#i lost track of where this is supposed to go

[wintersoldierwhore]

covet — joel miller

Chapter One — “Just as grumpy as I remembered.”

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Moving from California back to Texas was… painful. A three hour flight from San Francisco to Austin, sandwiched between a talkative old lady and a guy who couldn’t hold his overpriced water bottle with a steady hand. You sat in the airport in defeat, clutching a warm coffee as you watched the sun rise on the skyline. Your dad had promised to pick you up, even after you insisted it was an unreasonable time of morning and that you’d find your own way back.

You’d spent 18 years of your life in Austin, made friends, had lovers, had parties, had your heart broken, gotten drunk, gotten high, and yet coming back made you feel lost. You’d settled into San Francisco after college, you’d found a small data entry job and clawed your way into a pretty big Accountancy firm. But they were making cuts, and you chose to take the severance pay and come home for the summer, and settle back into Texan life once more.

Your dad had actually asked for help with the company, he said he could use an accountant to keep track of cash flow. With the added benefit of lodging and pay, of course.

”Kiddo!” You heard faintly through your headphones, and looked up to see your dad’s truck waiting in a very clearly marked No Waiting bay.

“Hey, dad,” you threw your suitcases into the back seat and settled in the front. It had the same smell, reminding you of getting rides from your dad to wherever you and your friends decided was the spot of the week. The odd receipt in the cup holder, a few loose tools in the foot well, it hadn’t changed a single bit.

“How has San Fran been?” He asked, you could hear the exhaustion in his voice but you could hear some cheeriness in there too.

“Good, really good.” You answered, which wasn’t a lie, you really enjoyed working and living there. “Just missed home.”

”Well it’s right where you left it.”

”Want any breakfast, kiddo?” The two of you had just dragged your suitcases into the house, and you could feel the walls hugging you warmly, telling you how much they missed you and how big you’ve gotten.

“No thanks, dad. I’m still half asleep.” You laughed, but it came out as more of a sigh. “It must be almost time for you to leave for work, surely?”

Your dad nodded, tipping some of the coffee from the pot he’d made before he left into a mug. “Shame I can’t see my favourite daughter till tonight.”

”Your only daughter.”

”Well,” he joked, “Sarah has been pretty helpful this year with business. But I suppose she just wanted the money.”

You missed Sarah, and you had made a note to see how big she’s gotten since you left seven years ago. You used to babysit her the summer before you left for college, and she was an energetic nine-year-old. She must be sixteen now?!

“How is Sarah?” You asked your dad, abandoning your suitcases and sitting at the kitchen island with him.

“A teenager is what she is, but she’s still same old Sarah.” He smiled, but his face dropped before he opened his mouth again. “Joel ‘n the Mrs are havin’ issues, real bad this time. Think they’re on their way t’ splittin’ up.”

You frowned, barely remembering he had a wife. Growing up, you’d never really see her. No need, he worked with your dad, she didn’t. You remembered Joel faintly, didn’t see him much but when you did, it was always dropping things off to the house or going to his for the evening, and you’d just be out by the pool with Sarah.

But he was a grump. Always had been.

Despite being a long blink away from sleep, you’d woken up a few hours later, showered, and put all your clothes back into your wardrobe and dresser. You’d packed your whole life up, but only your essentials accompanied you on the plane. The rest would be arriving in the next few days. Except your car, air freight promised your car would be back in Austin within a week.

You planned on doing some shopping, to update your room a little, but you were stuck without a car. So you’d just have to wait for your dad.

Your official job for your dad would begin on Monday, and it being Friday afternoon now, gave you the whole weekend to prepare.

You were chopping some tomatoes for your lunch, when you heard a truck pull in. Two doors slam, and keys shoved into the door. You resumed chopping, throwing the prepared vegetables into a pot.

“Hey, kid, what’ya making?”

You didn’t look away from your task as you answered, “makin’ soup for lunch, want some?”

”Joel, she left for a degree an’ came back knowing how t’ cook!” He yelped, patting your back as he threw some folders onto the island.

Hearing his name, and what your dad said about him this morning, you halted lunch for now. You turned to see the grump you remembered, and someone older stood in his place. Slightly messy hair, salt and peppered facial hair. A few curls starting to form on the ends of his hair, tired eyes, no smile at all. But he was built, a body only a man of labour could have.

“We had a few hours free between jobs so thought we’d show you what you can expect to do from Monday.” Your dad explained, “but first I need to pee.”

Your dad had jogged upstairs, and left you with all 6’3 of his best friend.

“Hi, Joel.” You smiled sweetly at him.

“Hi, darlin’,” he drawled, “how y’been?”

“Good as I can be really, lost my job, back to living with dad,” you shrugged, “what about you?”

“Workin’.” He huffed, you knew there was more to say than he did, but you didn’t press.

“Just as grumpy as I remembered,” you mumbled but it seemed to fall upon deaf ears.

You’d made your soup, gave your dad and Joel some, and listened as they — your dad — discussed your job role and made you sign some paperwork to take you on officially.

It was a relaxed offer, work from home, and access to their office if necessary, and work whenever you want, as long as the work was done by the deadline.

“Well, kiddo, don’t wanna keep you from whatever you’re gonna do today.” Your dad gathered his paperwork and tucked it under his arm. “What is it ya’doin’ today?”

”Well, I was going to do some bedroom shopping but my car doesn’t arrive till next week.” You answered, stacking the soup bowls and placing them in the sink.

“I can take ya’tomorrow if you like?” Joel offered, which took both you and your dad by surprise. “I got the bigger truck, only makes sense.”

”Sure thing. Thanks, Mr Miller.” You smiled up at him, passing by him with only an inch between you.

”I’ll go put this paperwork in my home office, Joel, get the truck runnin’.” Your dad called out, already at the top of the staircase.

“You heard the man.” You spoke quietly, Joel’s gaze on you hadn’t broken once since you’d thanked him. You’d do just about anything to have a swim around his brain right now.

He’d stepped onto the porch, unlocking the truck and turning back to face you once again.

“Darlin’,” he spoke, his voice gruff, almost like he’d just woken up, “you’re a smart girl. You’ll find ya’feet again soon, I bet.”

[ohmygraves]

ghost, but as your fake boyfriend.

you were panicking.

your mother had called earlier, asking if you could come home for a few days. apparently, your brother had returned from overseas, and she called to let you know that every single member of your family would be there. a small family reunion, if you will. of course, she expected you to show up too, perhaps bring that boyfriend of yours you always told them about.

which was a problem because one, you don't have a boyfriend, and two, you have lied to your family for years and now it's come to bite you in the ass.

you didn't even know why you did it in the first place. perhaps the constant pestering and questions about "when will you get married?" is starting to bother you, especially when it came from so many of your relatives, wondering if you'd settle down already instead of being out there in danger all the time. perhaps you just want them to leave you alone and stop worrying about your wellbeing. after all, you're an adult, and it's just annoying to hear the same thing over and over again every single time when you went home for christmas.

so, you created this narrative of a "boyfriend", who you'd talk about when your parents called. a boyfriend who is tall, handsome, and loves you for who you are. a boyfriend who you'd live with and maybe plan on marrying too in the future. a boyfriend that is so much of a textbook nice guy that your family would approve of even if it sounds too good to be true.

you're not sure who to ask. soap would be your best bet, but he would be away on a mission at that date. which was unfortunate, he seemed really excited to play fake boyfriend with you. gaz just ran out of leave for this month, so he's out too. price is too old, your family would question it.

that leaves just one person...

"lt, can you do me a favor? please, just this once."

ghost turned towards you, leaning back and letting you explain. you told him that you need him to be your fake boyfriend for a family event.

unsurprisingly, he was very quick to stand up and leave you alone, not wanting to deal with your bullshit. still, you catch up to him, trying to convince him with whatever it is you could offer.

after a few rounds of convincing, tailing him for three days and nights, constantly pestering him, and some offers of the finest whiskey and whatever he wanted, ghost finally relented. it didn't take long for the two of you to fly back to your hometown two days before the family reunion, the two of you taking a week of leave from the base with very little trouble. you assumed that ghost had something to do with it.

before you arrived, you had to give him a rundown on what to expect, what questions will be asked and how to answer them for it to make sense in the web of lies you've created. he was definitely not thrilled, telling you that he got this... whatever "this" was supposed to be. you were nervous, hoping that things will actually go well.

surprisingly, ghost did keep true to his words. walking into your childhood home, he held your waist, keeping you close to him, even would act nicer to your nosy relatives (which, of course, was not surprising when you feel his grip got tighter around you).

dinner was quite cozy, everyone seemed to enjoy his presence and kept asking you if you two will end up married. ghost said something vague that made you blush, and while it embarrassed you, it got everyone to stop talking about it.

when the crowd dissolved, you took ghost to go see your childhood bedroom, closing the door behind him as you thanked him for doing you a good favor, and that you won't forget all about this. you didn't even realize that he stepped closer to you, too absorbed in gushing how successful the night has been, pulling you close and planting a kiss on your lips. it shut you up.

"... did you just kissed me?"

"mmhm. i reckon i deserve at least that, huh love?"

"i suppose you do..."

he kissed you once more. well, at least you won't have to lie about your fake boyfriend anymore.

[suddencolds]

. not snz

on healing and on fear (tags)

[deerly-ruined]

Just got home from seeing Sinners. It was a movie. I witnessed it. I would definitely watch it again.

[malachitezmeyka]

If my school administrator has a million haters, I’m one of them. If my school administrator has a thousand haters, I’m still one of them. If my school administrator has one hater, it’s me. If my school administrator has no haters, then I have left this world. If the world is with my school administrator, then I am against the world

[theorphicangel]

sukuna doesn't get anxious. not at all.

but when you haven't come home in hours, long after your friend's dinner was supposed to end that's when he gets a little antsy.

you'd left him to his own devices, a quick kiss on the cheek and you were out of the door in that pretty little dress. you said you'd be back by 11pm the latest.

sukuna stares at the kitchen clock on the wall. it reads 12:44.

but he doesn't get anxiety over you. you were probably chatting away to your friends and getting carried away like you always do with your yapping. but maybe he should have made you share your location with him the other day.

another thirty minutes pass and there's no sign of your return.

he's beginning to get restless. sukuna's already wiped down the counter three times, sorted out the cushions on the couch, watched an episode of whatever on netflix (but he wasn't paying attention to a single word that was said)

instead he keeps looking at his phone, waiting for it to ring - good news or bad news coming his way soon.

his stomach drops at the thought of you in trouble with no one around you to help. what if you did need his help? what if--

his thoughts are interrupted at the sound of the key entering the front door. you enter, soaked top to bottom, evidence that you clearly ignored the weather app before you left.

'where have you been?' his tone is impatient and snappy.

'jeez lemme get through the door first.' you stumble, soaked and uncomfortable as the door shuts behind you with a quiet slam.

'it's late.'

'and you're still up.'

'don't change the subject.'

'I lost track of time, we went back to a friend's house and my phone died.'

'and this friend doesn't have charging cables?'

'I was too deep into the conversation to know it died until I was about to leave.'

sukuna sits in silence, mulling over your words. you don't hear him correctly but if you could guess the words that left his mouth it was the curse of 'you damn women.'

'did you miss me?' you walk over to him and attempt to trap him in a hug. he pulls you off him, disgust at how cold and wet you are.

'go shower, I'll wait for you in bed.'

your face lights up, ready to make fun of him before his palm opens up to you.

'phone.'

you pass over your dead phone for him to charge.

'and i'm making you share your location with me.'

[cheapshrimpysheep]

Dating in a Dream - Vil Schoenheit

SUMMARY: What would his dream be like, exactly the same as in the original story, but with the small detail that he is dreaming that you two are dating?

CHARACTERS: Vil Schoenheit x Reader 👑🦐

TAGS: Fluff; GN Reader; In a Relationship (kinda); Kiss

WARNING: Spoilers from Book 7, Vil’s dream and Vil's Red Carpet Cadets (Eng Server)

WORD COUNT: 6.460 words (I may or may not have been overly... inspired)

COMMENTS: This was written as a companion piece to the original dream story, so the parts that are the same as the game are just summarized.

I hope you enjoy 👑

Dating in a Dream: Idia / Epel / Rook / (Vil) / Kalim / ...

“Aether signal tracking successful.” Ortho says when you land in the new dream, along with Grim, Silver, Sebek, Epel and Rook. “We have arrived at the designated coordinates.”

After Silver checks if Rook is feeling okay after the trip from one dream to another, and he said that not only was he great but he was also able to enjoy the view, you all realize you're not in Night Raven College, or even anywhere on Sage's Island. Where were you?

Rook recognizes the entrance arch that says ‘Queen's Film Studios’. Acording to him, you were in Maquillaville, in the Shaftlands. And if you know anyone with ties to this place... That person just emerged from inside the studio to be met with a huge group of screaming fans at the entrance.

You see Vil in new clothes, a hat and sunglasses signing autographs and taking pictures with fans. You also see the dreamer's silver bird around his head. But shortly afterward he excused himself and returned to the studios.

“He really is... THE FAIREST ONE OF ALL!” the fans scream.

“I KNOW!” Rook joins them. “Even the most sparkling gems lose their luster compared to his beauty.”

After that, while everyone is talking about that dream and how it doesn't seem much different from Vil's real life, Grim decides to enter the studio premises and follow him to find out more. You all follow Grim because it’s better to stay together and also not to stray too far from the dreamer.

You lost track of Grim and the studio premises were so big that you couldn't find him or Vil anywhere.

“Hey, you. Why didn't you bring a parasol?” You hear Vil's familiar voice and tone complaining.

It was coming from inside one of the studios so you follow it. You find Grim, also spying on what was going on inside. When Sebek starts to speak, Grim jumps up to cover his mouth with his paw and tell him not to talk so loud. You all peek inside the studio.

“I'm fairly certain I told you to always bring a parasol whenever I spend more than five minutes outdoors, did I not?” Vil was telling someone you couldn't tell who it was.

“Ah, I'm sorry. I forgot it in the car.” The other person responds clearly regretfully.

“Unbelievable. What kind of assistant are you? And there's more...”

Vil keeps complaining to his assistant about finding trash on the floor of his dressing room and fingerprints on the mirror. Despite the assistant's apologies Vil calls him a "Useless boy!" before telling him to go get cleaning equipment to get that floor and mirror sparkling. The assistant complies with the order and runs out of the studio, where ends up bumping into Rook. And this is when you discover that the assistant was none other than Neige LeBlanche.

“Excuse me.” Vil comes to see what's going on. “Why are you making a racket in... Huh?! Who are you people?!”

You come closer to tell him that you are just students.

“(Y/N)?!” Vil recognizes you, but he's more shocked to see you there than to come face to face with a bunch of supposed strangers. “Students? What are you doing with students? And what are they doing inside the studio? I hadn't heard there were any tours scheduled.”

“Take a closer look, Vil!” Grim says. “See anyone else familiar?”

“Oh, ick! what's this filthy stray cat doing here?”

“Mrah?! Stray cat?! You recognize my hench-human but you don't recognize me?!”

“Hench-human? Are you referring to (Y/N)? Who do you think you are to address them that way? Actually, who do you think you are to address them at all? (Y/N), come here.”

You walk over to him, mainly because maybe if you follow what he says you can find out more about what's going on in his dream. When you get close enough he takes your hand to gently pull you to his side, but slightly behind him.

“Stop being insulting and talking nonsense...” He keeps talking to Grim. “Hey! Keep your dirty paws off me. You'll get fur on my clothes. Shoo! Shoo!”

“Vil!” You say, shocked at the way he is treating Grim. “What are you saying? Why are you treating him like this?”

Vil turns to you and whispers just to you: “You can't simply walk around hanging out with just anyone. Firstly because you don't know these people, and secondly because your standards should be much higher. You can't be so naive and let your guard down so easily. What were you thinking?” He turns back to the group. “I suppose there ARE troublesome fans out there who can't distinguish fantasy from reality. For that matter, how long have you been eavesdropping on me?”

“Since you started yelling at your assistant for not bringing you a parasol.” Silver simply admits.

“So the entire time, is what you're telling me? Ugh, unbelievable. Aha, I think I get it now - you're all paparazzi disguised as students. You're probably looking to besmirch my beautiful reputation. And you even have the audacity to deceive and take advantage of (Y/N)'s kindness. Well, you'll be doing no such thing.”

Vil glared at Neige.

“You! This is yet another result of you failing to have your act together as my assistant. What will you do if my carefully cultivated reputation gets dragged through the mud?! Or worse, what if something happens to (Y/N)?!”

“I... I'm terribly sorry, sir!”

“Vil! They are my friends!” You say quickly. “Grim has always been with me. How come you only remember me?”

“Grim? Are you talking about that stray... whait... Grim...? And you...?”

The bond between the two of you is so strong that even Vil's imagination is having trouble explaining how you and Grim wouldn't know each other. And his head starts to hurt.

“You don’t think that Paparazzi would use mind control on someone if one of them was a mage, do you, Vil?” Neige says, but in a somewhat strange way. “And surely the stone in the kitten's bow is just a harmless pendant... or is it?”

Vil’s head stops hurting and he pauses for a second, in complete shock.

“Eject these mosquitos from the premises at once, and contact security immediately!”

“Yes, sir! Right away, sir!”

“As for you people” He turns to the group. “You'll see what happens if you dare to post online about what you eavesdropped on today. I'll use every means at my disposal to force-feed you all poison apples. And...” Vil's tone became darker, “If you used any kind of spell on (Y/N), I will create a new poison just for you. So deadly that waking from a slumber won't even be an option.”

Neige leads the rest of the group to the exit gate, while Vil puts an arm around you to lead you into the studio. You hear Grim whimper your name.

Vil takes you to his dressing room, a place as luxurious as you could imagine he would dream of. You ask what's going on but he seems to ignore you and cups your face with his hands. His face very close to yours and his gaze searching your eyes.

“Your eyes look normal.” Vil says still analyzing your face. “Did you eat anything they gave you? Open your mouth.”

You look away and gently push Vil away with your arms, saying that he is overreacting and that they didn't do anything to you. Vil sighs.

“Stay here. I'll call a mage doctor. I won't be long.”

With the greatest of casualness, he kisses your forehead and leaves the dressing room, leaving you alone inside. You hear the door latch. Your reflex is to try to open the door and that's how you confirm that he locked you inside. At that moment you start receiving messages on your phone. They’re from Idia.

«Hey, don't try to wake Vil up alone. It's dangerous while the party is separated. Especially since you can’t use magic to protect yourself from the darkness. Try to know what your role is in Vil's dream and act on it. If the darkness doesn't see you as a threat to the stability of the dream, in principle, it will not attack you.»

You tell him what happened and that Vil went to call a mage doctor.

«I see. I'll access the doctor's code and have them say that you're fine, but that your memories of Vil have been affected. That way you can ask him questions to better understand your relationship with him without him suspecting that something is wrong. Btw, be careful with Neige.»

After a minute, Idia sends you a message saying that Vil and the doctor should be on their way. After that you hear footsteps approaching the door and it being unlocked.

After examining you, the doctor said what Idia programmed them to say. When Vil hears the doctor say that your memories with him have been affected, he seems worried for a split second, but then quickly returns to his stoic demeanor. The doctor adds that it is not a serious loss and that he will only need to answer the questions you have for him to start improving and recovering your memory completely. This time, Vil doesn't hide his relief. And to take more blame off you, the doctor said that your memory loss was due to inhaling some potion in a gaseous state, and that you probably haven't even interacted with those people before that.

After the doctor leaves the dressing room and closes the door behind them, Vil takes you to the couch and sits on it with you. He cups your face again to make you look at him.

“What do you remember about me?” he asks with some sadness in both his voice and his beautiful face. “You seem to know who I am at least.”

He takes his hands off your face and you tell him what you remember: that you know who and what he is. Vil Schoenheit, a super famous actor and model.

“Well... yes... that's pretty much what anyone could know about me. This is better than nothing, but is there anything you know about me that you think no one else might knows?”

Since Vil doesn't remember Rook, your chances increase significantly. But what could you say? You already know that in his dream he was never an NRC student. Much less the Housewarden of Pomefiore. Your options weren't many, but what about...

“Your father is Erik Venue. But you don't want people to know because you don't want them to think that all your success is just nepotism. You want to achieve things through hard work and by truly deserving them.”

Vil starts by smiling, until he llaughs heartwarmingly, something rare, and maybe for that reason absolutely beautiful. He holds your face still with one hand on one cheek while he kisses the other affectionately.

“It seems that not much was lost.” He says with a genuine smile. “I think I should be the one letting you ask the questions now, shouldn't I?”

Finally! The first thing you ask is what is the relationship between the two of you? After all, how come you were the only one he remembered? Were you two friends?

“Friends? Well, I believe that too.” He gives you a sad smile. “We... are a couple. I am your boyfriend.” He laughs at your surprised reaction. “I know, it's hard to believe that out of everyone I chose you to be my beloved. Many would question that...” He pauses and then becomes serious again. “And that's why our relationship is secret. Your arrival in this world is still recent. You still need time to adjust. I didn't want you to have to deal with fame and media pressure at the same time.”

“So... I really came from another world. That is still the same... as I remember, I mean...” You say, but if he has never been to NRC... “But how did we meet?”

Vil’s gaze becomes even sadder.

“I had been cast as a student at an prestigious arcane academy for a new series. One of the props for the school was a replica of the Fairest Queen's mirror. But there was some mix-up and instead of a fake replica being delivered to the studio, a real one was delivered instead. And in the middle of filming you simply appeared out of that mirror that everyone thought was fake.” He chuckles. “I still remember the commotion.”

So your arrival in Twisted-Wonderland was an unforeseen event during the filming of a new series he was on. You were going to ask what happened next, but someone knocked on the dressing room door. Vil says they can come in and after the door opens you see Neige.

“What do you want?” Vil automatically became ruder when he saw who it was. “If you’re not here to notify me of an emergency then don't waste my time.”

“The... That group of students has already been expelled from the studio premises. And... um... the director is calling for you... to film the next scene...”

Vil sighs and places his fingers on the bridge of his nose for a moment. After thinking for a second he looks at Neige dissatisfied. “I won't leave them in your incompetent care again.” He gets up from the sofa and extends his hand to you. “Come with me.”

You give him your hand and he helps you up gentlemanly, then he offers you his arm so you can intertwine yours with his and the two of you leave the dressing room together. Neige immediately moves out of your way, practically in fear. And you felt bad about it.

“You really can't just not care about him, can you?” Vil says, almost disappointed. He sighs. “I never knew if that was a quality or a defect. Leave him be. He failed his duties. His carelessness put you in danger and made you lose important memories. Know that he is very lucky that I didn't do something worse to him than simply being... stricter than normal.” He was speaking softly despite how angry Neige actually made him, or at least that Neige.

When you arrived at the scene he told you to sit in his chair and if you needed anything you could just ask the staff. You stood there watching the recordings and whatever you asked for, someone from the staff would bring it to you, even if it was the most absurd thing. After all, it was a dream. But you didn't abuse it too much. You couldn't risk waking Vil up yet.

While filming was taking place, you received updates from the others and all the discrepancies and differences between the real world and that dream world. Vil had gotten a lot of lead roles since he was little, instead os the antagonist roles. And Neige wasn’t an actor in this dream world, so he was no competition for Vil. In response you tell them what you discovered about your relationship with Vil. They didn't respond for a long time, so you asked if something had happened. Epel was the one exchanging messages with you.

«Sorry. We were too shocked. I mean surprised. Rook already knew. By the way, he isfwerd»

«Oh, I can't wait to see the two of you together! I know you make an absolutely beautiful couple. I'm going to return the phone to Epel now. Sorry for the interruption.»

«I hope this isn't too uncomfortable for you. Rook is smiling weirdly. Wait! Do you like Vil too? It wouldn't be a big surprise. You would have good taste at least. Wait, what am I saying?! Back to the plan to wake him up!...”

Later that day was the Diamond Movie Awards, where Rook assumed that Vil would win the award for Best Actor. In the real world, Neige was the youngest actor to win this award at age 14. Vil wanted to be him, so he must dream about it. They would infiltrate the awards staff and use the loudspeakers. You would just need to stay safe until then.

“Hi (Y/N).” Someone greets you sweetly. You look up from your phone and find Neige smiling at you, which is then replaced by an expression of guilt. “I'm sorry for what happened. I shouldn't have left you alone. I heard you lost memories of Vil because of this. I'm so sorry... *sniff*”

He was being so sweet that you even felt sorry for him. Especially remembering how Vil treated him. You say everything is fine and that you forgive him. He smiles at you, weakly, and asks if there is anything he can do for you.

“You may call our driver.” Vil says to Neige as he approaches the two of you. “Filming is over. We'll be heading to the Queen's Palace for the Diamond Movie Awards ceremony.”

“Y-yes, sir. Right away.” Neige steps back to make the call.

Vil extends his hand to you for you to take and stand up. He looks you up and down.

“Oh, right, you're still wearing that uniform. Let us change it, shall we?” With a snap of his fingers Vil uses magic to change your uniform into beautiful clothes. A dress if you prefer. This also gives you the makeup you like the most to use and a hairstyle that suits you perfectly. “Much better.” he comments. “Much more suited to your beauty.”

“The driver is now heading to the usual location.” Neige informs you. “We can go now if you want. Oh! (Y/N), those clothes look beautiful on you.”

“Of course they do.” Vil retorts. “I would never allow them to dress in less than the best for them.”

The three of you go to a place away from the main entrance where Vil's fans were all, where a beautiful and luxurious, but relatively discreet car awaits you. The driver is standing outside and opens the door for you and Vil to get in and sit in the back seats. Neige goes to the passenger seat.

“You're looking around like it's the first time you've sat in this car.” Vil chuckles. “You must have forgotten about these trips as well. But I can't say it's a bad thing. That enchanted look of yours always suits you beautifully. Do you still remember what the Diamond Movie Awards are?”

Rook had told you via message what they were. The biggest awards in cinema and how much Vil wanted to win the award for Best Actor. You tell Vil this and he looks pleased.

“I hope you're not nervous. After all, I am the one who is nominated. But remember, our relationship is secret, okay? You will accompany me along with LeBlanche as one of my assistants. And don't worry, after today, you and recovering your lost memories will be my top priority.” he comes close and kisses your forehead. “When we arrive we will have to separate on the red carpet. Follow LeBlanche and we'll meet at the entrance later, understood? And don't talk to strangers!”

If you look at him annoyed because it seems like he's treating you like a child, he'll laugh.

“Call me overprotective if you wish, but I won't allow anyone with bad intentions to even come close to you again.” he says seriously and determined. “At least not until your memory returns and we find a way to protect you against other possible magical threats.”

He looks out the window and realizes that you are arriving. He looks back at you with a tender look.

“You know, even though I don't believe in acts of good luck, you insisted that we have one between us. Do you remember?” He gets a little sad when he sees you reply that you don't. “It's a little cliché too. I learned to appreciate them with you. A good luck kiss. It may not have any power to bring good luck, because I don't need it, but I can not deny that it makes me happy and improves my mood even more, which is reflected in the photos. I understand if you don't feel comfortable doing it, I don't know how amenesia might be affecting you at the moment. But know that nothing would make me happier than receiving a kiss from you today. Even on days when I don't win an award, your kiss always reminds me that I have already received the greatest award of all. Oh, no, not you, I meant...” he looks slightly embarrassed about what he's going to say next. “At least what I believe it to be... True love... But don't worry, I don't need a kiss to know this. However, it's always a nice thing to receive.” he smiles confidently.

You feel the car slowing down. You were arriving. As he reminds you to follow Neige, you decide to give him what he wanted. You interrupt him with a kiss on the lips and feel him smile. When you part you see his amethyst eyes looking at yours smugly.

“I see you haven't forgotten your cheekiness. No one else has the audacity to even interrupt me. Such a lack of manners. We'll have to deal with that later.” However, he was smiling the whole time. He comes closer as if he's going to kiss you again, but instead he speaks with his lips almost touching yours. “You also forgot a rule I have with you. You're only allowed to smudge my makeup after all my work is done. And I still have an award to win.”

He finally pulls his face away from yours to grab a mirror and check his lips. He smiled when he saw that his lipstick was still flawless.

“I don't know if this lipstick has more quality than I thought or if is just you that are very skilled. Let us go with bouth.”

The car stops in front of the entrance to the red carpet.

“Thank you.” he tells you tenderly. “I'll meet you inside, my love.”

Both the driver and Neige got out of the car. The driver to open Vil's door and Neige to open yours. While Vil went out to be photographed and filmed on the red carpet, you went out with Neige on another path to the interior of the Queen's Palace.

As soon as you and Neige arrived inside, you were led directly to your seats. Neige told you to leave the seat between you two empty for Vil. He would want to sit next to you. What he did as soon as he arrived.

The awards ceremony takes place as normal until the time comes to present the award for best actor. Which is, unsurprisingly, announced to Vil. At the podium, where you and Neige were also because you had accompanied Vil, the voice over the speakers begins to describe Vil's acting career, but not the one he was dreaming of having. Rook was describing his real career including the fact that he was only cast for antagonist roles.

“What is the emcee saying? They're getting my career history all wrong! This mean-spirited joke on a happy occasion has gone on long enough. Someone cut that speaker off right now!”

Rook mentions Night Raven College and the movie club and this makes Vil start to remember.

“My filming schedule is tight as it is. How would I have time to go to some boarding school on an island way out in - Hrk! ... My head...! How do I know where it's located, and what kind of school it is...?”

“Because that's where we really met, Vil.” you tell him. “That school, the mirror, none of that was a movie, it was real. And you weren't cast in the role of a student, you were one of the students! And not just any student, you were a housewarden, the...”

“Housewarden of Pomefiore” Rook says in unison with you. “The dorm based upon the Faires Queen's spirit of tenacity! Our own fair queen, our Roi du Poison!”

Rook and Epel reveal themselves, dressed in their Pomefiore uniforms, which makes Vil start to remember them. And his headaches come back.

“Vil, are you all right?!” Neige rush to him. “Hurry, someone call an ambulance! Security, what are you doing?! Eject these intruders immediately!”

All the people in the audience started to turn into black, goopy figures, and Vil was being swept away by a sea of darkness, separating him from you, Rook and Epel. And then, another dark figure suddenly formed.... a copy of you.

“Vil, are you okay, my dear?” That darkness version of you said to him in a soft, loving tone. “Everything is fine. Just focus on me. Focus on us...”

“Here it is...” Neige said to him. “The Best Actor trophy you've always wanted. Look, it's all gold and sparkly... isn't it pretty?”

“Yes... It is... This is what I've always wanted. Proof that I'm the best in the world...”

Meanwhile, the dark figures had reached you and as the others faced them, the shadows prevented Vil from seeing you. No matter how much you or the others shouted, Vil didn't hear you either.

“Heheheh. That's it. Just stay here, and you can be the best in the world forever and ever, all without having to put in any work.” Neige continued. “You won't have to do any rigorous training or follow any tedious skincare routines to maintain your beauty.”

“And I will always be by your side.” Your darkness lookalike added. “To give you all the love you deserve, unconditionally. To be your safe place. The final crucial piece of your perfect happily ever after. Just like in those fairy tales.”

“You... (Y/N)... I never needed to compete for your love... You just... make me so happy... and rested... My... happily ever after...”

“And I will continue to make you feel loved... Just worthy of being loved... Without worrying about being perfect... Now and forever, my fairest one of all... So... Go on, Vil. Just close your eyes... and stay here with me.”

Seeing that Vil is going to let himself sink into the darkness, Rook uses his signature spell, I See You, so he can find Vil later. And Vil disappears, along with the dark versions of you and Neige.

After getting rid of the darkness figures that were attacking you, you all jump into the black goop after Vil.

You ended up on the interior of the Night Raven College coliseum, where you find Neige lying unconscious on the floor, while his friends cry wondering what happened. This was a reenactment of what happened on the day of the SDC, but what would have happened, or what Vil wanted to have happened, if Neige had drunk the poison apple juice he gave him. Epel uses his signature spell, Sleep Kiss, to stabilize Neige before you all run onto the stage.

The title of SDC winners was being awarded to Night Raven College and all the students who participated with Vil were celebrating, Ace, Deuce, Jamil, Kalim, even Epel and Rook. But there was something disturbing about them, their faces were flat and their skin was that black goop.

You and the others run up to him and shout Vil's name to get his attention. Seeing two Rooks and two Epels helped make Vil start to realize that something wasn't right. They remind Vil that they didn't win the SDC, they came second, they lost to Neige and Royal Sword Academy.

The shadowy figures tried to convince Vil to believe in the reality of the dream, that Neige felt unwell and so he and his friends had to withdraw from the competition. But Rook continued, reminding him of what really happened that day, how the plan to poison Neige had failed and how Vil had not been able to forgive himself for even trying to do so.

But perhaps it was this pain that made him realize what true beauty is, and what led him to the events on the Island of Woe. Where he displayed utter beauty beyond any other! And when he proclaimed, “At this exact moment, I am the fairest one of all!”

This is what makes Vil finally remember, break the dream around him and wake up. He thanks you all and hugs Rook and Epel. He looks at you, but just when it seems like he's going to say something to you or even ask you to join the hug, the ground starts to shake and the sky cracking open. You all prepare to evacuate yourselves to the dreamway, but darkness catches Vil. And unfortunately, in order for you to save yourselves, you have to leave Vil behind. Regardless of your attempts to save him.

In the dreamway:

If you, like Rook and Epel, want to go back to the dream to save Vil:

Then you will be one more person for the rest of the group to contain and prevent from going back to that dream until it is safe. “Oh, Trickster, how I understand your aching heart.” Rook says, surprisingly calming down a little. “But now your desire to run into danger to save your loved one puts me in a difficult situation.” “What? What do you mean?” Epel questions. “And why did you suddenly stopped fighting to come back?” “Because now, dear pommette, we both have a dilemma on our hands.” Epel looks confused and Rook continues. “On one hand, we must save our Queen. But on the other... We must protect our Queen's Beloved!” “Well, there are two of us.” Epel says with a smug smile. “One tries to get back there and the other stops (Y/N) from getting back there.” “That seems to define a hypocritical action.” Ortho points it out. Epel recognizes this and becomes frustrated. You'll have to wait until the dream stabilizes again, but the three of you are restless and try to return to the dream every 10 seconds.

If you are calm like the rest of the group despite your worry:

“How can you be so calm!?” Epel questions you, outraged. “It's Vil who's trapped there! I thought you liked him too!” “Epel!” Rook censors him, patiently. “It is not because one is calm that they aren't suffering. None of us deal with desperate situations in the same way. And that must not invalidate others feelings.” “Urg! ... I... I’m sorry, (Y/N)...” Epel says regretfully. You explain to them why you are calm. You know that was the only solution. Just like the Shroud brothers explained, either you left Vil behind and tried to save everyone, or you stayed behind and ran the risk of something happening to one of you and never waking up again. “Besides...” You continue. “Vil is already awake. Don't tell me you think your Fair Queen isn't capable of facing whatever comes her way now?” “A... A....” Rook's eyes start to water. “ABSOLUE BEAUTÉ!” Even Epel gets startled by that shout. “The way you soothe your worries by having faith and trust in him!” He actually starts to cry emotionally. “There are no words to describe the beauty of your love! I should treat you like royalty as well!” Epel agrees with Rook, but starts to feel a little embarrassed by the situation and tries to tell him to calm down.

As soon as you all return to Vil's dream and see him safe and sound in front of the Queen's Palace, Rook and Epel immediately run to hug him.

If you, like Rook and Epel, were so worried about him that you wanted to go back to the dream to save him, you also run to him to hug him.

Rook and Epel move away a little so that the hug is mostly between the two of you and they are hugging you both. The others comment on how difficult it was to keep the three of you away from the dream to save him. Rook tells him how he was torn between returning to the dream or keeping you safe. “I hope you know what I would have told you to do.” Vil says. “To protect (Y/N) at all costs.” Rook answers with certainty. “Even if you have to lose me to do so.” Vil adds, in such a serious way that even Rook is a little surprised. “And you!” he tells you, as if he is upset. “You don't have magical powers, you would be in more danger than me. Never put yourself in that kind of situation, understand!” After a second, he sighs and smiles. “Thank you... to all of you.”

If you were calm in the dreamway:

The others comment on how difficult it was to keep Rook and Epel away from the dream to save him. He laughs at it. “Oh, Vil, I must admit” Rook tells him. “The faith and trust that (Y/N) has in you are simply magnifiques! They remained calm the whole time because they believed you were strong enough to face anything. *sniff* B-beauté...” “Are you going to start crying again?” Epel laughs, as does Vil. Vil saw you standing there looking at them, clearly wanting to join in the hug, but respectfully staying back. After finishing the hug with Rook and Epel, Vil approaches you. “Are you really going to say you weren't worried at all?” He asks with a smirk. Of course you were worried, but you knew it was something he would have to face alone. The best thing you could do was keep yourself and the others safe while he ‘sorted out this problem’. “But I knew you would be strong enough.” You add. “I mean, if even Idia could defeat the darkness...” Vil laughs with you. “A lot of smugness for someone who would be swallowed up by the darkness if it weren't for people who can actually use magic. Whehe-” Idia suddenly notices Vil looking at the tablet he was speaking through in a scary and threatening way. “HICK!” You tell Vil that it's okay, after all, you started it. He smiles at you in response.

“Wait...” Vil says to you, thinking. “I’m just now realizing something. The part of the dream where you were with me after supposedly losing your memory. This was after you all showed up, and you were with the group. So... does that mean...” he widens his eyes. “Was it YOU? The real you? All that time?”

You confirm. If you thought the clothes he gave you didn't already give you away, you look at them and see that you were wearing your school uniform. Your clothes must have gone back to normal when Vil woke up.

“In that case...” Vil regains his composure. “Would you allow me to speak to you alone for a moment?”

“If it's about you and (Y/N) dating in the dream, you don't have to worry, we already have that information.” Ortho says, casually.

Vil's eyebrows rise in surprise for a split of a second, but then he quickly returns to his composure.

“Even so, I would still like to discuss this matter with (Y/N), alone.” He simply put a little more emphasis on the last word, but it was enough to make everyone take a step back. He looks at you. “Since this is a dream, why don't we talk inside the Queen's Palace? If you wish.”

You agree and the two of you walk away from the group to enter the beautiful building. After Vil made sure you were in a place where the others could neither hear nor see you, he stops you and stands in front of you.

“(Y/N)...” he tells you very seriously. "At any moment, did I do or say anything that made you uncomfortable?"

He asks this clearly worried and regretful, but instead of you saying yes or no, you had that expression of someone wondering how to explain the truth. Knowing you, he realized what that hesitation really meant.

“You can tell me whatever you need.” he says with a beautiful, gentle smile, which is relatively rare in him when it’s a true one. “I behaved very... relaxed with you... I owe the same to you now.”

You tell him. You say you didn't feel exactly uncomfortable, on the contrary. In your own way, you tell him what you really felt all that time, and end up confessing that your feelings are mutual.

“But, I mean...” You tell him. “You must be used to people having a crush on you...”

“I am, indeed. But there is a great difference between those fans and you.” Even if you consider yourself a fan of mine like the others, unlike them, you know me for who I truly am. Ugly sides and all. You didn't meet me as the actor and model Vil Schoenheit. You meet me as that bossy and probably superficial Housewarden of Pomefiore.” he smiles smugly, especially seeing your guilty reaction.

“You knew me at my lowest...” he continues. “And stayed. Not only that, but you also went into the depths of S.T.Y.X. with Rook and Epel. Even knowing it wasn't just for me, it was good to see that you were as happy to see me as they were... And...” He is silent for a second, remembering the moment he wanted to talk to you about and you saw a new loving look in his eyes. “... after what I did... after what I became by saving Idia... I remember looking at you and seeing... a look you had never given me before, when I was... when I looked beautiful. That really changed the way you saw me, didn't it? Well, it also changed the way I saw you. My outer beauty doesn't really have as much of an effect on you as my inner beauty, does it?”

Vil gets closer to you and caresses your face.

“What a coincidence, I feel the same way about you.” his hand slides to your chin to tilt your head up and he smirks. “If your outside matched your inside...” He brings his face closer to yours and speaks a little more quietly and seductively. “You would be more stunning than any model I have ever seen... I think I will take this as a personal challenge. I want everyone to be able to see why I fell in love with you.”

His lips were practically touching yours, but he wasn't kissing you. He was teasing you... Tempting you... You decide to do what he wanted and you kiss him. You can feel his lips forming a smile as he reciprocates the intensity of your kiss.

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

[dior-luxury]

Hi! I really like your headcanons! I was wondering if I could make a request for sebek, azul, jade, trey, and rook? Or whichever you want! The prompt: they forget they had a date with you and stood you up accidentally

Accidently Standing You Up On A Date

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff/drama - she/her .

- [𝐜𝐡.] trey . azul . jade . rook. sebek

- [𝐩:𝐬] nothing rlly

Note: Thank you so much for enjoying my hcs!! ＞︿＜

Trey Clover

Trey is usually responsible and dependable, so when he realizes he completely forgot your date, he feels a wave of guilt wash over him. It probably hits him when he's in the middle of baking or helping out with a club activity, and suddenly, it clicks: he was supposed to meet you an hour ago.

Panic isn’t usually Trey’s thing, but right now, he’s scrambling. He quickly wipes his flour-covered hands, grabs his phone, and sees several missed messages from you. His heart sinks. Trey knows he’s messed up big time, and he doesn’t waste another moment.

Rushing over to where he was supposed to meet you, he spots you sitting alone, looking a mix of sad and disappointed. He takes a deep breath to calm his nerves before approaching you.

“Hey...” he calls softly, guilt heavy in his tone. As you look up, he’s already beside you, his usual calm smile tinged with regret. “I’m so sorry, (Y/N). I completely lost track of time. I know that’s no excuse. You must have been waiting for a while.”

Trey would be the type to offer a heartfelt apology without making any excuses. He’d carefully listen to you vent your feelings if you needed to, never once interrupting or brushing it off. When you finish, he gently takes your hand.

“To make it up to you, how about we go out right now? I’ll take you anywhere you want—no distractions, just us. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. And... I’ll bake your favorite treats tonight. Please let me make this right.”

Trey’s sincerity and his gentle, caring nature would shine through. You know he genuinely didn’t mean to hurt you, and seeing him so remorseful makes it hard to stay mad for long.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul prides himself on his organization and punctuality, so when he realizes he’s missed the date, his reaction is a mixture of disbelief and sheer panic. Maybe he got caught up in an overwhelming amount of work at Mostro Lounge or was drawn into an elaborate scheme. Whatever the reason, once he notices, his stomach twists painfully.

He fumbles for his phone, muttering curses under his breath, and when he sees your unanswered messages, he nearly drops it. Azul’s mind races, already imagining the hurt expression on your face. He feels sick with guilt, but Azul’s pride prevents him from sending a rushed apology text. No—he needs to do this in person.

He fixes his tie and tries to compose himself, but his nerves are shot. When he finally finds you, he hesitates, seeing the disappointment in your eyes. Azul straightens his posture, but there’s a rare, unguarded vulnerability in his gaze.

“Angelfish... I have no excuse. I failed to keep my promise, and I know I’ve hurt you. I cannot begin to express how regretful I am.” He pauses, voice softer. “Please, allow me to make it up to you. I’ll do anything you wish. A special evening at Mostro Lounge? A dinner prepared just for you? I just... I can’t stand knowing I’ve made you feel this way.”

Azul’s usual eloquence is laced with genuine worry. He hates feeling powerless, and the idea of losing your trust makes his chest ache. He’s prepared to offer you anything, but what really matters to him is hearing that you forgive him.

Later, he’d spend days planning something extravagant—a private dinner at the lounge with a dish named after you, symbolizing how important you are to him. He’d also be more careful about balancing his commitments, never wanting to repeat the mistake.

Jade Leech

Jade is usually composed and meticulous, so forgetting a date with you would be unusual for him. It likely happens when he’s out exploring the mountains, captivated by a rare mushroom species, or when he’s helping Azul at the lounge. Time tends to slip away from him when he’s fully absorbed, but the moment he remembers, his eyes widen just a fraction—an uncharacteristic break in his calm demeanor.

Jade takes a moment to assess the situation, letting out a small, almost amused sigh at his own mistake. Despite his outward composure, he feels a twinge of guilt. He quickly makes his way to the agreed-upon meeting spot, already calculating how to smooth things over.

When he finds you, his smile is warm but slightly apologetic. “Ah, there you are, my dear. I must apologize—it seems I lost track of time. I didn’t intend to keep you waiting.” His tone is calm and sincere, but he’s carefully observing your reaction, those heterochromatic eyes studying every flicker of emotion on your face.

If you express your disappointment, Jade’s smile softens. He steps closer, his hand brushing against yours. “It’s quite unlike me to be forgetful. I must have been too engrossed in my tasks... but that’s no excuse. Allow me to make it up to you. Perhaps a private dinner at the lounge? I’ll prepare something special myself.”

Jade is surprisingly gentle when making amends, and though he’s skilled at charming his way out of situations, this time, his apology is genuine. He doesn’t want you to doubt his intentions, and he’ll be extra attentive during your rescheduled date, showing that he values your time.

Rook Hunt

Rook is often poetic and passionate, but his passion can sometimes lead him astray. He probably gets caught up tracking a rare beast or observing the beauty of nature, completely losing track of time. It’s only when he notices the setting sun and the quiet of the forest that it hits him—he was supposed to meet you an hour ago!

Immediately, his heart pounds with both excitement and guilt. How could he, the ever-attentive hunter, forget his most beloved prey—you? Rook rushes back to campus, all the while crafting apologies in his mind. When he finally finds you, his face lights up with relief and regret.

“Mademoiselle! Mon trésor!” he calls out dramatically, dropping to one knee as he takes your hand, his green eyes sincere and almost pleading. “I have committed a most grievous sin! To leave you waiting, unknowing of my whereabouts—it wounds my heart! Forgive me, for I am but a fool who let himself be enchanted by the wild’s siren call!”

He listens attentively as you express your feelings, never once interrupting, and when you finish, he holds your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. “Your forgiveness would be a treasure I would cherish. Allow me to make amends! I shall devote myself entirely to you for the evening—whether a serenade, a meal, or a grand hunt! Whatever your heart desires, I shall deliver!”

Rook’s apologies are grand and sincere, and his poetic nature makes it hard to stay upset. He’s genuinely remorseful and will likely spend the rest of the night showering you with affection and compliments to make you smile again.

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek prides himself on his loyalty and punctuality, especially when it comes to his duties—or anything related to Malleus. So, when he realizes he missed your date, it’s like his entire world comes crashing down. He was probably caught up training or attending to Malleus, and when he remembers, his reaction is explosive.

“What?! I—IMPOSSIBLE! HOW COULD I—” Sebek’s voice booms as he panics, his brain trying to comprehend his mistake. He’s frustrated with himself and mortified at the thought of letting you down. Immediately, he sprints to the meeting place, not caring about the curious stares from fellow students.

When he finds you, his loud presence precedes him. “HUMAN! I—” He stops abruptly, seeing the hurt on your face, and his usual loud demeanor softens, his ears lowering slightly. “I... I failed to keep my word. There is no excuse for such negligence. You have every right to be upset with me!”

His fists clench at his sides as he struggles to maintain his usual proud posture, but you can tell he’s beating himself up inside. “I... I was training. I thought I’d be back in time, but I was careless. I do not deserve your forgiveness!”

If you tell him how you feel, Sebek’s frustration with himself only grows. “To fail both you and my own standards... I will accept any punishment you deem fit! But... I will not let it happen again! You are important to me, and I should have prioritized our time.”

Sebek would spend the next few days making up for his mistake, offering to accompany you everywhere, carrying your belongings, and trying to be extra attentive. He doesn’t quite know how to express affection as gracefully as others, but his efforts to make it up to you are both endearing and earnest.

[moonlight-joy]

The BAU’s Secret Weapon

MASTERLIST

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Summary: No one at the BAU knew you were an expert in hand-to-hand combat—until you save Spencer from an unsub in the field.

Pairing: Reader/Spencer Reid

The BAU was a well-oiled machine, a team built on trust, intelligence, and skill. Everyone had their strengths—Morgan had his strength and tactical expertise, Emily had her experience in undercover work, JJ had her natural empathy, Garcia had her tech skills, Rossi had his wisdom, and Hotch… well, he was Hotch.

And then there was you.

You weren’t the fastest, the strongest, or the most experienced. You weren’t a profiler like Spencer or a former cop like Morgan. If anything, most of the team saw you as the quiet one, always diligent, always dependable, but never the one kicking down doors.

And that was fine with you.

You had spent years training in silence, perfecting skills you never really had the opportunity—or desire—to showcase. There was no reason to. Your job didn’t require it. Until, of course, everything went to hell.

The team had been tracking a particularly brutal unsub, one who had already left three victims in his wake. Young women, all taken in broad daylight, all showing signs of restraint and violent struggle before they were ultimately left to die.

The BAU had narrowed the suspect list down to one man: Kyle Turner. Mid-40s, former military, dishonorably discharged, and exceptionally dangerous.

That was how you found yourself in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, the air thick with dust and the scent of rusting metal.

Spencer had gone in first. It was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance mission, but the second he stepped inside, his comms cut out.

And then, all hell broke loose.

“Where the hell is Reid?” Morgan growled, scanning the area with his gun raised.

Static buzzed in everyone’s earpieces before Garcia’s panicked voice came through. “Guys! Reid’s comm just went dead! I lost his location!”

Your stomach dropped.

“I’m going in,” you said immediately, already moving.

Morgan grabbed your arm. “No way. We don’t know what’s in there—”

“I don’t care,” you snapped, shaking him off. “Spencer’s in trouble.”

You barely heard Hotch giving orders as you darted forward, your gun steady as you entered the warehouse. The dim lighting and eerie silence made your skin crawl.

Then you heard it—a struggle.

A grunt of pain. Spencer.

You ran.

The sight made rage burn through you like wildfire.

Spencer was pinned against the wall, his gun knocked to the ground as Kyle Turner—a man twice his size—wrapped a thick arm around his throat. Spencer clawed at the man’s grip, struggling for air, his face already red.

Turner was going to kill him.

Your gun was still raised, but you knew you couldn’t risk taking the shot—not with Spencer in the line of fire.

So, you did the only thing you could.

You attacked.

In three swift strides, you closed the distance, grabbing Turner’s wrist and twisting it hard. He barely had time to react before you drove your elbow into his ribs and swept his legs out from under him in one fluid motion.

Turner hit the ground hard, releasing Spencer as he gasped for breath.

But you weren’t done.

The unsub lunged for his knife, but you were faster. You pivoted, blocking his arm before delivering a sharp, brutal strike to his throat. He choked, eyes wide with shock, just before you drove your knee into his stomach and knocked him completely unconscious.

Silence.

Heavy breathing.

Then—

“What the actual hell?”

You turned to see Spencer, still leaning against the wall, staring at you like he had never seen you before in his life.

“…Are you okay?” you asked, breathless.

Spencer blinked. “I—yeah—I mean, yes. But what was that?!”

Before you could answer, the rest of the team burst into the warehouse.

Morgan had his gun raised, eyes scanning for threats, while Hotch, JJ, and Emily moved in behind him.

And then they all saw you.

Standing over an unconscious suspect.

And Spencer—who looked like he had just watched a Marvel fight scene in real life.

“What the hell happened?” Hotch demanded, taking in the scene.

Morgan looked at Turner, out cold on the floor. “Did you do this?”

You hesitated. “Um… yes?”

Silence.

Then—

“Since when can you do that?!” Emily exclaimed, stepping forward.

You shifted uncomfortably. “It’s… not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?!” Morgan repeated, pointing at the very unconscious unsub. “Pretty sure this dude would say otherwise.”

Spencer, still looking dazed, gestured toward you. “She just—she—she literally took him down in seconds. I was about to black out, and then she came in like some kind of—ninja.”

You winced. “I’m not a ninja.”

“You might as well be!”

Hotch, ever the professional, folded his arms. “How long have you been trained in hand-to-hand combat?”

You exhaled. “…A while.”

Morgan narrowed his eyes. “How long, exactly?”

You shrugged. “Since I was… fifteen?”

Everyone blinked.

“FIFTEEN?” Garcia’s voice shrieked through the comms.

You winced again. “I, uh… kind of grew up around people who taught me. I kept training over the years. It’s just… never come up.”

Morgan ran a hand down his face. “Oh my God, we’ve been bringing you on cases this whole time and didn’t know you were a secret weapon?”

Spencer was still staring at you, completely in awe.

You felt self-conscious under all their gazes. “I—I don’t like showing off. I just wanted to help.”

Hotch studied you for a long moment before nodding. “You did good,” he said simply.

That alone made the tension leave your shoulders.

But Morgan? Morgan was never letting this go.

“Oh, trust me, sweetheart,” he said, shaking his head with a smirk. “You are never living this down.”

You groaned.

And Spencer?

He just smiled at you, something soft and completely enamored in his expression.

Yeah, this case definitely changed things.

Back at the BAU, you were the talk of the team.

Morgan had officially nicknamed you "BAU’s Secret Weapon." Emily kept reenacting your takedown move in the bullpen. Rossi, to your horror, started placing bets on how fast you could take someone down in training.

Spencer, on the other hand, was still looking at you like you had personally rewritten the laws of physics.

“You okay?” you asked him later, nudging his arm.

Spencer blinked. “I think I’m in love with you.”

You choked on your coffee. “I—what?”

Spencer immediately went red. “I—I mean—not that I wasn’t before! But now I’m just—wow.”

You bit your lip to hide a grin. “So… me knowing how to fight is attractive?”

Spencer pushed his hair back, still flustered. “I mean… yes? Statistically speaking, a partner who is both intelligent and physically capable is—”

You cut him off with a kiss on the cheek. “Good to know.”

Spencer blinked, stunned into silence.

Morgan whistled from across the bullpen. “Damn, Reid, you’re having a great day, huh?”

Spencer just smiled, his hand slipping into yours under the desk.

Yeah.

It was a very good day.

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[motorsportbarbie13]

The Yapping Hour is Upon Us - Theo's First Race

Having a child changes Max in a way he never could have predicted.

warnings: none, this is 100% self indulgent fluff. Pairing: max verstappen x podcaster!reader word count: 3.1k words

yourusername posted

459,029 likes liked by maxverstappen1, assistantshannon, jennythenanny, and others yourusername texas will always hold a special place in my heart. last year, we learned i was pregnant for the fourth time with what we hoped was our miracle baby. this year we get to bring that miracle baby to the track with us for the very first time. my entire heart is so full watching this all come full circle. i cannot wait to show theo how amazing his daddy is when he gets in that car. maxverstappen1 my two favorite people here this weekend. i can already tell this is going to a good race <3 user0198 i cannot handle the amount of dad max content we get. user111 max carrying Theo kangaroo style in a baby carrier??? sobbing rn >>>user0019 SERIOUSLY jennythenanny ah! so excited to be with you guys this weekend!!! >>>yourusername theo is so excited to be back with his bestie! >>>jennythenanny eeeee! cannot wait! >>>user020 why is this the cutest exchange i've ever read

“Maybe we should leave Theo here with Jenny today instead? Max says, concern settling into the corners of his eyes. 

You look over at him, eyebrow raised, from your seat on the floor of the hotel suite. In front of you, five month old Theo is on his tummy staring up at you with his signature gummy little grin. The three of you were in Texas for the US GP, which was supposed to be Theo’s first time in the paddock but apparently, your husband was having second thoughts. 

“What? Why?” You ask, confused. 

Max had checked the weather (multiple times) this morning and had declared that it wasn’t going to be too hot for Theo to be out and about. The sun was out and there was a gentle breeze whispering through the trees outside your hotel room. Max was leading the championship for the first time this season and he was starting on pole. COTA was historically a really good track for him and you were confident in his chances at winning. Plus, COTA meant a lot to you. It was right here in this very hotel that you had found out you were pregnant with the little elf that was babbling up at you right now. 

Max wrings his hands together, casting a worried glance down at his two favorite people in the world. With how dramatic Theo had come into the world so early, Max had found himself being a little extra protective over him. And you for that matter. He had refused to hear any talk about bringing Theo to the track before this weekend and after seeing all of the crowds at the track yesterday for the practice and sprint qualifying, he was having second thoughts 

“There were just so many people and I don’t want him to get lost.” 

You chuckle before reaching forward to take Theo in your arms. Standing up, you cross the room to where Max stands and hand him his son. Max instinctively reaches out, cuddling Theo to his chest. Watching Max become a dad over the last five and a half months had been one of the most rewarding things you’d ever been privileged to witness. He had slipped into the dad role so effortlessly it had surprised Max, probably due to his own childhood and difficult past with his father. You weren’t surprised though. You had known the moment that Theo was born that Max had been born to be a father. It really was that simple. 

“Baby, he can’t walk. He won’t get lost, I promise he’ll never be out of his sling for more than five minutes.”

“No one holds him other than you and Jenny?” 

You blow out a breath, unsurprised at how he’s gone into papa bear mode. You had seen it on his face yesterday during sprint qualifying. He had surveyed the paddock crowds with a deeper than usual frown on his face, making comments whenever he heard an errant cough or someone clear their throat. ‘Cesspool of germs’ was a phrase he used more than once, now that you thought you it. 

“Yes, my love. He will stay in the sling with me and Jenny no matter what. I have his ear defenders here too and we’ll keep to hospitality. But I know he’d love to see where daddy works. You know how much the sound of those engines sooth him.” 

Max pokes a finger into Theo’s chubby cheek, cooing nonsense at him as Theo giggles back. His mind flickered back to one particularly hard night right after you had brought him home from the hospital during the summer break. Theo had been a bit of a colicky baby back then and the hours between 1 and 3 am were often the worst. He would scream and cry for hours, unable to be soothed back to sleep despite all of his needs being met. This night, in particular, was difficult and you had been on hour four of trying to get him to settle. In a desperate attempt to try something, anything that might work, Max had turned on an old race, but just the ambient sounds of one of his wins from YouTube, without any commentators voices. The sounds of the engines revving had instantly calmed Theo down. 

Both you and Max had stood there in your apartment, lights dark with the exception of the glow emanating from the tv in front of you, as Theo had stared unblinkingly at the television, tears still puddled in his little neck folds, but totally quiet and enthralled. 

Max’s eyes dart over to yours and you smile, reaching out a hand to touch his elbow. “I know you’re nervous, baby but Theo will be fine. He’s going to have so much fun, and I know once you get to the paddock with him in your arms, you will too.” 

He sighs, knowing that you’re right. You usually are when it comes to matters involving Theo. “Okay, but first person to cough on him gets banned from the paddock.” 

The Miami sprint race had been your first race all those years ago when Max had swept you off your feet that very first weekend he flew you to him so it seemed fitting that Theo’s first trip to a race was also a sprint race weekend. Max parked the sensible but giant Ford Explorer that he had insisted on driving this weekend in his designated spot before hopping out, telling you not to move. 

You giggle to yourself, amused that even after all this time, Max still insisted that you never touched a door handle while he was with you. Even on hectic days like these, you and Theo were always in the front of his mind. 

When Max opens your door, his hand immediately finds yours as he helps you out of the tall car. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” He asks, dropping a kiss onto your forehead before moving to the back seat to get Theo from his carseat. 

“I’m so excited to be back, it feels like it’s been forever.” 

Which was true. After Theo had been born, he had needed to stay in the NICU for quite a while. Max had nearly missed the race in Spain the weekend after Monaco because he had refused to leave your side. In the end, it had been Daniel that had convinced him that missing Spain would be detrimental to his championship hopes. Max trusted Daniel with his life and knew that his friend, someone who he knew had a good head on his shoulders, wouldn’t give him bad advice. He knew what missing a race would mean to everyone on the team and back at the factory. 

He had won the race with a 15 second lead. 

Your credentials hang heavy around your neck as you pull the diaper bag out of the back of the car, Theo already nestled securely in Max’s arms. It always made you chuckle, the way Max always seemed to have Theo. You swore whenever he was around, that baby never touched the floor or his crib. 

The pressure in your chest squeezes as you watch Max tote his little boy towards the paddock entrance. Both you and Max had made a conscious decision to keep Theo’s face out of your social media, with the exception of very carefully curated images that you and Max tightly controlled so this was the first time Theo would be photographed by anyone but you and Max. You knew the fans, both yours and Max’s, wanted to see Theo and you hoped that bringing him into the paddock despite him being so young was well received and a positive experience. 

“Max! Who’ve you got there?” A photographer yells the moment Max scans his badge at the paddock entrance. Several photographers are standing by the gates, waiting on the driver arrivals. Max is dressed in his team kit, of course, and you’ve got your traditional navy blue on, today in the form of a loose maxi dress that would allow you to maneuver while caring for Theo during the race. Even Theo had a Red Bull onesie on with gray shorts pulled on over his chubby little legs. 

“The best team mascot in the paddock.” Max jokes, a smile crinkling at the corner of his eyes as he pauses to show off a now giggling Theo. 

Your heart catches in your chest when you see the look of pure happiness on your husband’s face. There were few things that brought out a smile that bright on Max and the fact that him showing off your baby to the world was one of those things had your heart hammering in your chest. You watched as Max showed Theo off to several of the photographers and Red Bull staff members, seemingly forgetting all about his hesitations from earlier. Theo loved it too, the sights and smells and sounds were so much for him to take in and he was so content to be in his daddy’s arms just taking it all in. 

“Mon petit lion!” A voice rings out as the three of you walk towards Red Bull’s garage. You grin, watching as Charles fusses over Max refusing to give up custody of Theo but eventually relents. “Give me my godson, you heartless man. Keeping the poor little man away from the track for five months! Horrific!” 

“He’s a literal infant, Charles.” Max argues, a full on pout popping out of his full bottom lip. You suddenly have to quell the urge to bite it, he looks so handsome. 

“Your gorgeous wife told me how much he loves the sound of my Ferrari.” Charles argues back, bouncing Theo up and down, eliciting a peal of giggles tumbling from your baby’s lips. 

Max shoots you a glare that has ‘you’re a traitor’ written all over it. All you do is reach up on your toes to peck him on those full lips of his, completely ignoring the annoyed look he still regards you with. 

“It was the sound of my Red Bull that calmed him the first time.” 

“Keep telling yourself that, Max.” Charles chuckles before handing Theo back to you, giving you a quick peck on the cheek. “I’m so glad you two are here, the paddock ins’t the same without you.”  

“Thank you Charles.” You say, cuddling Theo into your shoulder just a little tighter. 

As the three of you continue on, your final destination being the garage so Max can check on the car, your pace is just a bit quicker than Max’s. He watches you for just a moment, the way Theo’s chubby arms wrap tightly around your neck as he takes in the buzzing activity of the paddock. His heart squeezes fiercely at the way your hips sway back and forth as you carry his baby on your hip. This was how it was always meant to be: his wife and his child at his side while he worked. He had always pictured this day in a way that always seemed like it would come sometime in the future. That was the strange thing about how life progressed. Suddenly, some day is here and you’re watching your wife cuddle your miracle baby. When Max thinks of that afternoon in London all those years ago when he made his way into the recording studio to be on some silly little podcast, he had no idea that this was where that interview would lead but here he was, every single one of the fantasies he had dared to hope for right in front of him. 

You turn back to Max, sensing that he’s fallen quite a bit behind. The look of awe on your husbands face as he watches you has your heart aching. You knew that the past few months had been hard on Max. He hated being away from you, had even tried to float the idea of retiring mid-season. You had flatly refused, saying that everyone in the factory and the garage was counting on him and eventually, he had agreed. But you knew being here was a balm to his lonely heart and you were wildly happy that Theo was finally old enough to accompany Max on this triple header. 

But looking at the way his eyes shined with unshed tears as he stands stock still in the middle of the paddock, just staring after what you know is his entire world, you feel something lock into place. Something that you’re going to have to discuss with him later tonight. 

“Come on, Maxie.” You call as you hoist Theo up higher on your hip. “You’ve got a meeting with Horner and I don’t want him yelling at me because you’re late.” 

Max seems to snap out of the trance he’s in then and chuckles. “Christian is terrified of you, liefje. He’d never yell.” 

You shrug, “I suppose you’re right.” 

Max slips his fingers into yours before giving them a squeeze. “Come on, let’s introduce the little lion to the garage.” 

Max wins the sprint that day, just like the first sprint you watched him win all those years ago. The nostalgia you felt watching him pull up into that first parc ferme spot had something twisting deep in your stomach. It was so satisfying watching Max do what he loved while you held his little boy in your arms. 

It was a whirlwind of media after his win and then he was swept off for race debrief before qualifying for the Grand Prix the next day. By the time Theo’s bedtime rolled around, Max was still busy in engineering meetings. You sent him a quick text telling him you were taking Theo back to the hotel to put him down. Max had wanted to tell you to wait, he’d be right there, but he had known this wasn’t true. He knew that it was going to take several more hours to wrap up all his duties on the track so he reluctantly agreed. 

This was the part of racing he hated. The late nights, the long flights to every corner of the world except to where it mattered most, the danger that lurked on the track. He hated being away from you, had always hated being away from you. Despite his reservations about you quitting your job all before you had gotten pregnant with Theo, he was glad that you had spent those few years traveling with him. It wasn’t about the fact that you ‘followed him around’ like some publications liked to taunt. It was the fact that Max was able to do what he loved while providing for his family and keep you close at the same time. 

But things had shifted when Theo had been born and his priorities had changed. Having you at the track wasn’t an option anymore, not with how little Theo was. And even now, at 5 months old, he knew that this wasn’t sustainable. The options of what to do after this season all played in his head as he got into the car late that night to head back to the hotel. He knew he had a big decision to make, one that had been many years coming. 

It’s dark by the time Max fishes the keycard to the hotel room out of his back pocket. You have a two bedroom suite booked this weekend so he’s not worried about waking Theo, although he still holds out a little hope that he might be awake. It’s been hours since Max has seen him and the only thing worse than being away from you for an extended period of time is being away from both of you. 

The door whispers open and Max spots you laying down on the couch, staring blankly at the tv in front of you. On the coffee table sits the baby monitor and a bottle of wine. 

When you hear the door snick closed, you pick your head up, blinking sleepily towards the door. “You’re home.” You whisper, sitting up so Max can join you on the couch. 

He immediately pulls you into his lap, nuzzling deep into your neck. “I’m home.” He breathes, letting your perfume settle over his senses like a warm, familiar blanket. 

“I’m so proud of you. Sprint win and P3 for tomorrow.” 

“Thank you, schatje. How was your night? How’s the baby?” 

You hum softly, your lips finding Max’s in the dark. They’re warm and inviting and everything that sets your soul on fire. You’re fairly certain that you’ll still feel this way when you’re 90 years old kissing Max late at night. “He’s good. Just finished his last bottle of the night, went down like a champ.” 

“That’s my boy. I’m sorry I missed bedtime tonight.” 

You pull away so you can look at Max’s clear blue eyes. You’re a little surprised to see a bit of sadness sitting in those baby blues you love so much. “It’s okay baby. He did just fine without you.” 

Max frowns before pulling you closer. “And that’s what breaks my heart. I don’t want him to grow up without me.” 

You chuckle, “Oh, Max. He’s not going to grow up without you. If you really want, you can do the middle of the night feeding. He’ll be up in a few hours anyway.” 

Max nods, he usually did those late night feedings anyway. He loved the way the entire world was hushed and asleep. He felt cocooned in the most calming way and those nights where it was just him and Theo were some of his favorite. 

Silence stretches out between you. Your heartbeat matches up with Max’s eventually and your eyes get a little heavy with his warmth pressed up against you. You’d missed this kind of calm presence that Max brought to your life. It was always there, of course, but sometimes it was a little further than you liked during the season. Having him here now was so soothing, making you feel like you could conquer anything that came your way. 

After a few quiet moments, Max’s deep voice finally breaks the silence. 

“I think I’m done after this season, liefje.” 

You’d had this conversation countless times over the years, so much so that the words don't even make your heart race anymore. There’s something different in Max’s voice tonight, though. He sounds tired, worked over, resigned. Like the years spent on the road are finally catching up to him and you know, deep in your chest that it’s time. 

“I know, Max.” You whisper, dropping your forehead to his before brushing a kiss against his nose. “Come home to us. Theo and I are ready to have you all to ourselves now.” 

And that's exactly what happens.

maxverstappen1 posted

5,039,504 likes liked by yourusername, redbullracing, f1, and others maxverstappen1 this sport has been part of my life for most of my time here on earth. i started in karting not long after i started walking. motorsport brought me to the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. 7 championships. the love of my life. my child. this sport has brought me to all of the most important milestones of my life. but all good things must come to an end. i've achieved everything i set out to do all those years ago and my priorities have shifted. at the end of may, i became a father and suddenly that pull to retirement got stronger. @/username knows how many times i threatened to quit mid-season so it wasn't a surprise to her when i came to her after texas and told her it was time. after twelve seasons racing in the pinnacle of motorsport, i'm officially announcing my retirement. to my team, thank you. you have forever shaped who i am. to my wife, i love you. you are all the good things in this world and i am so lucky you chose me to be your husband. to my theo, you changed me in a way no one else has. being your dad is the most important job i've ever had. i can't wait to watch you grow into the person you're destined to become. to my fans, thank you. your devotion means the absolute world to me and i would not have made it to where i am today. thank you, from the bottom of my heart. yourusername theo and i are so so proud of you. welcome home, my love. >>>user9292 *sobbing* charlesleclerc congratulations on a lifetime of acheivments. can't wait to see what you do now, my friend!! lando congrats GOAT. excited to finally not be asked 'how does it feel to lose to max verstappen?' EVER AGAIN >>>charlesleclerc now it'll be 'how does it feel to lose to charles???' >>>lando stfu redbullracing we're not crying, you're crying!!! lewishamilton you will be missed, max. enjoy retirement with that gorgeous family of yours!

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[aciddrattboyy]

Wԋҽɳ Yσυ Mҽʂʂ Wιƚԋ Lσʋҽ

┆ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ - "your boyfriend arrives late for your study date and things(sex) happen"

ᴍᴏᴠɪᴇ ꜱᴛᴀᴛꜱ: ★ Starring: Mark Grayson x F! Reader ★ Run Time: 3.9k ★ Genre/Warnings: [Rated R: Drama/Rom/Adult Film] smut, both reader and mark lose their virginities, fingering(f!receiving), vanilla sex tbh, there will be eventual angst, set in au where they are in college before... (gulp) chicago incident, two part story ★ soundtrack: karma police, basta ya ★ pls pls pls any invincible fans HIT MY LINE i have no friends in this fandom and i desperately need them ★ 01 . 02 .

⋆｡°✩

noon. you invited mark over to your dorm at noon. it was three o’clock now, with no text messages or calls from your boyfriend; even after he assured you he’d be there about four hours earlier. mark had been… distant. constantly ditching you, not even showing up to dates or hangouts, or asking for rain checks if he had the decency to do even that. today was supposed to be a typical study date, with exams coming up you thought it would be nice. because even though mark left you hanging seemingly more often than not, the time he was there was, well, amazing. when he did manage to find the time for you he treated you like you were the best thing that ever happened to him, acted as the perfect, doting boyfriend. whether it was picking up your favorite food without asking or buying you a plushie of your favorite animal you didn't even remember telling him about, mark was loving.

but as the minutes ticked by, your phone continued being pathetically dry, and your dorm mark-less, you were starting to think maybe the good no longer outweighed the bad. with a sigh, you push back in your desk chair, slumping in the seat as you tipped your head back. you glanced over at your phone sitting atop a pile of books, almost mocking you with the lack of notifications, and thought about texting mark. again. dragging a hand down your face, you began to spin slowly in your chair, watching the room swirl by out of boredom. 

as you spun lazily, you could see your door slowly opening. and then there was mark, peeking his face through the crack, sporting that same guilty expression you were starting to think you saw more than him smiling. you plant your feet on the ground, coming to a halt as you looked at him with narrowed eyes and a frown. 

“if your excuse is you had to help your dad with work, lost track of time, or ‘had something to take care of’, save your breath,” you turn back to your desk, staring at the open textbook with your jaw clenched and brows pinched together. mark grimaced at your words, his hand twitching hesitantly on the doorknob, not sure if he should even come inside.

“alright no excuses,” he murmured softly, scratching at his nape as he stared at your back. sheepishly, he held up a plastic bag, the contents inside rustling softly. “but… how about an apology? starting with some food from that place you said you wanted to try?” mark’s voice had a hopeful lilt to it, although he knew he couldn’t keep fixing everything with food. he was entirely sure he’s been fixing anything at all, like a bandaid on a broken bone. but he also couldn’t exactly say: “sorry for being late to our study date. i promise i wanted to be here but my alien space dad made me go train with him since i just got super cool powers.”  it wouldn't be a secret identity if he started telling people. and unfortunately, people included you, no matter how much he didn’t want it to be this way. 

your glare aimed at your text book softened at his words, once again he had gone out of his way for you. acting as if he cared for you even as he was constantly blowing you off. a few quiet moments of you contemplating what to do pass by before you speak, turning in your chair slightly to look at him. 

“i guess that’s not a completely bad start.” marks face immediately lit up like an excited puppy as you spoke. it wasn’t a hard get the fuck out of my room and that was as good of a start as any when trying to make up for his major fuck ups. without missing a beat, he steps inside, closing the door behind him before toeing off his shoes, dropping his backpack near the foot of your bed and making his way over to you.  

“i uh got you a little bit of everything- well not everything everything but y’know a reasonable amount of-”

“thank you mark,” you cut him off quietly, not entirely sure how mad at him you still were. you take the bag from him, not able to meet his eyes as you set the bag down on your now limited desk space. mark stood somewhere to the side behind you, shoving his hands in his pockets as he rocked back on his heels.

“yeah, yeah no problem,” his voice cracked slightly and he winced at his own tone, feeling helpless and not at all sure how to really fix this without coming clean about his secret identity; something he could not do. the silence seems to drag on as you looked through the different containers. his eyes trailed over your desk and a fresh wave of guilt washed over him when he the notes scribbled into a notebook. “you.. um you got a lot of work done,” mark said awkwardly, grasping at straws to try to fix what he was rapidly breaking between you two. 

“yeah well it would’ve been easier if you had been here to help.” both of you freeze at your words that came out just a bit more harsh than you intended. mark frowned, not sure what to say. he reached out a hand, hovering it over your shoulder as he slowly opened his mouth. but you sighed before he can get anything out, running a hand through your hair before you turn in your chair to face with a faint frown of your own. “look, i’m sorry for talking to you like that. let’s just eat yeah? i’ve done enough studying for the both of us” you offer mark a small smile, one that he returns hesitantly. he takes a step back when you get up from your chair, grabbing the bed and heading over to your bed. 

“yeah that… sounds good.” mark nods, following you over to the bed. he sits next to you, mirroring your cross legged posture with his back leaning against the wall. he slowly scoots closer as you pull out the various containers until your knees are touching. you didn’t acknowledge it, but you didn't pull away and that was as good of a win as any. his eyes light up with an idea before leaning over the edge of the bed to grab his laptop. “thought we could watch something while we ate.” he offers softly, already turning on youtube and putting on the type of videos he remembered you telling him you watched sometime in the past. you nod at him softly, your smile growing both in size and genuineness just a bit.

“good thinking,” you respond softly, the anger already subsiding just from being with him. mark had a way of making you feel good, even if it wasn't for long, even if he upset you more often than you’d really like. you knew deep down he was still a good guy, and you desperately wanted to see him be better. wanted to see him start living up to his apologies.

the two of you eat in a somewhat comfortable silence, interrupted by laughs or brief commentary on what you were watching. and everything starts to feel normal again. for you, but also for mark. for just right now he wasn’t Invincible. he was mark grayson, a freshman in college with the more amazing girlfriend by his side. it felt nice to feel normal again, even if he had been waiting his whole life to get powers, to be just like his dad. you find yourself curled up against mark’s side, watching random videos with your head on his shoulder and his arm wrapped loosely around your waist. the sun was starting to set, the fading sunlight casting shadows and warm orange light through the blinds. 

when you tilt your head to look up at mark, he meets your gaze. his lips slowly pull into a goofy smile that makes you huff with amusement.

“why’re you looking at me like that?” you murmur playfully while tracing idle shapes over the fabric covering his chest. he pulls you closer, the movement almost imperceptible as his expression turns warm.

“you’re just so pretty,” mark answered just as softly, getting lost in your eyes with a stupid smile. only a second passes before he realizes what he’s said; his eyes widen, face flushing red as he sputters out apologies while trying to pull away. “oh shit that was so stupid- fuck im sorr-” before mark could run away and hide, you grab his face and pull him into a kiss. he lets out a muffled noise of surprise, eyes wide before his brain catches up to what was happening. then he’s humming softly instead, hands finding your waist as he kissed you back gently. “wha… what was that for?” he whispered breathlessly when you pulled away, your faces only inches apart. 

“am i not allowed to kiss my boyfriend?” you ask teasingly, smile only growing as your swipe your thumbs over his cheeks.

“no- i mean yes- uh yeah you can kiss me,” he lets out an almost self deprecating laugh, hands squeezing your waist gently. “i’m fucking this up aren’t i?” you pull him into another kiss, languidly moving your lips against his.

“i think you’re doing just fine,” your fingers tangle in mark’s hair, deepening the kiss, starting it off slow, gentle, but one thing led to another and soon enough you’re pulling him closer as you fall back against the sheets. mark follows you willingly, hovering over you with his hands on either side of your head. one of mark’s legs slot in between yours, involuntarily pressing his knee against the apex of your thighs. you gasp softly against his lips, grip tightening in his hair. when you roll your hips, a shudder runs through both you and mark when he realized what you were doing. the revelation only served to send blood straight to his already semi-hard dick.  

the kissing grows frenzied, the air between you heavy with harsh panting and even messier kissing. your laptop had been precariously moved out of the way and onto the corner of your desk. both of your shirts? thrown god knows where. was this all happening just a bit too fast? maybe… probably… definitely. but slowing down seemed to be the last thing on your mind along with mark’s. who was now practically buzzing with nervous excitement and lust. he’d kissed you before, many times actually. but never like this. never half clothed and making out with you as if you were trying to eat each other’s faces off while you ground your hips against his knee.

shifting slightly, mark props himself up on his elbow, body pressing more firmly on top of yours. he smooths his free hand up your waist, hesitantly thumbing over the hem of your bra as he waited for some sort of signal to stop. but none came, in fact, he could feel your back slightly arch into his touch. he let out a low groan, muffled by your lips, the obvious tent in his sweats pressed snuggly against your thigh. for a brief moment he thought maybe he should be embarrassed. but how could he when you seemed to just as affected. and somehow a lot more confident… with a gasp, and much reluctance, mark pulls his mouth off of yours, panting heavily against your lips.

“have you uh… y’know… before?” his voice was barely a whisper, face feeling hot and eyes slightly widened as he looked down at you.

“no…” you start, your voice equally as quiet as you prop yourself up on your elbows. “is it that obvious?” your brows twitched, just barely pinching together with a hint of worry and newfound self consciousness. 

“no- no no!” mark quickly squeaks out, shaking his head with wide eyes. “i just- you seem so- so…” he trails off, not entirely sure what to say anymore.

“we don’t have to keep going if you don’t want to. do you want to stop?” your voice was soft, a small smile on your face in hopes of making sure mark knew his comfort was important above all. but it only served to make mark feel more… feel more of whatever was making his stomach flip and his cock twitch against your thigh in a way that was getting harder to ignore. he swallowed the lump in his throat when thought about what ‘keep going’ would actually entail. 

“um… no. not really,” he murmured softly, a sheepish smile on his face. he feels his face heat up all over again at the admission. but before he can doubt himself, you’re smiling at him. and then you were kissing him, and it was like you had never even stopped at all. 

the kissing quickly grows heated, hands fumbling to rip each others pants off through breathless giggles and sloppy kisses until mark was seated between your open legs; both of you in nothing but your underwear and your bra long gone. mark smoothed his hands over your inner thighs, chest still somewhat heaving from the rather heavy makeout session just moments ago. he swallowed thickly, thumbs tracing over the lacy edges of your panties. his head snaps up when he hears a small noise leave your lips. the kind of noise that has his body going hot all over again.

“can i…?” mark wasn’t sure what he was exactly asking permission for. but the way you were looking up at him made him pray to any existing god that he was granted the sexual prowess of a veteran pornstar just for tonight. upon seeing you nod your head, he sucks in a deep breath, feeling both a wave of arousal and anxiousness. with shaky hands, he hooks his fingers under the waistband of your underwear and slowly pulls them off of you. looking at your naked body, mark was afraid he’d bust right then and there. but then your voice, soft and playful, cut through his thoughts currently being led by his dick. 

“c’mere,” you reach out, tugging on his hand and pulling him closer until he was hovering over you again. the backs of your thighs resting atop of his, the bulge in his boxers not too far from your pussy. you could tell he was a little nervous. and although you never got verbal confirmation, it was clear to see that mark was a virgin; somehow more a virgin than even you were. you card a hand in the hair at his nape, pulling him into a kiss that seemed to make mark relax just a bit. kissing was good. kissing was familiar territory. and after a small while, you placed your free hand on top of his hand not supporting his weight and slowly inch his palm downwards. 

marks breath hitched in his throat, body temporarily going still. that is until he felt how fucking wet you were as you guided his middle and ring finger through your soaked folds. a guttural groan vibrates through his chest, only barely muffled by your tongue in his mouth. 

you were panting against his lips now, soft mewls escaping you led his fingers to circle your clit. teaching him what you liked, how you wanted to be touched. and to mark’s credit, he was a very fast learner. soon enough he was moving on his own, your hand holding onto his wrist instead as he pumped two fingers inside of you. he ground his palm against your clit, making your hips buck into his hand as the pleasure just kept building. 

“o-oh fuck-” you cry out when he hits that sensitive spot inside you, arms wrapping around his neck as you nuzzle your face against the sensitive skin just below his jaw. if it were not for the string of muffled moans leaving your lips, even mark was able to tell you were getting close almost embarrassingly fast by the way your thighs trembled against his and how your hips snapped up to meet each thrust of his fingers. “fuck- fuck ‘m gonna- hah-” 

mark felt like he was almost there with you; he could feel the damp patch on his boxers growing as his dick continued to throb in it’s confines, leaking a lot of precum. his hips twitched involuntarily, searching for some sort of relief. but he would continue to push his own wants aside, breathing heavily through his nose as he peppered your collarbone with wet kisses and focused solely on making you cum. and that he did. biting back a moan of his own at the feeling of your walls clenching around his fingers, your whole body going taut under him as you held onto him tighter. 

after a few moments filled with only heavy breathing, your body goes limp against the sheets as he pulls his fingers out with a soft squelch. there was a very satisfied smile on your face as you looked up at mark, who somehow looked more fucked out than you. 

“you were… surprisingly good at that.”

“ha, thanks… hey, wait what do you mean surprisingly?” you giggle softly at the small pout on his lips, lifting your head just enough to press a kiss against his lips.

“don’t think about it too much,” you mumble as you pull back, trailing your hands down his sides until your palms met the waistband of his boxers. “uh there’s condoms in the drawer if you…” you trail off, eyes widening when you realized what you had just implicated. “i- i didn’t buy them they were uh- a gift from my roommate a while ago…” you look up at mark with narrowed eyes after seeing the way his lips were pursed, twitching with the force he had to use to keep himself from smiling. for now, mark would bite his tongue, not wanting to face your wrath when his dick was so hard it was starting to hurt. 

“condoms. got it.” the words were strained under the weight of his stifled laughter, but before you could comment on it, he was already leaning over you. rummaging through your night stand, he was able to pull one out, settling between your legs with the gold foil in his hands. “but are you sure you want to do this?” there was a hint of vulnerability in his tone, sounding almost worried that you’d regret being with him, or you were for some reason only doing this out of pity. but then you were giving him that warm smile and nodding your head, and suddenly all doubt jumped out the window. 

through more muted laughter and clumsy, inexperienced hands, the two of you manage to get the condom on without mark blowing his load then and there. placing his hands on your hips, he leans down to kiss your lips, rubbing soft circles on your skin with his thumbs. you hum into his lips, gently holding onto his biceps as you kiss him back just as passionately. but when mark reaches a hand between your bodies to line his tip with your hole, the energy shifts. less playful and more so intense, romantic. like the both of you realize what you were doing, and what it means for the relationship going forward. 

“are you sure?” mark whispers against your lips, eyes fluttering open to gauge your reaction.

“yeah, yeah i am,” you breathe out, eyes shining with something that made mark’s stomach flip in an almost scarily good way. he nods, adams apple bobbing before he presses his lips against yours again. he snakes his free hand up the bed, intertwining his fingers with yours above your head as his hips slowly push forward. it takes a little while of patience and whispering sweet nothings to each other before the two of you are comfortable enough for mark to start moving, the whole situation intense for both of you in a way that was both exciting and a little nerve wracking. 

“h-holy fuck-” mark’s voice comes out as a shaky pant, head hanging as he looked down at where your bodies met. his hand in your squeezes gently, the other holding onto your hip as he slowly rolls his hips; pulling out until only the tip was inside before slowly pushing back. “feel s’good,” he groans softly, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck as he continued to slowly fuck into your wet heat. his hand leaves your hips, entwining his with yours and pinning you to the mattress. you bite your lip, muffling the whimpers and moans spilling from your mouth. squeezing his hands tightly, you tilt your head when you feel mark starting to suck and nip at the skin of your neck

“y-you can- nngh- go faster,” your breathy words do not fall on deaf ears. mark’s whole body stills for just a second before slightly readjusts on top of you. the moment he quickens his pace, both of you are turning into moaning messes. kissing sloppily and exchanging spit as the cheap bedframe rocks slowly with mark’s movement. he lets go of one of your hands, reaching down to rub messy circles on your clit with the pad of his thumb.

it didn’t take long for mark to get close, hips already stuttering as he teetered on the edge as your cunt fluttered and clenched around him. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, muffling any and all embarrassing noises that leaves his lips. your hips buck up to meet his with each thrust, thighs shaking with your own impending orgasm. your nails rake down his back in a way that has mark groaning against your skin.

intense orgasms hit you both at the same time; mark’s thighs trembling right along yours as his hips jerkily buck his dick inside you until he spilled every last drop into the condom. collapsing on top of you, the room is silent save for heavy breaths and the smell of sex. after a few moments, mark presses a soft kiss to your jaw before slowly pulling out and flopping onto his back next to you with a content sigh after tossing the condom into the trash bin under your desk. 

“that was…”  mark turns on his side, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling your back flush against his warm chest. nuzzling his face against your hair. “was… amazing,”  he murmured softly, voice full of bliss as he held you tight. you giggle softly, letting your body melt into his warm embrace. at some point, you both clean up; with shrugging on a shirt and underwear and mark slipping back into his sweatpants. cuddling up under your sheets, it was easy to fall asleep in his arms, perfectly content and feeling loved.

i hope you enjoyed !! reblogs/comments are very appreciated <3 ʟᴏʙʙʏ ﹕ꜰɪʟᴍᴏɢʀᴀᴘʜʏ 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

[lemonlover1110]

𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧

Sylus

Part 2

Pairing: Sylus x f!Reader

Summary: You have to share some news with Sylus, you're just not sure how to tell him.

Warnings: Fluff, Pregnancy, Yes Sylus has a son but no worries girl dad agenda being pushed in the next part!

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi - Bluesky

Sylus is past his prime, that he knows. He isn’t the same young handsome man that he once was. Even if you insist that he looks better with each passing day, he knows he doesn’t look like he once did. It’s not something he dwells on though. He likes getting older with you.

“You have to stop acting like you’re dying, Sylus! You’re turning 40.” You scold him as you finish frosting the cake that you’ve poured your heart and soul into. The man has never really cared for birthdays until he got to spend them with you– And they became a sweet tradition until Sylus realized just how old he’s getting.

Sure, 40 isn’t that old but when you’re watching someone else grow with you, it makes you feel ancient. Especially since Sylus watched this person be born, and now he’s too old to spend time with his father.

“Couldn’t he have the sleepover on a different day? Did he have to go away on my birthday?” Sylus asks, swirling the glass in his hand. He can’t bear to look up at you because he doesn’t want you to see how upset he is about this. 

“I know it sucks, but we slowly have to get used to this. He’s a teenager.” You tell him, and he scoffs. Teenager. Just yesterday the child was begging Sylus to teach him how to ride a bike, but now he doesn’t have the time to spend with his old man.

“Yeah. Whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “At least I don’t have to go through this again. It’s just one and done.”

“Right…” You awkwardly respond, and that gets his attention. He frowns, looking up at you as you continue making his cake.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Sylus questions, and you come to a stop. Maybe you should’ve kept your mouth shut.

“I just said right.” You try to play it off, a chuckle leaving your lips. Perhaps it would’ve worked back when you started to date (it wouldn’t) but it won’t work now that you’ve been married for– He can’t tell you, he’s lost track of time. 

“Right? In that tone?” He points out, and you bite down your lip. Sylus reaches over to get some of the frosting from his cake, and you slap his hand away. 

“Wait till it’s time to cut it.” You scold him, and he clicks his tongue. 

“Can’t we cut it now? It’s just going to be the two of us anyway.” He says, and you shake your head. You pull the cake closer to you, and Sylus sighs again. “Can’t have my son, can’t have my cake, can’t get anything I want.”

“You’re so dramatic.” You tell him, and he lets out a low chuckle. Maybe he is.

“You sly fox, you changed the topic.” He replies, and you hold back a laugh. He stands up, walking over to you until he towers behind you. You can’t run away now.

You feel his breath on your neck as he lowers his head. He whispers, “What are you hiding, kitten?” 

“I’m not–”

“You really think you can lie to me?” He cuts you off before you even get a chance to finish the thought. There’s no need, Sylus can read your mind– Well almost. 

“I don’t want to ruin the night.” You confess, words that worry him.

“Ruin the night? How would it ruin the night?” He questions, and you shut your eyes. You begin to get nauseous, and you try to take deep breaths to calm yourself down. “What exactly are you keeping from me?”

“So you remember Koen’s terrible threes where you said that you would never have another child, and we agreed that he was more than enough?” You bring up, and he has no idea where you’re leading with this. He simply hums in response. “And you remember a couple of months ago where we had a little more alcohol than we should’ve?”

“Kitten, get to the point.” The connection doesn’t immediately happen in his mind, and you sigh. You didn’t want to outright say it, but he doesn’t get it.

“I’m pregnant, Sylus.” You spit out, and you feel as your heart drops. You were going to wait a couple of days before telling him but he spoiled the surprise.

Then he’s silent. For the longest minute of your life, he’s silent. And just when you’re about to speak up, he kisses your cheek. You turn around to face him, and he cups your face before kissing you. He kisses you over and over again before asking, “How would that ruin my night?”

“We haven’t agreed to have more kids and since you’re so bummed out about being old and all… You know–” You begin, and he lets out a low laugh. 

It’s been on his mind lately since his son has completely left him behind, he just didn’t want to bring it up. The universe has granted his wish without even trying.

“And when the baby turns ten you’ll be fifty and–” You ramble, and Sylus wants to scold you for ruining the moment, but it’s impossible. He simply kisses you, overjoyed by the news.

He’s becoming a father again.

[agreeewrites]

hi congrats on 1000 followers!!!! i seriously love your work sm the bill weasley magic lessons series altered my brain chemistry. idk if you write for aged up harry potter but if you do can you please write “1000 tears” with harry i love him in deathly hollows era when he’s all angsty and it’s soooo good when people write him to have a crazy reunion with the reader when he gets to shell cottage after saving them from malfoy manor it’s always giving peak hormones lol

hi love!!! tysm for the request, and I'm so glad you enjoyed Magic Lessons! angsty Harry is also my favorite, so I had a lot of fun with this one. Hope you enjoy! 🤍

1000 tears | H.P.

feat. Harry Potter x reader

cw: MDNI 18+, smut, love confessions, war stuff, mentions of blood/injury, angsty Deathly Hallows-era Harry, friends to lovers, reader has an implied close relationship with Remus and Tonks (parental), Dobby lives bc this is my fic and I can do whatever I want

masterlist

You sat curled up in your bed, knees to your chest, and stared at the crack in the bedroom door. Lupin had sent you to your assigned room with a piece of chocolate an hour prior, insisting you try and get some rest. But you couldn't even get yourself to lay down, the chocolate lying untouched on the bedside table.

You'd lost track of how many tears you'd shed.

Harry was out there, having disappeared while searching for a Horcrux with Ron and Hermione hours and hours ago without communication. He refused to let you go with them, having all but begged you to stay behind at Shell Cottage.

Where it's safe, love.

And now, you had a bone-deep feeling that something had gone terribly wrong. It wasn't like Harry to not send any kind of communication, and if he couldn't, Hermione always did.

Things between you and Harry were…complicated. You weren't together. Who would be reckless enough to start a new relationship in the middle of a war? But the connection between you was strong, having grown from a schoolyard crush to an all-consuming devotion over the past few years, and you knew Harry felt it too. But there were more important things to worry about at the moment—romance could wait until after the war. If there was an after.

The clock ticked audibly on the wall above your head.

This was ridiculous. You couldn't just sit here. If Harry thought something happened to you, nothing would stop him. Not Lupin, not Molly, not Moody—

A crash and a wail echoed through the silent house. You immediately recognized the cry as Dobby’s, and jumped out of bed, grabbing your wand from the night stand.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you approached the closed door, turning the ancient knob as quietly as you could. Wand raised, you pulled open the door, stupify on the tip of your tongue.

“What on earth happened! And where have you been?!” Molly bellowed, and you paused in the hallway.

“Malfoy Manor,” you heard Ron reply just before Dobby loosed another shriek of pain.

“Harry Potter saved Dobby! Harry Potter is Dobby's hero!”

“It’s alright, Dobby—let go—Dobby, they have to—”

You flew down the stairs and around the corner, finding Ron, Hermione, Lupin, Molly, and the wounded House Elf crowded into the foyer. Harry was trying to gently pry the bleeding Dobby from his pants leg, his handsome face smeared with dirt and blood, expression tight with frustration and exhaustion.

But he was alive.

“You're supposed to be asleep,” Lupin scolded, noticing you hovering in the hall, and Harry’s head snapped up, green eyes melting with relief.

“Dobby and Hermione need a Healer,” Harry said, his gaze locked on you. You could tell he was white knuckling his self-control, trying to stay calm and prevent the terror from whatever just happened to them spread to the rest of you.

“Good thing I was awake then,” you replied, giving Lupin a pointed look as you moved into the crowded foyer. You stooped to survey the House Elf's injuries. A blade had grazed his side, blood blooming beneath his tunic, but it was shallow. “Episkey,” you murmured, and the wound knitted itself most of the way closed, ceasing the bleeding.

“Oh, thank you Miss Harry Potters friend! Thank you!”

“My pleasure, Dobby,” you sighed, pushing to your feet.

You hadn't realized how close you were to Harry, too focused on healing Dobby, and now we're standing nearly chest to chest, nose to nose.

The look on his face knocked the air from your lungs. His usually serene eyes were burning, heavy-lidded and bruised with exhaustion. He smelled of smoke and the sting of dark magic, his black hair tosseled and knuckles bloody.

His index finger brushed the edge of your hand, so light you almost thought you'd imagined it, and you swallowed a shudder, your body reacting as if he’d done something cataclysmic.

Everything in you wanted to throw your arms around him and kiss the pain away, steal it all for yourself so he'd never have to suffer under the burden of responsibility again—but you resisted.

“Boys, can you get Hermoine into the kitchen?” you asked, shifting to step away before you completely lost focus.

For a split second, Harry’s index finger hooked your pinky, wanting to keep you close, but he quickly dropped his hand and turned to his friends.

“C’mon then, hold onto me,” Harry said, crouching down to their level. Hermione looped an arm around Harry's neck, the other already around Ron’s waist, and together they lifted her up.

She groaned, her head lolling onto Ron's shoulder, but protested no further as they carried her into the kitchen and set her gently onto a chair.

“Don't overtax yourself,” Lupin warned, catching you before you left the foyer. “Be smart.”

“I'm fine, Remus,” you bit, pulling away from him.

You followed them into the kitchen, pretending not to be jealous at the easy contact between Harry and Hermione. You knew there was nothing romantic between them, and you loved their friendship. His depth of love for his friends was one of the things you admired most about him. But her ability to touch him so freely, a luxury you could only imagine, made your stomach twist.

To distract yourself, you set to work making some tea and preparing your supplies. Usually, the three of them would chat amongst themselves, strategizing, reminiscing, poking fun, but they were strangely quiet. The house sat heavily around the four of you, the silence almost tangible, broken only by the cottages occasional creak and groan.

When you set Hermione’s tea in front of her, made just the way she likes it, plus a pinch of goldenrod for the pain, she barely managed a whispered ‘thank you’. Her face was buried in the crook of Ron's neck while he held her close.

Oh, how lucky they were to be loved out loud, even if they hadn't admitted it to themselves yet.

Harry was leaning against the counter, eyes flitting anxiously between his friends and you, so you poured him a cuppa as well.

When you brought it to him, intending to set it on the counter beside him, he instead reached out to take it from you. His cool fingertips brushed yours over the heated ceramic. “Thanks,” he murmured, voice gravelly.

“’Course,” you said through the tightness in your throat. His touch lingered a moment longer before he brought the warm cup to his chest.

You set up your supplies and sat beside Hermione, gesturing for her to set her injured arm on the towel you laid out. She obliged, grimacing when the drying blood pulled at her skin.

As gently as you could, you used a rag soaked in warm water and antiseptic to clear away the blood. You nearly recoiled when the injury revealed itself.

Mudblood.

“Hermione, what—” you gasped.

“Bellatrix,” Ron hissed. “Tortured her while we were locked up.”

You were speechless, shocked to your core, and instinctively turned to Harry, but he was looking at Hermione's arm, eyes swimming with pain.

“I'm so sorry,” you whispered, turning back to Hermione.

She shook her head, dismissing your sympathy. “Just do what you can,” she said through gritted teeth. “Please,” she added.

So you did. Bellatrix had used an enchanted blade, so the word would scar, but with some time and attention, you were able to get the wound partially healed, and most importantly, the pain under control.

At one point you had urged the boys to go get cleaned up, their brooding energy weighing on your heart, but neither budged an inch. Ron stayed glued to Hermione’s side, catching every one of her tears, while Harry hovered over your shoulder, only moving away when you needed something, like fresh gauze or a refill of your tea. A strong herbal blend you developed to keep you focused during long nights spent studying in the common room.

It had come in handy more times than you cared to admit since the war began.

You secured the last bandage around her forearm, and looked up to find her asleep on Ron's shoulder, his head leaned against hers, eyes closed.

The roll of gauze was lifted from your hand, and you felt Harry's heat at your back. Even blindfolded and deaf, you'd be able to sense him anywhere.

“What are you—”

“Cleaning up,” he replied. “You've done enough.” His tone was gentle but firm, and you rolled your eyes.

“Me? I've been sitting here for days while you—”

“And I'm sure you worried yourself half-to-death,” he cut you off, and you clamped your mouth shut. “I can put away some bottles while you rest for a second,” he said, grabbing the vials from in front of you.

“Can't help but worry about you,” you muttered petulantly.

Harry's footsteps paused just behind you, and your breath caught in your throat. Then, his arms wrapped around your shoulders, warm and solid and home, and he buried his face into the curve of your shoulder.

“Please don't,” he whispered, exhaling a shaky breath. “Because if you ever asked me to stay—”

“I would never ask you to stay.” Tears burned behind your eyes, heart aching with relief and something too similar to grief to bear another name. You twined one of your hands with his, the other coming up to tangle in his dark waves. “That’s why I asked to go with you.”

His grip tightened. “I would never ask you to go.”

A tear slipped down your cheek. “I know.”

Ron stirred, and Harry slid his arms from around you, leaving you cold. You wiped the tears from your face before he could see them, though you had no doubt he knew they were there.

“Ron, you gotta take Hermione to bed,” Harry said, shaking his friends shoulder, and Ron came fully awake.

Ron gave a grunt in acknowledgment, then lifted Hermione into his arms, cradling her against his chest like she was the most precious thing in the world. “Thanks, mate,” Ron said to you, nodding his head.

“No need to thank me. Just glad you're all alright,” you replied, waving him off.

“Me too.” He glanced at Harry, something unspoken passing between them, before turning and carrying Hermione down the hall to her room.

The silenced stretched between you until it became unbearable. “I guess I'll head to bed before Lupin bites my head off,” you joked, though it landed flat.

Harry, sweet, always supportive Harry, gave you a weak smile anyways. You knew he wouldn't ask you to stay up, even though he'd likely be up until sunrise, but it still hurt when he answered with a single nod and turned away, walking into the living room without another word.

You had just climbed into bed when there was a knock on your closed door. Wiping away the tears that had collected once again, you pulled open the door, fairly certain you would find Lupin or Tonks standing there, ready to scold you for not going to sleep when your were told.

Harry stood in the dark hall, his glasses reflecting the silver moonlight like coins. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.

“Sorry? For wha—” Harry pushed through the door, directly towards you. You barely had time to gasp before he was grabbing your face and hauling you in for a messy, breath-taking kiss. He kicked the door shut with his foot, the bang a little too loud for the quiet house, but Harry didn't falter for a second. You barely heard it though, your ears ringing as your blood rushed under your skin, your mouth moving instinctively against his, matching every desperate push and ravenous pull.

His hands were everywhere, gripping your hips and tangling in your hair and pressing at your back, like he wanted to fold you under his skin, fuse your bodies together in every way imaginable.

“Harry,” you whimpered when he broke the kiss to breathe, your lungs burning along with the rest of you. It took you a moment to register that he was crying. “Harry, what—”

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—I couldn't—” a strangled sound cut off his words and he sank to his knees, his grip on your hips going slack. “I tried, I—”

“I-I don't know what you mean,” you said, fighting back your own confused tears as you stroked his hair, his face buried into your abdomen.

“I thought I could wait, could keep you from getting too close, but I—I can't.” Harry looked up at you, pain-stricken face streaked with tears and glasses crooked, his mouth pulled down in a sorrowful curve. “I need you, but I can't risk losing you.”

You lowered yourself to his level, taking his face in your hands and drying his tears with you shirt sleeve. “You aren't going to lose me,” you tried to soothe, but your own emotion made your voice tremble. You both knew that it was entirely possible one or both of you would die in this war. Countless others had, and if love could overpower mortality…so many lost would still be living.

He shook his head. “If they know about you, what you mean to me—they'll—” another sob ripped from his chest, and it felt like it ripped out your heart with it, the sound so agonizing you wanted to cover your ears. “What they did to Hermione—I can't hear you scream like that, I can't—”

You were left speechless, crushed under the weight of what your friends, your Harry, must have experienced. Had one thing been different, he wouldn't here right now, in your arms where he belonged. You never would have kissed him, never would have held him, never would have known—

“Just tonight, then,” you whispered, watery and half-pleading. “Just one night, Harry, please.”

“I don't want just one night,” he snapped, though you know his sudden anger wasn't directed at you. “I don't want to wait. I don't want to fight. I don't want to be Harry fucking Potter. I just—” his breathing was labored, his jaw flexing under your palms. “I just want to be yours.”

“Harry—” your voice caught on the words, so used to swallowing them that speaking them felt as foreign as it did exhilarating. “Harry, I love you.” His eyes squeezed shut, his breath hitching. “In my heart, you're mine. You're my Harry.”

He opened his eyes, their green brighter than you'd ever seen it, stark against the red of his lids and black of his damp lashes. “I love you too. So fucking much,” he whispered, pressing his lips to your inner wrist, up your forearm until he reached your lips, molding them together in a timid, salt-licked kiss.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, drawing him closer, and he quickly reciprocated, deepening the kiss until it reached the same fervor as before. You could feel his heart pounding in his chest, racing alongside yours as he reached behind you and yanked your quilts and duvet onto the floor.

You were about to ask why when he kissed his way down your neck, leaning you back onto the pile of blankets. His body weight was warm and delicious pressed against you, filling a space long empty in your chest, and you sighed, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“So soft,” he murmured, nursing a spot under your ear that made you gasp, the sound twisting into a breathless moan. His hips canted forward in response, an involuntarily flex of muscles, and he whined. “Sorry, lovely. I'm so sorry—”

You silenced him by dragging his mouth back to yours and kissing him as fiercely as you could. Testing the waters, you rolled your hips against his, fiending for even a little friction, and it was his turn to gasp. You seized your opportunity and licked into his mouth, chasing his tongue with yours, and he completely melted into you.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, his hands sliding under your shirt to paw at your bare skin. He kissed back down your neck, teasing the sensitive spot he found and making you squirm. You felt him hardening rapidly against your hip, losing his breath every time your hips bucked into his.

“Harry,” you pleaded, not entirely sure what you were asking for, only that you needed more of him. All of him.

He grunted when you shifted to roll your hips directly against the bulge of his cock, the thin fabric of your shorts doing little to mask the rough texture of his jeans. One of his hands slipped from your body to undo his pants, his weeping, flushed cock springing free and slapping against your lower belly.

“Baby, I need to—Merlin, I'm so sorry,” he panted against your neck as he pulled your shorts and panties to the side. He spread his fingers through your slit, exposing your drooling pussy to the cold air of the room. He plunged one finger in, then another, stretching you with quick, deliberate strokes that had you keening.

“Please fuck me, please, please, please,” you babbled, digging your nails into his back when he withdrew his fingers to fist his cock, dragging the head through your slick and coating himself in your honey.

“Baby, fuck, you're so wet. My good girl, yeah?” He peppered your throat and chest with kisses, like he was atoning for some great sin while he pushed that first few inches into your tight heat. You cried out, and he clamped a hand over your mouth, startling you both. “Sh, sh, have to be quiet f'me. I’ll be gentle, but I just need to—” His hips stuttered forward another inch when your gooey walls clamped around him. “Fuck, lovely, I'm sorry, you just feel so—”

You lifted your hips and he slid a bit deeper, sinking nearly half-way into the wet grip of your cunt, and he made a pained sound in his throat, your own mewl muffled by his rough palm. Your whole body was humming with pleasure, like he was ripping through the dark curtains of your soul and letting the light finally spill out.

“Fuck, I'm sorry.” He rested his forehead against yours, biting the back of his hand covering your mouth to keep from crying out as he pushed deeper, almost there. “I love you, and I'm trying to go easy but saints. You make it so hard to be good.”

You nodded desperately, locking your eyes onto his and trying to convey what you wanted. I know you love me, but fuck me like you hate me.

His eyes searched your face. “Tell me what you want, love,” he said, removing his hand from your mouth to grip your jaw.

“I don't want to hold back anymore,” you replied, voice breathy and high.

Something in him snapped. His hips thrust forward, his pelvis smacking against yours as he finally bottomed out. His cock kissed your cervix, the stretch bright and delicious.

“Fucking hell, you're so goddamn tight,” Harry growled against your neck, grinding his hips against yours. You'd be shocked to hear him speak so roughly, but you were on another planet, nails carving lines down his back as you clung to him.

His fingers dug into to meat of your thigh, lifting your legs up to wrap around his waist, helping him drive even deeper as he started pounding into you. Long, deep strokes that had your mind-melting, toes curling, and a too-loud cry slipped free.

“Baby,” he scolded, covering your mouth again and slowing down his thrusts.

“M’sorry,” you mumbled against his palm. “Please don't stop.”

“Have to be quiet, okay?” He removed his hand, pressing a soft kiss to you lips. “Lupin will kill me.”

“Lupin can bite me,” you giggled, pulling him back down for another kiss.

Harry smiled against your mouth, his teeth catching your lower lip and tugging gently. He snapped his hips forward, knocking the air out of your lungs as pleasure bolted through you. “He'll have to go through me first,” he purred.

Seeing this more assertive side of Harry was doing funny things to your brain and your heart, your pussy fluttering around his iron length.

Was this what it was like to be his?

You pushed at his shoulder, throwing your leg to roll him over, landing in a straddle over his waist. His eyes widened in surprise, but quickly rolled back when you circled your hips, his length hitting an entirely new angle inside of you.

He tugged his shirt off, then yours, pulling you flush down against him as he fucked up into you, too impatient to hold still.

He was hitting it just right, abusing that soft spot inside of you that made your eyes cross, and you could feel your release rapidly approaching.

Sweat collected between you as your furiously ground your hips together, fucking each other with everything you had. Completely lost in the feeling of one another, desperate to push the other over the edge. The lewd slap of your sopping pussy was driving you both crazy, heightening the risk of being caught substantially, but you were too far gone to care anymore.

“Need you to come for me, baby. Please. Need to feel you, before—fuck, that's it, I’m so close—” Harry managed to get a hand between you, his middle finger making quick circles over your clit. His hips snapped up a final time, and you both were done for.

Your orgasm exploded through you, whiting out your vision with searing pleasure, and you buried your face in his neck to keep from screaming his name.

He bit down on his fist, a grunt of pleasure escaping as he continued fucking you, his thrusts growing languid and sloppy as your cunt milked him dry.

“Harry, Harry, Harry,” you whined in his balmy skin, twitching and shaking in his arms as he finally sagged against the ground.

He removed his hand from his mouth, pinpricks of blood emerging from the wounds he'd sustained earlier reopening. “Saints, I love you so much. You're so beautiful,” he panted, kissing along your sweaty hairline. “Did so good for me, my lovely girl.”

“I love you too,” you sighed happily, nuzzling into the space under his jaw and brushing your lips against his light layer of stubble, letting your body relax into his.

He ran his fingers through your hair, holding you close as he caught his breath, the two of you basking in the afterglow.

“I meant what I said—anyone that wants to hurt you will have to go through me first,” he murmured after a few moments of quiet, his voice turning serious. “I'll do everything I can to protect you.”

You pushed yourself onto your elbow, meeting his eyes. They were shadowed with uncertainty, a bit glassy with collecting tears. His hand came up to hold your cheek, his thumb smoothing a long your kiss-stung lips.

“Whatever happens, this will be worth it,” you said, trying to inject as much conviction into your voice as you could, though seeing his tears brought your own back to the surface. “Even if this is the only night we get, it's worth the risk.”

He nodded, bringing your lips together in an airy, tearful kiss. “You're worth fighting a war for,” he whispered, catching your tears with his thumb. “And I'll get you to the other side of it if it's the last thing I do.”

You shook your head, burying it into his neck as a sob forced it's way up your throat. “I’d rather you take me with you.”

“Absolutely not,” he said, his grip tightening as he forced your head up again. “You have to promise me that no matter what happens, you'll live to help build what comes next.” You started to shake your head again, but he didn't let you. “Promise me.”

“I can't—”

“You can. And you will. This world is better with you in it, my love.” He rested his forehead against yours. “And I'll promise to do everything I can to stay with you.”

You drew in a shaky breath, your heart so full you could hardly breathe. “I promise, Harry.”

He flipped you beneath him, molding your lips together like it would set your promises in stone. “No more tears,” he murmured. “Tonight, we’re celebrating.”

© agreeewrites 2025. do not copy, translate or claim my writing as your own.

[pathologicalreid]

little duck | s.r.

in which Spencer is too excited about his first Halloween as a dad to remember he's supposed to be celebrating his birthday

margotober masterlist

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: jareau!reader, birthday party, halloween, dias des los muertos, roslyn talk, this IS my ffofa family but you don't need to read it to read this (just know that reader and jj have beef), mostly wholesome content, babies and having babies, the spencer reid dilf agenda! word count: 1.53k a/n: is this any good? not sure. it's definitely cute though.

Your eyes flickered around the kitchen, trying to spot a familiar mess of brown curls that you’d lost track of about an hour ago. “Hey,” You said to Penelope, putting an arm around her shoulders, “Have you seen my husband anywhere?”

The blonde shook her head, taking the opportunity to glance around the house to see if he was hiding in plain sight, “Haven’t seen him,” she shared a look with Emily, who shrugged, “Did you check outside?”

Shaking your head, you sighed while picking up some trash from the counter and setting it in the trash. “No, thanks though,” you flashed them a small smile before continuing your way around the house, he wasn’t in the office or the library either.

The house was decorated in a hybrid celebration of Spencer’s birthday and Halloween. Décor for the latter had started going up in September, but the fake spider that Spencer put in the guest bathroom still made your heart race. Balloons fluttered in the air while you strode past them, “Hey, there’s the lady of the house,” your head snapped up.

“Hi Dave,” you greeted Rossi with a hug, “How are you enjoying the party?”

He lifted his glass of punch up, “Other than the fact that I’m not sure how you got the punch to turn green, it’s a beautiful party. You’ve outdone yourself.”

Thanking him, you promised to come back and chat once you found Spencer, who was still missing. As for the punch, you were under strict orders not to tell anyone how the punch had turned green, but you knew that Spencer had used spinach as a natural food dye. Personally, you were avoiding the liquid like the plague.

Finally checking outside, the only thing you found was Matt’s older four chasing each other with glow sticks while their father watched on. Kristy was inside with Rosemary, who wasn’t quite old enough to chase her older siblings yet. You smiled at the thought that maybe next year she’d be able to join the big kids.

Henry and Michael were on the playset, the older of the two trying to impress his younger brother by crossing the monkey bars. You waved at Michael on the swing before closing the door behind you, turning around to continue your search in the house, jumping when you found someone behind you. “Oh,” you hung your head in shock, “You scared me.”

Your sister smiled at you, “Sorry, I saw you looked like you were searching for something, I wanted to see if you needed anything.”

JJ made your chest ache. Every time she offered to do something for you or surprised you with a gift, she continued to get into your good graces, but it just reminded you of your broken bond. Shaking your head, you looked around the living room, “I’m just looking for Spencer.”

Recognition flickered in her eyes, “He went upstairs with Amelia about ten minutes ago. I didn’t see him come down.”

You sighed in relief once you knew where your husband and baby were, “Thank you.” Making your way to the stairs, you turned and spoke up again, “And J, take some leftovers home! I really don’t need all of it.”

Hopefully, you could convince everyone to take at least something home. Throwing parties was a curse, there was always too much food. You made your way upstairs, checking the master bedroom before peeking your head into the nursery, finally finding Spencer.

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor with Mila propped up in front of him, still learning how to stand unassisted. You leaned against the door frame, watching Spencer adjust her Halloween costume as she stared at him in wonder.

It was a tradition in your family for your mom to make the costume for Halloween, at least the first one, and Spencer was more than willing to adopt any tradition available to him, especially if it involved Halloween. You gave your mom free rein of the costume idea, so you shouldn’t have been surprised when she showed up before the party today with a baby duck costume in tow.

She was blowing raspberries at him while he brushed some feathers out of her face, “We’ll have to trim some of those, honey,” he spoke to her gently. He had refrained from putting the hood over her head, either because he didn’t want to ruin the tiny ponytail she had sticking up from her head or because he didn’t want her to get too warm, but she seemed more than content to be dressed in the bright yellow outfit.

You were thankful that she’d be comfortable in the costume because the rest of the week would be jam-packed. Tomorrow night was the FBI trunk or treat, then a Halloween party at Rossi’s, then actual Halloween, and then a Dia De Los Muertos party at Penelope’s to round off the week.

Honestly, you weren’t sure who was going to be more exhausted by the end of the week, you or Mila.

Eventually, you caught the gaze of your eight-month-old, who reached out and made grabby hands at you, exposing your location to Spencer, who turned his head to look at you, “Hey,” he said, still holding her upright even though his eyes weren’t on her.

“Hi,” you greeted back, unable to take your eyes off of the baby. More specifically, you were unable to take your eyes off of her costume.

You took a seat on the floor across from Spencer, who helped Mila off of her feet so that she could crawl to you, “Go see mama,” he urged her gently, watching as her tiny arms and legs carried her across the floor.

Once she reached you, she pushed herself up on your leg until you scooped her up, settling her in your lap and raising your eyebrows at him, “You know there’s a party going on downstairs.”

“I had noticed that, yes,” he answered, neatly folding the hood of Amelia’s costume and setting it in a pile.

Adjusting the bow on top of her head, you craned your head down and kissed the side of her head—she gurgled in response. “Did you know that they’re all here for you?”

Spencer smiled slightly, “I knew that too.”

Mila continued to babble while you looked at your husband curiously, “And yet,” you started, “You’re up here, putting her Halloween costume on while you should be at your birthday party.”

“I just wanted to see her in it,” he confessed, eyes flickering down at his daughter in her baby duck costume.

You had to admit, she was heart-achingly cute in the handmade costume. You were so happy when your mom brought up making the costume, not wanting to ask right out for it.

From the day she was born, Amelia was surrounded by family, you and Spencer made sure of it. She was cuddled up in the hospital with a blanket that Penelope crocheted. Even her nickname—Mila—had been granted to her by Derek’s daughter, who couldn’t quite swing the three-syllable name at the time.

There was a pit in your chest that was brought upon you by the symbolism of the costume, you often wondered what life would be like if your eldest sister was still around. You wondered what she’d think of your baby’s middle name—Rose—and if she’d think it was cool. “Hey, Spence?” You whispered, carefully standing up with Amelia in tow.

“Yes, my love?” He responded, following your lead and getting up off the floor, taking the baby from you, and changing her into pajamas.

You hummed behind him, taking the discarded costume and folding it up, placing it on top of the dresser until you needed it tomorrow. “Happy birthday,” you told him for the nth time today.

He smiled at you, resting Mila on his hip before he turned back to you, “Thank you.” Spencer leaned over and kissed you, the action receiving a coo from your daughter.

Laughing softly, you cupped her head tenderly, “It was a pretty good year, huh?”

Spencer pulled you into his side, you being held in one arm, and Mila in the other. “Yeah,” he murmured, “This one was definitely a favorite.”

Becoming a parent with Spencer was a dream come true, there was nothing you could think of that would top this year. Tilting your head back, you looked up at him, “So, what are you going to wish for this year?”

His gaze flittered down to the baby on his hip.

You shook your head immediately, “Pick something else,” you said, giggling at his silent suggestion. To you, it felt much too soon to think about another baby, and you knew Spencer was mostly joking. The two of you had previously decided on waiting.

Spencer sighed in response, looking between you and Mila, “More of this,” he answered, “The three of us, together.”

Raising your eyebrows, “Avoiding a party together.”

“As a family should,” he affirmed, beaming at you.

You were smiling so much that your cheeks ached, and you nodded your head in the direction of the door, “C’mon, there’s a cake downstairs with your name on it. Literally.”  

[hhaechansmoless]

OFF THE GRID PT.1

pairing: f1driver!scoups x ex!femreader

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

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

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

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

glossary taglist

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

MONACO, CIRCUIT DE MONACO

Saturday, Post qualifying May 24th

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

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

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

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

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

This isn’t your team anymore.

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

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

He isn’t the future anymore.

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

And then there’s Jaehyun.

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

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

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

It wasn’t always like this.

And it shouldn’t be like this now.

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

No.

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

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

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

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

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

But for some reason, he doesn’t move.

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

But it isn’t. Not to Seungcheol.

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

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

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

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

—

Sunday, Race Day May 25th

“We need to push now, Seungcheol.”

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

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

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

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

“Box, box.”

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

It’s slow.

Too fucking slow.

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

His hands grip the wheel so tight his knuckles burn.

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

Jaehyun and Haechan.

Of course.

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

He can’t listen.

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

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

The gap isn’t closing.

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol is stuck.

"Gap to Jaehyun?"

"Two seconds."

Two seconds might as well be twenty.

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

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

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

"Seungcheol, we need to manage the tires."

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

They want him to manage.

They want him to hold the position.

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

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

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

It’s worse than before.

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

Fucking Monaco.

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

"Gap to Jaehyun?"

"Four seconds."

Four seconds. Before the stop, it was two.

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

And now, he has another problem.

The Red Bull in his mirrors.

Jeno.

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

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

P3 is all he has left.

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

—

The champagne is cold when it hits his suit.

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

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

Haechan stands in the center.

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

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

And that’s when it sinks in.

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

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

A podium at Monaco is supposed to mean everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, the question he’s dreaded is asked.

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

He expects it, but the words still land heavy.

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

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

It’s the right answer. The expected one.

"And Haechan?"

Seungcheol nods one, shoulders tight and strung up.

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

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

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

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

HOME

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or so he thinks.

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

His name.

Right next to yours.

For a moment, all he can do is stare.

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

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

But he knows better.

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

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

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

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

“You look well.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brows furrow slightly. “For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jihoon scoffs. “More like infamous.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seungkwan waves him off. “Details.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ITALY, AUTODROMO NAZIONALE MONZA

Thursday, Media Day September 4th

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens.

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

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

“We’re still analyzing the data.”

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol stills.

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

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

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

Seungcheol exhales slowly, running his tongue over his teeth.

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

But he isn’t.

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

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

And suddenly, it all makes sense.

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

That Ferrari isn’t betting on him anymore.

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

It’s been happening all season.

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

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

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

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

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

Jaehyun doesn’t have to ask twice.

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

And Seungcheol is tired of feeling like he does.

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

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

Mingyu.

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

Mingyu probably saw this.

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

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

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

And now, here he is.

The same team. The same treatment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Saturday, Qualifying

September 6th

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

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

Outside, Monza is alive.

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

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

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

At least they haven’t given up on me.

His fingers tighten slightly around the wheel.

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

At Ferrari’s home race.

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

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

But they’re waiting.

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

They need him to take back Monza.

They need him to put Ferrari back where it belongs.

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

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

“Track is clear. Sending you out now.”

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

Right. Of course they are.

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

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

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

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

P3 – Choi Seungcheol.

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

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

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

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

"Track is clear. Sending you out now."

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

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

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

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

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

And then, finally—

"Choi Seungcheol begins his final lap."

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

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

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

The timing screen flashes, indicating a purple sector.

The commentators react instantly.

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

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

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

Purple again.

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

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

The final corner looms. The moment of truth.

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

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

As he crosses the finish line, the leaderboard updates.

P2.

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

You exhale.

Not pole.

But at least he’s ahead of Jaehyun.

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

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

He mentally scoffs, A championship contender, that boy.

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

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

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

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

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

He needs that win.

—

Sunday, Race Day

September 7th

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

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

He hears Jaehyun before he sees him.

“You always drink coffee before a race?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol gives him a look.

Jaehyun exhales. “Fine. Maybe a little.”

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

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

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

Seungcheol hums. “Guess so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A clean race.

Sure.

That depends on who refuses to back down first.

—

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

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

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

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

You snort. "That’s optimistic."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

And Jaehyun.

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

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

It doesn’t matter.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

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

“Jaehyun is the car behind.”

Not quite an order. Not yet.

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

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

There it is.

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

He’s done playing smart.

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

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

Jaehyun dives. Seungcheol defends.

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

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

Too late.

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

For a heartbeat, there is only silence.

And then, impact.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinks.

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

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

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

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

“I’m here,” he mutters, voice hoarse.

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

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

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

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

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

And then, finally, movement.

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

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

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

He turns and walks away without looking back.

—

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

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

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

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

This shouldn’t have happened.

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

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

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

Seungcheol exhales, a bitter scoff slipping past his lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His thoughts are interrupted by rapid knocks on his door.

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

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

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

Then his phone vibrates.

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

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

It’s you.

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

His finger hovers over the screen.

For a moment, he considers letting it ring out.

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

The call connects.

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

“Yeah?”

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

“Hey,” you say quietly.

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

“What’s up?”

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

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

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

“Yes, I’m fine.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You breathe out. “Maybe.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

You almost smile. Almost.

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

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

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

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

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

“Goodnight, Cheol.”

BRAZIL, AUTÓDROMO DE INTERLAGOS

Friday, Post FP2 November 7th

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

They don’t know yet.

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

The team he helped bring back to the top.

The team he’s about to leave.

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

“I’m leaving.”

Silence.

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

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

Then, finally—

“What?”

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

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

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

“I know.”

A pause.

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

“I’ve made up my mind.”

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

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

“This isn’t just about this season.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you did.”

The words aren’t empty. He means them.

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

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

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

But Seungcheol has nothing left to prove.

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

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

The weight of that truth settles between them.

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

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

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

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

“There is no other offer.”

A flicker of uncertainty passes through the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s the first time his voice hardens.

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

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

He’s tired.

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

“I already have.”

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

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

No one stops him as he moves toward the door.

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

“You’re really sure about this?”

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

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

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

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

Your history too.

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

Hope.

Determination.

Belief.

He stops walking.

The picture right next to it is worse.

His first drivers’ championship.

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

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

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

He breaths in deeply, tilting his head back.

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

It doesn’t make it any easier.

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

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

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

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

But not this year. Not anymore.

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

They all knew this was coming.

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

He should be angry. He used to get angry.

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

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

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

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

UNITED ARAB EMIRATES, YAS MARINA CIRCUIT

Sunday, Race Day December 7th

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

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

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

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

You stop reading after that sentence.

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

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

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

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

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

You understand.

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

The thought makes your stomach twist.

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

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

She’s right. You know she’s right.

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol nods.

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

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

Eventually, his race engineer finds him.

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

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

And now, there’s nothing left to say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His engineer scoffs. “Bullshit.”

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

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

“In 2018.” 

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

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

Seungcheol smiles, “And then the rain hit.”

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

He tilts his head, “But I didn’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol looks at him.

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

Seungcheol swallows.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it?

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

And now, he’s stepping away.

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

Seungcheol looks up, surprised. 

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

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

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

“Good to know.”

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

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

“Home.”

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

[suguboos]

GETTING STICKY.ᐟ — featuring SPIDER-MAN! T. FUSHIGURO

cw: 18+ content, MDNI. unprotected p in v, bed breaking, improper use of webs (mentioned once), dom toji, use of baby and doll.

SPIDER-MAN! TOJI whose strength had always been a trending topic in the morning’s edition of the daily bugle after he lifted a subway train with just his web-covered hands without so much as breaking a sweat.

forums on reddit were dedicated to calculating just how much that weighed, each user trying to figure out just how much the masked hero could lift before unanimously coming to one conclusion: spider-man was really fucking strong.

..all dedicated to the same toji who lost track of just how strong he was whenever he was inside of you.

“atta baby, there we-” toji pushed his cock into your slick cunt, pushing through that initial ring of resistance until he managed to bottom out, “-go.”

but then again, how was he supposed to remember when you squeezed around his cock like you wanted to milk him dry? your walls seemed to take the shape of his shaft with ease, gripping around him like a tight vice.

toji gave you some grace—starting off with slow, shallow thrusts. “go faster, baby, please.” he couldn’t bring himself to deny your needy request, not with the way your hips started moving back, trying to meet him halfway.

even with the webs securely binding your hands together, you were eager. eager to move, eager to grasp whatever you had next to you.

“yeah?” plap! “you can take what i give you? no runnin’ away?” plap! you nodded almost eagerly along to his words, “i can take it, i can take it, toji!”

“yeah, you can,” he almost affirmed, tip kissing your cervix every time he bottomed out. “take everything i give you so well, doll,” toji leaned down, pressing a kiss onto your shoulder while he kept rutting into you.

“f-fuck, just like that! just like that!” your moans bounced off the paper-thin walls, almost molding into the perfect symphony with each loud squelch! and fwap fwap fwap! your slick coated his shaft completely, dripping down your thighs and onto the sheets.

“just like that?” toji punctuated his mocking words with a slam of his hips, “just like that? yeah, baby?” you nodded like a bobblehead, burying your head into your pillow to attempt to muffle your moans.

the bed started shaking underneath the two of you, screws clobbering onto the floor. toji didn’t seem fazed that you were sinking inch by inch, fingers rubbing at your clit with quick precision.

“toji, toji, toji!” each moan of his name was like pure music to his ears, his hands instinctively gripping your waist all that much tighter.

“toji, the bed!” your warning came out a loud mewl, finally registering in his mind. your fingers dug into the silk sheets underneath

the bed in question creaked on its hinges, headboard slamming against the wall with each sinful thrust of his hips. “mhm, what about the bed?” he drawled out, “use your words, doll.”

before you had the chance to respond, the bed gave out. one minute you were several feet above ground and the next, you were on the floor with what remained of your bed frame. “…the bed’s gonna break. again.”

“whoops,” the bark of laughter that left his lips let you know just how sorry he was. you smacked the side of his arm, only making the man laugh harder. much to your displeasure. you looked around at all the scattered pieces of chipped wood on the floor, the wooden frame completely annihilated.

“where are we supposed to sleep tonight?” the million dollar question. toji simply shrugged, leaning over and pressing a kiss on your shoulder. he seemed more worried about undoing the strings of webs on your hands.

“i’ll fix it tomorrow. don’t worry so much, baby,” toji uttered, completely distracted and blissfully unaware. his lips moved up to gently suck on your collarbone.

“toji, there isn’t anything to fix.” you gestured to the mess surrounding the two of you, making him look up.

“huh,” he noted, standing up from his spot before extending his hand out to you. toji cleared a little path onto the corner of the room where the two of you wouldn’t get a splinter, “we can just buy another one tomorrow.”

“the guy at the furniture store’s gonna give us a weird look. it’s our third time buying a bed frame in less than a year.” the man had already questioned the two of you when you went two months ago with this same problem.

his hands went down to rest on your hips, holding you close to him, “so?” even with a broken bed, the man was completely unbothered. “we’re giving back to the community ‘n stuff.”

and almost like that wasn’t nearly bad enough, a bright yellow noise complaint notice was plastered smack middle onto your creaky, unfixed door the next morning.

the sales clerk at the furniture didn’t seem to take it the same way when the two of you walked in the next day, immediately giving you both a dirty look. “another one? the last was supposed to be heavy duty.”

you wanted the ground to swallow you full.

and toji simply seemed amused. his scar stretched as his lips curled into a subtle smirk, like he was proud of himself, “we need a titanium one. last one wasn’t that heavy duty.”

a/n: so i wanted to make a lil drabble to gauge how much you liked the concept before finishing up w the fic buttt since its a democracy-ish, i’ll leave it up for y’all to decide