.”

Your eyes widened in mock horror, gripping his shoulders a little tighter. “You wouldn’t.”

Aaron’s lips curved into a smile “Wouldn’t I?”

Still, you gasped dramatically, clutching him even tighter. “Wow. Threatening to drop your much younger wife? That’s low.”

He sighed, the kind of long-suffering exhale that only came from years of dealing with you. “Here we go.”

You bit back a grin, pressing your cheek against his shoulder. “I mean, I get it – you’re not as young as you used to be. It must be exhausting carrying someone so full of youthful energy.”

“You do realize I’ve tackled suspects more than twice your size, right?”

“Yes, yes, very impressive,” you conceded with a wave of your hand. “But, you know, they don’t cling to you and distract you with conversation while you’re carrying them.”

“No, usually they’re either trying to stab or shoot me.”

You blinked, considering that. “And I’m the difficult one?”

Aaron didn’t bother dignifying your last remark with a response, he just shook his head, adjusting his grip on you. The movement brought you even closer and you could feel his warmth bleeding into you. If you weren’t still revelling in the absolute delight of being carried, you might’ve admitted that this had been your plan all along.

Eventually, the familiar sight of your apartment building came into view, and you sighed dramatically. “Well, we made it. Against all odds. How’s your back? Need me to book you a chiropractor?”

“Maybe a divorce attorney,” he mumbled, earning a swat at his chest from your clutch.

“Excuse me?”

But before you could demand a proper retraction, he angled you slightly, adjusting his hold so effortlessly it was almost infuriating, and you barely had time to react before he nodded toward the door.

“Kick,” he instructed.

Rolling your eyes but obliging anyway, you lifted a foot and tapped the door open, muttering, “Chivalry is dead.”

“Chivalry is alive and well,” he corrected smoothly, stepping inside with you still securely in his arms. “It’s just carrying a very mouthy woman up the stairs.”

You gasped again, scandalized. “Wow. I think that definitely just earned you a night on the couch.”

“We both know you’d end up joining me anyway. In fact,” he mused, his voice dropping as he carried you up the stairs, “I recall you saying that the best sex we’ve ever had was on that couch.”

Your mouth snapped shut, heat rushing to your cheeks so fast it was disorienting.

“You cannot just say things like that,” you hissed, your head whipping toward the door opposite yours. “We have neighbours. You know Agatha is a night owl.”

Aaron exhaled a quiet chuckle, completely unfazed. “Agatha’s hard of hearing.” He paused then added, “Keys, honey.”

With a dramatic sigh, you started digging through your clutch, fingers sifting through a graveyard of lip glosses and tiny perfume samples you had no intention of ever using but refused to throw away.

Aaron tilted his head, watching with mild amusement. “Need some help?”

“I’ve got it,” you muttered, ignoring his deeply unnecessary smirk as you fished out your keys. “Not all of us have the luxury of bottomless suit pockets.”

“That’s not what they’re called.”

“Whatever, Mary Poppins.”

He shook his head as he patiently waited for you to unlock the door – still very much carrying you.

Finally, your fingers closed around the keys, and with an exaggerated motion, you yanked them out. Aaron hummed, the sound low and pleased, before lowering you just enough so you could reach the lock.

The door swung open and he carried you inside, kicking it shut behind him. He made his way over to the infamous couch. The moment he set you down, you let out an exaggerated sigh of relief, stretching out dramatically. “Ugh. My hero,” you drawled. “My feet may never recover, but at least I died beautifully.”

You watched as he crossed the room with that same grace, making his way back toward the door. He slid off his suit jacket, draping it neatly over the back of a chair before reaching for the lock.

He made his way back over to you without a word, nudging your legs apart just enough to settle between them, sinking onto his knees. His fingers went immediately to the delicate strap of your heels, the pads of his thumbs brushing against your skin as he worked.

“Wow. Didn’t even have to ask.”

Aaron barely glanced up, his focus on your ankle as he did his best to undo the tiny buckle – one-handed, no less, because his phone and wallet were still in his grip. “I take care of what’s mine.”

Your stomach did a little flip, but you refused to let him win just yet.

“Hold these.” He pressed his phone and wallet against your stomach, and you took them instinctively.

Your fingers brushed over the wallet – the one you had given him for his birthday last year, the worn leather soft and familiar against your palm. You turned it over in your hand, shaking your head. “Oof. Trusting me with your wallet? Big mistake, Hotchner.”

He slipped the first shoe off your foot. “Spend whatever you want,” he murmured, his fingers wrapping around your ankle, lifting it slightly. “Take whatever you want. Take everything.”

Before the words could even land, he dipped his head and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your ankle. His lips continued to trail lower, placing another kiss just above the curve of your foot, then another, his movements achingly tender.

You exhaled a quiet, contented moan, your body melting into the cushions as his touch worked its magic. It was like he knew – of course he knew – the exact places that hurt, the spots that had been aching for hours, and now, with nothing more than his lips, his touch, his presence, he was undoing all of it.

Like he needed to make it better.

Like he wanted to erase every trace of discomfort you’d felt all night.

His hands skimmed up your calves, pushing your dress up, fingertips pressing gently into the sore muscles before his thumbs followed, kneading warmth back into you.

Then, with that same patient care, he reached for your other foot, undoing the second buckle. The strap slipped free and he set the shoe aside before his hands returned to you, skimming up the length of your legs.

And then his mouth followed. Kissing. Worshipping.

His lips trailed over your shin, each kiss pressing something deeper into you – something that made your chest feel full.

His breath was warm against your thigh when he mumbled, “Marry me, baby.”

You blinked down at him, another giggle slipping from your lips, light and breathless. “Aaron, we’re already married.”

You felt him smile against your skin.

“Marry me again.”

Another kiss.

“And again.”

Another.

“And again.”

Your fingers slipped into his hair, tugging it slightly, your heart stuttering as warmth curled deep in your stomach.

He looked up then, eyes full of love, lips hovering just above your skin.

“As many times as you’ll have me.”

And just like that, you knew – you’d say yes to him a thousand times over.

[twstfanblog]

Heyyyyy so uhhhhh…

What if the mc back in their world was a slave? Not servant like jamil, just, straight up slave where their opinion didn’t matter :( n they r female, afab, pronounce she/they? Hopefully nothing bad happened but people who get slaves r bad people so :((( overblot boys pls 🙏🥺

I feel like they would all threaten crowley to absolutely NOT look for a way to send mc home n to stop making her do his things cause that reminds her of back home in a very bad way :(

N then they comfort n hold the mc cause they r safe n wont have to be treated like shit anymore :(

They will punch anyone who treats em like shit

Which practically everyone in school did when they arrived at NRC, and they just thought ‘this is normal’. :(

Overblot Boys React to Slave Reader

Overblot Boys x Reader

Riddle

Lowkey saw you as an ideal student. Polite, respectful, and mindful of the rules. So he wouldn't notice anything past a few odd ticks that he himself wouldn't fully question since his own upbringing was shitty.

It takes him and Ace having an argument, Riddle brings up that Ace can learn a thing or two from you on being a respectful student. And Ace fires back on you being a SLAVE. Of course, his overbearing ass would love that. And Riddle has to really think about what kinda person that makes him that he didn't even notice.

He talks to you, wanting personal confirmation on what Ace had blurted out. Once he gets the confirmation, his attitude gets much softer. You don't get as harsh treatment for rule-breaking, but he's still stern about them.

End game, he makes up a secondary set of rules for you only. Rules like 'We say something if we are uncomfortable' or 'We are allowed to say No'. He just gets much softer but remains true on rules being important. He just also stresses that you should have your own personal rules now.

Leona

Clocked immediately you came from a background of servitude, though he wasn't aware how severe it was.

He didn't plan on getting invovled but his little bleeding heart took Ruggie under his wing for a reason. It was one part pity and mostly annoyance seeing you getting bullied by his dorm everyday.

You basically get 'Leona's Servant' boot camp with Ruggie suddenly. He teaches you how Leona likes his laundry tended to and what snack flavors he prefers. It's a smooth transition from slave to servant until Ruggie tells you it's free game to steal from Leona.

Leona never brings it up, but he knows your old home was not a good environment. He also knows he can't just fling you into a healthier dynamic with those around you, so he'll do it slowly and sneakily. Ruggie is the perfect one to bridge the gap for him to start spoiling you.

Azul

Knew something was off but had no real frame of reference. He would make little theories and try to figure out why you act the way you do. He only started thinking you had come from a background of servitude when you follow orders so quickly.

Honestly doesn't know how to feel because he did do slavery in tricking the contracted students into working at the lounge against their will. He's not entirely sure how to save face with you after he's come across as a cruel and unfair slaver. Lowkey uses his overblot aftermath as an excuse for a fresh start with you.

He starts treating you kinder, making sure to address you properly and showing that he respects you. People from his dorm follow his lead, at least. The Tweels are part-time bodyguards, making your old bullies more hesitant to start anything because an eel might slip out of a crack or something.

Azul is a sneaky one too, slowly helping you raise your standard of how you should be treated by others. If you get him blabbing long enough, he'll slip into just stating how precious you are to him.

Jamil

I'm sorry, even with the English sanitation, Jamil’s situation can only come across as slavery to me. He's a very well cared for slave because Kalim adores him, but a slave none the less.

It's a little jarring to him to see someone who really could understand. But he's so used to keeping himself guarded he never reached out in a friendly sense. Treating you more like a new coworker; helpful but distant. It wasn't until you accidently broke something in Scarabia and nearly had a panic attack when Kalim looked at you does he realize how severe punishment was back in your world.

Gets much softer to you. It's sad because he does love and care about you, but he would not allow you to be with him long term. You've managed to come to a new world where your old masters can't reach you, you're free. Don't waste it following him back into a life of servitude.

Jamil would understand you the best so he'd be the one to really push and guide you to trying new experiences with your freedom. Wants you to be selfish and use your friends' kindness to make your life better. If he never gets his dream of being able to travel the world he wants you to be able to.

(Should the miracle happen and he and Kalim have the conversation finally, Jamil would go globe trotting with you. He legit has thoughts of just not going back and disappearing with you.)

Vil

I don't think he'd mean anything malicious by it. But he would end up treating you like a purse dog for a while.

Vil has a strong and cemented personality and sense of worth. Dealing with someone as passive as an abused slave, he would easily bulldoze over them and not really notice. Because he'd basically have you on the 'Betterment Plan' he has Epel.

He saw the potential and just kept going because you never said stop. Lots of beauty routines, he picks outfits for you for outings, basically has you as his shadow before either Rook or Epel bring up how he's running you ragged.

Vil never dealt with someone who's come from the situation you did. The very idea that 'No' wasn't a boundary you were ever allowed horrified him for a bit. But like the queen he is, he doesn't try to defend his misstep and goes right into correcting his behavior. The introduction of choices was the best start, but you slowly start saying no to events and choices and Vil couldn't be more delighted.

Idia

Lowkey, I'm not sure if he'd notice in any capacity until you told him point-blank. Idia is the one of the boys who sticks mostly to himself and he'd avoid you if he saw you constantly being hounded by other students.

But, if you managed to get close enough to him, he'd question why you always freeze up when your bullies call you? Why running isn't an option you take? And then you'd tell him about where you came from and how running never ended well for you or the other slaves...

He's not one I think would actively try to curb your behaviors but it would effect his own. Now when he sees you being bullied there's a high chance he'll use what power he has a housewarden to get them to leave. When he's sneaking around, he'll catch your eye and give the mental offer to come hide out in his room with him. He becomes a legit safe space for you to just breath since no one but Ortho really enters his room.

He's had to stop you multiple times from cleaning his room. Yes, it's a mess. No, you don't have to thank him by cleaning. Yes, he's aware you can also keep his stuff organized for him while you clean. You don't have to clean, you aren't his maid. (He is terrified he will ruin your friendship the second you find anything embarrassing under his piles of junk. Like a body pillow, or a 18+ comic, or a stray love note he wrote you-)

Malleus

Adorable you think the bonds of slavery from an unknown world matter to him. Malleus is...a prince, a crown prince at that. I don't think he has 'slaves' but with servants of royalty, I'm never really sure. But anyhow, this boy hasn't been told no enough in his life and it shows.

So when you try to back away from the friendship a bit under the fact of you being a slave and not...worthy of his princely company. He just decides you aren't a slave anymore. Just wills and speaks it into existence. There, it's fixed. You can continue being his beloved child of man, now come. He has a new gargoyle he wants to show you.

Fae to me have favorites, and they love to keep an eye on them. So god help some poor schmuck who tries to bully you into doing their work after Malleus has decided you don't do that anymore... You start saying No and leaving the situation with much more effectiveness because the other choice is Malleus making some poor student drop out for fear of their life.

Malleus canonically ignores the autonomy of others for his own gain. So it would be a really weird balance of him simply stating that you are your own being capable of choice and that your old-world status as a slave doesn't matter here. But with that new free status, you are also his best friend, who will come on night walks with him, talk with him, and make friendship bracelets.

[solxamber]

Mission: Emotionally Compromised || Jamil Viper

Jamil’s greatest failure as a spy? Falling head over heels for the person he was meant to destroy.

this one is for @chocolatebearstrawberry who made the divider i use here!! i love you <3

As the CEO of one of the most powerful tech companies in the world, you’ve always prided yourself on two things: your razor-sharp business acumen and your ability to sniff out deception from a mile away.

Your competitors, on the other hand, have prided themselves on one thing: trying (and failing) to steal your technology.

For years, you’ve played a high-stakes game of corporate cat and mouse, batting away industrial spies like a bored housecat knocking expensive wine glasses off the counter. You’ve watched billion-dollar corporations sink millions into elaborate heists, only for their agents to fail spectacularly. Frankly, it's getting a little embarrassing for them.

But now, thanks to the untimely departure of your longtime secretary (who swears their early retirement has nothing to do with being bribed into luxury exile), you suddenly have a vacancy.

And judging by the pile of applicants currently waiting in the lobby, every single one of them is a spy.

The Parade of Intelligence Failures™:

First up is Agent Steve (probably not his real name), whose résumé is written in Comic Sans and lists "lockpicking" under "special skills." When you ask him about his previous administrative experience, he stares at you blankly for three full seconds before blurting out, "I can type… very fast?"

Next is Ms. Definitely-Not-Wearing-a-Wire, who keeps touching her ear like she’s communicating with someone. Midway through the interview, you distinctly hear a whisper from her earpiece: "Ask about the security systems."

Then there’s Tech Bro #5, who brings a USB drive and, while maintaining full eye contact with you, tries to plug it into your computer. Your computer. The one sitting on your desk. Right in front of you.

By the time Mr. Fake-ID Falls Out of His Wallet stumbles in, you’re fighting the overwhelming urge to launch yourself out the nearest window.

This is getting pathetic.

You’ve sat through twenty interviews of barely competent corporate espionage, and you’re ready to set up a PowerPoint presentation titled, "How To Spy Without Immediately Getting Caught: A Workshop For Morons."

Do they think you built a billion-dollar empire by being stupid? Do they think your years of fending off corporate espionage haven’t honed your bullshit detector into a finely tuned death laser?

You start debating whether to just hire a golden retriever and call it a day—at least dogs have loyalty.

And then he walks in.

Enter: Jamil Viper.

The moment he steps into your office, you know this one is different.

For one thing, his résumé isn’t riddled with typos or hilariously obvious red flags. His credentials? Flawless. His demeanor? Polished and professional, with just the right amount of charm—not so much that it feels like he’s trying to butter you up, but just enough that you actually want to keep talking to him.

And his entrance exam? He aces it. Perfectly.

Too perfectly.

There is no way in hell that someone this competent just happens to be looking for a secretary position. You know he’s a spy.

But unlike the human disasters before him, Jamil Viper is actually good at his job.

And if someone is going to try and infiltrate your company, wouldn’t you rather it be someone who at least has the decency to be competent about it?

You lean back in your chair, watching him carefully as he sits across from you, his expression unreadable. You wonder how many layers of deception he’s hiding behind that composed facade.

Slowly, a smile creeps onto your lips.

This could be fun.

Because if Jamil Viper thinks he’s going to outmaneuver you, then clearly, no one has warned him that you love playing with fire.

You slide the contract across the desk, extending your hand.

"Congratulations, Mr. Viper," you say, amusement dancing in your voice. "Welcome to the company."

His fingers are warm when they clasp yours in a firm shake. His gaze, sharp and assessing, lingers for just a second too long.

And just like that, you hire a spy to be your personal assistant.

This is either the smartest or the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.

And honestly? You can’t wait to find out which.

Jamil has never questioned his assignments before. His role has always been straightforward—he is given a task, he completes it with precision, and he collects his payment. There is no room for personal involvement, no need for unnecessary complications.

This particular job should have been no different. His directive was clear: infiltrate one of the most formidable tech companies in the industry, assume the role of a secretary, gain the CEO’s trust, retrieve the necessary proprietary data, and exit without raising suspicion.

A simple, methodical process. He estimated it would take no more than a month, perhaps two if the CEO proved particularly cautious.

However, the moment he steps into your office, Jamil recognizes that this assignment will not proceed according to the standard operational model.

You are perceptive. That much is clear from the outset. Your interview questions are sharp, carefully constructed to gauge more than just his administrative skills. You are watching him—not just listening, but studying, assessing. There is a calculating glint in your eyes that suggests you have already categorized him in some way, and he does not yet know whether that categorization is in his favor.

Then comes the moment that shifts the trajectory of his expectations entirely.

You lean back in your chair, fingers steepled as you regard him with an almost amused expression. "So, Mr. Viper," you say, voice laced with something close to mischief, "are you a spy?"

The question is absurd in its directness, yet the casual way you pose it makes it clear that you are not expecting a confession—you are testing him. A lesser operative might have faltered, might have hesitated for the fraction of a second that would betray uncertainty. Jamil, however, meets your gaze evenly, offering a measured smile.

"If I were," he replies smoothly, "would I admit it?"

You laugh—not a dismissive scoff, but an actual, entertained laugh, as if you are thoroughly enjoying this game. And that is what makes Jamil's stomach twist slightly. Because he is beginning to suspect that you already know.

The contract slides across the desk, a silent challenge. He watches as you extend your hand, the motion deliberate, expectant.

He has been in the industry long enough to recognize a trap when he sees one. And yet, despite every internal alarm warning him to be cautious, he shakes your hand.

He has taken on countless assignments in his career, but this time is different.

This time, he is not just infiltrating a company. He is stepping into a game.

And for the first time in his life, Jamil wonders if he is the one being played.

Jamil Viper is, quite frankly, the best thing that has ever happened to you.

You have run this company for years, clawed your way to the top with sheer wit and willpower, and in all that time, you have never known peace. Your life has been a never-ending cycle of fires to put out, idiotic employees making mistakes, and backstabbing business partners who think “compromise” means “stealing your ideas and pretending it was a collaborative effort.”

But then Jamil arrives.

Jamil, with his quiet efficiency and terrifying competence. Jamil, who doesn’t ask you to repeat yourself because he actually listens the first time. Jamil, who doesn’t need reminders because he remembers everything, down to how you like your coffee and which pens mysteriously go missing when your CFO visits.

For the first time in your career, you are leaving work at a reasonable hour.

You actually saw the sunset yesterday. The sunset. Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve seen anything but the dim glow of your office lights at midnight? You don’t. You’re afraid to check.

Your skin? Clear.

Your inbox? Organized.

Your sleep schedule? Still questionable, but at least now it’s due to personal choices and not business emergencies.

You are so overcome with gratitude that you nearly burst into tears when you realize you no longer have to threaten your vendors personally because Jamil handles it all with a few well-placed emails.

He is better than any assistant you have ever had. Possibly better than some of your business partners. Hell, at this rate, you wouldn't be surprised if he could run the company better than you.

Which is exactly why you can’t afford to let him go.

You know why he’s here. You are not naïve. He is undoubtedly a spy, sent to steal your technology, your secrets, your life's work. But the problem is that he is too good. You cannot afford to lose him.

So, you make a decision.

You will convert him to your side.

It’s not just about protecting your company anymore. No, this has become personal. Jamil Viper is yours now. He just doesn’t know it yet.

The numbers didn’t make sense.

You were good at numbers. Numbers were the only thing in this world that didn’t lie. Numbers were solid, unyielding, completely immune to human deception. And yet.

Your CFO had to be skimming. You’d suspected it for a while—no one bought that many first-class flights for “business conferences” that didn’t exist—but now that you finally had the time to actually dig into the company’s finances, you could feel it in your bones. There was money missing. Not a lot at once, just enough that a lazier CEO wouldn’t notice.

But you noticed. And now, sitting in your dark office, practically feral with frustration, you were going to find it.

Jamil peeks into your office, and you see his brows furrow in irritation. He steps inside without invitation, eyes flicking to your desk, to the stacks of papers, to you, hunched over and pulling at your hair like a mad scientist on the brink of discovery.

“…Why are you still here?” His voice is level, but you detect the judgment beneath it. “I made sure your schedule was clear. You should have been home by five.”

You make a vague, distressed sound—somewhere between a whimper and the dying gasp of an overworked CEO. “I have a mouse to hunt,” you say, still frantically flipping through documents. “A very cunning mouse.”

Jamil, to his credit, does not roll his eyes. He does, however, step forward and pluck the file from your grasp before you can protest. His sharp eyes scan the pages, his fingers flipping through them with practiced ease.

You watch as his expression shifts into something thoughtful, his lips pursing slightly, his brows furrowing in deep concentration. You can see his mind working.

Jamil is infuriatingly intelligent. He always has been. You knew it the moment he walked into your office for his interview and answered every question with precision so perfect it was almost suspicious.

But this—this is something else. His eyes flick from one line to another, scanning, calculating, searching.

And then it hits you.

His hair.

His stupidly perfect, annoyingly silky, meticulously styled hair.

The way it’s always just slightly different every day. Some days it’s neater, tied back with care. Some days it’s looser, like he didn’t have time to properly tame it. Some days it’s so perfect it looks effortless, which means it probably took him ages to get it like that.

Your brain connects the dots.

Your CFO’s expenses had fluctuations that made no sense at first glance. But what if—what if the embezzlement wasn’t consistent? What if he only siphoned money on certain days—days when he needed to make the numbers look normal, like a fluctuation in operational costs?

Like how Jamil’s hair was slightly different depending on how rushed he was in the morning.

Your eyes widen. You grab Jamil’s arm.

“It’s the payroll processing days,” you say, the revelation clicking together. “The numbers don’t match on payroll weeks because he’s hiding them within the irregular adjustments! He’s only stealing when payroll is being processed because that’s when the accounts fluctuate naturally.”

Jamil blinks, then looks back at the files, and you see it—the exact moment he finds the irregularity, the way his eyes sharpen, the way the corner of his lips twitch in mild irritation.

“…Huh,” he says, flipping back to double-check.

You beam at him. “Jamil, I could kiss you.”

He does not react, but his ears turn slightly red. He hands the file back. “Don’t. Just fire your CFO.”

“Oh, I will.” You grin, stretching your arms behind your head. “And then I’m going to have so much fun ruining his career.”

Jamil gives you a look. You pretend not to see it.

Jamil has worked for a lot of powerful people before. He’s seen how they act—detached, ruthless, calculating. People who don’t say thank you unless there’s an audience, people who treat loyalty as a transaction rather than a virtue, people who see their employees as numbers on a spreadsheet rather than human beings.

And then there’s you.

You, who smile at every single employee as if they’re the most interesting person in the world.

You, who face betrayals with an easy grin, as if it’s just another puzzle to solve.

You, who refuse to be jaded, as if the sheer weight of your responsibilities isn’t trying to crush you every single day.

Jamil has worked as a secretary before, long enough to know that this is not normal. It’s not normal for a CEO to approve leave requests without question, to cover all medical expenses without a fight, to sit down at the employee cafeteria and listen to people’s grievances like a normal person.

It’s definitely not normal for you to turn to him at the end of a long, grueling day—after uncovering a massive embezzlement scandal in your own company—and say, “Let’s get dinner. My treat.”

Jamil expects a high-end restaurant. The kind of place where the portions are offensively small, the food is questionably pretentious, and the bill alone could sustain an entire household for a month. The kind of place where people like you—people with power, people with money—go to flaunt their superiority.

Instead, you take him to a tiny, hole-in-the-wall restaurant run by an elderly couple who clearly know you on a first-name basis.

“Ah, welcome back!” the old woman greets you warmly, eyes flicking to Jamil with curiosity. “And who’s this? A date?”

Jamil chokes on air.

You laugh—loudly—and wave off the comment. “Nah, just my secretary! He helped me catch a mouse today.”

Jamil doesn’t bother correcting you.

The menu is scrawled in barely legible handwriting on a whiteboard near the counter. You order the greasiest, most artery-clogging meal he’s ever seen in his life. Jamil orders something safer, something that won’t take five years off his lifespan.

When the food arrives, you practically vibrate in your seat, taking a bite with the enthusiasm of a child eating their first piece of candy.

Jamil stares at you in mild horror. “You eat this every day?”

You grin, already halfway through your meal. “Yeah.”

Jamil doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

But he eats. He eats, and he listens to you ramble about ridiculous workplace rumors, and he watches you laugh so hard you snort when you make a terrible joke.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, Jamil finds himself laughing too.

Not because your joke is funny—because it isn’t. It’s awful, actually.

But maybe because your eyes shine too brightly in the dim light.

Maybe because you seem so human right now, so painfully, vividly human.

Maybe because he knows he’ll have to leave you behind soon, and yet here he is, eating unhealthy food and smiling at you.

Jamil has never questioned his jobs before. He gets paid, he gets the work done. Simple.

So why does it feel so different this time?

Jamil has worked for some eccentric people before. Billionaires with more money than sense, CEOs who thought meditation on top of a glass skyscraper would give them divine insight, a director who once insisted that his morning coffee had to be stirred exactly 72 times counterclockwise or the stock market would crash. He’s seen it all. Or so he thought.

And then there was you.

You were a genius, of course. No one could deny that. You had single-handedly revolutionized an entire industry and kept your technology locked down so tightly that even the best corporate spies had walked away empty-handed.

But you were also—how to put this nicely?—completely, utterly unhinged. Eccentric was too mild a word. You were like a mad scientist and a particularly stubborn golden retriever had been fused together in a tragic yet strangely effective laboratory accident.

Jamil has had a front-row seat to your absurdity for months now, but today? Today takes the cake.

He enters the office expecting chaos, but he still isn't prepared to see a bouncy castle taking up the center of the room. It is massive. Garish. A primary-colored monstrosity that clashes violently with the sleek, modern aesthetic of your office. It is also, for some reason, fully inflated.

Jamil watches as you bounce in deep concentration, your tie undone, your shoes discarded somewhere in the corner. Your movements are precise, like each jump is a carefully calibrated equation.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dare I ask?”

You pause mid-bounce, floating for a second in the air like some kind of enlightened acrobat before landing gracefully and turning to him with a grin. “I needed to think.”

“…So naturally, you brought a bouncy castle.”

“Of course.” You wave a hand, as if this should be obvious. “Sometimes, when my brain gets stuck, I just need a little kinetic stimulation. You know, shake up the neurons.” You jump again, flailing slightly before catching yourself. “It’s like—have you ever had a word on the tip of your tongue, and then you do something completely different and suddenly it comes to you? Same concept. Except instead of drinking water or taking a walk, I jump on an inflatable castle like a responsible adult.”

Jamil stares. His headache is already forming. “You’re going to break your neck.”

“Nope! Tested the weight limits. We’re good.” You bounce again, then stop abruptly, eyes widening. Your entire posture shifts, shoulders straightening, expression sharpening. You scramble off the castle, grab a nearby notebook, and start writing furiously.

Jamil watches, baffled, as you tear through an entire page with equations and diagrams, the kind of thing that would take a normal person weeks to conceptualize. And then you stop, beaming like a kid who just cracked open a piñata full of gold.

“I GOT IT,” you declare, spinning the notebook around as if Jamil has the clearance—or the desire—to understand whatever ridiculous breakthrough you just had. “This is going to make everything ten times more efficient! Jamil, this is genius.”

Jamil, who has not slept properly in three days because of this mission, who has already accepted that this job is going to either kill him or make him reconsider every life decision he has ever made, just sighs. “Great. So was the bouncy castle necessary?”

You turn back to him, eyes bright, smile wider than he’s ever seen. “Absolutely.”

And the worst part? The part that truly makes him question if he’s losing his mind?

He almost believes you.

Meetings like this made you wonder if you could get away with legally replacing the entire board with three possums in a trench coat. These relics in overpriced suits had two working brain cells between them, and one was currently occupied with nursing last night’s hangover.

They thought that their decades of mismanaging money somehow gave them wisdom. You would almost find it impressive, the way they clung to their illusion of relevance, if it weren’t so unbearably tedious.

You could fire them all, of course. You could clear this room in five minutes, clean house with a snap of your fingers, but you had held back out of sheer pity. They were close to retirement—one foot in the grave and the other on a luxury cruise.

Let them ride out their last few years clutching their outdated business strategies and egos. It wasn’t like they actually did anything.

But today? Today, you were at your limit.

Jamil was standing behind you, stone-faced, but you could tell he wanted to be anywhere else. His exhaustion mirrored your own. You’d been sitting here for an hour while they droned on about numbers they clearly didn’t understand.

Internally, you begged for something—anything—to spontaneously combust just so you’d have an excuse to leave. A small fire? A sudden, mysterious blackout? A divine intervention from the heavens themselves?

And then, as if the universe had heard you and decided to throw you a different kind of entertainment, one of them made a mistake. A grave mistake.

“—not that it matters to someone like you,” one of the old fossils sneered, voice soaked in condescension. “You just sit there and look pretty. Maybe that’s why you keep your secretary around—eye candy to brighten your day, hm?”

Silence.

Jamil felt the shift before he saw it. The room, which had been filled with the usual underhanded comments and the shuffling of papers, went utterly still. The air thickened, tension snapping tight like a bowstring.

You moved, slow and deliberate, sitting up from your languid position and resting your elbows on the table. Then, with a sharp crack that echoed through the room, you slammed your hand against the polished wood. Jamil was pretty sure he saw the surface splinter.

And then, you smiled.

“Say,” you said, your voice honey-sweet, “how’s your son’s wedding prep going?”

The man blinked, startled by the sudden shift in topic. “Uh—fine?”

“That’s wonderful.” You laced your fingers together, tilting your head like a benevolent ruler addressing a particularly stupid peasant. “I hope he has a strong savings account. And you, too, for that matter.”

His confusion deepened. “Why would—?”

“Because as of right now, every single one of you is fired.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You stood, straightening your sleeves, your expression as calm as if you’d just commented on the weather. The rest of the board gaped at you, struggling to process what had just happened.

“Pack your things,” you continued, tone still sickeningly pleasant. “Security will escort you out. Your pensions will remain untouched—I’m not a monster—but your presence is no longer required. Effective immediately.”

Then, without waiting for a response, you turned on your heel and strolled out of the room.

Jamil took a moment to savor the stunned expressions, the way the old man who had made the comment looked like he was trying to compute his own downfall in real time. He had seen you be cunning, eccentric, absurd, even, but this was the first time he had seen you wield your power properly. It was—

Well.

He wasn’t about to admit it was impressive.

Or flattering.

Not even as he followed you out the door, suppressing the smallest, most insufferable urge to smile.

You’re good at reading people. That’s what makes you such a good CEO. You can tell when a business partner is about to backstab you. You can spot a bad deal from a mile away. You figured out your CFO was embezzling money based on a hunch and a particularly sleepless night.

So why the hell can’t you figure out what’s going on with Jamil right now?

Your day is over. Your work is done. You’re walking out of the building, feeling suspiciously well-rested for once, because Jamil is the best damn secretary you’ve ever had.

And there he is.

Standing near the exit, very much still here, despite having clocked out hours ago.

You stop. Blink. “Jamil? What are you doing here?”

He startles like you caught him committing a felony.

Which, honestly, makes you even more confused.

Jamil is the picture of composure in any situation. He could talk his way out of a hostage negotiation, probably. He could charm a boardroom full of old, corporate sharks into agreeing with his terms.

And yet, right now, he looks like he wants to evaporate.

You tilt your head. “What’s up? You good?”

Jamil scowls like you’ve offended his ancestors. And then, without meeting your gaze, he thrusts a box at you.

"Eat properly," he grumbles. "Heaven knows you can afford it."

And then he turns on his heel and almost sprints out of the building.

You stare at his retreating figure. Then you stare at the box in your hands.

What just happened.

You consider yourself a genius. You built an empire with your own two hands. You have patents worth billions. You have business rivals who would kill to know what goes on in your head.

And yet, this one interaction has you completely, utterly lost.

It’s only when you get home that you actually open the box.

Inside is a clearly homemade meal. Balanced, nutritious, and suspiciously catered to your exact tastes.

You crouch down. Laugh a little.

And then you pull out your phone.

You: thank you <3

Meanwhile, In Jamil’s car:

He hears the message notification. Opens it. Sees your text.

And immediately slams his forehead into the steering wheel.

The honk that follows is so obnoxiously loud that a street cat outside lets out an ungodly scream and scrambles away like it just witnessed a murder.

Jamil exhales sharply. He grips the wheel like it personally wronged him.

You’re going to be the death of him.

Jamil does not get sick.

It is a fact as ironclad as his ability to keep a secret, as certain as the sun rising in the east and setting behind your ridiculous office where you concoct new ways to stress him out.

Jamil does not get sick because sickness is a weakness—an opening in his otherwise airtight, bulletproof existence.

And yet.

Here he is.

Dying. Absolutely, irredeemably, spectacularly dying.

His body betrays him completely, weighed down by a fever that could probably fry an egg on his forehead. Every muscle aches as if he has been tossed into a meat grinder, his throat is raw, and his head is a battlefield of pain and regret.

He barely manages to lift his phone and call you, the only person who needs to know why he’s breaking protocol and skipping work for the first time in his entire life.

The phone rings. Once. Twice.

And then—

“Jamil! What’s up?”

Too loud. Why are you always so loud? He winces, nearly drops his phone on his face.

“I… I can’t come in today.” His voice is hoarse, unrecognizable. Disgusting. He clears his throat, which only makes it worse. “I’m sick.”

There is a long, stunned silence.

Then, very, very slowly—

“You’re what?”

Jamil closes his eyes. He does not have the strength for this conversation.

“Sick,” he repeats, barely suppressing the urge to just fade out of existence right then and there.

Another pause. Then, in a tone that is so soft he almost doesn’t recognize it coming from you—

“…Oh.”

Something about the way you say it makes his stomach twist—though that could also be the fever.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” you say, genuinely concerned. “Rest, drink water, and if you need anything—”

He does not hear the rest.

Because he blacks out.

Jamil is sick.

Jamil, your unshakable, hyper-competent, borderline immortal assistant—the man who somehow pulls miracles out of thin air while looking vaguely unimpressed—is sick.

You expected betrayals, corporate espionage, elaborate counter-strategies in your ongoing war to get him on your side.

You did not expect this.

And worse—he sounded awful.

Not just tired. Not just mildly inconvenienced.

You sit at your desk for approximately three minutes, trying to convince yourself that it’s fine, that Jamil is a grown man who can take care of himself.

Then you Google “how to care for a sick employee” and make the deeply logical decision to immediately drop everything and go check on him yourself.

Which is how you end up outside his apartment, ringing the doorbell like a maniac.

There is no response.

You ring again. And again.

Nothing.

A small, horrible thought creeps in. What if he passed out? What if he hit his head? What if he—

Just as you're about to kick down the door in a move that would absolutely get you arrested, it creaks open.

And Jamil is standing there.

Barely.

He looks terrible.

His usual sharp, careful composure? Gone. His hair is an absolute wreck, his eyes are dazed, and his entire body is actively betraying him by swaying on his feet like a tragic willow in a storm.

You are horrified.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, stepping forward before he can literally collapse. “Jamil, you look—”

Like death. Like the very concept of suffering incarnate.

But you do not say this out loud, because you are a good person.

Instead, you step into his space and grab him before he keels over.

“You’re burning up,” you mutter, steadying him. “When was the last time you ate?”

Jamil blinks at you very slowly, like his brain is buffering at dial-up speeds.

“…Food?”

That is not an answer.

You curse under your breath and haul him back inside, which is a feat of great strength because he is all lean muscle and fever deadweight.

How did this happen? Why did this happen? Who let this happen?

Oh. Right. Him.

Jamil is going to die.

Not from the fever, no. That would be merciful.

He is going to die from sheer embarrassment because you—his boss, his greatest headache, his most infuriating problem—are here, in his apartment, fussing over him like some kind of divine punishment.

He barely registers you pulling out a thermometer and shoving it into his mouth with all the grace of someone who has never done this before.

The numbers blink back at you ominously.

“You’re burning up,” you mutter. “Okay, I’m ordering soup. And you are not moving until you eat something.”

Jamil tries to protest. He does.

But then you press a cool towel against his forehead, and—

Oh.

Oh, that is nice.

His body betrays him once again by relaxing into your touch.

By the time the soup arrives, he is too weak to even lift the spoon properly.

So you—without hesitation, without a single ounce of normal human shame—just feed him.

Like a child.

Like he is some helpless, pathetic creature.

Which, okay, maybe right now, he is.

But still. This is humiliating.

It is also the best soup he has ever had in his life.

Jamil finally falls back asleep.

And you sit there, staring at his peaceful, fever-flushed face, wondering how the hell this became your life.

You were supposed to be running a company, not playing nurse to your best-paid spy.

You should not care this much.

And yet.

You check his temperature again. Still high, but better.

You sigh, raking a hand through your hair, and grab your phone.

“Okay,” you mutter into the receiver, pacing the room. “But what do I do if he wakes up and refuses to rest?”

A pause.

Your voice drops, quieter. “Yeah, I know. I just don’t want him to push himself again.”

Behind you, Jamil shifts.

You do not notice.

But he notices you.

Your hair is mussed, your usual sharp, teasing grin replaced with something softer.

You look worried. For him.

Jamil stares, something twisting in his chest.

Oh.

Oh, he is so incredibly doomed.

You always knew Jamil was a spy. That much was obvious.

The way he answered every question perfectly in his interview? Suspicious.

The way he executed his tasks with military precision? Suspicious.

The way he didn’t try to subtly flirt with you or brown-nose like all the other incompetent spies before him? Extremely suspicious.

But he was competent. So stupidly, ridiculously competent. And you’d rather keep an enemy that made your life easier than deal with another incompetent fool.

Besides, you like playing with fire. So you decided to see how far you could push him.

So tonight, you left your office unlocked. Oh no. What a terrible mistake. If only someone didn’t sneak in and steal your files.

And to make things more interesting, you left some semi-important files open on your computer. Documents that looked serious enough to be tempting but wouldn’t actually do much damage if leaked.

Right before you left, you made sure to sigh dramatically in front of Jamil and say, “Ugh, these files have been keeping me up at night. I sure hope they don’t get leaked or anything.”

Then, you went to your surveillance setup, made yourself some popcorn, and watched.

Because of course Jamil was going to take the bait.

And sure enough, there he was.

You watch as he sits down at your desk. Silent. Focused. The very picture of efficiency.

You lean forward as he navigates to the files. Click. Click. Scroll. His fingers hover over the copy button.

And then—

He just… stops.

Your eyebrows shoot up. Oh?

Jamil stares at the screen like it personally insulted his honor. His fingers twitch over the keyboard, hesitating.

Your interest piques. He should’ve copied them by now. He’s supposed to be a professional, isn’t he?

He clicks out of the important files.

Your jaw nearly drops. What.

He clicks out. He clicks out. He actively chooses not to take anything of worth.

Instead, you watch as he scrolls past all the confidential reports—

—bypasses all the juicy, corporate secrets—

—ignores all the schematics—

—and copies a single folder labeled “raccoons_for_a_rainy_day.zip.”

You almost choke on your popcorn.

Jamil pauses. Stares at the screen for a long, long moment.

Then, as if committing a terrible crime, he ejects the USB, tucks it away, and swiftly leaves your office.

You sit there, stunned.

Because out of everything in your company’s database, out of all the valuable information he could’ve stolen—

He took your emergency raccoon meme collection.

You blink. Once. Twice.

And then, slowly, a grin spreads across your face.

Oh. Oh, this is delightful.

You knew you were converting him to your side, but this? This is proof.

Jamil, the competent, efficient, dangerously intelligent spy, had a perfect chance to complete his mission. And instead of betraying you, he chose to betray his employer instead.

For you.

How flattering.

You had dealt with a lot of strange things in your life. A lot. But this? This was definitely one of the stupidest.

Your old secretary—the one who took a bribe and fled like a rat from a sinking ship—was currently sitting in front of you, begging for her job back. Why? Who the hell knew. You had been certain that the bribe she took would have lasted her a few years, maybe even bought her a cute little vacation somewhere far away, but apparently, money couldn’t buy wisdom. Or, in her case, common sense.

You leaned back in your chair, fingers steepled together, watching her ramble through increasingly desperate justifications. I’ve changed. I’ve grown. I’ve learned from my mistakes. You doubted it.

Jamil stood beside you, completely unreadable, but you knew him well enough by now to recognize the signs of his barely contained fury. His shoulders were stiff, his posture rigid, and—most damning of all—his fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

Oh, interesting.

Obviously, you weren’t rehiring her. She wasn’t even ten percent as competent as Jamil, and unlike her, Jamil wasn’t stupid enough to take a bribe when you were the one offering him far more than money. But this? This was a perfect opportunity to test something.

So you sighed, long and dramatic, before rubbing your temples as if this decision physically pained you. “I’ll consider it,” you said finally. “I’ll call you back once I’ve made my decision.”

Her face lit up, all eager gratitude, and she left the office with a bounce in her step.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, you stood, intending to grab a file from your cabinet—but you didn’t get far.

Because Jamil blocked your path.

You blinked at him, more amused than anything, but your amusement flickered into something softer when you saw his face.

He looked wrecked.

Not in an angry way, not even in a controlled, simmering fury. No—this was something else entirely. His eyes searched yours like he was trying to find some sort of answer, his breath slightly uneven, his expression utterly betrayed. He looked like you had punched him in the gut.

You had seen Jamil irritated, seen him exasperated, seen him indulge in rare moments of smugness when his plans went exactly as intended. But this? This raw emotion spilling out of him like a dam breaking—this was new. And you couldn’t stop the way your heartbeat stuttered at the sight.

“Why?” His voice came out hoarse, like he barely trusted himself to speak. “Why would you… Why would you even consider hiring her back?”

You tilted your head, keeping your voice light. “Why does it bother you so much?”

Jamil’s mouth opened—then snapped shut. You could practically see his thoughts racing, running too fast for him to catch up, but something cracked inside of him, because once he started speaking, he couldn’t stop.

“Did I mess up?” he demanded, voice sharper than he probably intended. “Was I not good enough? Did I do something wrong? Why would you—” He cut himself off, exhaling shakily, his hands twitching at his sides like he desperately wanted to reach for you. “You know she isn’t competent. You know she isn’t better than me.”

You hummed, tilting your head in faux thoughtfulness. “Of course, I’ll give you a different position,” you mused. “No need to worry about job security.”

Jamil broke.

Before you could even register the movement, he grabbed you.

His hands found your face, his fingers curling against your skin like he needed to ground himself, like he needed to prove something—and then, he kissed you.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t polite. It was desperate, burning with frustration and something deeper, something so much more vulnerable than you had ever expected from him.

And then, hypothesis proven, you kissed him back.

For a moment, you simply blinked.

Jamil pulls away like he just touched something scalding, his breath uneven, his eyes wide with something close to terror. You watch as realization sets in—his own actions hitting him all at once, like a dam finally bursting and drowning him in the consequences of his own emotions.

“I—” His voice is hoarse, almost shaky, but he’s trying to regain control, trying to salvage something, anything. “I’m not who you think I am.” He says it like a confession, like a last-ditch effort to make you see reason, to make you step back and realize that you shouldn’t want him, that you shouldn’t choose him. “I was hired to—”

“My dear, sweet spy,” you interrupt, voice dripping with amused affection, “won’t you be mine?”

Jamil freezes.

You can see the exact second it dawns on him. The way his expression shifts from confused horror to pure, unfiltered disbelief. You knew. You always knew. Of course you did. He should’ve realized it sooner. You were too sharp, too perceptive, too you to have been in the dark about something so crucial.

And yet, here you were. Choosing him anyway.

His lips twitch. His shoulders shake. And then, he laughs.

Not a small chuckle, not a bitter scoff, but a real laugh, something rare and unguarded, something so genuinely light that it catches even him off guard. He laughs so hard that he nearly doubles over, his forehead dropping against yours as he exhales shakily, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

You feel his breath ghost against your skin, feel the warmth of him so close, and yet, there is no hesitation anymore, no careful, measured distance.

He shakes his head, still breathless from laughing, and when he finally meets your gaze, his expression is something unreadable, something painfully soft.

And this time, when he kisses you, there’s no fear left.

“…Fine,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard it. “I’m yours.”

You wake up to the warmth of an arm draped over your waist, the steady rise and fall of a familiar chest behind you. It’s a rare thing—to wake before Jamil. He’s always been the early riser between you, slipping out of bed before the sun has even had the chance to settle into the sky. But today, for the first time in two years, you’re the one watching him sleep.

Two years since his terrified confession. Two years since you pulled him into the kind of love neither of you had ever expected to find. Two years of whispered promises, stolen kisses, and a loyalty that runs deeper than any mission, deeper than any past betrayal.

The early morning light filters in through the curtains, soft and golden, catching on the matching rings on your fingers. A quiet proof of what you’ve built together. The sight makes something tender settle in your chest, and you press a kiss to his forehead, gentle and lingering.

Jamil stirs, brow furrowing for just a moment before he instinctively pulls you closer, his grip tightening around your waist. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, voice thick with sleep as he murmurs, “Why’re you awake so early…?”

You smile, carding your fingers through his hair as you whisper, “Go back to sleep.”

And as the warmth of him lulls you back into slumber, a thought drifts lazily through your mind—

"You sleep too," he grumbles, but it’s lazy, half-hearted. You can already feel his breath evening out, his body relaxing against yours once more. You keep stroking his hair, slow and rhythmic, feeling the last bits of tension melt from his frame.

Maybe playing with fire was the smartest move you ever made.

Masterlist

[cheapshrimpysheep]

True Feelings Chocolate - Freshmen

SUMMARY: It is normal on Valentine's Day for friends or schoolmates to exchange chocolates with each other. However, the quality of the chocolate reveals how the person really sees you. And homemade chocolate is the greatest message of love that someone can receive on this day.

CHARACTERS: Freshmen (Ace Trappola / Deuce Spade / Jack Howl / Epel Felmier / Sebek Zigvolt) x Yuu (Reader)

TAGS: Fluff; GN Reader; Kiss

WORD COUNT: An average of 1.000 words per character.

COMMENTS: The number of words varies depending on how much the character is the type to hide his true feelings.

I also would like to be able to write Epel's accent/dialect, but as English is not my first language this becomes a bit difficult sometimes. When I really want to write something like that I ask Gemini for help.

I hope you enjoy and had Happy Valentine's Day 💝

True Feelings Chocolate - OB Students (Riddle Rosehearts / Leona Kingscholar / Azul Ashengrotto / Jamil Viper / Vil Schoenheit / Idia Shroud / Malleus Draconia) x Yuu (Reader)

REAL WORLD CONTEXT: You may already know this, but Valentine's Day in Japan is different than in Western countries. In Asia (from what I know and have researched) this day is not exclusively related to romantic love but also to friendship or simple connections between schoolmates or work colleagues.

Just like in the West, it is marked by the gifting of chocolate, but the quality of the chocolate differs: If it's a boss or colleague you're not friends with, they're usually cheaper, more common chocolates. The quality and even price of the chocolate increases according to the relationship with the person to whom it is offered. And a chocolate made by the person themselves is the most valuable of all and is usually, from what I understand, almost like a confession of love.

On Valentine's Day, it is women who offer chocolates to men, but in this case, to keep Yuu gender-neutral and make it so that they can also offer chocolates to them, I just kept the chocolates’s logic and excluded the gender thing.

Another thing is that since it is normal to give chocolates to friends as well, it becomes more discreet to give more special chocolates to a certain person and it doesn't draw attention to simply give chocolate to someone.

NOTE: Thaumarks would be the equivalent of US dollars.

Since cherry pie is Ace's favorite food, you decide to make chocolate covered cherries, and you bought a red heart shaped box from Sam's Mystery Shop to put them in.

Meanwile, on one of the nights before Valentine's Day, Ace was alone in Heartslabyul’s kitchen with as few lights on as possible (which includes his phone’s light) and trying to cook without making noise when someone calmly enters and scares him with their presence.

“I think you know how lucky you are that I'm the one who found you and not Riddle.” Trey says with a weird smile.

“T-T-T-Trey-senpai...” Ace smiles awkwardly, that smile he hopes will get him out of trouble. “P-please, I... I-I'm just trying to follow the Valentine's Day rules, y-you know.”

“Following the rules?” Trey raises an eyebrow, looks at the mess on the kitchen table, and then looks back at Ace with a smirk. “Oh, so you’re making the chocolates? I wonder who they are for.”

“Hey, I'm not that obvious!... Am I?” He worries.

“But why didn't you do this during the day? I mean, I know you're trying to keep Deuce and the other students from seeing you, but I’m sure they have schedules that don't always overlap with yours.”

“Yeah, but I also had the problem of buying the ingredients without being seen. And I almost failed a bunch of times.” Ace sighs.

Trey laughs. “Well, you don't have much time until Valentine's Day... Hmm... Would you like my help? Maybe this way you'll finish faster and we can both go to bed.”

Ace is immediately overjoyed and relieved, but then asks him not to tell anyone. Trey promises not to tell anyone if no one catches them in the kitchen at that hour. A big part of the reason he helps Ace is so he doesn't have to deal with that problem the next day.

On Valentine's Day, you were preparing the boxes of chocolate to deliver to the Heartslabyul boys when you heard someone knocking on your door. You open it and see Ace catching his breath and then straightening up to pretend he wasn't tired at all.

“Heeey! Good morning, (Y/N)!” Ace greets you with that cute smile. You ask if he's okay when you see him panting as he speaks. “Y-yeah. It was just a long ru- walk. So... I was passing by and took the opportunity to come and say hi...” He smirks “And take whatever you might have to give me today.”

“You came all this way so early just to try to be the first one to get the chocolates?" you ask.

“He he, another good way to brag to Deuce.” He smiles smugly before returning to that cute smile. “So where are my sweets~?”

You turn around to get the bag of chocolates and take his box to hand it to him. He seems happier not to see any brand on the box, but even so he messes with you.

“Hmm? What's this? Don't tell me you made my chocolates?” He becomes even happier when he sees your reaction. “Well, let's see how they came out!”

He opens the box and finds several small chocolate balls like regular bonbons. He comments that he is a little disappointed, he thought you could do something more interesting. He takes one to taste, bites into it and widens his eyes.

“They are... cherries? Chocolate covered cherries?”

You ask what he was saying about them not being interesting and he laughs as he happily admits he was wrong.

“But they still look kind of boring.” he jokes. “I...” he gets a little flustered “I have something for you too.”

He had the backpack he used for his books with him, he put your box inside and took out another one, another red heart shaped box. He felt a little embarrassed as he looked at the box, that color was was so much flashier than yours.

“Yeah, it is pretty cliché too, but hey, it's also my suit.”

He holds the box with one hand and takes the other to the tip of the heart where there was a protrusion that served as a handle. He pulls it, opening the box like a drawer. The box is empty except for a folded piece of paper. You pick it up, unfold it, and read the message: ‘Sorry, I already ate them all. Should have been quicker!’ and a drawing of a smiley face with its tongue sticking out. Ace laughs at your reaction.

“I'm kidding, I'm kidding.” he defends himself when you playfully hit him on the arm. He closes that drawer and when he opens it again it is full of little chubby hearts made of your favorite chocolate. You reach out to pick one up but stop and look at him suspiciously. “Fine, fine. No more tricks with these chocolates, I promise.” he smiles.

You take out one of the chocolate hearts and bite into it to discover that it has your favorite filling. They were very good... too good. You sigh, feigning (or not) disappointment, and comment that for a moment you thought those were chocolates made by him.

“What?! What do you mean?! Of course I was the one who made them!”

You say they're too good for someone who you know doesn't like to cook or has a knack for it. They're more like sweets that... Trey would make.

“Ah... ugh... Okay, fine, I asked Trey-senpai for help. And... maybe kind of... tried to make him do most of the work... B-but that's because... um... *sigh* You said it yourself, I don't like cooking and I don't have a knack for it. I wanted to make sure your chocolates turned out as good as possible. And what's better than a sweet made by a professional like my Vice-Housewarden?” he smiles hoping that would save him from a scolding.

You may not scold him, but if he sees you upset or sad about it, he will feel really bad for having done that to you.

“Hey, I really tried to make them, I swear. The crooked ones are mine, haha. What happened was that Trey-senpai caught me making them in the kitchen at night and offered to help me. I really wanted to give you something that would show how much I love you, but...” He falls silent and blushes when he realizes what he just said. His instinct is to kinda change the subject. “Y-You know, I could have lost my head if it had been the Housewarden who caught me there and not him! I put my neck on the line for you. That should, at least, be a mitigating factor in this case.”

If you give him a kiss on the cheek to show that you forgive him, he will be stunned for a second, but then he will smile seductively, grab you by the waist and give you a real kiss.

Knowing that Deuce’s favorite food is anything with eggs, you look for recipes with eggs and chocolate. The first results are for chocolate eggs until you come across a recipe for Egg Yolk Chocolate Chip Cookies. Maybe you could even shape them into hearts, or better yet, into the shape of the suit of swords.

Meanwhile, Deuce isn't shy about asking Trey for help making your chocolates... okay, maybe a little bit, because it's basically telling him that he has a crush on you, although Trey kind of already knew. The only thing he asks is that they manage to make the chocolates without Ace knowing, so as not to make fun of him. Luckily for him, Cater is also willing to help that cute little freshman of his distracting Ace.

On Valentine's Day, you were putting the boxes of chocolates in a bag to give to the Heartslabyul boys, including the blue heart-shaped box you bought to put Deuce's cookies in, when someone knocks on your door.

“H-hey. G-good morning (Y/N).” Deuce greeted you with a hint of nervousness and shyness when you open the door. “I hope I'm not bothering you, hum, I mean, so soon.”

You reassure him that he never bothers you and that makes him blush a little.

“I'm glad... hum... Since today is Valentine's Day I... I wanted to... give you this.” He takes his hand from behind his back and offers you a quite cute heart-shaped box.

He feels more at ease when he sees that you liked the surprise and happier when you accepted it willingly. You open the box and see several hearts of your favorite chocolate. Many look good, but others are a little crooked. This makes you chuckle.

“Ha ha. Yeah, I know, I'm not very good at shaping them.” he says slightly embarrassed. “P-please try them, tell me what you think. I asked for Trey-senpai's help to make sure I did them the best I could.”

You pick one up and take a bite. It was pretty good, not as good as Trey could make them, but you could tell he had a hand in helping him. Besides that, they had clearly been made by Deuce.

“So, you like it?” He asks with a shy smile even though he can see the way you're smiling. You confirm and his smile widens. “I'm glad!”

You take the opportunity to turn around, pick up the blue heart-shaped box you had puted in the bag and offer it to him. Deuce widens his eyes in surprise.

“Oh? You...? It’s for me?”

Regardless of whether you cutely or sarcastically say yes, he will laugh embarrassedly and flattered, and blush a little if you call him ‘silly’. He picks up the box with a cute smile and is surprised again when he sees cookies shaped like the suit of spades and hearts instead of regular chocolates.

You tell him they are egg yolk chocolate chip cookies and that you made them because you wanted to do something that combines chocolate and his favorite food: eggs. He beams with happiness just hearing you say you made them, and even more so that you made them so thoughtfully.

“They look delicious, I'm sure they taste as good as they look.” he says excitedly to try one, and as soon as he does it you see one of the most sincere and adorable smiles you've ever seen on him.

“THEY'RE GREAT!” he shouts too excitedly and then gets a little embarrassed. “Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to say it so loud. It's just... you made these for me. Hmm... is that because... are you following the rules of this day?” he blushes. “You know, about, if the chocolates are handmade it must mean that...”

He's too flustered to finish his sentences, so he'll need you to be the one to take the next step and kiss him on the cheek. If you do, he will look at you in amazement for a second, before smiling broadly, hugging you and giving you a kiss on the cheek as well, but extremely passionately.

You know that Jack’s favorite food is pear compote, so you look for something that combines this and chocolate. The closest thing you can find is chocolate pear cake. Maybe if you cut it into smaller cubes it will be more like classic chocolates than giving him a whole cake. You also bought a yellow box in Sam's Mystery Shop to put them in.

Meanwhile, Jack was making your chocolates in Savanaclaw’s kitchen and would growl menacingly at anyone who messed with him about it, or even tried to. With the sole exception of Ruggie who offered to eat the chocolates that turned out so badly that Jack wouldn't want to offer them to you.

On Valentine's Day, you were preparing the boxes of chocolates to deliver to the Savanaclaw boys, when you heard someone knocking on your door.

“Hey, (Y/N). Hum, good morning.” Jack greets you slightly tense, despite trying to hide it. “Happy Valentine's Day. I... uh...” His impassive expression began to fade as his ears lowered, giving way to a more shy one. “I came here because I wanted to give you this.” He takes his hand from behind his back and hands you a red heart-shaped box with a pink bow. “Sorry if it's too cliché, but, uh, I thought you would like it anyway.” he rubs the back of his neck.

He starts to wag his tail a little when he sees that you enjoyed receiving that gift from him. You open it and find hearts of your favorite chocolate. However, they all have slightly different sizes and shapes, maybe only one or two could have an almost perfect, cymetrical shape of a heart, now all the others... You couldn't contain a little laugh.

“I know, I know.” he says embarrassedly, running a hand over the back of his neck again. “I'm terrible at delicate work. And these chocolates are too small for my hands.”

You pick one up and take a bite out of it. You say it tastes really good and his tail wags a little more as he smiles proudly. You take the opportunity to take his yellow box out of the bag and hand it to him. His tail wags again when he sees the box.

“I shouldn't be surprised that you'd want to give me something today too, should I?” He chuckles. “Thanks.” He picks up the box with a big smile and opens it. “Hmm? They look like little slices of cake.”

You tell him that you wanted to make something with pear compote since it is his favorite, but the most you could find were recipes for chocolate pear cake. So you thought that if you cut them a little smaller it would be the closest thing to regular chocolates.

“You're saying...” His tail begins to lose its shyness and takes up more space when wagging. “That you were the one who made them? And you tried so hard to make something I would like?” His big smile returns. “They look great. Let's see how good a cook you are!”

He takes one of the small slices but doesn't bite into it, as they are small enough for him to put them whole in his mouth, completely confident that it will taste good. And by the smile, the crazy wagging tail and the erect ears, this seems to be the case.

“They taste great too!” He was clearly overjoyed with your ‘chocolates’, but then the tail slowed down, the ears lowered slightly and his shyness returned. “Hey, I... I just wanted to make sure...” He looked away from you and his free hands went back to rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s said that if the chocolates are handmade it must mean...”

He seems to be struggling to continue that sentence and, knowing the Tsundere that he is, you realize that you need to be the one to help him.

“That the person has feelings for the other?” you finish for him. “Or even a crush?”

He finally starts to blush for real, but when he sees your reassuring smile he realizes and is sure that the feeling is mutual. This makes him loosen up, letting his tail wag like it wanted to wag all along, and he... laughs heartily, like you've never seen before. But you were surprised once again when he practically attacked you with a hug.

You have to be careful not to drop the chocolates as he covers your face with kisses, just as he has to be careful not to drop his.

You knew macarons were one of Epel’s favorite foods. So chocolate macarons seemed like a good Valentine's Day chocolate option. However, they are difficult to make and require care and skill, which means you have put a lot of work into making them.

You were going to put them in a lavender box that you bought at Sam's Mystery Shop. But you didn't buy a normal, cute box. Sam ‘just happened’ to have a lavender box in stock with a lineart of two dragons forming a heart, but in a way that reminds you of a cool tattoo rather than a cute drawing.

Meanwhile, in Pomefiore's kitchen, Epel was making his chocolates feeling very tense. Because he wanted to make your chocolates as perfect as possible to prove himself worthy of praise and of you? It could have been, if he hadn't had something, or rather someones, who made him even more tense than that thought.

Epel could feel Rook's watchful gaze, even if he was watching Epel through the window from a tree branch. But that wasn't necessary because he made a deal with Epel: If he let Rook watch him cook without worrying about him interrupting or interfering, Rook would keep any and all other Pomefiore students out of the kitchen until Epel was finished. So he silently watched Epel from the corner... which wasn't exactly a comfortable feeling.

But another person from whom he couldn't hide what he wanted to do in the kitchen was the Housewarden of Pomefiore himself.

“If a Pomefiore student is going to give Valentine's Day chocolates to a crush...” Vil said and Epel tried to deny that last word without much conviction, which made Vil chuckle in amusement. “Fine, to someone they really like, then they will have to be the most beautiful sweets that said student is humanly capable of making. And that's why I'll be evaluating them once they're finished. You don't want to give (Y/N) anything less than your best, do you?”

He reluctantly agreed. This plus Rook's observation only put more pressure on him. However, this is the kind of pressure that motivates Epel even more, which ends up being a good thing.

On Valentine's Day, you're putting the boxes of chocolates in the bag to deliver to the Pomefiore boys, when you hear someone knocking on your door.

“Good morning, (Y/N)!” Epel greets you with that sweet, enthusiastic smile, but then he gets a little shy. “Happy Valentine's Day. I just, uh, came here because I wanted to give you this.”

He takes his hands from behind his back and hands you a beautiful heart-shaped box with a classic design. He is very happy that you liked his gift so much. You pick up the box and open it to find beautiful, plump hearts made from what looks like your favorite chocolate and beautiful, carefully crafted lineart. You comment that it must have been a lot of work to do.

“You have no idea...” he says through gritted teeth and with a smile that tries to hide his frustration. And you ask if he wants to talk about it. “I... How about you try them first?” he diverts the subject momentarily with an awkward smile.

You pick up one of the chocolates and bite into it to discover that it has your favorite filling. And indeed, they taste as good as they look. He turns his back to you and mutters, in an irritated triumph, a few phrases in his dialect. You only catch something about him being right and ‘he’ not knowing what ‘he’ was talking about. And something about diet, maybe. You ask if everything was okay and what he was saying. He turns back to you.

“I was talking about my Housewarden!” He says bluntly. “Vil was like: ‘are you going to make them such high-calorie chocolates?’” he imitates him in an affected voice that would certainly get him into trouble if Vil heard it. “And like ‘Don't you think you made many considering their poor nutrition?’. I was lucky that Rook defended me on many points, saying things like: 'This shows how sweet Monsieur Pommette’s love is’.” He made another eccentric voice to imitate Rook. “And cheesy things like that... And... I may or may not have talked back to Vil because of his criticisms.”

You ask what he did or said.

“At first the criticism was constructive, like whether the chocolates were pretty or not. But then he started criticizing the chocolates because of the calories. You know, stupid ideas because of his diets or something. It even got to the point where he almost told me to do something that I knew you wouldn't like and that's when I told him: ‘THESE CHOCOLATES ARE NOT FOR YOU! AND YOU CAN'T FORCE YOUR TASTES ON OTHERS!’”

He reenacted the way he said that to Vil and you can only imagine how he reacted when he saw Epel yelling at him with that furious face. Then he calmed down again and sighed.

“Right after that he wanted me to apologize. I apologized for the way I spoke, but not for what I said. And do you know what he said to me? ‘And that is exactly the apology you should make to me.’” He imitated Vil again to the point of making that gesture with his index finger next to his chin and put a smug face on. “ ‘What you said is more than correct, now the way you said it needs to be worked on.’ HE WAS PURPOSELY IRRITATING ME TO TEST ME! CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS?! And Rook even helped by praising the passionate way I expressed myself and yada, yada, yada.”

You can no longer contain your laughter when you imagine that scene. And Epel laughs with you. Oh, you almost forgot! You turn around and go to the bag to get Epel’s box to give to him.

“WOW! IT'S SO COOL!” Epel smiled excitedly when he sees the drawing of dragons on the box.

Then he looked at you and his smile became sweeter, having been reminded that you actually know the real him. He wasted no time in opening the box and he genuinely smiles so cutely when he sees the chocolate macarons. But then you see him pick up one of the macarons and analyze it. You ask if there's something wrong.

“Did you make them?” he asks with a really puzzled look, but soon his eyes widen and the big smile returns as you confirm. “So that's why they are a little crooked and with some cracks. Hahaha.”

You pout at him and notices his cheeks starting to turn pink.

“Hey, I'm not making fun of you." he says, still with a slightly mocking smile. "Macarons are hard to make. And honestly, you did such a good job that I almost thought they were bought." Then he smirked. “But they wouldn't sell macarons in this state.” He laughs at your annoyed reaction. “They look delicious, tho. Let's dig in!”

He tastes the macaron in his hand and once again his eyes widen, accompanied by a huge smile.

“Mmm, that's darn good!” he says in his accent. “But, tell me just one more thing.” he says with a smug smile. “Do you know what it means to give someone chocolates made by yourself today?” You confirm. “That's what I was hoping for!”

And in a surprising movement of grabbing you by the waist with his free hand, he pulls you and kisses your cheek with confidence.

Knowing that Sebek’s favorite food is Salmon carpaccio doesn't help you know exactly what you should do, but knowing that his least favorite food is Black coffee helps you conclude that dark chocolate is not a good option. But with that maybe you can think more about the shape of the chocolates... Does Sam have any dragon molds for sale?

Meanwhile, no Diasomnia’s student approaches the kitchen so that their eardrums wouldn't be ruptured by Sebek's voice. Just the energy of ‘Don't you dare bother me, humans!’ was enough for them to reach the door and immediately turn around. With only 3 exceptions. But luckily for him one of those exceptions wasn't even around at the time. Luckily because he was thinking about making chocolates for Malleus too.

Silver doesn't really get involved in other people's business. At most, he gives a little smile on the corner of his mouth, thinking it's amusing, and leaves him alone.

Lilia, on the other hand, really, really, REALLY wanted to mess with him a little. He couldn't contain his desire to stay in the kitchen and watch him cook, which on the one hand put more pressure on Sebek, but also made him more determined to make everything perfect. Lilia even offered to help him.

“I-It is very generous of you to offer me your precious aid, Lilia-sama.” he said, and he always feels guilty and dishonored for avoiding Lilia's cooking. “But, as honorable as it would be, I will have to decline the offer. For I intend to strive to make the chocolates with the greatest perfection through my solo effort and improving skills.”

He may have saved himself from Lilia 'helping' him make your chocolates, but he couldn't save himself from Lilia's comments insinuating that he (as the youngsters say) ships the two of you. Part of Lilia also wanted to trick him a little bit to make him court you in a weird and funny way, but he held himself back. He wasn't one to abuse Sebek's trust to the point of actually ruining things between you.

On Valentine's Day, you were putting the boxes of chocolates in the bag to deliver to the Diasomnia boys when you heard someone knocking on your door.

“HUMAN!” Sebek shouts with a slight blush of embarrassment on his face and as if he were doing it almost out of obligation. “I'm here to fulfill the chocolate delivery ritual.” He hands you the black heart-shaped box with green lineart that he didn't even bother to hide behind his back. “P-please accept my offering.” he stuttered for an almost imperceptible second.

You pick up the box with a little smile, finding it all funny. You open the box and find hearts made with your favorite chocolate. You pick one up and bite into it, discovering that it also has your favorite filling inside.

“Well, I may conclude that you are perfectly satisfied with my cooking.” He says with a smug smile that tries to hide the real delight he feels at seeing you smile like that. But then he became serious again. “With this, my visit to you comes to its conclusion. Have a good day.”

He immediately turns to start walking to the gate, but you stop him. He turns around alarmed by the way you asked him to wait.

“WHAT IS IT?! Is there something missing?! I knew I should have gotten flowers too!”

And so his composed mask falls, at least for that moment. He really seems worried that he did something wrong and is sorry for whatever mistake he made. However, you can't help but laugh at that drastic change in behavior.

“WHA- NOW YOU ARE MOCKING ME?!” He makes that angry face that is so common of him that it doesn't even worry you anymore. “For what motive did you ask me to detain myself?!”

You turn to grab his box from the bag and hand it to him. It's a green heart-shaped box with a black bow. He almost jumps in surprise.

“You...” he says in a lower voice (which to anyone would be just a regular volume) “You got me chocolates too?”

He picks up your box with a delicacy you've never seen before and a little glint of wonder in his eyes. He opens the box to find chocolates, some milk, others white, shaped like little dragon heads. And with that he made that emotional face that he practically only directed at Malleus or Lilia.

“HOW MAJESTIC! Such a sublime creature recreated in its glory! You... human... are so... CRUEL!”

You ask why he is saying that, worried and above all confused.

“How do you expect me to ruin a work of art such as this? And worst of all through INGESTION?! I CAN NOT! This must be preserved!”

You try to convince him to eat them because if he doesn't they'll spoil. And you even say that you didn't know he would see things that way, you just thought he would like those molds because of, well, Malleus. And you comment that maybe you should have chosen something else because you really want him to taste what you did for him.

“They... they were made by you?” His face contorts into even more emotional pain and indecision.

You say you have the molds and can make more if he wants. This makes his eyes widen, almost filling with tears, and shine with joy and relief.

“THAT WOULD BE SIMPLY WONDERFUL! ... GH!... hu-hum. I mean, I would be very grateful if you did.” he smiles with a slight blush. “Now,” he smirks. “I should uncover the result of your labor.”

He takes one of the chocolates and bites into it. And you can see from his emotional expression that he's trying hard not to start showering you with praise like he does with Malleus.

“I must confess, for a human devoid of any magic or enviable abilities, your cooking is more than satisfactory.”

You look at him with that face of someone asking if that really is the best thing he can say to you. He sighs and blushes a little again.

“Very well. You desire to hear my most genuine opinion, correct?” he smiles, in a rather sweet way. “I truly enjoyed it. I didn't want to inflate your ego, but since you insist, they are some of the best homemade chocolates I've ever had. It is an honor to be worthy of tasting something like this and with the exclusivity of having it made especially for me. Thank you very much, (Y/N).”

You're surprised for a moment that he said your name and not ‘human’. And in the meantime, his posture changes, at first he seems uncertain about something but then he becomes surprisingly confident to the point of smiling smugly at you.

“Well, I assume you are well aware of the rules of  chocolate giving on Valentine's Day. And what implies delivering chocolates made by the offeror to the offeree.”

Seeing your expression of confirmation, he takes your hand, leans in and kisses the back of it. When he looks at you again, in the eyes, you see a shine and affection that you never thought you would see in him.

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

[strwberri-milk]

Hi! i love ur blog and wanted to request something for the LnD boys! can u write them being aware that theyre in a game, but they like the actual reader (not mc) but the reader has an irl boyfriend so theyre jealous? if u did that would be awesome! thanks sm

honestly i suck at self aware stuff LMAO hope this works

Zayne's just Dawnbreaker 2.0 except even worse because he knows you exist, but he doesn't exist in the way he needs to in order to be with you. He wouldn't do anything really besides wait for you, hoping that you'll spend some more time with him. He doesn't really think about the fact that you have a partner, ignoring it so he can live in his little pockets of time with you as they are. His life centers you, but he knows yours could never center him. He doesn't mind though - as long as he can make you happy that's all he wants.

Xavier/Rafayel hates every moment of it. He craves you with every part of his being and knowing that you're so close yet so far infuriates him. Knowing that someone else is able to be with you, touch you, love you the way he wants to above anything else haunts in in a way he never thought it could. He doesn't know what to do or how to cope with these feelings at all, forced to watch helplessly as you shower someone that isn't him in the love he's been fighting for his entire life.

Sylus hides his anger and sadness under an uncaring facade. He doesn't know what to do and feels absolutely helpless. He won't act any differently on screen but his mind is constantly racing with thoughts of how he can try to bridge this gap between the two of you. He feels like he should be able to but the sheer fact that he just...isn't real in your world bears down on him in a way he never thought it could, wishing that things were different. All he can do is hope that you're loved the way you deserve to be, even if he wants nothing more than to replace that person you call a partner.