#it’s not your fault you have the worst luck ever | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hhaechansmoless · 28 days ago

Text

OFF THE GRID PT.3

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, f1 heavy

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

glossary taglist

a/n: the final installment!!! writing this fic out of all the ones I have in my series was probably the easiest and at the same time the trickiest to deal with. not just because it's an e2l but just also because of the f1 bits of it. while it's always challenging to write the race scenes, purely because most of the time i'm just spewing words and hoping they make sense while also trying to make sure that the stuff happening is stuff that actually happens, the most fun part was to put forth how one may feel shunted in their own team and what that does to a person. it’s lonely and quiet in the worst ways and sometimes you start to believe it’s your fault. that maybe you were always meant to be on the outside. writing that part felt very real and if you’ve ever felt like that, i hope this story sits with you a little. i love this one a lot and i hope you do too! please don't hesitate to reblog/comment/send an ask with your thoughts!

HOME

The cold air bites at your skin, but you barely feel it.

You sit on the porch steps, phone pressed tightly to your ear, listening to the monotonous ring of a call that you already know isn’t going to go through. It’s the fourth time you’ve tried the number your dad gave you. The fourth time it’s gone straight to voicemail.

You press the heel of your free palm to your eyes, rubbing at them. Great. Just great.

A pipe leak. In the middle of winter. Water pooling under the sink, seeping through the cabinets, creeping toward the floor faster than you know how to handle. And now, the only plumber you know isn’t even picking up.

Really, your luck must be fucking terrible. How could this happen exactly when your parents weren’t at home?

Your head pulses with another wave of pain as you weigh your options. Do you try fixing it yourself? Do you just shut off the main water supply and deal with it later? Do you-

No.

You’re not calling Seungcheol.

You refuse. You won’t.

You grip your phone tighter, swallowing hard, trying to think. You can figure this out. You have to.

But then to your luck, or rather, the lack of it you hear the sound of tires rolling over, a door opening and slamming shut, paper bags rustling.

And before you even have to look up, you know.

Seungcheol.

You curse internally, willing him to keep walking, to go inside, to not notice the way you’re sitting here, hunched over, stress radiating from every inch of your body.

But of course, he does.

“Hey,” he calls out casually at first.

You don’t answer right away. You keep your gaze on the phone screen, like if you just focus hard enough, the plumber will just magically call you back.

But Seungcheol isn’t an idiot. And he knows you well enough to tell when something’s wrong.

The porch creaks under his weight as he steps closer. “What’s going on?”

You sigh, finally glancing up. He’s standing at the foot of the steps, a grocery bag in one hand, the other stuffed in his jacket pocket. His hair is still slightly damp from the snow, and the cold has left a faint pink tint across his skin.

You look away quickly. Not the time.

“Nothing,” you mutter, voice tight.

Seungcheol doesn’t buy it. He tilts his head slightly, glancing at the phone in your hands, to the way your grip is a little too tense.

You see the exact moment he puts the pieces together.

“…Something’s broken.”

It’s not a question.

You let out a sharp breath, rubbing your temple. “It’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”

Seungcheol exhales, setting the grocery bag down on the step. “What is it?”

You hesitate. If you tell him, he’s going to fix it.

But the alternative is letting the house flood while you sit outside, pretending you don’t need help.

You purse your lips, debating. Then, finally you answer. "Pipe’s leaking under the sink."

Seungcheol’s brows lift slightly. “Bad?”

“Water’s spreading. That bad enough?”

He glances toward the house. “Did you shut off the valve?”

Your throat dries up. You should have. You know that. You know enough to do that. But you were so fucking stressed, so caught up in trying to call the plumber, that you didn’t even think about it.

Seungcheol immediately clocks your hesitation.

His expression almost morphs into amusement. “Come on.”

You shake your head immediately. "No."

Seungcheol gives you a flat look. “You want to let it keep leaking?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Really?” He crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. "With what tools?"

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Okay. Fine. Maybe you don’t have a plan.

But that doesn’t mean you need him.

Seungcheol exhales sharply, hand reaching down to loop through yours and pull you up. "Just let me do it, alright? It’ll take ten minutes."

You hesitate for a second too long, brain switching off at the way he effortlessly manages to lift you up. No, you willingly stood up. You shake your head

A moment of hesitation is all that he needs.

With a small shake of his head, Seungcheol picks up his grocery bag and walks past you, shoulder just barely grazing yours as he makes his way inside.

You hover near the kitchen island, arms crossed, watching as Seungcheol shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over a chair before crouching down in front of the sink.

The water hasn’t fully spread to the floor yet, but it’s bad enough, a slow but steady trickle pooling at the base of the cabinet, seeping into the wood.

Seungcheol clicks his tongue. "You should've shut the valve off earlier."

You bristle. "I was trying to call someone."

He doesn’t argue, just sighs loudly before rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, forearms flexing slightly as he moves.

“Where’s your wrench?” he asks, already reaching under the sink.

You blink. Right. Tools.

Your mind scrambles for an answer, but it comes up empty. You have no idea. Your dad always handled these things before.

“I-” You hesitate, shifting on your feet.

Before you can figure out what to say, Seungcheol just sighs. Then, without looking up, he mutters

“Still in the laundry room?”

You freeze.

He doesn’t even wait for your answer. He just pushes himself up and walks off, heading straight down the hall, like he already knows exactly where to go.

And the worst part is that he’s right.

You swallow, fingers tightening around your arms as you listen to the sound of him opening the cabinet, rummaging through old tool boxes like he’s done it a hundred times before.

Like he still remembers where everything is.

When he comes back, wrench in hand, you don’t say anything.

And neither does he.

He just crouches back down, one arm reaching under the sink, the other bracing himself against the cabinet. His shirt rides up slightly at the hem as he shifts into position, and you immediately snap your gaze to the ceiling.

A few minutes later, when he's almost done, Seungcheol's phone rings from where he threw it onto the kitchen island. Your eyes flicker to the screen before you look away just as quickly, not catching the name.

“Who is it?” Seungcheol's voice comes out muffled from below.

“Uh, wait,” You mumble before shifting over to see the caller's name. It makes you stop, hand frozen in air for a few seconds before you shake yourself out of it. “It's someone from Aston Martin. Do you want me to bring it over to you?” You observe him as you reply, eyes sharp.

You can see Seungcheol stop for a moment too, like a kid caught stealing candy before he resumes, shaking his head slightly. “Nah, just leave it.”

No.

No, it's been way too long to let this slide again.

You fold your arms tightly over your chest, jaw tight. “Seungcheol.”

His name comes out sounding sharp from your mouth, maybe a little more than you intended, but still, stern.

Slowly, he exhales. Then, bracing a hand against the cabinet, he pushes himself up. Straightens. Stretches his shoulders. But he doesn’t look at you.

Your fingers curl against your sleeves. “What is going on with you?”

He sighs before running a hand through his hair, still refusing to meet your gaze. “It’s nothing. I don't know why they're calling either.”

“Are you done with the leak?” You point at it, already moving past him to the cabinet above the stove where you keep your kettle.

He nods, albeit a little confused before he checks, washing his hands after the water doesn't leak again.

“Okay, good.” You mutter as you start it up, preparing to make tea. This conversation is something that's been avoided for way too long. “Because you're going to sit down, drink this tea and fucking explain what you've been doing in this past one year.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but you interject before he can, “Don’t you think we deserve to know what’s going on?”

Seungcheol exhales, shoulders rising before he lets them fall. He looks like he wants to argue. Like he wants to say no, like he wants to leave, like he doesn’t owe you this conversation.

But you’re not letting him.

Not this time.

So you turn toward him, crossing your arms, eyebrows raised in challenge. "Well?"

Seungcheol sighs, rubbing his temple. But after a moment, he drags a chair back and sits.

He leans back against it, arms crossed, gaze dropping to the counter. "What do you want me to say?"

You huff, setting the cups down harder than necessary. "How about the truth?"

Seungcheol scoffs under his breath, shaking his head. "It's not that simple."

"It never is," you agree.

The silence that follows is thick, heavy, frustrating. The only sound is the quiet hum of the kettle as steam starts to rise.

You glance at him, but he’s still looking at the counter, fingers tapping lightly against his arm. Like he’s debating. Like he’s deciding how much to say.

When Seungcheol finally begins to talk, his voice is the quietest you’ve heard it in a while.

“Where do I even start? I guess it began last season itself, after I won the world championship. After COTA, I didn’t have much to fight for, other than the constructors. The team started the orders in Mexico and back then it didn’t feel like I was losing out on anything. I’d already made enough points and they wanted to make sure Jaehyun ended up P2 in the driver’s standings to help with the constructors. So I agreed.”

You nod. You remember the second half of the season in 2024. It wasn’t unlike Seungcheol to go a little easier on his teammate once he’d won, so you hadn’t thought anything was off either.

“And then into winter break,” Seungcheol continues, “One of the reasons I didn’t come back home was, yes, because it would be really awkward with us, but the team had kept me really busy too. I’d done so many tests and runs for them that you’d expect the car to come out in a way that suited my driving style a little more.”

“It wasn’t entirely off,” Seungcheol shrugs as you pour a little honey into his cup, “Just, it was quite obvious that Jaehyun was more comfortable in there than I was. Felt like the work I’d done was useless, almost. Pre-season testing too. They were a lot more proactive when it came to Jaehyun’s feedback, but I just assumed it was because he was relatively newer to the team and that they’d have to learn his preferences a little more because they already knew most of mine.”

You settle down into the chair beside him, a soft hum leaving your lips as you listen.

“And you know, for the first few races it felt like things were back to normal in the team itself. I was still qualifying better, still the first one to bring the fight. Yeah, Red Bull were insanely quick and we were—from the start—second to them, but it felt alright inside. So I let it go, thinking I was just being paranoid.”

"And then?" you prompt gently.

Seungcheol exhales, the sound barely audible over the quiet clink of your teaspoon against the ceramic rim of your cup. His fingers drum the outside of the mug.

“And then the calls started,” he says, shaking his head. “Nothing major at first. Just small things. Strategy tweaks that didn’t make sense but weren’t outright sabotage. Early pit stops that put me in traffic. Tire compounds I hadn’t preferred. I wasn’t the only one noticing it either—my race engineer, the mechanics, even some of the guys in the factory. But no one wanted to say it outright.”

Your brows furrow. “But you knew.”

Seungcheol’s lips twitch, not in amusement, but in resignation. “I had a feeling. But when you’re fighting at the front, you can’t afford to doubt. You just drive.”

You nod, thinking back to those early races. From the outside, nothing had seemed blatantly wrong. Ferrari was still Ferrari with their fast cars, quick pit stops, a strong driver lineup. And Seungcheol was still the one leading the charge. If anything, it had looked like he was comfortably holding onto his position as the team’s priority.

But now that he says it, you remember. The radio messages that had sounded just a little too forced. The hesitation before the pit wall gave him the go ahead on certain strategies. And then later, when Jaehyun’s results started coming together, how the dynamic had shifted ever so slightly.

“Monaco,” you murmur, realization settling in.

Seungcheol shakes his head. “No. Miami. By Monaco, I already knew. But it was Miami where the doubts started.”

You know what he means. That race had been his to win. Fastest all weekend, pole secured by two tenths, an aggressive but clean first stint. And yet, somehow, Jaehyun had come out ahead after the pit cycle. The team had called it an unfortunate timing issue, but Seungcheol had looked more confused than upset in the post-race interviews. Like he wasn’t sure how it had slipped through his fingers.

He rubs a hand over his face, leaning back into the chair. “That’s when I started realizing it wasn’t just paranoia.”

Your fingers tighten around your mug. “But you still let it go.”

Seungcheol lets out a short, humorless laugh. “What else could I do?” His eyes meet yours, dark and unreadable. “I drove for them, remember? They made the calls.”

“I wasn’t okay. After Monza, when you called,” He tries to sound slightly nonchalant. But you know.

“That’s why I called,” You sigh, “Were there more problems because of that crash? Between you two?”

Seungcheol almost laughs, “You know, throughout this entire season, I don’t think we’ve actually ever argued about all this stuff. The next race weekend was shit. Both of us were absolutely blasted by the team. But most of this isn't his fault. I mean, the crash probably was, but it happens. It's not like I’ve never crashed into a teammate before. ” He admits. You can see that it takes a lot out of him to say that.

You understand. It would be so much easier to blame someone else, someone newer instead of the people who’ve been around you for so long.

“He’d be fucking stupid if he kicked and yelled and made everyone stop to treat us both the same.”

Sighing, you contemplate reaching a hand out to comfort him. Seungcheol sits with his shoulders slumped and head down, fingers fiddling with the cup in a restless way. But you stop yourself. You're listening to him to understand and to clear up things, that's it.

“So you made the decision to leave Ferrari,” You say, humming for him to continue.

“After Monza, I kind of knew, but it was Singapore where I made my decision.”

You remember that race. The tension, the buildup. The entire grid waiting to see if Haechan would clinch the title.

“It wasn’t like some big revelation,” he continues. “I think I’d already been telling myself for weeks that it was over. But that night, it just… solidified.”

His fingers tap lightly against his arm, like he’s still turning the memory over in his head. “They pitted me early. Said it was to put pressure on Red Bull, to force Haechan into an earlier stop. But I knew what it was. It was about Jaehyun. Making sure he didn’t lose time, making sure he had the advantage when it counted. That was my job now.”

Your fingers tighten around your mug.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “And then Haechan crossed the line, took his title, and I was standing in that media pen, listening to everyone talk about the championship fight and the future, and I realized I wasn’t part of that anymore. Not with Ferrari.”

“So I told my manager that night. Told him I wasn’t going to re-sign.”

It’s said so simply, so quietly, but you remember twenty two year old Seungcheol when he got his first Formula 1 seat. You remember twenty three year old Seungcheol when he got the Ferrari offer, his biggest dream coming true. You remember seventeen year old Seungcheol, arguing with his school teachers that, yes, racing is what he wants to do. Not school. “I’m serious about this. You can just watch, I’ll get there.”

It must have been one of the hardest decisions he’s ever made.

But there’s just one more thing you don’t understand.

“But if not with Ferrari,” You begin cautiously, softly, “You could’ve done it with any other team. They’d be scrambling to sign you. Why’d you leave the entire thing, Cheol?”

Seungcheol slowly shake his head. “It wasn’t just about Ferrari.”

His fingers begin to drum lightly on the counter again. “I thought about signing somewhere else. It would’ve been easy—hell, my manager already had teams lined up before I even told him I wasn’t re-signing. But after Singapore… I just didn’t know if I wanted to anymore.”

Your brows furrow slightly. “Why?”

For a second, you think he won’t answer. His fingers tighten around his mug, his shoulders tensing slightly. But then he sighs, the weight of it heavy.

“Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure if I still had it in me.”

His voice is quieter now, but there’s no hesitation. No bitterness. Just quiet exhaustion.

“I always knew what I was fighting for. Even in my worst seasons, even when everything felt like shit, I still wanted to be in the car. I still wanted to be in the fight. But after Singapore, I wasn’t sure if I did.” He pauses, shaking his head slightly. “Not because I don’t love it. Not because I don’t think I can still win. But because I didn’t know if I could give myself to it the way I always have.”

“You know, for years, I thought that as long as I kept pushing, as long as I proved myself over and over again, everything else would fall into place. That it would always be enough. But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like it was.”

You don’t say anything.

Because what do you even say to someone who’s spent their entire life chasing something only to realize they don’t know if they still want to chase it anymore?

Seungcheol leans back slightly, glancing down at his mug. “I needed time,” he says simply. “To figure it out.”

You hesitate for a moment, watching him. He’s not looking at you, eyes still on the mug in his hands, fingers tracing the rim like he’s still lost somewhere in his own thoughts.

Then, quietly, you say, “That makes sense.”

Seungcheol glances up, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that.

You exhale, shifting slightly in your seat. “I mean… you’ve never really stopped, have you?” You tilt your head. “Since we were kids, it’s always been about the next thing. The next race, the next win, the next goal. You never let yourself slow down. Maybe—” you pause, choosing your words carefully. “Maybe it’s okay that you needed to.”

His fingers still against the mug. He doesn’t say anything, but something in his expression softens, just slightly.

“You’re allowed to figure it out, Cheol,” you say, quieter now. “Even if it takes time.”

For the first time since he started talking, he really looks at you. Like he’s trying to figure out if you actually mean it.

And when he doesn’t find doubt in your face, when all he sees is quiet understanding, something inside him loosens.

He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear that.

It’s stupid, maybe. He’s had months to sit with this, to justify his decision to himself, to convince himself that taking a step back wasn’t weakness. That it didn’t make him any less of a driver. Any less of himself.

But it’s different, hearing it from you.

Hearing someone else say it—you say it—makes it feel real.

He exhales again, deeper this time, like something heavy has finally slipped off his shoulders. The tension in his posture eases just a little.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice lighter than before. “Maybe it is.”

And for the first time in a while, he almost feels like he can breathe.

You shut your laptop with a quiet sigh, leaning back into your chair to give yourself a moment before you start packing up to go home. You stretch your fingers out, rolling your wrist absentmindedly, the stiffness a reminder of how long you’ve been working.

At least you’re leaving earlier than usual today. It’s rare, but you’d wrapped up the project that had been eating up most of your time this past month—sent the final files off, double-checked every detail, and even managed to get your inbox down to something manageable. It’s a relief, a quiet kind that sits at the back of your mind, knowing that for once, you won’t have to think about work the second you step out of the office.

You take your time packing up, sliding your laptop into your bag a little more carefully than usual, making sure everything’s in place before zipping it up. The usual rush to leave isn’t there tonight; instead, you pull on your coat at a slower pace, looping your scarf around your neck as your phone vibrates on your desk.

A quick glance at the screen shows a text from Seungkwan in the group chat.

Seungkwan: jihoon and cheol are you guys free my manager just asked to sit through another client call and it’s going to take at least 45 more mins can ya’ll go pick her up i promised to but i can’t rn [16:48]

Jihoon: yeah sure [16:50]

Seungcheol: i can [16:50]

Seungcheol: oh nvm u can go then [16:51]

Jihoon: no actually i can’t my meeting got extended too Seungcheol? [16:58]

Seungcheol: omw [17:00]

You shake your head slightly as you scroll through the chat. You could’ve taken the bus ride home, but Seungkwan had sent his car for servicing and had driven the two of you to work in your car today. He’d have fussed about it if you took the bus and, honestly, you didn’t mind the ride back. At least it’d be warmer.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and make your way out of the office. Most of people in your team are still at their desks, wrapped up in whatever they need to finish before they can call it a night, but you get a few nods and murmured goodbyes as you pass. The elevator ride down is uneventful, and by the time you step outside, the sky is a dark shade of blue with streaks of fading orange and pink clinging onto the horizon.

You don’t have to wait long before a sleek black car rolls up to the curb, headlights cutting through the dimming evening. You spot Seunghceol through the windshield before he even pulls to a full stop, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against the gear shift, fingers drumming idly. His hair falls slightly over his forehead, and he’s got that same relaxed-but-not-really posture you know so well.

The door unlocks with a quiet click, and you pull it open, slipping inside.

"Hey," you greet, settling into the passenger seat.

Seungcheol glances at you briefly before looking back at the road. "Hey. Seatbelt."

You roll your eyes but comply, the buckle clicking into place as he merges back into traffic. It’s only when you hit a red light that Seungcheol speaks again, eyes flitting over to you.

"You finished your project, right?"

You blink, turning to look at him. "How’d you know?"

He shrugs, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. "You only leave early when you finish something big."

You press your lips together, caught off guard. He’s not wrong.

"Yeah," you say after a moment. "Finally. Feels kind of weird not having it hanging over my head anymore."

Seungcheol hums, driving forward as the light turns green. "Bet that’s nice."

"It is," you admit, nodding as you slump back into your seat. "Kind of don’t know what to do with myself now, though."

He glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile. "Is that why you let me pick you up instead of just taking the bus? Needed something to fill the time?"

You scoff, nudging his arm lightly. "Shut up."

His chuckle is soft, barely audible over the low hum of the car, but you hear it anyway.

“Can we stop at a convenience store, by the way?” Seungcheol clears his throat after a few minutes of silence.

You hum in response. “Sure, you’re driving anyways.”

He nods, taking the next right turn without another word. The neon glow of the store comes into view a few minutes later, its sign flickering slightly against the darkening sky. He pulls into an empty parking spot, shifting the car into park before turning to you.

“You want anything?”

You shake your head, already reaching for your phone. “I’m good.”

Seungcheol doesn’t press, just unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out. You watch as he stretches—arms over his head, a quick shake of his shoulders—before heading inside.

A few minutes later, Seungcheol returns, a plastic bag in hand. He slides into the driver’s seat, the faint rustling of wrappers filling the car as he rummages through it. Without a word, he pulls out a bag of chips and hands it over, like it’s second nature.

You blink, looking down at the bag in your lap, then back at him.

You narrow your eyes at him as you open the bag, pulling out a chip and popping it into your mouth. “What if I didn’t want this today?”

Seungcheol hums, setting his drink down before shifting the car into reverse. “Then you’d tell me to go back inside.”

You make a face, annoyed that he knows you too well, but let it slide. Instead, as he pulls out of the parking lot, you reach into the bag again—this time, holding a chip out toward him.

Seungcheol glances at it briefly before flicking his eyes back to the road. “What?”

“You want one?”

He hesitates—just for a second. And that’s when it hits you.

Your hand hovers in the air, and for a moment, you almost pull back. But then, Seungcheol leans in just slightly, just enough.

And without a word, he takes the chip from your hand.

Neither of you say anything after that.

—

The evening is loud, the kind of easy chaos that comes with Jihoon, Seungkwan, and Seungcheol crammed into your living room, half-watching something on TV while bickering over absolutely nothing.

Seungkwan had claimed his usual spot on the couch, legs kicked up onto the coffee table despite your protests. Jihoon sat on the floor, leaning against the armrest, scrolling through his phone but still chiming in whenever Seungkwan said something particularly stupid.

It’s normal. Stupid jokes, Seungkwan laughing too loud, Jihoon threatening to leave but never actually moving. And for a while, you let yourself fall into it, let the noise drown out the things you don’t want to think about.

But then, Jihoon stands, stretching his arms overhead. “I should go,” he says, stuffing his phone into his pocket. “Early morning tomorrow.”

Seungkwan groans dramatically but stands up too, stretching in sync with him. “Yeah, yeah. I should head out too.”

After Jihoon and Seungkwan leave, you linger by the door for a moment, listening to their voices fade as they walk down the street. When you turn back, Seungcheol is still there, getting off the couch to walk into your kitchen.

You hesitate, then exhale, shaking your head as you make your way back to the couch. The house feels different now—quieter, heavier.

You sink into your usual spot, pulling your legs up beneath you, reaching absently for the TV remote even though you’re not really paying attention. But after a few moments of silence, you can’t hold it in anymore.

“Is it just me, or do I keep running into you everywhere?” You scoff, finally turning to face him.

Seungcheol stands behind your kitchen counter, filling a glass of water before he stops at your words. He searches your face for any signs of playfulness, but finds none. Your eyebrows are knitted, a slight scowl on your lips and your words come out sharp and almost irritated.

“What?” He asks, a little confused, “I mean, I am living next to your house. Would be weird if you didn’t see me around.”

"You know that's not what I mean." You cross your arms, getting off the sofa.

“Well, for starters. Everyone was here today, so you kind of invited me over.” Seungcheol shrugs. “I was going to leave anyway, sheesh.”

"Yeah, this time," you say. "But what about the rest? It’s like things are just happening again, like nothing’s changed. You keep showing up, and it’s not just at work or around the neighborhood, it’s—" You pause, shaking your head before scoffing. "God, I don’t know. It’s confusing."

Seungcheol only watches you, setting his cup down with an unreadable expression.

So you continue.

“It’s been over a year, Seungcheol. And then you come back and suddenly we’re going back to whatever this was. As if that entire period of our lives didn’t even exist. We didn’t talk to each other, Cheol. Didn’t talk, didn’t check in, didn’t even pretend that we existed and now—” You huff out, shoulders dropping, “Don’t you think this is strange? That we can just pretend like nothing happened and fall back into line like this?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer right away. He looks at you, fingers tapping idly against the counter. Then, finally, he says, "Maybe it’s not that strange."

You groan, running a hand through your hair. It seems to tick him off a little because he speaks up again.

“You were the one that said that we were best friends, and that you wouldn’t stop treating me like that because we broke up,” Seungcheol says, voice firm. “You told me that none of it would change, that we’d figure it out. And now you’re acting like it’s weird that I’m here, like I’m some stranger you keep running into instead of the person who—” He stops himself, shaking his head before he can say too much. His fingers tighten against the counter. “I’m not pretending nothing happened. But I’m not the one who changed their mind.”

“Fuck, I know!” You exclaim, a little louder than before, “God, I know and I’m sorry, okay? I thought it would be fine. I thought I could handle it but it’s not, Cheol. It’s not.” Swallowing, you hesitate. “It’s just hard, okay? Seeing you, talking to you and being around you like this just reminds me of everything and I don’t know how to act like it doesn’t hurt.”

You look up at him to gauge his reaction, but the way his jaw tightens just makes you feel worse.

“You think it wasn’t hard for me? That it still isn’t?” His voice is low, but his eyes are bright, anger slipping into them. “The difference is, I didn’t choose this. I didn’t wake up one day and decide we shouldn’t be together anymore.” He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “That was you.”

You throw your head back, eyes scrunching in frustration before you snap back, “Do you really think I didn’t think it over? That I didn’t even try or want this to work? I wanted it to. But it always felt like I was waiting for you, Seungcheol. Waiting for the next race to end, waiting for your next flight home, waiting for a moment that never lasted long enough before you had to leave again." You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "And I know it wasn’t your fault—I never blamed you for any of it. But you have to see how unfair it was, too. I was the one adjusting, always making room in my life whenever you had the chance to come back, and when you left again, I was the one picking up the pieces."

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. "You think I didn’t try? That I didn’t want more time with you?" His voice rises slightly, rough around the edges. "I missed things too, you know. I missed birthdays, I missed stupid little inside jokes, I missed you. But I tried. I called every chance I got, I stayed up even when I was dead tired just to hear your voice, I—" He cuts himself off, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "I know it wasn’t enough. But it wasn’t like I didn’t care."

"I know you cared, Seungcheol," you say, voice quieter now but strained nonetheless. "But caring wasn’t the problem. It was never just about missing each other—it was about how impossible it felt to keep up. You were gone all the time. I couldn’t call you whenever I needed to, I couldn’t just show up when things got hard. And you—you were so busy, and I didn’t want to be just another thing on your list to worry about."

Seungcheol exhales sharply, shaking his head. "That’s not fair," he mutters. "You were never just some obligation to me."

"But that’s what it felt like!" The words leave you before you can stop them, your voice cracking and your chest heaving. "Not because of you, not because of anything you did, but because of the way things were. I felt like I was trying to hold on to something that was slipping away no matter how much we wanted it to stay."

Seungcheol’s eyes darken, frustration clear in the way his fingers ball into fists at his sides. “So what, then? We just give up because it was hard?” His voice is louder now, the calm he’s tried to hold onto starting to slip away. “You think I didn’t feel like I was losing you too? You think I didn’t sit there in hotel rooms on the other side of the world, wishing I could be home with you instead?”

“Well, you weren’t home, Seungcheol!” you shoot back, eyes stinging. “And I couldn’t keep waiting for something that wasn’t going to change! I had to live my life too, I had to stop putting everything on hold for a relationship that—” You stop yourself, swallowing hard, willing your voice not to break. “That wasn’t going to work no matter how much we wanted it to.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “That’s bullshit,” he mutters. “You didn’t even let me try. You made the choice for both of us.”

“Are you serious right now? You did try, Seungcheol. We both did! But you were never going to have a life where you could just stay, and I never wanted you to give that up for me. I just—I wanted to feel like I wasn’t the only one adjusting, like I wasn’t always the one left waiting.”

His whole body goes rigid, and when he speaks next, Seungcheol’s voice is clear but scalding.

“Well, I quit,” he says, the words sharp and deliberate. His eyes bore into yours, daring you to look away. “So are you happy now?”

It hits you like a slap to the face—sharp, stinging, and almost disorienting. You blink at him, air knocked out of your lungs, stunned, mouth opening slightly but finding nothing to say.

Because this isn’t what you wanted. Not like this. Not for you. Not because of you.

But Seungcheol is still looking at you, chest rising and falling, waiting for you to say… say what? What do you even say to that?

“That is not what I said, and you know it.” Your voice is quiet but fierce when you finally reply, unyielding.

Seungcheol scoffs, running a hand over his face, but he doesn’t respond.

You shake your head, throat tightening. “I don’t want to talk to you like this.”

He laughs dryly, shaking his head as he looks away. "Right. Of course, you don’t."

You clench your jaw. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?" His gaze snaps back to yours, frustration smeared across his features. "You get to throw all of this at me, tell me how impossible it was, how you couldn’t keep up. And then the second I react, you decide you don’t want to talk anymore?"

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. "Because you’re twisting my words, Seungcheol! I never wanted you to quit. I never wanted you to throw everything away for me.” You breathe in, feeling the tears fill your eyes as Seungcheol’s figure starts swimming in your vision. You look away, quickly wiping them and willing your voice to come out calm before you continue.

“I only ever wanted to be equal, Cheol. Just equal.”

His brows furrow, the sharp edges of his anger dulling into something heavier and blunt. His lips part like he wants to argue, to fight back, but nothing comes out. Instead, his shoulders drop just slightly, like the weight of everything between you is finally settling in.

"I would’ve done more," he says finally, so quietly that you almost don’t hear it. "If you had told me, I would’ve done more."

You sigh, feeling all the fight and adrenaline draining out of you, leaving only exhaustion and regret. “I know. But I didn’t want to have to ask.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, “For not talking to you about it properly before. For not giving us a real chance to figure it out together.”

Seungcheol stands still for a few beats, looking unsure. Then, he grabs the glass he’d left full on the counter before turning around to dump it in the sink. The sound of water slinking down the drain fills the heavy atmosphere between you, and for a moment, it feels like neither of you knows what to say next.

His back is to you, shoulders rising and falling with a slow breath, and when he finally speaks, his voice is dull and subdued.

“I should go,” he murmurs, like he’s saying it more to himself than to you. Seungcheol sighs, rubbing a hand over his face before shaking his head, almost like he’s trying to shake off everything this conversation has brought up.

You don’t know what else to say, so you swallow hard and nod, even though he can’t see you. When he pushes himself out of the kitchen, you step aside. He walks slowly, almost like he doesn’t know how to act around you anymore. It’s not surprising. You’ve never felt this exhausted and on-edge around him either.

A muted, confused voice in your head, tells you to stop him before he goes. This isn’t done. Even if it is, you don’t feel like it is anyway. With the way Seungcheol hesitates, you can tell he doesn’t either.

But you ignore it, for now.

Seungcheol walks out of your door, closing it softly behind him. You think it’d be a little easier if he’d slammed it instead.

—

Seungcheol remembers being sixteen, sprawled next to Jihoon on the floor of your room. He can hear your dad watching the news on the TV, the loud and clear voice of the anchor cutting through the house.

“Seven-time Formula 1 world champion Lewis Hamilton has announced his retirement from the sport, shocking fans and experts alike. The Mercedes driver, widely regarded as one of the greatest of all time, confirmed in a press conference earlier today that this season would be his last."

Seungcheol barely pays attention. He’s freaked out over it already and so he idly flips through one of your textbooks, while Jihoon hums to himself, distracted with his guitar. Meanwhile, you sit straight next to him on the floor, biting on your lower lip in concentration as you try to tackle the integration worksheet your class was handed today. You twirl a yellow mechanical pencil between your fingers as you scan the page in front of you, brows furrowed. The dim yellow glow of your lamp casts soft shadows on your face, and Seungcheol finds himself staring without meaning to.

It’s nothing new—you studying, the three of you lazing around in your room, wasting away a slow evening together. But something about this moment feels different.

Your hair slips over your shoulder as you reach for another page, and for some reason, he can’t stop staring.

It’s not like he hasn’t looked at you before. You’ve been best friends since you were kids, growing up side by side, running through the same streets, bickering over stupid things only to make up a few hours later. You’ve always been there, always been you.

But right now, in this quiet moment, you look—

Pretty.

The thought creeps in so naturally that it startles him. His grip tightens on the textbook.

It’s not like he’s never thought about it before. He’s not blind. But this is different. Because it’s not just pretty, it’s you. And it feels important. Like something’s cracked open, like something’s about to change.

He quickly tears his gaze away, back to the textbook in his lap, but he doesn’t see a single word. His heartbeat is suddenly too loud in his ears, his skin warm under the collar of his hoodie.

Jihoon groans again, shoving his guitar aside. “I give up. This song is cursed.”

Seungcheol almost laughs, almost lets himself be pulled back into the moment. But then he glances at you one more time, catching the way you tuck your knee to your chest, biting your lip as you concentrate.

And just like that, he knows.

Knows that something is different now. Knows that, no matter how hard he tries, he won’t be able to unknow it.

Seungcheol remembers finally, finally telling you that he likes you. He does it on a call, early morning on a Friday in Australia. Not ideal, not how he pictured it, but the words are there, pressing against his throat, demanding to be let out.

You look so soft on the screen, eyes half-lidded from sleep, cheek pressed into your pillow. It’s late where you are, but you still picked up when he called, even though you had work in the morning. The thought makes something warm settle in his chest, until he realizes he’s been staring at you too long, silent for too long, and you’re blinking at him now, confused.

"Cheol?" your voice comes through the speaker, quiet and a little groggy.

He sighs, shaking his head softly. He should wait. He should do this in person. But waiting has never been his strong suit, and the thought of another day, another week, another month of keeping this to himself—

"I like you."

The words fall out before he can stop them, before he can overthink them.

You blink slowly, drowsiness slipping away. “You what?”

He huffs out a little nervously.

"Say it again." You stare back at him with wide eyes, your head raised to get a better view.

He doesn’t hesitate. “I like you.”

Your breath catches. He sees it, sees the way you bite your lip like you’re trying not to smile, like you knew but needed to hear it anyway.

“You’re insane,” you say, but your voice is barely above a whisper, “Come back home, Cheol.”

Seungcheol grins, relief rushing through him. He laughs, a little breathless. “I will.”

“No,” you shake your head, firmer this time. “Come home soon.”

When Seungcheol comes back to you on Monday, you’re already waiting.

You stand near the arrivals exit, arms crossed, watching the steady stream of passengers trickle out. You spot him before he sees you—hood up, suitcase rolling behind him, duffel slung over one shoulder.

And then his gaze lifts, finds yours, and stops.

Surprise flickers across his face followed by something softer, closer to relief. He lets out a quiet laugh as he stops in front of you.

“You look exhausted,” you say, voice calm, but your fingers twitch where they rest against your arm.

His lips tilt, but you can see it now—the bags under his eyes, the exhaustion clinging to his shoulders. Still, his eyes don’t leave yours, like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

“Didn’t think you’d be here,” he murmurs.

You shrug, glancing away for a second. “Didn’t think you’d tell me you like me over the phone.”

He laughs, softer this time. The duffel slips from his shoulder, forgotten, as he takes half a step closer. Close enough that the warmth of him seeps into the space between you, close enough that you feel the weight of his gaze settle over you.

“Missed me that much?” he teases, the corner of his mouth tugging up.

You scoff. “You wish.” But your voice lacks bite, and he sees the way you shift from one foot to the other, like you’re holding yourself back.

So he doesn’t.

Seungcheol reaches for you, one hand cupping the side of your face, the other sliding around your waist, pulling you into him. And before you can react, before you can even breathe, he kisses you.

It’s not cautious. Not nervous. Not testing the waters. It’s sure, like he’s known this is where he’s meant to be all along.

Your fingers tighten against the fabric of his hoodie, exhaling against his lips like you’ve been waiting for this too. Like all the late-night calls, the moments of hesitation, the unspoken truths were leading to this.

When he pulls back, just slightly, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

Your heart stumbles, and for once, you don’t pretend to fight the smile that tugs at your lips. “Took you long enough,” you whisper.

He laughs, soft and warm, before kissing you again.

Seungcheol remembers the countless races that you’ve flown in for, without him even asking. The paddock is still buzzing when he finally steps into his motorhome, his race suit unzipped to his waist, the fireproofs underneath clinging to his skin. The adrenaline from qualifying still lingers in his veins, a familiar and electrifying hum of energy that usually takes hours to fade.

He breathes in deeply, reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes. P3. Not bad. Not what he wanted, but not bad. Tomorrow would be the real fight.

But when he finally looks around, Seungcheol’s eyes land on you before anything else.

You’re sat on the small couch in the corner of his motorhome, one leg tucked under the other, scrolling through something on your phone. His jacket is draped over your shoulders, the red standing out starkly against your skin. Your hair is tied up loosely, like you’d done it without much thought, and there’s a half-empty water bottle on the table in front of you.

Seungcheol stops in his tracks, momentarily stunned. He calls out your name, making you perk up as you notice him.

“You flew in?” he asks, still slightly breathless.

Your lips curl up, “Yes, as you can see.”

He takes a step closer, then another, until he’s right in front of you. “You didn’t tell me.”

“It’s called a surprise, Cheol.” You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head playfully. “You’re supposed to like it.”

He lets out a scoff, shaking his head in disbelief. “Of course I do.”

You grin, setting your phone down. “P3’s not bad.”

Seungcheol hums, rubbing a hand over his nape as he exhales. “Not bad. Could’ve been better.”

“It’s always ‘could’ve been better’ with you,” you tease, nudging his knee lightly with your foot. “You’re still starting from the second row. That’s a win in my books.”

He glances at you again, still not entirely believing that you’re actually here.

“How long have you been here?”

“Landed this afternoon and came straight to the track.”

Seungcheol’s brows furrow slightly. “And you’ve just been… waiting here?”

You shrug. “I wanted to see you.”

Something about the way you say it, so simple and matter-of-fact, makes his throat dry up.

He doesn’t say anything. Just steps forward, reaching for your wrist, fingers wrapping around it gently before tugging you up onto your feet. You let him pull you in without resistance, your hands naturally finding their place against his sides.

And then he hugs you.

It’s steady and comforting—the kind of embrace that feels less like holding on and more like coming home. His arms wrap around you with quiet certainty, like this is where you’ve always belonged. He feels the way your body relaxes against his, the tension melting away, and it makes him hug you a little tighter. You breathe out softly, the sound barely audible.

“I missed you,” he murmurs.

Your arms tighten around him. “I know. Me too.”

Seungcheol thinks he remembers when it all started to go wrong too.

He remembers staring at the screen, waiting.

The call rings once, twice, three times before it cuts to voicemail. Again.

He sighs before locking his phone. It’s past 2 AM where you are, but he’d hoped—just maybe—you’d still be awake. It’s been getting really hard to deal with the timezones, especially with all the new tracks on the calendar and more added races. He hasn’t been home in over two months.

His eyes droop with exhaustion as he types out a quick message. Call me when you wake up. Miss you.

You don’t get to reply until the next day.

By then, he’s already on track, already somewhere else.

Seungcheol remembers that the first thing he does after winning is look for you.

His team is cheering, his engineers clapping him on the back, cameras flashing in his face. But none of it matters until he sees you.

But he doesn’t.

His phone buzzes in his race suit pocket. He pulls it out, fingers clumsy from the adrenaline. A message from you.

I don’t know when you’ll see this but can’t make it today Cheol. I’m so sorry. I love you.Congrats on the win!!!

He exhales slowly, staring at the words.

You’d told him just last week that things were piling up at work. That you were barely getting enough sleep, that you’d skipped lunch twice because there was too much to do.

He’d told you to take care of yourself, his voice soft but firm. And you had laughed it off. But now, reading your message, the unease settles back in.

He wants to call. Wants to hear your voice, wants to check if you’ve eaten, if you’re resting like you should be. But there are cameras on him and a team waiting to celebrate.

So instead, he just types out a reply.

Love you too. Get some rest, yeah?

Then, he puts his phone away, and forces himself to smile.

Seungcheol remembers the last time he came back home before it all ended. March of 2024. You’re in his arms, holding on tighter than usual, your fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie.

“You’ll be back soon, right?” Your voice is quiet against his chest.

“Of course,” he says, pressing his lips to your hair. “Two weeks.”

You nod, sighing against his shoulder. “Okay.”

He should’ve kissed you longer. Should’ve told you he’d make it work, somehow. Should’ve said ‘I love you’ one more time.

Because two weeks turns into a month. A month turns into two and in the way that things go—

Seungcheol remembers the day you broke up with him too. He doubts he’ll ever forget it.

He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. His race suit is gone, replaced by a plain t-shirt and joggers, but he still looks tired. Not from the race but from everything else.

You stand near the window, arms crossed, staring at the city lights outside. You don’t know how long the two of you have been sitting in silence, but it feels like forever. Like neither of you wants to be the first to say it.

But eventually, you do.

“Cheol, I don’t think this is working.”

Seungcheol inhales sharply, looking down at his hands. He nods once, slow, like he’s known this was coming but still hoped it wouldn’t. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.”

That should make it easier, but it doesn’t. It only makes your chest feel heavier.

“I love you,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “I love you so much.”

Your throat tightens. “I love you too.”

But the lack of love had never been the problem. Maybe the distance would’ve been easier if it were.

Seungcheol exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “Is there…” He swallows, voice hoarse. “Is there anything I can do?”

You should say no. Should shake your head and leave before you change your mind. But your breath hitches, your body betraying you before your mind can catch up.

Because even now, even after everything you don’t want to leave. Maybe you never have.

And maybe Seungcheol sees it, or maybe he’s just desperate, but then he says, so quietly, his voice cracking.

“Stay.”

It’s one word. Small. Fragile. But it’s a plea that sends your heart leaping for one last time before it falls flat again.

You should walk away. You know that. But your feet won’t move. And when Seungcheol shifts slightly, when he finally reaches for you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist, you don’t pull away.

“Just tonight,” you whisper, almost like you’re convincing yourself.

Seungcheol nods slowly. “Just tonight.”

So you stay.

You let him pull you toward the bed, let him press his forehead against yours, let yourself sink into the warmth of his arms, into the quiet safety of him.

Seungcheol tries to memorise you in the last few hours that he gets. He doesn’t know if you’re pretending to be asleep or if you actually are, but he needs to remember the way you feel in his arms, the way your body curls against his like it’s instinct, like it’s habit. He presses his palm against the small of your back, feeling the steady rise and fall of your breathing, trying to sync his with yours. His fingers brush lightly over your shoulder, tracing absent patterns into your skin, committing the warmth of you to memory.

Your hair spills across the pillow, a few strands tickling his chin, and he doesn’t dare to move them away. He doesn’t want to disturb anything, doesn’t want to break the illusion that this is just another night. That when morning comes, you’ll still be here.

Seungcheol knows that in a few hours, he’ll wake up, and you won’t be here. That he’ll turn over in bed, reach for you out of habit, and find nothing but empty space.

Now, Seungcheol sits at the desk in his room. The house is quiet—too quiet. The kind that settles over you like a weighted blanket that you don’t want on you. He thinks about knocking on your door. Thinks about standing outside your house like an idiot, waiting for you to let him in. Thinks about calling you, but what would he even say?

I love you. I never stopped. I don’t know how to fix this, but I want to.

Instead, he breathes in, slow and deep, massaging his temple like he can will away the headache that is forming. He knows sleep won’t come easy tonight.

The next day, when Jihoon calls you, asking if you’ll come with him to your old school, you have half the mind to refuse. You’re still exhausted, maybe not ready to face people yet. But Jihoon doesn’t usually ask for favours and maybe a little contradictingly, you don’t want to be alone with your thoughts right now.

So you say yes.

The sun’s begun to shine a little brighter these days, so when you walk out, locking your door behind you, the cold doesn’t bite too hard.

Jihoon’s car is already parked by the curb, Seungkwan in the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when you approach, breaking into a grin.

“Well, look who decided to be social.”

You roll your eyes, pulling open the door and slipping into the back seat. “Jihoon made it sound urgent.”

Jihoon, hands on the wheel, scoffs. “You make it sound like I’m forcing you to come. You could’ve said no.”

You hum, settling into your seat. “Could’ve.”

But Jihoon doesn’t start the car. Instead, he just drums his fingers against the wheel, glancing at Seungkwan, who is still scrolling through his phone like they’re waiting for something. Or someone.

You frown. “Hello? Can we go?”

Seungkwan barely looks up. “Do you want to leave Cheol here then?”

Your stomach dips before you can stop it. “What?” You shift forwards in your seat, grabbing onto Jihoon’s headrest. “You didn’t say he was coming.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Jihoon asks, a little perplexed.

“Did he not say anything to you?”

The boys go quiet for a good three seconds before Seungkwan turns in his seat to face you.

“Don’t lie. Did you two fight? Come on, you’re not kids anymore!” He nags, an exasperated look on his face, “What did you fight over, hmm? Him rattling around all the washed utensils? Did he spoil that stupid book you’ve been reading? Or was it—” Before Seungkwan can continue, the door on your left opens, making all three of you look that way.

Seungcheol slides into the seat next to you, pulling the door shut behind him with a quiet click. He huffs, brushing his hair back before glancing around—first at Jihoon, then at Seungkwan, and finally at you.

And then he pauses.

Just for a second, his eyes widen slightly, like he wasn’t expecting to see you here. Like it hadn’t occurred to him that, of course, you would be here. His lips part as if to say something, but then he presses them together, looking away slowly.

“Morning,” he says, voice a little careful.

“Morning,” Seungkwan and Jihoon reply in unison.

You hesitate for a split second, but you don’t want Seungkwan and Jihoon to start poking their noses in right now, so you mumble out a small greeting too.

Jihoon exhales, twisting the key in the ignition. “Alright. Now we can go.”

The drive isn’t long, but the silence stretching between you and Seungcheol affects the two sitting up front and you know it too. Seungkwan—usually never quiet during car rides—sits a little slumped, eyes trained on the scenery outside the window. Jihoon doesn’t talk much anyways, but this early in the morning, he usually has a complaint about not picking up coffee that doesn’t come out either.

You don’t know if Seungcheol looks at you through the ten minute drive. You’re too on-edge, too awkward to even turn in his way.

When Jihoon finally pulls up to the school, parking in the visitor’s lot, Seungkwan stretches his arms over his head. “Alright, children. Let’s go relive our glory days.”

“Glory days?” Jihoon snorts, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You mean the years you spent crying over exams and losing bets?”

Seungkwan whines in response as he gets out of the car. Jihoon sighs, shaking his head before continuing.

“I’m going to be in 11C. Think it’ll take maybe an hour? Ya’ll go do whatever, I guess.”

Jihoon leaves without much more to say, disappearing down the hall with a lazy wave of his hand. You watch him go, resisting the urge to call him back when you realize that leaves only three of you.

You turn to Seungkwan with a silent plea, hoping he’d pick up on it. He does. But he just doesn’t care.

“I think I’ll go look for Ms. Kang,” he announces, stretching his arms out. “Haven’t seen her in ages. She always liked me the best.”

“She liked you because you were a teacher’s pet,” you point out.

Seungkwan gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. “I was charming.”

You shoot him a look, unimpressed, but he only grins before waving over his shoulder. You don’t have time to reply before he’s gone, leaving you standing in the middle of the hall, painfully aware of the fact that there’s only one person left beside you.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The school is quieter than you remember, the halls emptier now that classes are in session. Sunlight filters in through the old glass windows, casting a warm glow on the polished floors, on the familiar blue doors, on Seungcheol as he sighs softly beside you.

You steal a glance at him. He looks at home here, in a way that makes your heart ache a little.

“I didn’t think I’d ever come back here,” he murmurs, almost like he’s speaking to himself.

You nod, fingers unconsciously picking at your nails. “Me neither.”

He hums, before taking a slow step forward. “Guess we might as well look around.”

And then he’s walking ahead, and you find yourself following without a word.

The school’s gym is exactly how you remember it—high ceilings with fluorescent lights that cast a slightly harsh glow, the faint scent of sweat and polished wood lingering in the air. The basketball court is lined with scuff marks from years of games, sneakers squeaking against the surface. The walls are still adorned with the same faded banners, boasting school mottos in bold, challenging letters. The chatter and yells of students already in there make you feel sixteen again.

You watch as Seungcheol quietly makes his way to the top of the bleachers, away from all the noise. For a moment, you stand still. You don’t know what this means. But you can’t just stand here near the entrance like some weirdo, so you walk up the stairs too, before sitting down at a respectable distance from him. When you do, Seungcheol glances over at you.

Your breath catches at the way you can still see the seventeen-year-old Seungcheol in him. The way he leans back slightly, palms on his knees, eyes trained on the court in thoughtfulness. You remember when Seungcheol told you he’d found a seat in Formula 2.

Tearing your gaze away from him, you look around. The two of you were probably sitting only a few seats to the left when he broke the news. The memory comes back to you so clearly, like it’s been waiting for the right moment to resurface. You can almost hear the way his voice had wavered just slightly when he said it out loud for the first time, the way your heart had lurched in your chest.

You remember the way his hands fidgeted with the hem of his sports uniform. It had been the last step before the dream he’d spent his entire life chasing. And when the realization had fully settled in, you had grinned, throwing yourself at him in excitement.

Now, thirteen years later, you turn back to the Seungcheol in front of you. All the mistakes, all the dreams, all the unfinished businesses lay in the space between you two.

You shift behind, your fingers pressing against the cool concrete of the bleachers.

Seungcheol had always wanted this. This life, this dream, the career he chased relentlessly since you were kids. He was the boy who never stopped moving forward, never once looked back—not because he didn’t care, but because the only way to reach the top was to keep climbing.

And yet, here he is, sitting beside you in a school gym, watching a bunch of kids play basketball like he has nowhere else to be.

The thought unsettles you.

You want to ask. Want to say, And what now, Seungcheol? Where do you go from here?

But you don’t.

Instead, you clear your throat, leaning back into the seat like it’ll smooth over the tension from last night’s argument.

Seungcheol drums his fingers against his knee, his gaze steady on the court below. “Feels smaller now,” he murmurs, almost absentmindedly.

You hum, glancing around the gym. “Well, you were always made for bigger things.”

You don’t mean for it to sound like a reminder of everything that’s already happened, but maybe it is. Maybe it always will be. Seungcheol doesn’t respond right away, just breathes out slowly, his fingers curling into his palm.

When he speaks again, his voice is quiet. “I got an offer from Aston Martin,” He says, finally looking up at you. “For 2027. I don’t think I’ll take it.”

You can’t do anything but nod, slowly. It’s not relief, not exactly. Because you know him. You know how much he loves this, how racing is such a big part of him. And if there’s one thing about Seungcheol, it’s that he doesn’t just walk away from the things he loves that easily.

When you don’t say anything, he turns away before muttering, “Do you ever think about how it would’ve been if I never left? If I never started racing in the first place?”

You pause, taken aback. “No.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, a small, bitter smile on his lips when he glances at you, “No? Really?”

“No,” You assert again, “Because you were always going to leave. You were made for something bigger than all this—this mediocrity and this small-town life. This was never going to be enough for you and I’ve always known that, Cheol. Everyone does.”

Seungcheol looks like he wants to retort, but you continue speaking.

“And I never wanted it to be enough for you. Racing, that adrenaline, that feeling of winning—that is your sun, Seungcheol. You will forever revolve around it. I can’t take that away from you and I have never wanted to.” You emphasize, looking into his eyes and hoping, pleading that he understands what you mean, “But I can’t leave with you either. I can’t live my life on flights and airports just to be with you, Seungcheol. My work, my life is equally as important to me. I have always, always loved you, but I can’t live like that.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, his voice coming out with an edge of desperation when he speaks. “I never wanted you to do any of that. I never wanted you to give up anything for me.”

“How else was it supposed to work, Cheol?” You let out softly, “It wasn’t like you were in a position where you could just get up and come on a whim either.”

He doesn’t reply, but you see the way his figure slumps slightly. You hate all the exhaustion that you’ve been feeling around each other lately. What are you even doing this for? You force yourself to think about what you want from this, from him.

Even though you don’t dare to admit it, you know. It’s always been the same answer. You want him. And it’s stupid. It’s so, so stupid. You’re the one who decided that it wasn’t going to work.

But what if it had?

The thought lingers in your head. But there’s no point in thinking about that now. Even if Seungcheol still loves you, even if you decide to try again, what reassurance do the two of you have that it won’t end in the same way?

You don’t even think about Seungcheol rejecting Aston’s offer. You know that it’s only him trying to convince himself. He will agree to it and you want him to. But what will it mean for the two of you?

—

Seungcheol doesn’t realize how much time has passed until he unlocks his phone to listen to a different playlist. His sleeves are rolled up, hands slightly dusty, and the room smells like old cardboard boxes.

He’d only planned to put away the clothes piled up on the chair in the corner of his room, but one thing leads to another and now he sits cross-legged on the floor of his room, with his closet half-emptied out. The floor is littered with old clothes, forgotten magazines and other things that he once thought he might need again.

Seungcheol grunts as he gets up, his numb legs making him stumble a little as he walks over to the last drawer in his closet. Just clean out this one and we’ll be done, he thinks, sliding it open and reaching in.

There’s a bunch of ticket stubs from concerts, two used passports, filled to the brim with stamps, worn because of years of constant travelling, and a bunch of receipts and paper clippings that Seungcheol should probably throw away. There’s one of his first career wins, some from his championships and some from his debut. He smiles with slight fondness before letting them drop onto the trash pile on the floor. Noticing one more, he tries to pull it out from the depths of the drawer only to realize that there’s something on top of it.

Seungcheol shoves his hand in further, but when his fingers touch the box, he freezes.

He knows what it is before he even pulls it out. He knows because he never threw it away. Never even considered it. Just stuffed it into the back of the drawer and left it there, like hiding it could make it mean any less.

His hand tightens around the edges of the box as he slowly walks back to the edge of his bed. The velvet is slightly worn now, its shine being dimmed by time and neglect, but it still feels just as heavy as it did the first time he held it. He knows he probably shouldn’t, but Seungcheol flips it open anyways.

The ring is exactly how he left it. Silver, simple, but deliberate. Something he picked out after months of indecision, after staring at a dozen options and thinking, No, not that one. Not yet. Until he found this—the one he could picture on your hand, the one that felt right.

Seungcheol runs his thumb over the navy blue, velvet lining.

It’s been over a year since he’d meant to give it to you. He had meant to ask. He’d meant for so many things to happen that never did.

Seungcheol had a plan. A future. A moment he thought would belong to you two for the rest of your lives. Now, he just sits, staring at something that never got the chance to be what it was supposed to be.

He closes the box shut quickly, setting it onto his bed and shaking his head like it’ll push away the image of your hand with the ring on.

Seungcheol swallows hard. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at it, caught between regret and mourning before his gaze finally shifts to the notebook on his desk.

For the first time in a long time, there’s no hesitation in his movements as he gets up from his bed with the box in hand and walks over to the desk. He keeps it, right next to his laptop, before grabbing the first pen he sees.

Hey. So.

I should’ve said this a long time ago. But I didn’t, and I’m sorry for that.

And I don’t know if it makes any difference now, if any of this still matters and if you’ll even finish reading this letter. Maybe you’ll see my handwriting on this, sigh and put it away. Wouldn’t be surprised if you threw it away, either.But if you’re still here and reading this, then I need you to know something.

I found the ring today. While cleaning my closet, I found it buried under old ticket stubs and some rubbish paper, stuffed into the back of my closet, untouched for over a year. I don’t know why I kept it. I don’t know why I never got rid of it.

I had this entire plan to ask you once the season was over, during the winter break in 2024. I thought about it for months. Where I’d do it, what I’d say, whether you’d laugh at me for being so nervous. I had imagined a hundred different versions of it in my head—sometimes in a place that meant something to us, sometimes when you least expected it, sometimes in the middle of some ordinary moment, because you always made the ordinary feel like more. But well, by the time we reached December, we weren’t the same anymore.

I’m sorry if hearing this makes you uncomfortable, but when I found it today, it still felt like it belonged to you.

It’s strange, the things you think you’ve moved past, the things you tell yourself you’ve let go of. You move forward, you keep busy, you fill your days with schedules and noise and people who don’t look at you the way you used to. You convince yourself that you’re okay. That it’s just life. That this is how things were meant to be.

And then you find something like this—something small, something tangible, something that holds the weight of everything you never said—and it knocks the air out of you.

I used to think that no matter how many flights I had to take, no matter how many nights we spent apart, no matter how much we had to bend to fit into each other’s lives, we would make it. That as long as we loved each other, we could find a way.

But you knew better, didn’t you?

You always saw things more clearly than I did. You knew that love alone wasn’t going to be enough to hold us together, not when I kept asking you to meet me in the middle without realizing my middle was always shifting. Not when I couldn’t give you the things you needed and I swear—it was not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t know how to.

I should have told you that I never let you go without a fight because I wanted to. I walked away because I thought it was the only way we’d both get what we deserved. You always told me I never knew how to slow down. I used to laugh it off, but maybe you were right. Maybe I only realized it too late.

You deserved someone who could put you first. Someone who wouldn’t spend half the year in different countries, someone who didn’t come home exhausted and drained, someone who wasn’t constantly pushing you to adjust to his life without knowing how to meet you halfway.

And I don’t even know what I deserved. But I know what I wanted. I know what I still want.

You.

It’s always been you.

And I know that isn’t fair. It isn’t fair for me to say this now, after all this time, after we tried and tried and still fell apart anyway. But the truth is, I never stopped trying. Even when I convinced myself I had. Even when I told myself I was doing the right thing by staying away. So forgive me for being selfish.

I think about you more than I should. I think about you when I land in a city I know you’d love, when I hear a song that reminds me of you, when I open my phone and my first instinct is still to tell you something before I remember I can’t.

So here’s what I need you to know—what I should have told you then, what I should have promised you when I still had the chance.I won’t ask you to adjust to me anymore. I won’t ask you to bend, to compromise, to give up parts of your life just to fit into mine. I won’t expect you to be the one making all the sacrifices, the one who has to keep up with the way my life moves. If we try again—if you let me have this chance—I promise I will learn how to meet you where you are.

And if you’ve reached here, but still don’t think this is worth it, I won’t try to change your mind. I won’t ask you for something you don’t want to give. But if there’s still a part of you that trusts me, that thinks this could work, then tell me. I won’t ask for anything more than that. Because I don’t want to let this slip away without knowing if there’s still something left to hold on to.

I can’t promise that things will be perfect, that we won’t have to figure things out as we go. But I can promise that I’ll try. That I won’t let the things that pulled us apart be the same things that keep us from trying again. I don’t know where this leaves us. But if there’s something still left here, I want to figure it out with you.

Lastly, I did not write this letter because I was too scared or not sincere enough to say this to your face. I wrote it because I needed to get it right, because if I tried to say all of this out loud, I don’t know if it would come out the way I wanted it to. Maybe I’d fumble my words, maybe I’d get caught up in everything I’m feeling and forget half of what I need to say. But this is everything, exactly as I mean it.

I’m sorry, I love you.

Seungcheol.

You read the letter once, twice, thrice, sitting down on the floor of your room.

The first time, it doesn’t fully sink in. The second time, your eyes catch on certain words—the ring, I never stopped trying, I love you. By the third, you realize your fingers are gripping the pages too tightly, creasing the paper in places you shouldn’t.

You inhale, slow and shaky.

You should have expected this—you don’t know why, but you should have. Seungcheol was never the kind of person to leave things half-finished. He always had something to say, always had one more thing left in him, and now, even after everything, even after all this time, he’s still here. Still reaching for you in the only way he knows how.

The truth is—you believe him.

You believe that every word on this page is real, that he isn’t saying this just to pull you back into something fleeting. You believe that when he says he’ll meet you where you are, he means it. That when he asks if there’s still something left to hold on to, he’s not asking out of desperation—he’s asking because he’s ready to try.

And you trust him.

The thought doesn’t surprise you much. You always have. Even when things fell apart, even when you told yourself it was better this way, even when you tried to move forward without looking back.

But now?

Now, he’s standing at the other end of the bridge, waiting. And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re the only one crossing it.

Your hands tremble slightly as you fold the letter along its creases. You stare at it for a little longer as if the words might change. As if you haven’t already memorized them.

But nothing changes. And deep down, you know—you don’t need to read it again. You already have your answer.

You inhale sharply, then push yourself up from the floor, legs stiff from sitting too long. Your head feels heavy, maybe from the lack of sleep, or from the toll this has been taking on you. But as you grab your keys from the kitchen counter downstairs, you realize you feel lighter than you have in a very, very long time. You’re sick of being uncertain, of hesitating.

So you open the door, step outside, and let yourself believe.

—

Seungcheol hears the knock, quiet but firm.

It’s late—too late for visitors. Still, he moves.

When he opens the door, he doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it’s you and for a moment, he’s surprised that you’re already here.

You stand there, breathing a little hard, arms wrapped around yourself like you only just realized how cold it is. No jacket, no hoodie, nothing but the clothes you must’ve been wearing at home. Like you didn’t even think before coming here.

And in your hand, his letter.

Neither of you speak.

Your fingers press into the paper, grip just tight enough to crumple it. The porch light flickers slightly, your eyes flitting to it quickly, before they settle back on him.

Seungcheol holds his breath and steps aside wordlessy to let you in.

You step inside without a word, the warmth of his house settling over you the moment the door clicks shut behind you. It should be a relief after the bite of the cold, but it isn’t—it barely registers.

Because Seungcheol is right there.

Close enough that you can hear his breathing, see the way his fingers flex slightly at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He doesn’t say anything—not yet. He just watches you, gaze flickering from your face to the letter still clutched in your hand.

For a moment, neither of you move.

The silence isn’t unfamiliar. You’ve had silences like this before, the kind that stretched between phone calls, between airports, between too many things left unsaid. But this one is different. This one is hopeful—you can sense it.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the letter before you finally hold it out to him.

“I read it,” you say, your voice quieter than you expected.

Seungcheol swallows, his throat bobbing as he glances at the paper, then back at you.

He doesn’t ask what you think or demand an answer. He just waits. It’s something new, this patience of his, and it makes your heart twist in your chest. Your fingers finally let the letter slip from your grasp, setting it down beside you without looking away from him.

"You meant all of it?" Your voice is quieter than you expect, calmer than you feel.

Seungcheol swallows, his throat bobbing slightly. “Yeah,” he says, “I meant all of it.”

You nod, shifting slightly on your feet. The warmth of his house is pressing into your skin now, but it’s not the heat from the room that’s making your heart spike—it’s him. It always has been. It’s the way he’s looking at you, careful but so open, like he’s letting you see everything without saying a single word.

And the truth is, you already know.

You’ve always known.

The realization settles over you, sinks its teeth into your skin, and for once, you let it.

You step forward, closing the space between the two of you, hesitating only for a split second before reaching for him, locking your hands behind his back. It’s instinct more than anything else, something your body remembers even if your heart has spent so long pretending to forget.

Seungcheol stiffens—you can feel it. But before you can pull away, his arms come up to encircle your waist, warm and familiar.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, but it’s long enough for the tension to slip from your body, for his hand to smooth over the curve of your back, for the ache in your chest to settle into something more subdued. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, his breath fanning against the side of your face as he holds you like he’s afraid to let go.

And then, slowly, carefully, you pull back just enough to look at him.

His arms stay where they are, his hands settling lightly at your waist like he’s afraid to let go.

His gaze flickers down, just briefly, before finding yours again.

You lean in first, but Seungcheol’s quick to meet you down, half-way.

He reacts immediately, like he’d been waiting for this—for you. His hands tighten on your waist, his breath stuttering for just a moment before he kisses you back, like he’s trying to make up for every second he lost.

His fingers slide up to cup your face, tilting your head just right, pulling you closer. You let him, let yourself get lost in it, in him, in the way he still kisses you like he knows you, like he’s never forgotten what you like, what makes you sigh against his lips, what makes you grip onto him just a little tighter.

And then, slowly, the urgency fades.

His thumb brushes against your cheek, your fingers relax where they’ve been fisted in his shirt, and for a moment, all you can hear is the quiet sound of your breathing mixing in the space between you.

When you finally pull back, it isn’t all at once. Your lips part, but your foreheads stay pressed together, noses barely grazing. Seungcheol exhales slowly, like he’s grounding himself.

Your fingers loosen where they’d been clutching his shirt, but instead of pulling away completely, his hand finds yours. You let his fingers slip and tighten between yours, a small, relieved sigh leaving your lips.

Eventually, Seungcheol leans back slightly, but he doesn’t let go.

He exhales, then nods toward the couch. “C’mere.”

You glance at it before looking at him again. He probably sees a sliver of hesitation, but it’s not because you don’t want to. Rather because it feels surreal, too easy after everything. But then his fingers squeeze yours, just barely, and it’s enough.

So you go.

You settle beside him, not pressed together, not too far apart—just close enough. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and absentminded, like it’s second nature. It is, you suppose. It’s surprisingly easy to slip back into old habits after trying so long to ignore and forget them.

“You’re freezing,” Seungcheol murmurs after a beat, squeezing your hand lightly.

You hum, shifting a little to get comfortable. “I kind of didn’t think too much after I read the letter and just, well, came.”

Your gaze flickers to the coffee table, where a motorsport magazine sits at the top of a messy stack. The cover is creased, the pages slightly bent from being flipped through too often.

“You’ve been keeping up?” you ask.

Seungcheol follows your gaze before sighing, almost guiltily. “I tried not to.” He pauses before slowly wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Didn’t really work.”

You know how it feels. You never stopped watching his races either, even when you tried so hard to convince yourself that it was possible.

“Have you decided yet?”

He doesn’t pretend not to know what you mean. He breathes in deeply, tilting his head back against the couch.

“I told myself I wouldn’t take it.” Seungcheol says it with a sense of fake surety. He may believe it now.

But sometimes you know him better than he knows himself. You know that Seungcheol has always had that fire in him. The burn to win, to be bigger, better. That ambition that you once respected, still do, but the same one that’s torn the two of you apart. The worst thing is that it is not something that can be dampened out. You can see it in his eyes, even now. His body is on a break, but you know that Aston offer has been running in his mind. Once you get addicted to that adrenaline, to that feeling of being the fastest person in the world, you can’t ever let it go. And Seungcheol isn’t anywhere close to being done. You know it.

And it hurts. Just a little, because you know he is about to leave again. Even before he’s made his decision, you know. But you have always loved Seungcheol and racing has been a part of his life almost as long as you have. You cannot take that away from him. You won’t. He belongs there, on track, in a car, fighting for his dreams and proving his worth.

You can only hope that he belongs here too, beside you on his couch, fingers running through your hair as he hums an old song under his breath.

But it’s about time you take that leap of faith again, and something tells you that you won’t fall down and scrape your knees this time.

The first time Seungkwan notices that something’s off, it’s on the late night coffee run that he drags the two of you to.

Initially, he’d only meant to call you since you’re the only one who’d even come. So it surprises him to see Seungcheol behind you when you open your front door. Seungkwan doesn’t think much of it. Maybe he’s just here to give you something, or help you with something. Maybe there was a bug in your room and you yelled for him to come over and kill it. You do that sometimes.

What other logical explanation would you have for him to be in your house past 10?

So thus, Mister Muscle ends up coming with you two, too.

In the convenience store, the cashier barely raises his head to look up at you guys, the glass door swinging shut behind you. Seungkwan heads straight for the coffee dispenser, mind running through all the tasks that he needs to complete before this week ends. File that report, write an email regarding missing documents from the 5th floor. Ask for an increase in vacation days. He needs to fix that printer tomorrow morning.

He notices you and Seungcheol move in sync without a word, making your way to the refrigerated drinks. He doesn’t follow immediately, and only watches for a few seconds as you pick out different drinks.

The store’s window seats are empty, so you slide into one, Seungkwan and Seungcheol taking the spots beside you. The glass reflects the neon signs outside, a soft glow spilling onto the counter in front of you.

Seungkwan tears open a protein bar, already mid-rant about something, while you set your drink down with a quiet thud, a mildly disgusted expression on your face.

Without a word, you reach for Seungcheol’s bottle instead.

You take it from his hand, twist the cap, and drink.

Seungcheol doesn’t react. Like it’s nothing, he just picks up your iced tea and takes a sip, barely glancing your way.

Seungkwan stops mid-chew.

Since when did you two start getting along so well?

As the two of you look at him, expecting him to continue his rant, he convinces himself that it’s for the better anyway. At least some things are coming back to normal.

The second time, Seungkwan’s too sleepy to care at first.

He breathes out as he steps outside, barely awake, iced coffee in his hands but not doing much yet. His morning routine is automatic—walk out, wave to you, go to work. No thinking required.

But today, when he looks up toward your driveway, Seungcheol is there.

Seungkwan blinks, rubbing his eyes like maybe he’s still dreaming. But no, you’re definitely there, your metal water bottle in hand, listening to Seungcheol say something with that too-casual, too-familiar ease.

Seungkwan slows his steps.

You shift your bag higher up your shoulder. Seungcheol tilts his head slightly.

Maybe Seungkwan’s still sleepy and bleary eyed, because for a second he swears he sees Seungcheol lean down to you. He also thinks you don’t move away either.

What was that?

And then it’s gone.

By the time Seungkwan gets close enough, you’re stepping back, tucking your keys into your pocket, like nothing just happened.

Seungcheol shakes his head, stretches his arms overhead like he’s just waking up, and steps away from the car when you finally notice him.

Seungkwan thinks you wave a little over-enthusiastically at 8 in the morning. Maybe you just slept well.

The third time, it’s at Jihoon’s house, just a casual hangout. The man had been isolating himself in his studio all week, and Seungkwan had thought that it was about time he came out of his hibernation.

Seungkwan sits cross-legged on the floor, next to the coffee table, searching for movies to play tonight. But when he looks up at you, his eyes narrow in on the way you and Seungcheol sit, way too close to each other when there’s so much space around you two.

It’s not even the way your legs bump every few minutes, or the quiet conversations you have that seem just a little too easy for two people who supposedly haven’t been together in a year.

Seungkwan finally begins to understand when he catches Seungcheol reaching for your hand. It’s so casual and normal that he doesn’t even think anything of it at first. It’s only when you glance up at him, after he fixes the bracelet on your hand that’s about to fall off, that he realizes.

It’s not a surprised glance, not a startled reaction, just a look that lingers. Like this isn’t the first time, like it won’t be the last.

And then, you smile.

It’s small, just barely there, but undeniably fond. Soft around the edges in a way that doesn’t belong to people still figuring things out.

And Seungcheol smiles back.

Seungkwan’s jaw drops slightly before he forces himself to tear his gaze away, feeling like he’s intruded on something very personal to them. He turns to look at Jihoon beside him, who only shakes his head, a small grin on his face.

“You knew?” Seungkwan asks, incredulously.

Jihoon doesn’t even look at him. “It really wasn’t that hard to figure out. Maybe you’re just a little dense.”

Seungkwan glares at him before turning his attention to you.

“Are you two back together again?”

“Yeah.” The answer comes out instantly, almost nonchalantly too. No hesitation, no second-guessing, just the simple truth, spoken like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Seungkwan blinks.

Jihoon huffs out a quiet laugh beside him, shaking his head like he saw this coming from a mile away.

He’s spent weeks piecing things together—watching, observing, feeling like he’s uncovering the fact that you two are starting to act lovey-dovey again—only to find out that you two have actually been back together this whole damn time?

He sighs sharply, rolling his eyes at the couple before turning to Jihoon again.

“So this is why you didn’t tell me.” Seungkwan swats his shoulder, “Pay up.”

Jihoon only sighs loudly, reaching into his pocket to pull out a neatly folded bill before wordlessly handing it over.

Seungkwan snatches it and shoves it into his own pocket.

“Thank you,” he says, voice smug.

You blink. “Wait—what?”

Seungkwan hums, crossing his arms pettily before leaning back into the sofa. “We bet on how long it would take you two to get back together.”

Your mouth falls open. “You bet on us?”

“Of course we did,” Jihoon mutters.

Seungcheol tilts his head, amused. “How long did you say?”

“Three months,” Jihoon answers.

Seungkwan scoffs, smug. “I said two.”

You fold your arms. “Wow. Love the faith you guys had in us.”

Jihoon shrugs. “You’re both kind of predictable.”

—

The house is quiet, the kitchen warm with the scent of food as you move around it together. It’s late, but neither of you are in a hurry.

Seungcheol stands behind you, arms locked at your waist. His breath on your neck makes you squirm a little, a small laugh leaving your lips. You twist in his grip, just enough to face him, and suddenly, you’re close.

Too close—the kind where your noses brush, soft and fleeting, as he tilts his head slightly.

Your breath catches for half a second, but Seungcheol just smiles, his arms pulling you in a little more. “What?” he murmurs, voice low, teasing.

“You’re so annoying,” you mutter, nudging your nose against his in retaliation. “Can you just let me grab the plates in peace?”

He laughs—a warm, hearty sound—his forehead pressing lightly against yours. “I don’t really think you mind.”

Your fingers find their way around his neck before you even think about it, elbows resting lightly against his shoulders. Seungcheol hums and for a second, you think he’s about to kiss you when—

The front door unlocks.

Your stomach drops. Seungcheol’s arms fall away instantly, the warmth of his touch lingering even as you take a hurried step back.

“Oh.”

Your mom stands in the doorway, suitcase in hand, her brows lifting slightly as she takes in the sight of you both.

“Oh,” you echo, your voice a little too high, a little too fast.

Your dad steps in behind her, glancing up just in time to see the two of you standing too close, looking entirely too guilty. He blinks, his gaze shifting between you and Seungcheol, expression unreadable.

Then, slowly, he nods. “Huh.”

Seungcheol clears his throat, visibly struggling for words, one hand awkwardly scratching the back of his neck while the other hangs uselessly at his side.

You, on the other hand, want the earth to swallow you whole.

“Welcome back!” you blurt out, voice strained. “You’re early!”

Your mom eyes you suspiciously before turning to Seungcheol. “Yes, well, we caught an early flight. Didn’t realize you’d be here too, sweetheart.”

Seungcheol, to his credit, doesn’t completely crumble under pressure. He musters up a sheepish smile. “Just—uh—helping out.”

Your mom’s expression softens almost immediately, her eyes flickering between the two of you before she exhales, a small, knowing smile forming on her lips.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, setting her suitcase down. “It’s good to see you both like this again.”

Your breath catches slightly, throat tightening at the gentle relief in her voice. Beside you, Seungcheol shifts, his shoulders relaxing,

Your father doesn’t say much. He only claps Seungcheol on the shoulder as he moves past you two with the suitcases. But as he walks ahead, his voice drifts back to you, muttering under his breath.

“Who was it that said two months? Was it Jihoon or Seungkwan? Gotta pay them now, damn it…”

Seungcheol freezes. You blink.

What?

Your mom sighs, following after him like this is a normal conversation. “You can just be happy for them, you know.”

“I am happy,” your dad grumbles. “I just thought I had more time before I had to hand over the money. Those silly boys roped me into their bet.”

Seungcheol presses his lips together, struggling to hold back a laugh.

“Why has everyone been betting on us?” You exclaim, throwing your hands up as you turn to your father.

“Because it’s only ever been a matter of time when it comes to you two,” He sighs, shaking his head at the two of you as he disappears into his room.

You gape at his exiting figure, before dragging a palm over your face. “This is fucking insane.”

Seungcheol almost snorts, stepping away when you try to swat him.

Seungcheol is stretched out on the couch, one arm tucked behind his head, the other holding his phone at an angle. You’re sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, skimming through something on your laptop, barely paying attention to anything beyond the soft hum of the heater and the occasional click of your keyboard.

It isn’t until the familiar sound of engines fills the quiet that you glance up.

His phone screen reflects off his face, but from this angle, you can’t see what he’s watching.

“Has testing begun?” You question, standing up to walk over to him.

Seungcheol grunts a little as he pushes himself up to make space for you, holding his phone out so that you can see too. He nods as you sit beside him, leaning into you as his eyes stay fixed on the screen.

You watch him, a little carefully. Seungcheol’s brows are furrowed in concentration and his eyes flick across, analyzing, checking. His fingers tighten around his phone slightly, his jaw set in focus. Every so often, his thumb taps idly against the side of the device, a habit he’s never really shaken. His eyes flicker across the screen, sharp and intent, following the cars as if he’s trying to place himself back in the cockpit.

You hum softly, resting your chin against your knee. “You’re still keeping up with everything?”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose, finally leaning back against the couch. “Not really,” he says, but the way he doesn’t look at you makes it feel like a lie.

You don’t push, just let the moment pass as another driver’s onboard appears on screen.

“That car looks good,” he mutters, nodding toward one of them on screen. “Stable through the high-speed corners, barely any correction on exit.”

You blink, glancing at the timing bar. “Williams?”

He scoffs. “Yeah. But you can’t trust anything yet.”

“Sandbagging?” you guess.

“Mhm.” Seungcheol nods. “The bigger teams always run heavy in testing, low power mode. You won’t know their real pace until the first race.”

You glance back at the screen, watching as another car rolls into frame—this time, a deep green, with a small rake of aero sensors still attached to the side.

You hesitate for only a second before saying, “What do you think about them?”

Seungcheol doesn’t react immediately. He watches for a few more seconds, his expression unreadable, before he breathes in deeply.

“You never know,” he murmurs. “It’s just testing.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

Neither do you.

Instead, you think of the meeting you had yesterday, the offer sitting in your inbox—marked as important.

—

You don’t expect to see Seungcheol outside at 8 A.M. when you close your front door behind you and make your way to the driveway to go to work.

But there he is—standing by his driveway, shaking out his damp hair, dressed in a hoodie unzipped over a sweat-soaked shirt. There’s a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his gym shoes still on, like he just got back.

Your fingers pause over your keys. It’s early. Not too early for you, but early enough that he shouldn’t be up unless he had somewhere to be.

Seungcheol spots you almost immediately. His face shifts into something easy, something warm, as he steps closer.

“Morning,” he says, his voice still a little rough from the cold air.

You glance at him. “You’ve been out?”

He hums, nodding as he adjusts the strap of his bag. “Yeah. Gym.”

Your brows furrow slightly. “At this hour?”

Seungcheol grins, leaning in to press a quick, fleeting kiss to your lips before you can say anything else. But when he pulls back, you’re still looking at him, eyes narrowed.

“How long have you been up?”

He sighs like he already knows what’s coming, before tilting his head slightly. “Four?”

Your stare sharpens. “Seungcheol.”

He laughs, stepping back slightly, like he knows he’s caught. “What? I couldn’t sleep.”

You cross your arms, watching as he shifts his weight from one foot to another, fingers tapping absently against his duffel bag. He doesn’t look tired, but he doesn’t look at ease either. His body is still holding onto that restlessness that he hasn’t figured out how to shake.

“You’re working out a lot,” you say finally, voice careful.

Seungcheol shrugs. “It’s just habit.”

You watch the way his gaze shifts slightly, the way his shoulders tense.

And maybe you shouldn’t say it—at least, not yet. But the words slip out anyway.

“You aren’t used to not prepping hard around this time, are you?”

For the first time, his expression falters just slightly.

It’s quick—so quick that if you weren’t watching him this closely, you might have missed it. But it’s there. That brief flicker of something in his eyes, something unsure, something lost.

He exhales, looking away for half a second. “Yeah.”

You nod, watching him straighten up.

“But not this year,” you murmur.

Seungcheol tries brushing it off like it’s nothing. “Nope.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, carefully, you tilt your head. “And you’re okay with that?”

He doesn’t reply right away. It gives you the answer you needed.

Deciding to put him out of his misery, you pipe up again, “Do you have any plans today?”

He laughs a little at that, “Yep. Busy schedule. I need to rot in bed, get out of my room, roam around the kitchen and go back in again until my girlfriend decides to come back home.”

You smile softly, before stepping closer, reaching up to fix a stray strand of hair sticking to his forehead. He stills for half a second before leaning into the touch, eyes flickering down to yours.

“I’ll see you when I get back, Cheol. I have something to talk to you about.” You admit as you step back.

He nods slowly, before motioning for you to get into your car. “Sure, I’ll see you then. Have fun at work!”

You shake your head as you shut the car door, putting on a sour expression. It makes him laugh, so you guess that’s half the mission accomplished for today.

—

You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed when Seungcheol walks in, hair still damp from a shower, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He doesn’t say anything at first, just leans against the doorframe, watching you with a smile.

“You never knock,” you mutter without looking up.

“You never lock your door,” he counters, stepping inside like he belongs there.

You huff out a small breath, shaking your head as he settles onto the bed beside you. He stretches his legs out, arms propped behind him, fingers tapping lightly against your blankets. He’s comfortable, always is when he’s here, but there’s something knowing in his gaze, like he’s been waiting for you to speak first.

Seungcheol tilts his head. “You look like you’re overthinking.”

You press your lips together before sighing. “Maybe.”

He hums. “Want to tell me what’s up, or should I start guessing?”

You hesitate, picking absently at a loose thread on your sleeve. No point in dragging it out.

“I got a job offer,” you say.

His brows lift slightly. “Yeah?”

You nod. “It’s in the UK.”

Seungcheol doesn’t react right away. His fingers still against the bed, but there’s no visible surprise—just a slow, careful inhale as he absorbs it.

“That’s big,” he says after a moment. His voice is steady, even. “A good one?”

You nod again. “Better position, bigger projects.”

He watches you for a second longer. “And?”

You sigh, leaning back against the headboard. “And… I don’t know.”

Seungcheol adjusts his position so he’s facing you fully now. “You don’t know what?”

“If I should take it,” you admit.

He tilts his head. “Do you want to?”

You hesitate, the words catching somewhere in your throat. Because it’s not that simple, is it?

Seungcheol must notice because he doesn’t say anything right away—just waits, gaze unwavering.

“It’s not just moving—it’s starting over. A new city, a new routine. Everything changes.” You pause. “Including us.”

Something flickers in his expression, but it’s gone too fast for you to catch.

Instead, he exhales, nodding. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

You blink at him. “You’re not going to tell me I’m overthinking?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “No. I mean, you are overthinking, but it’s a big decision. You should take your time.”

You purse your lips. “And what if I don’t know what the right choice is?”

Seungcheol tilts his head, considering. “Then you think about what scares you more—taking it, or not taking it.”

His words sink in slowly.

You chew on your lip. “What if both scare me?”

He smiles, just slightly. “Then you take the one that moves you forward.”

For a moment, you just look at him.

“You always make things sound so easy.”

Seungcheol sighs, lips quirking. “That’s because it is.”

You shake your head, but there’s a warmth in your chest, the feeling of being sure and unsure at the same time.

After a few moments of silence, carefully, you say, “It’s funny, though.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What is?”

“How things happen at the right time,” you murmur, eyes flickering to his. “Me getting this now. And you with the—” You cut yourself off, shrugging slightly.

“The what?” Seungcheol asks, casually. Too casually.

You sigh, slumping down onto the bed, beside him. “Come on, Cheol. Aston Martin. They're based there too. How long are you going to make them wait?”

He runs a hand through his hair, “This isn’t the same thing.”

“Is it not?” You hum, waiting, still patient.

“No. This is different. You got an actual offer.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what did Aston give you? A suggestion?”

Seungcheol huffs, shaking his head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

Seungcheol shuts his eyes close, breathing in deep. You know he doesn’t want to have this conversation now, but it hurts you to see him like this.

So you mutter, a little softer now, “How long are you going to pretend like you aren’t thinking about it?”

His gaze flicks to you at that, caught.

Seungcheol looks away. “It’s not about thinking about it. It’s about—” He stops, running a hand over his face. “It’s about if I even should.”

You’re not too surprised, but hearing it from him takes you aback for a second. Still, you don’t waver. “And what’s stopping you?”

“I don’t know,” He mumbles, quietly.

“Then try and figure it out, Cheol.” You say, still looking at him.

Seungcheol keeps quiet for a long minute before he sighs, a little reluctant. “What if I come back and I’m not good enough anymore?”

You shift closer, reaching out ,your hand settling over his. “Seungcheol.”

He doesn’t look up immediately, but he doesn’t pull away either.

“You know what I think?” you murmur.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles absentmindedly. “What?”

You squeeze his hand. “I think if you didn’t believe you could still do it, you wouldn’t be struggling with this so much.”

Seungcheol’s breathing comes out slower this time.

“You’ve been restless, working out like you’re still in pre-season,” you continue. “You follow testing, you analyze race strategy even when you pretend you’re just watching for fun.” You pause. “You’ve been waiting for someone to tell you to go back. But the only person who can make that choice is you.”

His jaw tightens slightly, like he knows you’re right but doesn’t want to admit it.

“I’m not saying it’ll be easy,” you add. “But I know you, Seungcheol. And you don’t walk away from things unless you know you’re done. And you know that you aren’t done with this. Are you?”

Finally, he looks at you.

Seungcheol’s throat bobs as he swallows. His fingers curl into the blankets, and when he finally exhales, it’s slow. Careful.

“No,” he says quietly.

You nod, like you knew this answer was coming. Because you did.

His fingers tighten around yours.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. “I think I’ve always known.”

You smile, just slightly. “So what’s stopping you?”

Seungcheol exhales, but this time, he doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, his thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow, thoughtful. His gaze flickers downward. And when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter—more hesitant than before.

“…What about us?”

Your breath catches slightly, because you hadn’t expected him to ask that first.

He lifts his gaze back to yours, eyes searching. “If I do this,” he murmurs, “I’m going to be gone all the time again. I’ll be at the factory, traveling for races, testing. If I go back… I don’t want things to fall apart again.”

The words settle heavily between you.

Because he’s right.

If he does this, it’ll be different from before—but in some ways, it’ll be the same. He’ll be just as busy, maybe even more. And after everything you’ve been through, he’s scared that history will repeat itself.

You inhale slowly, squeezing his hand. “You’re thinking too far ahead,”

Seungcheol huffs out a quiet laugh. “Someone has to.”

You tilt your head. “Why do you always assume the worst?”

“I’m trying to be realistic.”

You pause, then gently, “Then be realistic about this, too. I don’t think we’re the same people we were back then, Cheol.”

His expression softens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“We already lost each other once,” you continue. “We know what it feels like. And I don’t think either of us wants to go through that again.”

Seungcheol swallows. “No,” he says quietly. “We don’t.”

You nod, voice softer now. “Then we won’t.”

Seungcheol exhales slowly, then sits up straighter, rubbing the back of his neck. For a moment, he just presses his palms against his knees, staring at the floor like he’s letting it all settle in. Then, with a slow breath, he nods.

You watch as he reaches for his phone, turning it over in his hands. His fingers hover over the screen for a second before he glances at you, something steadier in his gaze now.

“I should probably stop putting this off.”

You nod, lips curling slightly. “Yeah.”

He exhales, tapping at the screen, and just before he brings the phone to his ear, he glances at you one last time.

And this time, there’s no hesitation.

BAHRAIN, PRE-SEASON TESTING, DAY-1

February 25th, 2027

“CHOI SEUNGCHEOL RETURNS TO FORMULA 1 WITH ASTON MARTIN—SET TO WORK WITH ADRIAN NEWEY.”

After months of speculation, four-time world champion Seungcheol Choi is officially returning to Formula 1 with Aston Martin, marking one of the most highly anticipated comebacks in the sport’s recent history.

The Korean driver, who departed with Ferrari and stepped away from F1 following the 2025 season, will be rejoining the grid just as Aston Martin embarks on a new era of technical leadership under Adrian Newey. With Newey’s expertise in car development and Choi’s proven track record, expectations are already high for the team’s future.

“I’m excited for this next chapter,” Choi said in a statement. “Aston Martin has shown incredible ambition, and with Adrian on board, I have no doubt that we can build something special.”

His return raises questions about the competitive landscape of F1 moving forward, with Aston Martin aiming to challenge the front-runners in 2027. With pre-season testing in Bahrain starting today, all eyes will be on Choi as he steps back into the cockpit for the first time in over a year.

The Bahraini air is dry as usual, the morning sun bright across the paddock as the first day of testing begins. The garages are alive with movement—engineers making final checks, mechanics making last minute changes, cameras capturing every detail.

And at the center of it all, Seungcheol stands in Aston Martin’s green.

The suit fits like it always has. The gloves slide on without hesitation. When he pulls the balaclava over his head, it feels like no time has passed at all.

But it has.

He knows it. Everyone here knows it.

He breathes slowly as he steps toward the AMR27, sleek under the artificial lights of the garage.

Seokmin crouches beside him, grinning like he’s been waiting for this day just as much as Seungcheol has.

“Well,” Seokmin says, knocking on his helmet lightly. “You look good in green.”

Seungcheol snorts, shaking his head. “Better than red?”

Seokmin hums, pretending to think about it. “The red was iconic. Give it some time.”

Seungcheol laughs, the sound being muffled by his helmet.

A familiar voice crackles through his earpiece.

“Alright, Cheol, let’s get you out there.”

Seungcheol glances at his steering wheel, a small smile pulling at his lips. He knew this was happening, but still—it feels surreal to hear his old Ferrari race engineer, still here, still speaking to him over the radio. Adjusting to a new team has been challenging, but this makes it a little bit easier.

And then, his gaze shifts past the mechanics, past the flashing screens, toward the edge of the garage to where you’re standing—arms crossed, standing just outside the blur of engineers, watching him like you always have.

This is right.

This is where he’s supposed to be.

You tilt your head slightly, smiling just enough for him to catch it. It’s small, barely there, but he knows what it means.

Seungcheol lifts a gloved hand, throwing you a thumbs up. It makes you smile a little wider.

Seungcheol rolls the car out of the garage and into the end of the pit lane, engine idling as he waits for the session to go green.

To his left, the Red Bull pulls up.

Seungcheol glances over just as Haechan does the same. Two time world champion now. Let’s see if we can keep up.

Without hesitation, Haechan lifts a hand and gives him a small wave.

Simple and casual. A ‘Welcome back.’

The light flicks green.

Seungcheol exhales, nods once and pulls out onto the track.

tagging: @sojuxxi @the-vena-cava @cl41rsblog @coupsma @stupendouschildnerd @selenethings @yawnozone @syluslittlecrows @angelarin @ceruissleeping @smiileflower @minjiech @stwrlightt @archivistworld @livelaughloveseventeen @exomew @starshuas @fancypeacepersona @znzlii @gyuguys @luxmoonlight @reiofsuns2001 @blckorchidd @teddybeartaetae @ddeulgiabs-blog @kookiedesi

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theorist-fox · 4 months ago

Text

Good Luck

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3.

Previous << || >> Next

Word count: 5.2k

Summary: There’s only so much you can endure for love. Simon’s avoidance takes him one step too far, and this time, there’s no turning back.

18+

CW: angst, arguments, canon typical violence (GSW, surgery, medical talk), a drop of smut.

I listened to this song while writing!

Masterlist 🦊 | In The Walls Masterlist 🦊

The treadmill runs underfoot when it shouldn't.

You shouldn't be here—when the lights in the base are off, and curfew has clocked in. Not when your side is still aching, and your injury is still mending.

One would think that after ages in the special forces, you'd get used to gunshot wounds.

Truth is—you never do. It's always the same burning pain that makes you piss yourself and throw up your guts. How you survived is still a big, fat question mark—sniper rifles are made to kill, not to neutralize. If that bullet had hit a little higher, you'd be six feet underground, not doing some cardio in the HQ gym.

Even now, two months after the incident, the stabbing ache in your gut still lingers. Granted, it's not fully healed, so any pain you feel is your fault. But sitting idly, twiddling your thumbs, feels far too passive for you. So, you decide to resort to the simplest training—cardio, light weightlifting—anything that might help the rage simmering in your chest subside.

Because yes—the worst thing festering in your guts, right in the broken sinews and ripped flesh, isn't the mending hole of a .308 round, but a growing anger that's making it hard for your limbs to sit still.

And it's that anger that's slowing down the healing process, it must be.

You're running—not too fast. No headphones on, because you want to hear your breath panting and your feet thudding against the moving treadmill. You want to taste copper down your throat.

Overexertion. Salivating tongue. The wonderful ache of sore muscles.

Alive, strong, fast, reliable.

A friendly reminder that even though there is someone else occupying your spot in the team, you're still as fan-fucking-tastic as ever.

A friendly reminder that their role is only temporary. That when you're back on your feet, you're going to be the fifth member of that task force again.

Breakfasts with Soap, early morning runs with Gaz, cigars in the evening with Price.

Ghost, on the other hand, can go and fuck himself. Hard.

You don't blame him, really. Or, well, maybe a little. A smidge.

Because that's just who he is. You can't blame someone for being who they are—and what he is, is a bastard.

You should've known the moment you met him, the second he introduced himself as Ghost instead of Simon Riley, all those years back.

Instead of giving in, instead of acting kind, caring, and giving him your time—instead, instead, instead—you should've bit the same way he bit you. Ravaged you. Gave you hot and cold, push and pull, sunk his teeth until the bone, until you were nothing more than a rag doll in the maws of a rabid dog.

Surely, you couldn't have expected him to visit.

You couldn't have expected him to knock on your hospital room door, cuppa in hand, and have him give you his precious, precious time.

What you should've done was expect him to treat you in person like he treats you in bed.

A whore: warm enough to fit his cock in, wet enough to stroke his ego. You being out of commission for anything remotely related to sex meant you being out of his life—plain and simple.

A hard pill to swallow, but a true one.

And so, you run.

You run and stare deadly holes into the wall in front of you.

You run and ignore how the forming scar on your side tightens at each movement.

You run and try your damned hardest to focus on yourself: on your body feeling alive even when unhooked from cables and machines, on the fog in your brain finally dissipating, on your chest filling and relaxing even without oxygen pumped in your nose.

Ten minutes turn into twenty, until you can feel your thighs chafe and your calves cramp, but still you push through. Because the alternative, the only other thing that would make your stomach finally loosen, would be to have that bastard within reach. Punch him until he hurts like you did.

Alas, God seems to have heard, for the next thing you know, is that Simon is standing, jaded as always, at the threshold of the gym to your left.

As soon as you spot him in your periphery, you punch the big red button on the treadmill. Your run slows to a walk before you stop completely and get down.

You don't even look at him as you collect your water bottle from the floor, grunting softly when your injury folds and aches.

You don't even lift your head when you reply with a caustic, "Look what the cat dragged in."

He snorts. How dare he.

"See you got your wit back."

It's been two months since you last heard his voice.

When you got shot and blacked out, the last thing you registered was his voice roaring over comms—but judging by the distant behaviour he assumed right afterwards, the complete absence during your hospitalization, you convinced yourself that the anguished cry of your name you've heard was imagined altogether.

One last attempt of your brain to find some comfort in the pain.

However, a treacherous shiver still runs down your spine when he speaks. The thickness of his voice, the rasp that scratches a nice spot in your brain.

You shake your shoulders to get rid of it.

It's only then that you clock his form with your eyes. You tongue your cheek.

"Never left," you say, uncapping your water bottle. "Not that you'd know anyway, mh?"

As you drink, the balaclava shifts at his jaw as if he's running his tongue over his teeth. Thinking which approach to take—tactical and measured or absolutely ballistic and corrosive.

"You shouldn't be 'ere." He drawls with that grating tone that makes you believe he knows something more than you do.

Measured it is.

"Got cleared."

"Doc said otherwise."

"As obsessed as ever, uh?"

How his eyes sharpen tells you you've cut deeper than any razor blade could. A smug smile blooms on your cheeks because small things feel like huge victories when there are too many losses to count.

"You're under my command." He says bluntly, "Had to keep myself updated."

"Normal people would ask."

He tilts his head. "M'sure you gathered I'm anything but."

"Right," you say with a wry grin. "What was the doctor's diagnosis, then?"

"Lucky your liver got out of it intact," he replies, "Exit wound clear, no fragments. Minimal internal dam—"

"Oh no, I know that." You cut in, sickly sweet, like poison more than honey. "I meant yours."

His eyes darken, with a warning glint that should be enough to pierce through your resolve—shame for him that you're bulletproof and sharp like a knife. You don't care if it'll hurt—let it. After all, there is little left to lose, and you're sure that whatever is left will soon be lost.

"Abandonment issues? Does it stem from your childhood? Are you projecting something on me, Simon?"

"Sergeant," he says, lower than a growl.

"What?" You snap, tongue riddled with bitterness. "Isn't that what's happening? Takin' my life apart 'cause you couldn't sort out yours?"

Simon rolls his shoulders and straightens his neck. He often does it when he wants to appear taller, broader, scarier—though you know better.

And right now, he's just as tense as you are.

Both of you are teetering on the edge, walking a fine line that could lead to resolution, but you're afraid it won't. Not this time.

Each step he takes bends the thin rope under his weight. You wobble—precarious, afraid, a gust of wind is all it would take for you to fall and lose it all in one breath: the earned, mutual trust, the fragile love—no matter how disjointed and uncertain at times.

Reluctantly, you know that it has been tender, too.

"I'd watch my tongue if I were you,” he says. A measured threat.

Your eyes are sharp, and you don't dare to breathe. The space between your faces is tense—a ticking time bomb, something preceding destruction.

"And I'd stay the fuck back." You scowl. "If I were you."

There's a sneer painting his face; you're sure of it, even if it's out of sight. Something heavy and dark, hidden under fabric.

"Aye, I have," he says at length. "For two months. But looks like you didn't enjoy that much, did ya now?"

Your brows fly to your forehead. Utter disbelief at the sheer audacity of him. Apparently, today isn't one of those days in which you can take what you dish out.

Fuck it, you'll live.

"You think this is funny?" You scowl, cocking your head.

You watch his jaw shift, perhaps trying to reply, but you don't give him time. He's had plenty of it and wasted it all.

"You think it's alright, what you did?"

Your teeth grit until your head hurts.

"Not even a knock, Simon." Your voice rises in volume and anger alike. "Two months. Not a call, a text, a wordpassed through Johnny."

Your chest grows tight, and those vines climb upward, closing in on your throat and head all the same. The pressure in your skull threatens tears.

You'd rather get shot again than cry now, of all times.

You thought he'd carved a path specifically for you. Instead, he was only covering your eyes in gentle kisses and cottoning your ears with sweet words—perhaps some remorse, if he could feel it at all. Treated you like a hungry dog, throwing a bone so you'd turn into a more docile pup, whimpering and asking for pets.

And still, you kept clinging with your fingernails to the scraps of tenderness he offered, even when unsure of their authenticity.

There is no trace of that naivete now embedded in your eyes. You're as hard as he's portraying himself to be.

Simon now studies the switch. He must see the sadness in there, even if it's buried under a thick layer of anger and spite.

"Figured I'd leave ya to it," he says at last, pressing his thumb between his brows—a subtle gesture betraying his calm facade. "Give ya time to recover."

What a poor fucking excuse.

Oh, you want to make him hurt like he did you.

Make him feel two months' worth of staring at the plain white door of the hospital room, waiting for it to open. Waiting to see him duck under the doorframe, holding a pack of Marlboros in his hand.

Make a joke about smoking in hospital rooms and how irresponsible that would be, how insensitive, only for him to tinker with the smoke alarm and turn the orange butt of a ciggie your way.

Bring you tea. The book you still haven't finished. Tell you about his day.

More than sixty days spent pining, waiting, hoping like a helpless lunatic, with Johnny's pitying blues glued on the lines between your brows.

"Oh, spare me." You scoff. "At least have the decency to do that much."

His eyes narrow. You inhale, challenging him with your glare.

Fuck, he doesn't have to love you—to even like you—if that's the barrier he wants to put up.

But basic human decency doesn't seem much to demand. Especially knowing that you were so much more before this ordeal began. You were a colleague, a friend. A shag here and there doesn't cancel that. How can occasional sex erase years and years of carefully built partnerships, in and out of work?

How can he so easily change his view of you just because you parted your legs for him?

It hurts when you realize it. When it hits you right in the head like that bullet pierced your side. That you're done giving him excuses, that you're done giving him time.

That it's now or never again.

It escapes your mouth like something strangled, fighting its way out with elbows and fists. Thrashing through your throat, guided by better judgment and self-preservation, even as your heart begs for a moment more.

"You know this doesn't work, right?" You gesture in the space between you two. "You and I."

That seems to be what wakes him. His eyes look alarmed, even if only for a moment, and it's a flash so brief you're not even sure it happened at all.

"We talked 'bout—"

"Oh, shut the fuck up." You cut in, exasperation showing in the way your voice rises.

He jolts. Freezes.

You sigh a shaky breath. Your body burns hot, like the feelings brewing at the bottom of a much too-deep pot are finally spilling out. Skin lighting up, all too aware of everything, from the blood rushing to your cheeks to the throbbing ache of your healing wound.

"Yeah, we had that chat—no feelings, no strings attached, or whatever rubbish you tell yourself to sleep at night."

Your heart feels heavier, like someone's poured cement over it, and it's about to be tossed into deep waters.

"Doesn't mean you've got the right to treat me like this." You say in a single breath. "Like I'm not even a person. Like I don't matter unless I'm naked."

Something in him hardens like he's looking at you through his scope: squinting his eyes, steeling his shoulders. You struck a raw nerve, casting him in a light that even he wouldn't dare to face, self-critical as he may be.

Or you're just describing what you see. What he's shown you. Given you. Not who he is.

But how are you supposed to know that? Discern the mask from the man when he guards the latter so viciously.

"I'm not just someone you fuck," you say through gritted teeth. "I'm a person. I'm your sergeant—I'm your friend. I deserve your respect."

You slam a finger to his chest. The impact is not as strong as it is shocking.

Simon stumbles back.

"I had your back long before we started fucking, and when I get shot, you don't even bother knocking?" You exclaim. "You hear how fucked up that is? And you think I'll let it slide without consequences?"

You retreat your hand, trembling like a leaf. It falls at your side limply, surrendered as you are.

"You don't know me if you think that."

You gulp down something heavy stuck in your throat, but your voice remains abrasive and sharp.

"And I don't know why I ever thought otherwise."

You step back, holding his eyes a moment more—daring to bite back at your words. Daring to fabricate an excuse.

But you don't waste energy to gauge his thoughts this time. You have tried—so strenuously— to discover Simon Riley, but there are walls too thick to climb, gates too rusted and too old to be opened.

And, for once, you forgive yourself for having failed.

Simon stands stock still under the yellow lights of the gym, hands curled into fists at his sides, fighting an invisible enemy. A statue of a man, stone cold and so awfully far, far away.

You walk past him, water bottle clutched in your hand so tight you think your knuckles might snap.

The doorway's left behind you. Your steps quicken the farther you get from the gym, watching the light from the door give way to the darkness of a sleeping headquarters.

You don't hear his steps, and you're unsure whether he's following. Hard to tell—the man's a ghost in more ways than just his name. Silent and prudent even when wrapped in tac gear up to his head.

When you reach your room, you think you're safe from further arguments. No more raising your voice, no more putting your heart through the meat grinder. It's gone and done, and you only want to get in your bed and not think about it until you wake up tomorrow.

Still, your hands shake. You test for your keys in the tight pocket of your leggings and curse under your breath when you pluck them out and they fall from between your fingers.

When you're about to bend down, cussing further because your side still aches, a hand steals them from your sight. You follow the tattoos up to the face of the owner, even if you don't have to do so to recognize him.

He's not wearing the mask anymore. He has it tucked in a pocket of his jeans; you see the dark cloth peeking from the light blue. His shoulders are slouched, hair tousled and messy, likely due to his fingers running through it. Pale cheeks and sunken eyes, darker underneath, like he hasn't caught a wink in a while.

A certain sadness in them, too. But that might be what your eyes want you to see—rationally, you would put all that much, much past him.

"Careful," he murmurs, handing the keys back to you.

You snatch them from his hands and practically punch them into the keyhole.

"Sarge—"

"No."

He calls your name.

"No."

You slam the door behind you once you're inside, but you don't hear the closing thud. When you look over your shoulder, you find him holding it open. Without further questions or waiting for you to rebut, he steps inside.

You glower to deter him. It's useless.

Simon closes the door behind him and leans against it. His hand effortlessly finds the switch at the entrance and flicks it on.

As you blink to adjust to the sudden light, your eyes naturally focus on him: a mountain of a man clad in onyx with the pale cream backdrop of your door.

"Out," you bark.

He looks at you with eyes so horribly tired. Exhausted. Upset.

"Fuck's sake, jus' listen."

And his voice is not so different.

Then, there's nothing you can do.

Those boots have been here without your frank permission more times than you can count. You're aware of the impossibility of redirecting them outside.

You scowl, fingers tightening around the water bottle in your hand because his nerve could bloody well be the last straw.

But still—

You nod. Jaw locked tight.

"Make it quick."

He spares not a second more.

"Day o' the surgery, after they cut you open," he says. "I came."

He points at his neck.

"Had a tube shoved down your throat, a thing around your chin to keep ya mouth open."

Then, to his face.

"Beaten black an' blue, you were—swollen an' all. Reckon it was probably the fall after the shot—dunno, couldn't fuckin' think when I saw ya like that."

He licks his lips. Bows his head as if the floor might lend him the strength he needs to pull himself together.

He looks up again. Dark eyes tender unlike anything you've ever seen, and yet one corner of his mouth is downturned, like he's about to say something he's very disappointed with.

Your body is gelatin. Flaccid. Cotton ears, foggy sight, clammy palms.

"You looked dead," he swallows something thick. "And I wished you were."

Your bottle slips from your hands and falls to the floor. A metallic thud. Water sloshes back and forth as it rolls on the linoleum until it stills.

Suddenly, you feel like a kid who's looking for her ma.

There's a sadness so deep and suffocating you can't quite explain it if not by digging up childhood memories—a sense of loss, of being small and helpless and alone.

You fought tears all this time, and now it feels fruitless even to try. It's written all over your face anyway.

You taste their salt before you feel your eyes swell with them.

"Fuck. You." You tell him, voice hoarse but no less spiteful.

"Wished you were dead—"

He walks to you.

"You're disgusting—"

"Because—"

Closer.

"Don't want to see your fucking face again—"

"I didn't know wha' to do."

Until he stands with his boots bumping your trainers. Until the cold wall touches the sweat on your back.

He holds your face in his hands.

You pull back. He doesn't let go.

"'Cause I don't know, love—" He breathes tenderly, like his voice is not his, while your nails claw at his wrist so he lets go.

He doesn't.

"I don't know how to mourn the livin'," he says, "Only the dead."

He gulps. You fall still.

"You said ya wouldn't put me through that again, but you did," he croaks. "Made it worse this time. I couldn't take it."

He thumbs your tears.

"Would've been easier f'me to bury ya with the others an' let the guilt finish me off."

Simon leans in until his lips brush your forehead. When he realizes you won't fight back anymore, his hands slide to your shoulders, then down your arms.

Gingerly, his fingers twine with yours. He doesn't tighten his hold; he merely tests the thin skin of your knuckles.

You pull back a step, burning eyes drifting up at him through the tears clumping your lashes. Truthfully, you weren't expecting him to cry with you. You don't think Simon can—maybe he's already shed one too many tears.

But his cheeks are glowing red. His eyelids are heavy, eyes cast down to you. He's just as affected as you are, but he shows it differently in those subtle ways you've learned to read.

After fighting the tremble of your lips, you steady yourself. Fingers warm within his own; you don't pull them away.

"I don't deserve what you did to me."

Your voice is so tight you hate yourself for it, but if you don't speak your mind now, you're afraid you never will.

He shakes his head slowly, never straying from your eyes.

"You don't."

Leaning down slowly, giving you ample time to move away if you wish, Simon kisses your shoulder.

You sigh.

"Don't deserve a ton o' the shite I put ya through," he whispers.

His ear is right next to your lips. You're sure that no matter how much you try to control yourself, he'll quickly gather your feelings by the way your pulse thunders beneath his kiss.

So why hide it at all?

"And yet you never apologized for a single one of them."

Simon gulps. A subtle sound, as subtle as the man who made it.

He pulls back. Smooths back your hair, sliding a hand from your forehead to your scalp.

You lean into his touch, exhaling a breath that trembles like your hands.

"Never did, did I." He breathes.

He leans in and presses a kiss between your brows, then down the bridge of your nose, to your cheek, the corner of your mouth. You close your eyes so he can navigate this new level of intimacy he's never initiated nor shown at all.

And then he captures your lips.

His shoulders soften.

A long, drawn-out sigh from his nose.

He pushes forward, forcing the back of your head against the wall. His hands travel to your stomach, hesitant and curious. He skims over the thicker patch of fabric, where the surgery scar is mending under soft, fresh bandages.

A slight hiss in your breath because it still feels sore to the touch is what makes Simon pull back. Just enough to have the tips of your noses graze.

Suddenly, he kneels at your feet.

Big hands envelop your waist, touch gentle but still present enough to rip the air out of your lungs. His thumb brushes over the bandage, causing you to shift uncomfortably.

You look down. Your eyes touch.

The silence around you cracks when he speaks, softness in his breath.

"M'sorry."

Chest tight and sore, like he just punched it.

He keeps his eyes on you, not to study your expression but to convey his own. The earnestness you catch in there ripples through you like a shockwave ready to shatter you whole.

He leans in and buries his nose right above your belly button, in the rougher fabric of your shirt.

His thumbs hook at the hem, lifting it up so that his face meets your stomach.

"Tell me to fuck off, an' I will," he whispers to your skin. "Know I deserve it."

He kisses your belly, carefully navigating around your bandaged injury.

"But fuck," he sighs. "I hope you don't."

His lips travel lower, where the waistband of your legging cinches your hips. His kisses turn open but unhurried, like he just wants to savour what he's denied himself for too long.

You roll your lips between your teeth, unsure of how to behave.

"Fuckin' hope you don't," he murmurs.

Your hands land on his head, then, hesitant and trembling, fingers threaded through his hair. Simon sighs like you took the weight off his shoulders and got rid of it entirely.

His fingers curl at the hem of your leggings.

Slowly, he rolls them down, and he follows their trail, drawing his tongue and his lips down your thighs to your knee. His hand slips to your shoe, and he helps you take it off. Then to the other. Your socks, your pants, until your legs are bare, fabric tossed aside in a heap on the floor.

Simon never stands up.

He holds you by your hips with a covetous grip, but still soft enough to not hurt, almost mimicking the way his mouth moves over you: with smothered hunger, with gentle greed, one that feels somehow oppositely selfless.

Like he's doing it because it feels good for you and not because he desires to have it.

Simon's nose dips in the crease of your thighs. A kiss there, one to the seam of your labia, one on your mound.

His eyes flicker to you.

The lights in your room are a soft yellow, casting a gentle glow on his kneeling body that feels somewhat wrong, like there's too much being shown under the sun when only the two of you should witness it.

Gingerly, you slide your hand along the wall until you find the bump of the switch. With a flick of your finger, the lights go off.

The room is pitch dark now. Moonlight laps at the lines of Simon's face like it's trying to make him glow despite how dim everything around him is.

It takes a while to adjust to the darkness, but you finally see him when you do. The downturn of his eyes, the telltale signs of sleepless nights, wrinkles of exhaustion and endless battles fought within himself.

Utter, devastating regret.

You wonder if he can spot the heaviness in your eyes. The uncertainty, the fear of falling right back into the cycle, a trap of yours and his making.

He's going to tell you the nicest things, pull you in until you can only stick to him like glue, and then he's going to vanish from your life. Treat you like you're strangers until you'll somehow find yourself wrapped around his finger again.

And then it'll all start over. Again, and again, and again.

You brush your thumb on his temple.

Simon leans into it like a dog starving for attention.

He hooks his fingers at the thin straps hugging your hipbones. Slowly pulls your knickers down to your ankles as he holds your eyes.

Gently, he coaxes your knee to bend, lifting your leg off the floor. He kisses the side of your foot, your calf and upward, until your knee is draped over his shoulder.

Slowly, his nose nudges your clit. The muscles in your thighs twitch.

You're not wet; you're not aroused. He isn't either, you can tell. Otherwise, you'd have had his face buried between your legs hours ago.

The tip of his tongue draws a stroke there. Like waves, it reaches the base of your skull. Tips you off balance, almost. Makes your head spin.

Another tentative lick. The tender fingers in his hair turn into claws, and you grip it tighter.

Another, another, until you're breathless and inevitably dripping. Simon collects it with his fingers, drawing circles at your entrance.

The flat of his tongue meets your clit in a tortuously slow dance, holding you still with an arm encircling your thigh. And then his finger slides in. You're forced to bite your cheek, muffling a moan that only manages to break free as a sigh.

But when you look down, even in the darkness, you see his eyes, glossy and charged. But still so very tired.

Like yours.

Because maybe he's navigating through this exactly like you, and you hadn't considered it—too absorbed in your own heartache to notice his. And maybe he's even more afraid because when you have nothing to lose, and something's suddenly given to you, you don't know how to behave.

And maybe Simon thinks that doing this is the only way to keep you.

You exchange a look that holds more pain than lust, shaking your head at him so, so softly it’s almost imperceptible. And Simon sighs, surrendered—he takes back his hand, his tongue, and sits back on his heels.

Carefully, you unhook your knee from his shoulder. He doesn't put up a fight, doesn't tighten the hold on your leg. Instead, he drops his arm limp on his thigh.

You slide down the wall behind you until your knees bump against his. Simon's fingers reach out, almost shy, and trace mindless patterns on your skin.

He's hunched over, head bowed in what you venture might be shame, or perhaps that grief he said he doesn't know how to carry.

Your hand touches his cheek. Dark eyes look at you through paler lashes with reluctant understanding.

That it's over, isn't it?

"Doesn't feel right anymore, does it?" You offer gently.

His chest swells. Shoulders taut and suddenly straight, like something's hit his spine and forced it upright.

He tongues his cheek. Looks away.

"Don't think so, no."

Your lips quiver. It's okay, it was bound to happen.

It should've happened so long ago. You should've taken the leap and pulled away from him much, much earlier—when your heart wasn't woven to his yet.

"Maybe one day," you say in the darkness, thumb brushing his cheekbone. "When we're not so…"

With your free hand, you gesture at yourselves.

"…Fucked." You finish with a hint of a breathy laugh in between.

Simon huffs too, and then deflates.

It's long before his hand comes to cup yours on his cheek. He keeps it there momentarily, while finally giving you the privilege of meeting your eyes.

And he looks so tender, even when he gently brings your hand down, away from his face. He holds it as it lands on his knees.

"Eloquent." He remarks.

You scoff. Roll your eyes with a pathetic sniffle. "Obviously."

He shakes his head softly. A big hand reaches up, and he flicks your nose. You scrunch it up, smiling in a way that doesn't feel forced for the first time since you met tonight.

Simon's thumb brushes your knuckles.

"One day," he repeats. "When we're not fucked."

Your smile feels wet and shaky. Tears are staining your cheek, but it's freeing instead of reluctant, this time.

His eyes are gentle, allowing you to peek through the curtain for the first time. Perhaps it's too dark now to see, but you're hopeful one day you will.

"Good luck to us, then." You say softly.

Simon breathes a chuckle. Brings your knuckles to his lips and holds your hand there.

"Good luck, love."

Biggest thanks to @/void-my-warranty for helping me out, you're a gem 🧡

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #fanfic #archive of our own #ao3 #ghost x reader #smut #angst #cod smut #cod angst #x reader #call of duty #Simon Riley is bad at feelings #foxy

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soapcloth · 5 months ago

Text

Fantasy au -> Warrior!Soap x Healer!Reader

CW: 18+ MDNI, light bloodplay, noncon undertones, dacryphilia if you squint

not edited - 800 words - dividers -> @/cafekitsune

You’ve had just about enough of that axe-swinging asshole, built like an ox and thrice as stubborn.

You’re absolutely beside yourself asking why you’re sticking it out in his half-baked party. John, as he had practically breathed the name down your neck, couldn’t keep a decent healer and now you know all too well why. He was mean, smelly, loud, and worst of all- overly familiar despite your best efforts to stamp out any flame of acquaintanceship. You could write ballads dedicated to reasons you should leave this party, but truth be told? You were down on your luck. You wondered sometimes if you were cursed with misfortune, a hilariously horrid timeline of events leading you to this very position right now. So you’ve made a few mistakes, hasn’t everyone in the pursuit of dungeon crawling?

Even so, was the state of your freelance healing career really so bad that you had to saddle up with someone like John MacTavish? The man had been naught more than a trail thief brute-forcing his way into other parties’ treasure a few years ago, but because of a few lucky encounters in monster slaying, suddenly he was picking up jobs in adventurer hubs like it was something he was born to do. It pissed you off to no end and he knew it. Loved seeing your indignant scowl while you healed him up knowing better work was near impossible for you to come by.

“Och- that’s it, ‘m sore there.” He’d groaned, humid breath fanning your skin, god, why was he always so close? “Gonna show me that pretty glow, lamb?”

“No.” You bit, rubbing the salve a touch deeper than needed. Your lips twitched seeing his eyebrows draw tight. “It’s not so bad that you need healing, stop being a baby.”

The man snorted in response. “That’s why no other parties’ll take ye on, lamb.” His deep blue eyes searched your own, a wild smirk twisting across his mouth. “Terrible bedside manner.” You flushed slightly, shooting him a sharp glare that caused him to lean back on his makeshift fallen and rotted log seat with a pleased grin as he inspected his wound. Like the ever-expressive man he was, his face suddenly took on a shade of concern. “Ach-!”

“Huh?” Was all you could muster, confused as to what he could be so worried about.

“Think I got nicked by something venomous, lamb, need yer healing.” He seethed out. “Oh for- let me see.” You sighed, grabbing his uselessly huge hand. As expected, his palm was fine, albeit still a bit bloody as the salve worked to stop it.

Wrong move.

Upon inspecting his wound, the adventurer managed to shove his palm into your face with a vicious grin, huffing through his nose a bit as he smeared blood across your mouth. Sputtering only invited the acrid taste of bitter salve, sweat, and copper onto your tastebuds as he laughed and continued to wipe his hand across your face. “See?” He chuckled “M’still hurt.” His eyes seemed to glisten like the northern stormy coast seeing his own blood on your skin. “Suits you.”

You pushed his hand away, misinterpreting his words in a way that scratched at a sore spot of your own. “I didn’t kill them, John! Stop holding that over my head!” You snarled, causing his eyes to widen a fraction. You wiped his blood off your face with your arm, only to smear it around more and get it on the limb. Great. It was then you realized you had a runny nose as well, were you starting to cry? “I fucked up- but my god, they lived, okay?” And now you couldn’t get a gig better than this one because of that fact, a voice in the back of your head snarked. It’s true too, they made sure no party worth its salt would ever take you on. You still have no idea why John did either in all honesty, for all his faults and the high turnover rate, he had a seemingly bottomless fount of healers willing to take a shot at being the one to stick.

John cupped your cheeks. “None of tha’.” He spoke lowly. One of his calloused thumbs swiped at an emerging tear before it could fall and you had to watch, mouth slightly agape as he brought the pad of his thumb to his lips without much thought, tongue darting out to taste. You blinked as he clapped that hand down on your shoulder, leaning closer. “None of tha’…” he repeated, quieter this time. He looked so focused. “Dinnae give a shit about those no-names, lamb, neither should you.”

You swallowed audibly when met with his intensity, his voice a rolling growl. “Fuck- seeing ye all covered in my blood’s got me stiffer than a rock. Palm’s busted and you won’t heal me. Cannae do a thing about it, feel like ah’m gonna-“

“I can heal your hand.” You urged, the oppressive haze he left you with suddenly lifting.

He snorted in response. “Though so, lamb.” His palm connected with your hair, ruffling his blood into your locks before moving down to pat your cheek. “What a dutiful healer ye’ are… So good te’ me. Let me see tha’ gorgeous glow.”

#ough…. kind of a trial in writing…#john soap mactavish #soap #soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #x reader #cloth writes #tw dubcon #tw noncon

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not-neverland06 · 9 months ago

Note

Hey! Love your writing and love Flux!! I was hoping to request a kind of angsty/fluffy fic with the worst!wolverine where the meet her in the void and maybe Logan knew her just not very well and he’s finally letting himself open up and be close with her (likewise with reader/flux towards logan) and they get into an argument or maybe logan has a nightmare and he ends up stabbing her with his claws and maybe the aftermath of him beating himself up and sabotaging the new relationship until reader finally snaps him out of it and says it was an accident and she still loves him?? Thanks!!

mistake

Logan Howlett x fem!reader

a/n: I want to thank you for this request because I've been having the worst writer's block in the world. I was worried about having to go into another unofficial hiatus, but this made something in my brain click together and I knocked it out in two hours. my life is yours 🙏🙏 Summary: You know him. Or, you knew him. And you never blamed him for what happened in your world. It wasn't his fault that everyone you loved died and you barely escaped with your life. But you never actually thought you'd have to see him again. You don't know what to do when all these feelings resurface with his appearance.

No one truly knew who you were back in your universe. After the horrific incident at the mansion, you had run. You’d run as fast and as far as you could from the slaughter of your friends. You’d barely escaped with your life, and from the amount of blood and gore they’d left behind, most people just assumed you were dead.

It’s not like anyone cared about you. Scott, Ororo, and Jean had been the real heroes. But it didn’t matter because they were still mutants at the end of the day. It didn’t matter how many people they saved. How many lives they positively changed, no one would ever see past the fact that they were mutants.

Being one of the newer members of the recently disbanded X-Men gave you enough anonymity to get through daily life without being recognized. It did not, however, protect you from being sucked into the shit fest that is the multiverse.

You’re not sure what it is about you that just attracts bad luck. You don’t know if it’s some hidden power that’s a part of your evolution. You’re just apparently perpetually fucked. The TVA had determined that you were interfering with the proper flow of your timeline or some bullshit.

Now you’re here. Stuck in the void with nothing but decay and drunk former superheroes. If you have to watch one more Captain America ‘rally the troops’ you’re gonna kill him yourself. You’ve considered switching teams and joining Cassandra Nova at times. If only so you don’t have to deal with Johnny Storm and the rest of the dipshits.

You get along with Laura, at least. She likes to tell you about her Logan and you like to dodge her questions about yours. She doesn’t need to know that not every version of Wolverine has a golden heart and story worthy of tears. Yours was a fuck up, plain and simple, but you never thought the incident was his fault.

As much as others tried to push the blame on him. The people who raided the mansion were determined. There was no other way that day was going to end up. You’d just have one less X-Man. But people always love a martyr more than a victim.

After a couple of years, you get used to the monotony. Your days are only occasionally broken up by dodging Cassandra’s henchmen and trying not to get sucked up into the soul destroyer. Other than that, you spend your nights getting drunk with Gambit and pretending you know whatever the fuck he’s talking about.

“Laura! I managed to find some chocolate!” You run into the hideout looking for the girl. It’s rare to find good food that isn’t already a month past its expiration date. You weren’t planning on sharing the candy with her but you figured she’d smell it on you and it’s not worth the fight.

Instead, you stop short as the familiar blue and yellow uniform you’d always try to force on him comes into view. He’s stealing Gambit’s liquor and you know that’s not going to go over well. What you don’t know is why you are so sure that this is your Wolverine.

You’ve never had a Wolverine in the void. Not once. This could be any one of the hundreds of thousands of variants. But you see that look in his eye. That familiar watery gaze shows just how much he hurts, even if he doesn’t want to admit it.

“Logan?” You breathe his name out in disbelief. Bypassing the Deadpool standing nearby. You’ve dealt with enough of those in your time down here. He takes a step back, fixing you with a distrusting look.

He keeps the bottle of alcohol clutched close to his chest like he thinks you’re going to take it. You track the movement and you scoff. “Right,” you shake your head and stop short. “Of course, the only thing you care about is still getting fucking drunk.”

He glares at you, taking a step forward like he thinks it might actually intimidate you. “Do I know you, bub?” He reaches forward, probably to jab his finger in your chest. You drop your gaze to his outstretched hand and narrow your eyes.

The material of his suit fluctuates, pulling back and rippling over his arms like liquid and not spandex. He doesn’t notice the manipulation of matter until it's his skin you target. It melts off his adamantium bones and he stares down in horror.

You know he's scared because he’s watching his body dissolve but he’s not feeling any pain. You could make it hurt, but that’s not what you want. You just want to see if he’ll remember you now. If there’s anything half-decent left in that alcohol-rotted brain of his.

“Flux,” he grits your X-Man name out through his teeth like it hurts him to say it.

You nod and his skin and suit go back to normal, like you’d never tampered with it in the first place. “You do remember me, then?”

“Thought you fucking died with the rest of them.” Your face drops before you feel an astonished smile on your face.

“You know, it’s a comfort to know nothing about my world has changed. You’re still the same spineless dick that left us all to die.” You shake your head and storm out of the hideout. You don’t know how long they’re planning on staying but you pray they leave soon. If you have to deal with him longer than a week, you’ll just kill him.

You step outside just as Laura’s coming back from the bonfire. She greets you with a stiff smile and you wonder what’s got in her in a mood. It only takes a glance over her shoulder to find the reason.

Logan is sulking by the fire, nursing yet another bottle of whiskey. He’s drinking it like water and even with his healing, his liver should have turned to mush by now. “I can see why you didn’t tell me about him,” she mutters as she passes by you.

You know she tried to be quiet but you can see the way Logan’s head tilts slightly towards you. He’s heard her and you know it has to sting just a little.

You glance down at the leaves under your feet, eyes glazing over as you feel the guilt sink into your stomach. You shouldn’t feel bad, you didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t hurt him, technically, just reminded him who you were. But you still feel bad for what you said.

You’ve never blamed Logan for what happened. And if you did, you would be a hypocrite. Because you survived too, and you left them all behind. You ran like a coward. You could never blame him when you failed to save them just the same.

You take in a deep breath and steel yourself. You’ll just apologize, walk over there, and explain to him you didn’t mean what you said. You know he’ll be a dick about it. Claiming he doesn’t want your apology. You’ll just leave him alone after.

You’re about to step forward when he barks out a gruff command, “Don’t fucking stare at me like that. I don’t want your company.” He turns back to the fire and takes another swig from his bottle.

You roll your eyes and walk towards him. “You can be as miserable and self-pitying as you want, just let me say one thing.”

His head whips towards you so quickly you’re surprised you don’t hear it snap. “I’m not fucking pitying myself,” he grits out. You quirk your brows in amusement, glancing towards the bottle in his hand and the clear way he’s sulking. He turns his attention back towards the fire, intent on ignoring you again.

“I don’t blame you for what happened,” you tell him. You ignore the warning look he shoots you, taking a seat beside him even if he doesn’t want you to. “I-” you choke on the words, struggling to admit to yourself what you’ve never wanted to.

“Don’t.” You know it’s meant to be a warning. But when you look at him and see how completely broken he is, it sounds more like a pathetic plead.

But you need to say this. As selfish as it is, you need to say this to someone., Need to unload this guilt you’ve carried for so long. “I was there, Logan. I could have saved them and I didn’t. I fucking ran.”

“Kid, don’t do this-”

“Jean was still moving,” you blurt out. You feel the way your heart speeds up at the admission. Your fingers shake and the air around you stills.

His face drops and he slowly turns towards you. You’re afraid to look at him. You feel like a bunny staring down the snout of a wolf, there’s no escaping this. You’ve created this trap for yourself.

“What?” He demands. His voice has lost that tremor of vulnerability. Instead, he sounds like he did when he first found out what had happened to you all. That same deadly level of calm that makes you want to bolt again.

“She,” you stare into the fire until your eyes burn. You don’t know if it’s from the light or the smoke but the pain focuses you. “She was shaking on the floor. There was blood everywhere and she could barely breathe. They had gassed us with something. None of us could use our powers, it’s the only reason they got a one-up on us.”

You can feel yourself slipping back into that moment. You feel the warmth of the blood on your skin. It seeps into your suit and makes the material cling to you. Your gut is split open and the only thing holding your intestines in is your hands.

Jean is in front of you. Her hands are twitching by her sides. There’s blood pouring out of her lips, dribbling down her tongue and cheeks. Every breath is a rattle so deep you feel it in your bones.

Each inhale sounds like someone dragging glass through the membrane of her lungs. Her chest rises and sinks shallowly as she gasps for air. She’s practically convulsing, eyes twitching every which way.

The gas has faded from the halls. The people have left, satisfied with the carnage. You’re alone, surrounded only by the blood and bodies of your friends. None of the others are moving. Some of them are so mangled you can’t even tell who they are anymore.

Jean’s eyes lock onto yours. The only anchor she has. And you can see it, the frantic, wounded animal gaze on her face. She knows she’s dying. She knows there’s nothing she can do about it.

You can only stand by and watch as your friend dies. You could be her comfort. You could be the last face she sees before she dies, distracting her from the sight of her dead fiancee behind her.

But what do you do?

You hold your guts in your stomach and you run. You can’t look at her. You can’t look at any of them. You can hear her croaking behind you. And even when you’re out of the mansion, when you’re in a hospital somewhere getting repaired and Logan’s on a rampage, you still hear her.

You feel something heavy on your arm and it’s like you're being forcibly dragged out of a trance. Logan’s looking at you with something you’ve never seen before. But it’s something you’ve always desperately craved.

It’s like he’s seeing you, really seeing you. For the first time in a long time, you feel that ache of guilt ease away ever so slightly. It doesn’t disappear, but you’re sharing the burden with someone else and it’s a relief you’ve desperately craved.

“You’re not a bad person for leaving, kid.” He swallows roughly and you place your hand over his. He doesn’t look completely comfortable with the touch, slightly flinching away from it, but he doesn’t move. “If you hadn’t, you would be dead.”

You squeeze his hand, forcing him to meet your gaze. “I never blamed you for what happened.” emotion is so thick on your tongue and in your throat that the words come out a whisper. “Their deaths weren’t your fault, and what happened after wasn’t.”

He clenches his eyes shut and jerks his hand out of your grip. You sigh, knowing you’ve lost him. “I slaughtered them.”

You scoff, “They slaughtered us!” You nearly shout, anger bubbling hot in your gut. When you heard about him killing those who had hunted down your friends, you’d celebrated. And when you heard the way the public was crucifying him, you realized that no matter what you did they would never love you.

You would always be nothing more than a mutant to them.

“And the people who didn’t hurt them? The innocents I killed?”

You don’t have anything to say to that. You just stand up, placing a hand on his shoulder as you pass by him. “I never blamed you, Logan.”

You don’t see Logan again after that. At least, not while you’re in the void. What was left of your little resistance was sucked up into the purple cloud of death. Only you and Laura are left with the carnage.

Logan and Wade have disappeared to who knows where. It stings, to be on your own again. Sure, you have Laura, but she’ll never understand the pain of what happened to your universe.

As much as it hurt, at least with Logan, you had someone to share the pain with. You could share your burden with him. You feel lonely and cold. Like there’s a part of you missing. You finally figure out what that ache is when the TVA comes to collect you and you see him again.

He’s standing behind Wade as he enthusiastically tells you and Larua all about his world. But you can’t take your eyes off Logan, or the tentative smile on his face. Whatever had happened during that fight with Cassandra Nova had changed him, for the better.

You smile back at him and it feels like taking a breath of fresh air after years.

Apparently, whoever this world’s Flux had been, she was fucking insanely rich. And dead, which sucked for her but was great for you and Logan.

It’s not hard for you to fake some government identities and explain that you’d been mistakenly marked as dead. It’s apparently pretty common in this universe. Superheroes are blipped out of existence all the time. You couldn’t get all of her assets as some had been liquidated, but you did get her giant ass house.

You let Logan and Laura stay with you until they decide where they want to go. It’s better than living with Wade and his coke-fiend roommate. Laura finds her groove pretty quickly, it is her world after all. But you and Logan struggle to figure out what to do with yourselves.

Neither of you has an interest in being X-Men again, and it seems like they’re not incredibly present in this world either. You also hadn’t been the best of friends, even before everything went wrong, back home.

You’re not strangers, you’re not friends, you’re that awkward place in between. Each day is another opportunity to get to know each other. The progress might be slow, but you know that you’re getting closer to something real.

It’s why you don’t feel any qualms about running into his room when you hear him shouting. You burst into his room and the door slamming against the wall isn’t even enough to wake him up.

He’s writhing around in the bed, sheets twisted around his waist while sweat beads down his forehead. The noises he’s making remind you of a wounded animal. There’s something heartbreaking about this.

He doesn’t get peace even when he’s sleeping. It makes you hurt for him. You want to smooth over the aches and pains he carries and burden yourself with them.

The thought snaps you out of your reverie and you’re shocked by the revelation. You’d been growing closer to him, but you hadn’t thought you were growing this close. You feel so strongly for him, but you’re not ready to put a name on what it is that you feel for him. You just know that right now you want to make him feel better.

You approach the bed cautiously, taking a seat beside him. The bed ripples and jolts underneath you as he tosses and turns. You place a gentle hand on his arm and shake, “Logan,” you whisper. You don’t want to startle him too bad.

But he’s not responding to anything. It doesn’t matter how much you shake him or call out his name. Finally, you can’t handle it anymore. You get on your knees, sitting over him and bringing your palm down across his face as hard as you can.

In a second he’s shooting up. You don’t even notice his hand until you see the way his vision clears. The visceral panic fades and something is aching in your gut. “Oh god, no no no,” he says the word so many times it stops sounding real.

You look down and see the blood dribbling down his palm, the claws buried in your stomach. It’s almost funny, how perfectly aligned they are with the scar that already lived there. The reminder of your friend’s death being erased and reformed by Logan’s hand.

He pulls his wrist back and you quickly snatch it up. “Don’t!” You shout, jaw clenching against the pain. “Don’t pull them out, I’ll just bleed out.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to do?” You know he’s worried, that’s why he snaps at you. But it doesn’t help the way you feel yourself fighting back tears.

He sees them drip down your cheeks and his face drops. His other hand, the one not in you, comes up and cradles your cheek. “What do I do?” He whispers, and he sounds more desperate than you do.

You know he doesn’t want another death on his hands. But there’s something beyond that. He doesn’t want to be the reason you stop breathing. There’s a startling clarity when you’re slowly dying.

He cares about you. Just as deeply as you do for him. You can’t make him go through this pain again. Can’t let him suffer alone, not when he’s made so much progress. “Slowly,” you tell him, guiding his claws out inch by inch.

It’s hard not to black out. You’d barely felt it when he’d gotten you the first time. You think it’s because of how fast and sudden it was. But this, having them oh so slowly slicing through your insides is the worst form of torture.

But you don’t heal like him. You have to close your eyes, focus on the pain, and forcibly reknit your skin back together. It’s a clever manipulation of your powers, but it’s a slow one. You could never take serious damage on the field because you wouldn’t be fast enough to repair yourself.

This is easy to repair. But that doesn’t make it hurt less. It feels like an hour before he can safely draw them the rest of the way out. The second he does, you’re sinking into his arms with a pained sob.

He clutches you so tightly to his chest you worry your back might snap. He keeps muttering apologies into your hair, hands desperately grasping at every inch of you he can hold. You’re too tired to say anything.

You realized you should have. You should have told him you don’t blame him. You were the one who snuck into his room. You should have been smarter. But it doesn’t matter how many times you tell Logan not to blame himself, he always will. And you were too tired to try anyway.

You only realize what’s happening two days after the incident. You figured he might need some space to process what happened. And honestly, you did too. It was awful and incredibly draining. You’ve felt fatigued ever since.

But when you try and approach him and he just brushes past you like you weren’t even there, you know something is wrong. You watch his retreating back with a disturbed glare. You connect the dots quickly, already knowing what he’s doing.

He doesn’t want to be responsible for hurting another person he loves. He can’t handle a loss like that again, even if it’s not by his hands. He wants to make sure you don’t want him, that you don’t care for him. Like that might ease the pain and guilt.

But it wouldn’t. It would just make him feel worse. It would make you feel worse.

You don’t waste a second, following him up the stairs and barging into his room before he can slam the door shut. It bounces off the wall and he lets out a deeply irritated sigh. He doesn’t turn to look at you, just walks over to his nightstand and rummages around through the doors.

You know he’s not looking for anything. He’s just trying to ignore you long enough for you to give up. It’s not going to happen, he should know better.

You take a step further into the room and the smell of chemicals slams into you. Your nose wrinkles in disgust. It smells like he pumped Lysol into the vents. Your eyes dart to the bed and you sigh.

Your blood, you’d completely forgotten. He must have been cleaning it up the morning after. You can’t blame him for wanting to get rid of the remainder. But this seems excessive.

“Strong nose,” he mutters. You hadn’t realized you’d spoken aloud and you glanced over at him. “I can still smell it, even after cleaning.” He takes a seat on the bed and you hate the way his shoulders are slumped.

He’d seemed so much more comfortable with himself lately. It’s like one accident has undone all his progress. “Logan,” you start, taking a step towards him. He holds his hand up, still not looking at you.

It’s driving you insane. You wish he would just meet your eyes. You feel like you could change his mind if he would just see you. Maybe that’s why he won’t. He won’t let himself be happy.

“Look, that night just made me realize what a huge fucking mistake this was.” He gets up and slides something out from under the bed. It takes a moment for you to register what it is. A duffel bag, packed with all his essentials and what little clothes he owns.

He’s going to leave.

You act without thinking. Pure panic making your powers surge out. Logan grunts and the bag falls out of his hand. “Quit it,” he snipes, bending over to pick it up. But he can’t because it’s so heavy it’s making the wooden floor splinter and crack under its weight.

“You don’t get to just leave when things get hard, Logan.”

He stands up, hands propped on his sides. There’s a challenge in his eyes that makes you nervous. “Fuck this,” he scoffs and brushes past you.

It’s beyond manipulative to use your powers against him. But sometimes, someone is such a fucking idiot, they need a little outside help. You slam the door closed and the handle disappears, locking you both in his room.

He turns towards you with a fierce glare on his face. “Open the goddamn door before I break it down.”

“You can try,” you taunt, a nasty tone to your voice. You’re sick of this. You’re sick of running from what you want. You’ve been miserable and alone for years. You want to be happy. For the first time in forever, you want something.

And you want Logan to be happy with you. You can’t force him to feel the way you do. But you can stop him from actively preventing this. “Stop acting like a goddamn child and just talk to me!” You shout at him.

There’s a disbelieving look on your face. You don’t understand why he won’t let this happen. Why does he have to fight so hard against any semblance of happiness in his life?

“I’m going to hurt you. That is all I do. I hurt the people I love and I cannot hurt you too.” Your eyes widen in shock at his outburst. Beyond anger, there was so much fear in his voice it was almost enough to make you miss what he’d said.

“You love me?” You can see the realization dawn on him. The fact that he let slip why he’s so hesitant to be around you. You know he wants to leave, his eyes are darting around the room for an escape route, but you’ve blocked them all. You can’t let this go, not now.

“Logan,” you snap, demanding an answer from him.

“Fuck you,” he mutters, something vicious on his face.

He’s going to hurt you. He’s going to lash out and say something cruel so that this doesn’t happen. You know him because you’ve been him. He will take every possible route to get out of this if it means he doesn’t have to face his feelings.

You roll your eyes and take a step forward. You jerk him towards you and throw yourself on him before he can say something stupid. The kiss is brief, just enough to snap him out of this ridiculous headspace he’s in.

When you pull back he looks dazed, but he’s relaxed in your hold, sinking towards you. You grin up at him, “I love you too, dumbass.” You lean up to kiss him again but you dart back at the last second, a mean glare on your face. “Pull some shit like this again and I’m going to melt your dick off.”

You kiss him before he can respond, but you feel the smile against your lips. You can taste the defeat on his tongue as he wraps his arms around you and tugs you into his chest. He’s not going to push you away and you’re not going to let him.

General Taglist: @evasmlp

Logan Taglist: @nonamevenus @smexy-bucky-waifu @wh1sp @peony-always @corvusmorte

@mrs-ephemeral @wolviesgirl @allllium ♡

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett imagine #logan howlett #the worst logan x reader #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #wolverine imagine #wolverine #deadpool and wolverine #hugh jackman #hugh jackman x reader #anon

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cressidagrey · 2 months ago

Text

The Queen of Romantasy and the Race Car Prince - Chapter 17

Pairing: Lando Norris x Elizabeth "Lizzie" Treshton (Original Character)

Summary:

Elizabeth Treshton—bestselling romantasy author, queen of fae heartbreak, and sworn devotee of a carefully structured routine—never expected her service dog to abandon protocol and diagnose a Formula 1 driver with something. But that’s exactly what happens when Mara the wonder-dog ditches Lizzie’s side to aggressively alert to none other than Lando Norris in the middle of a coffee shop.

Warnings and Notes:

Mention of epilepsy and service animals. I don't myself suffer from epilepsy, so I asked my IRL friend, who thankfully was nice enough to let me ask her all the questions I could come up with. The rest I asked Reddit. So everything that's wrong...that's totally my fault and not on purpose.

This has literally all the worst things the internet has to offer: Ableism, Sexisms, Toxic Media, horrible journalism, death threats...I am pretty sure I am missing some of it.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

6 July 2024 - Silverstone GP, Quali Day

YouTube Transcript – Silverstone 2024 – Lando Norris Post-Qualifying Interview

Interviewer: “Lando, solid qualifying today. But I have to ask—the paddock is absolutely buzzing because you’ve brought someone special this weekend. This is the first time we’ve seen you publicly with your girlfriend. What made Silverstone the right place?”

Lando: [laughs, rubbing the back of his neck] “Yeah, I guess I couldn’t keep her a secret forever, could I? Silverstone just made sense. It’s home for me, and it’s a special race, so... felt like the right time.”

Interviewer: “People were definitely surprised! Most fans had no idea you were even dating someone, let alone Elizabeth Treshton, a bestselling author. Was keeping it private a conscious decision?”

Lando: “Yeah, for sure. I mean, I like keeping my personal life… well, personal. But also, Lizzie’s got her own career, her own thing, and I wanted to make sure she was comfortable before anything went public. It’s a bit different from racing, but she’s got just as many passionate fans as we do in F1.”

Interviewer: “Speaking of passion—social media is having a meltdown over the fact that her dog, Mara, is at Silverstone wearing a Quadrant bandana that matches your helmet. Can you confirm if this was planned, or is this just peak marketing?”

Lando: [grinning] “Liz just thought it’d be funny. And honestly, it is. They are my good luck charm.”

Interviewer: “One last question before we let you go—now that she’s made her paddock debut, should we expect to see Elizabeth at more races?”

Lando: [shrugs, smirking] “We’ll see. I mean, she’s got books to write, but maybe if I ask nicely.”

Interviewer: “Alright, we’ll hold you to that. Thanks, Lando, and good luck tomorrow!”

Comments:

@/RomantasyQueen: Wait wait wait—Lando called her Liz??? Since WHEN???

@/TwitchChamps: What if he’s the only one who calls her Liz? What if that’s like...their thing???

@/RomantasyReign: Lando Norris dating THE Elizabeth Treshton is the plot twist of the century. This crossover is feeding me in ways I didn’t know I needed.

@/TifosiTears: Not only is Lizzie a Ferrari fan, but she’s dating a McLaren driver??? The potential for absolute chaos in this relationship is INSANE, and I’m here for it.

@/GatekeepingGremlin: Ugh, why does every driver suddenly need to have a famous girlfriend? This feels so staged.

@/F1Bookworm: We’ve been sobbing over tragic, brooding fae princes for YEARS, and now Lizzie is with Lando, the most golden retriever boyfriend to ever exist. I love this for her.

@/MaraStanAccount: Mara being the true star of the paddock is the best part of this. Someone get this dog a tiny Quadrant hoodie ASAP.

@/BitterAndSalty: She’s a writer, big deal. What does she actually have to do with F1?

@/PitLaneGossip: The fact that Lando admitted Lizzie’s got fans just as passionate as F1 ones??? He understands the romantasy girlies are unhinged and will defend their queen. We’ve already claimed him as a book boyfriend now.

@/ConspiracyQueen: Funny how she’s suddenly at Silverstone and now everyone is talking about her. Feels like a marketing stunt, tbh.

@/WAGWatch: I love how Lizzie isn’t even a regular WAG. She’s an author. Like, imagine dating a race car driver and still being the most interesting person in the room.

@/LandoFangirl69: Lando soft-launching Lizzie was one thing, but Mara getting a full rebrand as an F1 celebrity dog was NOT on my 2024 bingo card.

7 July 2024 - Silverstone GP, Race Day

YouTube Transcript - FIA Post-Race Press Conference – Silverstone

Attendees: Lando Norris, Lewis Hamilton, Max Verstappen

Moderator: “Next question.”

Interviewer: [Clears throat.] “Lando, your relationship with Elizabeth Treshton has been in the spotlight. Given her epilepsy, do you ever worry about how that might affect your career and the demands of F1?”

Lando: [Blinks, frowning.] “Sorry, what?”

Interviewer: “Well, F1 is a high-pressure environment—constant travel, long hours, high stress. Do you ever consider whether being with someone who has a condition like that is… sustainable?”

Lewis: [Turns his head sharply.] “Excuse me?”

Max: [Squinting at the interviewer.] “Did you really just say that?”

Lando: [Slowly, voice dangerously calm.] “Are you asking me if Liz’s epilepsy is a problem for me?”

Interviewer: “No, no, I just meant—”

Lando: [Flatly.] “Because that’s what it sounds like.”

Interviewer: [Awkward chuckle.] “I meant in terms of logistics.”

Max: [Muttering.] “Logistics. Unreal.”

Lando: [Deadpan.] “Logistics.”

Interviewer: “Like—does it make things harder for you?”

Lando: [Leaning forward slightly.] “Harder for me? I’m not the one with epilepsy. She is. She’s the one managing it. And she does. Every day. It’s not an issue. It’s just part of her life.”

Interviewer: “But with the unpredictability—”

Lando: [Firmly.] “Life is unpredictable. That’s not a reason to not love someone.”

Lewis: [Shaking his head.] “I’ve heard a lot of nonsense in these press conferences, but this is a new low.”

Max: [Scoffs, crossing his arms.] “Yeah. This is disgusting.”

Interviewer: [Looking increasingly uncomfortable.] “I didn’t mean to imply—”

Lando: [Interrupting.] “You did imply it. And I don’t get it. You wouldn’t ask this if she had diabetes or asthma. Why is epilepsy different?”

Lewis: [Firmly.] “It’s not.”

Max: [Pointedly.] “Maybe we should be asking why you think it is.”

(A tense silence. The interviewer looks like they want the ground to swallow them whole. Lando exhales sharply, jaw tight.)

Lando: [Flatly.] “Liz is my girlfriend. I love her. End of story.”

Moderator: [Hurriedly.] “Next question.”

Comments:

@/F1Fanatic99: Lando shutting that down IMMEDIATELY. No hesitation. No dodging. Just straight-up ‘I love her. End of story.’ That’s a man right there.

@/GridGossip: You can literally see Lando getting angrier with every follow-up question. This interviewer really thought they were onto something.

@/WheelToWheel: Max saying ‘this is disgusting’ and Lewis calling it a new low. They didn’t just stand by—they backed Lando and Lizzie. That’s respect.

@/McLarenUpdates: The way Lando just flat-out refused to give them any kind of negative soundbite about Lizzie’s epilepsy. That’s love.

@/EpilepsyAwareness: It’s rare to see someone in the public eye so openly defend a partner with epilepsy like this. Lando handled this perfectly. Thank you for using your platform the right way.

@/AlwaysDR3: I mean, the interviewer had a point?? F1 drivers have crazy schedules. It’s a valid concern.

@/SilverstoneStan: Lando saying Lizzie’s epilepsy isn’t hard for him… yeah, but he’s definitely making sacrifices. He should’ve just been honest.

@/SpeedDemon19: No, but actually… that interviewer should be ashamed. What an awful question to ask.

@/F1TeaSpill: I like Lizzie but let’s be real, she’s a liability for his career. The press will always focus on this now.

@/McLarenSuperFan: If she ever has a seizure during a race weekend and it distracts him, then what?

@/MaxsOrangeArmy: That interviewer was so desperate for Lando to say something awful, and instead, he got a masterclass in 'how not to be an ableist idiot.'

@/PitStopChaos: Mara (Lizzie’s dog) growling at the TV somewhere, I just know it.

@/ChaosInTurn1: Not Lando making this interviewer question every life decision they’ve ever made.

@/F1Wifey: The way Lando did not let them frame epilepsy as some kind of obstacle for him. He kept the focus on Lizzie and how she handles it. That’s how you love someone.

@/WheelToWheelGirl: Lewis and Max backing him instantly?? No hesitation?? It’s the kind of solidarity we love to see.

@/EpilepsyAdvocacy: The amount of people acting like epilepsy makes someone unworthy of love and stability is disgusting. Thank you, Lando, for not entertaining that nonsense.

@/RacingLogic: No one is saying he shouldn’t love her, but c’mon, it’s a fair question. F1 drivers have insane schedules.

@/ToxicMcLarenFan: Lando could’ve just said ‘we manage it well’ and moved on instead of acting like the interviewer just insulted his ancestors.

@/SilverstoneElite: I get that he’s in love or whatever, but acting like this isn’t a factor in his career is just naive.

@/PaddockInsider: Bet McLaren wishes they could tell him to not be so public about this. Sponsors might not like the drama.

@/PitLaneDrama: The moment Lando said ‘logistics?’ I felt the temperature in that room drop.

@/FIAConspiracyTheories: Can’t wait for the Netflix edit where they make it look like this ruined Lando’s season.

@/FastAndFearless: The way he shut that down so fast? He’s not just defending Lizzie, he’s making it very clear that ableism won’t be tolerated.

@/EpilepsyAwareness: Public figures treating epilepsy like a burden is so common. Seeing Lando refuse to play into that narrative means so much.

@/DriveItLikeItsHot: ’Life is unpredictable. That’s not a reason to not love someone.’ I AM SOBBING IN THE CLUB.

@/McLarenMadness: This interviewer really expected Lando to go, 'Yeah, you’re right, I should probably dump her' ???

@/F1GirlfriendGoals: Lando: ‘She makes my life better.’ Me: Crying in single.

@/CasualF1Fan: That interviewer woke up and chose ableism live on air and Lando was having NONE of it.

@/PurelyObjective: Lando’s getting defensive over nothing. It was a logistics question, not a personal attack.

@/UnbotheredMcLarenFan: I feel like this was an overreaction? He could’ve just said, ‘We make it work’ and moved on.

@/StrictlyBusiness: If you don’t think sponsors consider things like this, you’re naive. This is a discussion, whether you like it or not.

@/MaxFanButConfused: McLaren PR must be watching this with their heads in their hands like 'oh god, here we go again.'

@/MaxRageMode: Lando really said “You’re not gonna get the soundbite you want.

@/LandoSimps: Lando is so in love with Lizzie. He didn’t even hesitate before going to war for her.

@/WAGsInFormation: That interviewer really tried to frame epilepsy as a reason not to love someone. What year is it??

@/PaddockSpice: If looks could kill, Max and Lewis would’ve been the co-conspirators in The Murder of the Silverstone Interviewer.

@/FIAClownShow: If you listen closely, you can hear the exact moment McLaren PR started hyperventilating. @/McLarenPanicDepartment: “DO YOU EVER THINK ABOUT WHETHER BEING WITH HER IS SUSTAINABLE??” Bro. That is insane to say out loud.

@/MaraForPresident: Mara better be getting so many extra treats for emotionally supporting Lizzie through this.

Is Lando Norris’ Relationship Hurting His Brand? By: James Carter, The Racing Report

When Lando Norris stormed to yet another podium at Silverstone, the home crowd erupted in cheers. The young Brit is one of Formula 1’s most promising stars—charming, talented, and a marketing goldmine. But while his on-track performance continues to impress, his off-track choices are raising eyebrows.

Namely, his relationship with fantasy author Lizzie Treshton.

It’s no secret that Formula 1 drivers tend to date models, influencers, and celebrities—women who embody the glamorous, jet-set lifestyle that comes with being in the pinnacle of motorsport. Treshton, by contrast, is an author of romantasy novels, a niche genre that, while popular, hardly screams luxury brand ambassador. More concerning, however, is the ongoing discourse surrounding her epilepsy, her service dog, and the apparent PR nightmare that comes with dating someone so fundamentally unaligned with the F1 image.

Let’s be honest—Lando Norris’ schedule is relentless. Grand Prix weekends involve constant travel, late nights, high-intensity racing, and overwhelming media obligations. In short, it’s not an environment suited to someone with a medical condition like epilepsy. While Norris has passionately defended his girlfriend against critics, one has to ask: is this sustainable?

It’s an uncomfortable question, but a necessary one. Relationships require compromise, and when one partner’s lifestyle is inherently at odds with the other’s career, problems arise. Norris insists that Treshton’s epilepsy “isn’t hard” for him, but realistically, how could it not be? He’s bringing her into an environment full of flashing lights, loud noises, and extreme stress—hardly ideal conditions for someone with a neurological disorder.

Beyond the logistics, there’s also the question of image. McLaren has spent years cultivating Norris as an approachable yet aspirational figure, a brand-friendly athlete with widespread appeal. That image is now being dragged into online firestorms, as Norris’ fanbase—usually one of the most engaged and loyal in motorsport—has become divided.

While Norris and Treshton’s relationship may be personal, in F1, nothing is truly private. The controversy surrounding Treshton has only intensified in recent weeks, from heated online debates to Norris’ now-viral post-race interview where he shut down a journalist for asking if her condition made his career harder. While some fans saw his response as commendable, others questioned why such discussions were necessary in the first place.

One thing is clear: Treshton is not a neutral presence in Norris’ career. Her online presence, her outspoken defense against critics, and even her service dog (yes, a Labrador now features in Norris’ F1 orbit) have sparked endless debates. The internet discourse isn’t just about Norris’ driving anymore—it’s about her.

And that’s the problem.

Lando Norris is 25 years old, at the peak of his career, and one of the most marketable drivers in Formula 1. The last thing he needs is unnecessary distractions. His fans adore him, his sponsors invest millions in him, and McLaren is banking on him to lead the team into its next championship era.

But in a sport where image is everything, is he making the right personal choices?

Time will tell. But one thing is certain: this relationship isn’t just about romance—it’s about reputation. And Lando Norris may soon have to decide which one matters more.

Comments:

@/F1Fangirl88: Imagine thinking a woman having epilepsy is a ‘PR nightmare.’ This article is disgusting.

@/PaddockInsider69: They have a point. F1 is a demanding career, and Lizzie’s health issues aren’t exactly an easy thing to manage. It’s a fair question.

@/McLaren4Life: Lizzie is literally just existing and these guys are acting like she’s some kind of controversy. Lando loves her. That should be the end of the discussion.

@/BrandManagerAnon: Lando is a brand, whether fans like it or not. And Lizzie is making that brand messy. This isn’t about love—it’s about business.

@/MaxFan_33: So women in F1 can only be models or influencers? God forbid a man date someone smart and successful in her own field.

@/EpilepsyAwarenessUK: The ableism is off the charts. Having epilepsy doesn’t make you a burden or a liability. It’s a medical condition, not a PR scandal.

@/McLarenPRRep: F1 is a high-profile world. Not every girlfriend can handle it, and honestly, Lizzie brings more drama than she’s worth.

@/FastCarsHotGirls: No offense but Lando could have literally any woman in the world and he chooses some nerdy author? Make it make sense.

@/WDC_OrNothing: Not saying she’s bad for him, but you do have to wonder if all this online drama is a distraction.

@/AntiRomantasyClub: Her books are cringe, she has zero charisma, and now she’s bringing a dog into the paddock? Lando deserves better.

@/GeorgeRussellThirstClub: This is why we don’t let men write articles.

@/MaraTheLabradorFan: DELETE THIS ARTICLE OR MARA WILL FIND YOU.

@/F1HotTakeKing: Not saying Lando should break up with her, but is he really thinking long-term? He’s 25, at his peak—does he want to spend his prime years worrying about his girlfriend’s medical issues?

@/GridGossip101: Look, we all love a good romance story, but let’s be real—Lizzie doesn’t exactly scream ‘F1 Girlfriend Material.’ She’s not glamorous, she doesn’t do grid walks, she’s not a model or an influencer. What does she bring to the table?

@/PRGuruAnon: If I were Lando’s management, I’d be deeply concerned. Fans love a cute WAG, but when your girlfriend starts trending for all the wrong reasons, that’s bad optics. Epilepsy is tragic, but F1 is about strength, not struggle.

@/RealTalkMotorsport: Lando’s brand is cool, fun, and youthful. Lizzie’s brand is book nerd who doesn’t even like clubbing or gaming. It’s like watching someone date their high school librarian.

@/GridRumorsDaily: Lando is a professional athlete in peak physical condition. Can we talk about how unfair it is that he’s dating someone who might not always be able to support his lifestyle? Relationships are a two-way street.

@/AnonymousPaddockInsider: Not saying McLaren should step in, but if I were Zak Brown, I’d be strongly advising Lando to rethink his public image. This isn’t just dating—this is business.

@/F1ImageConsultant: F1 is about performance, speed, and excellence. Lizzie’s whole vibe is soft, bookish, and… honestly kinda boring. This isn’t a good match.

@/GridGirlsAndGlamour: Look at the top WAGs—models, influencers, businesswomen. Lizzie writes fantasy books and brings a dog to races. Is this really the standard now?

@/AlphaMaleMotorsport: Men in high-performance careers need high-performance partners. I’m sorry, but a woman with a chronic illness and a stack of romance novels isn’t it.

@/RedBullInsider69: Lizzie being here is cute for now, but let’s see how long it lasts. We all know these drivers eventually upgrade.

YouTube Transcript – The Apex Take Episode 236

Hosts: Mark Daniels and Ryan Foley Title: Lando’s Girlfriend: Not a Model, Not an Asset?

Mark Daniels: All right, boys, let’s talk about Lando Norris and his, uh… let’s call it an interesting taste in women. (leans back, smirks)

Ryan Foley: Oh yeah, the one who writes those, what is it, fantasy romance books? (raises eyebrow, glances at notes like he can’t believe this is real)

Mark Daniels: Yeah, yeah, the “romantasy” or whatever they call it. (laughs, shaking head) Fae warriors and soulmates and—dude, I read a summary of one, and I swear it’s like a fever dream for lonely cat ladies.

Ryan Foley: (snorting) Right? Like, Lando could have anyone. Models, actresses, influencers—the kind of women you usually see around F1. (gestures vaguely, as if motioning to an imaginary lineup of supermodels) And instead, he’s with some chick who writes books about fairy kings and, what, magical smut?

Mark Daniels: Listen, I’m sure she’s a nice girl, (mockingly raises hands in defense) but let’s be honest—she doesn’t really fit the F1 WAG mold, does she?

Ryan Foley: (blinks slowly, smirks) Not at all. I mean, no offense, but when you think of an F1 driver’s girlfriend, you picture a certain kind of woman. You know, glamorous, stylish, jet-setting with him to every race. (shrugs, leans forward like he’s about to drop some deep wisdom) And instead, this one’s at home writing… whatever the hell she writes. And she’s definitely not doing runway shows in Monaco, let’s put it that way.

Mark Daniels: Yeah, I saw people trying to hype her up like, “She’s so successful in her own right!” (air quotes, exaggerated eye roll) But let’s be real, man—she writes books for teenagers who want to date elves. That’s not exactly Victoria’s Secret material. (laughs under breath)

Ryan Foley: And let’s not even get into the whole epilepsy thing. (leans back, crosses arms like he’s about to say something so reasonable) Like, I don’t wanna be that guy, but dude, how is that not a problem for Lando? The guy’s a professional athlete, constantly traveling, constantly under pressure—does he really need the extra stress? (shakes head, looking “concerned”)

Mark Daniels: That’s what I don’t get. I mean, yeah, he says it’s not a big deal, but come on. (tilts head, voice dripping with skepticism) She’s had seizures before! What happens if she has one in the middle of a flight? Or during a huge race weekend? (shrugs like he’s just being “practical”)

Ryan Foley: (leans closer, like he’s breaking it down logically) Exactly! Look, I get that he’s into her, but at some point, you have to wonder if it’s practical. Dating in F1 isn’t normal dating. These guys don’t have time for relationships that require a ton of extra effort. (shakes head, gesturing like it’s just common sense) And you know there are plenty of women who’d make his life easier.

Mark Daniels: (laughs, shaking head again) Right? Like, dude, you’re one of the most eligible bachelors in motorsport. You don’t have to date someone who writes about magical fae prince soulmates. You could just… I don’t know, date an actual model? (mock-thinks, looking up at the ceiling like it’s a groundbreaking idea)

Ryan Foley: It’s wild, man. (scoffs, shakes head) The guy’s got millions of options, and he’s out here choosing a book nerd with a health condition. Make it make sense.

Mark Daniels: Hey, maybe he’s just a nice guy. (grins, barely hiding the condescension) Or maybe he’s in too deep and doesn’t realize it yet.

Ryan Foley: We’ll see how long it lasts. (leans back, smirking like he knows something everyone else doesn’t)

Comments:

@/F1HotTakes: Imagine dedicating an hour-long podcast to making fun of a woman who’s literally more successful than you. Y’all really sat down and said, ‘Let’s embarrass ourselves today.’

@/BookishF1Fan: Lizzie Treshton is a New York Times bestselling author with a global fanbase, and these guys run a podcast with 12 listeners and a ring light from Amazon. Maybe let’s not act like she’s the one who’s out of place here?

@/SpeedDemon99: So we’re just gonna pretend women in F1 HAVE to be models or influencers now? God forbid a driver dates someone with a real career.

@/FaeQueenLizzie: This is so funny because Lizzie’s books sell millions of copies. Like, she could probably buy their entire podcast setup with a week’s worth of royalties. They’re out here roasting her while she’s out-earning them in her sleep

@/McLaren4Life: The fact that they’re talking about ‘practical’ dating like Lando’s supposed to choose his girlfriend based on convenience… bro, it’s his relationship, not a logistics issue for DHL.

@/EpilepsyAwareness: I don’t wanna be that guy, BUT—’ Congrats, you’re exactly that guy. Imagine thinking epilepsy makes someone unworthy of love. Clown behavior.

@/F1Fanatic23: The misogyny, the ableism, the absolute lack of self-awareness… this podcast really has it all. Can’t wait for Lando to ignore their existence while winning podiums.

@/RealTalkF1: Look, they could’ve phrased it better, but they’re not wrong. Lando’s lifestyle is crazy—dating someone with a serious medical condition is complicated.

@/BigManRacing: Why is everyone mad? They just said what people were already thinking. Lizzie doesn’t fit the usual WAG mold. That’s just facts.

@/TruthHurts: Everyone’s so sensitive. Not every comment about a woman is misogyny. They weren’t even being that harsh.

@/WAGsAreForModels: It’s called having standards. F1 drivers date models and actresses, not some chick who writes about elf sex. Be serious.

@/LandoDeservesBetter69: Not to be rude, but they’re kinda right. Lando could have literally anyone. Why settle?

@/NoMoreNepotism: Bet she only got famous because of Lando. No one was talking about her books before this. Typical clout-chaser behavior.

@/F1BookClub: Imagine being so insecure that you need to dunk on a woman who’s objectively more successful than you. Anyway, y’all should read An Autumn of Fire and Stone. Great book, would recommend.

@/LandoFan14: Lando: actually in love with Lizzie These guys: ‘But why isn’t she a model?’ Get a life, man.

YouTube Transcript – Full Throttle & Fiction, Episode 32

Hosts: Tessa Lane & Jamie Foster

Title: Lando Norris, Lizzie Treshton & The Romantasy/F1 Crossover of Our Dreams

(Podcast intro music plays, fading out as the hosts settle in.)

Tessa Lane: Okay, listen. I know we’re all still emotionally recovering from this revelation, but we need to talk about how we are actually living in a dream crossover event.

Jamie Foster: We’re talking “Marvel meets Star Wars” level of unexpected but completely legendary crossover. Lando Norris, F1’s beloved chaos gremlin, is dating Lizzie Treshton, queen of romantasy and the woman who has personally ruined our lives with her books. (clutches chest dramatically)

Tessa Lane: I still can’t believe this is real. Like, my two completely separate hyperfixations just decided to collide and make the internet combust.

Jamie Foster: (laughing) Same. I’m still trying to process it. Like, I spent years sobbing over her books, and now I find out she’s dating an F1 driver? And not just any F1 driver, but Lando Freaking Norris?

Tessa Lane: It’s actually the funniest thing ever because Lizzie—who writes about tragic, brooding fae princes and fated soulmates—is out here dating the human embodiment of a golden retriever. (laughs)

Jamie Foster: (grinning) And you just know that she’s mentally rewriting Lando as some kind of mischievous trickster fae lord who causes problems on purpose but in, like, a deeply endearing way.

Tessa Lane: Oh, 1000%. The next book she writes? The love interest is going to have “chaotic, drives really fast, makes bad jokes, but is secretly a sweetheart” energy. And we’ll all just know.

Jamie Foster: (mock serious) Lizzie, blink twice if Lando has started pitching plot ideas.

Tessa Lane: No, but actually. And can we talk about how people doubted her success? Like, some people were actually out here like, “Who is she?” as if this woman isn’t a New York Times bestselling author with millions of copies sold worldwide. (shakes head in disappointment)

Jamie Foster: Like, be serious. She’s out here building fantasy empires, and people want to act like she’s just some random? No, babes, she’s the moment. Some of us have been in the trenches with her books for years. We have suffered. We have cried. We have made fanart at 3 a.m. in emotional distress.

Tessa Lane: Her Twitter alone should’ve told people she was going to be a menace to the F1 world. She’s been unhinged for years, and now she has paddock access and a platform? We’ve already won.

Jamie Foster: Oh, she is going to thrive in this environment. Like, imagine her at a Grand Prix, just casually tweeting something like, “The real battle today is Charles vs. Carlos, but if either of them crash, I am writing them into my next book as cursed lovers destined for war.”

Tessa Lane: (wheezing) No, but let’s talk about the most important part of this entire situation—Mara. Lizzie’s Labrador service dog, aka the only WAG that matters.

Jamie Foster: Mara is a cultural reset. This dog is already more famous than half the grid. Like, she has fan edits. She has fan accounts. I saw someone tweet, “Mara could win a championship before Ferrari at this rate,” and I haven’t known peace since.

Tessa Lane: (mock gasps) Speaking of Ferrari… LIZZIE. IS. A. FERRARI. FAN. And not just casually. Like, she’s been ride or die for Ferrari since childhood. She’s a full-on Tifosi.

Jamie Foster: I just need to know… did she absolutely lose her mind when Lewis Hamilton announced he was moving to Ferrari? Did she faint? Did she ascend? Did she write a 10,000-word emotional essay about how this is the greatest thing to ever happen to the sport? Because I feel like she did.

Tessa Lane: Oh, she definitely had a meltdown. Like, I just imagine Lando coming home and finding her sitting in complete silence, staring at a Ferrari poster, just whispering, “Seven-time world champion. In red.”

Jamie Foster: (laughing) And meanwhile, Lando’s standing there like, “So… you’re gonna support me at McLaren, right?” And Lizzie just does not answer.

Tessa Lane: (grinning) She’s just like, “Babe, I love you, but this is bigger than us.”

Jamie Foster: Honestly, this entire thing is the best thing to happen to F1 pop culture in years. Final thoughts?

Tessa Lane: Lizzie Treshton is an icon. Lando is lucky. Mara is royalty. And the romantasy x F1 crossover is the serotonin boost we all needed.

Jamie Foster: Couldn’t have said it better myself. Now, everyone go pre-order Lizzie’s next book and prepare for the chaos she’s about to unleash in the paddock. (blows kiss to camera, grinning)

(Outro music fades in as the episode ends.)

Comments:

@/FaerieQueen89: I swear I opened this video thinking, “No way, this crossover is real,” and now I’m emotionally INVESTED. Lizzie Treshton writing romantasy by day and attending McLaren garage debriefs by night is the kind of duality I aspire to.

@/Mara4WDC: Mara being the first Labrador to achieve WAG status is actually the most important part of this. Somebody get her a tiny team jacket and a paddock pass.

@/TifosiTears: “Babe, I love you, but this is bigger than us.” SCREAMING The fact that Lizzie is a lifelong Ferrari fan and her fave driver is Lewis Hamilton makes this 1000x funnier. Lando fighting for his life against her deeply rooted Ferrari loyalty.

@/BookishChaos: Can’t wait for Lizzie’s next book where the broody, fae warrior prince just happens to have suspiciously Lando-esque traits. Like, “his eyes gleamed with mischief as he smirked, trouble always one step behind him.”

@/CertifiedMcLarenMenace: Lando: “You’re supporting me at McLaren, right?” Lizzie: intensely staring at a Ferrari poster “Seven-time world champion. In red.”

@/F1AndFantasyForever: I was today years old when I realized my two greatest hyperfixations could actually merge into one chaotic, beautiful mess. We are LIVING in the golden age.

@/ElvenKissesAndRaceCars: Romantasy book fans: crying over soulmates and prophecy-driven love stories F1 fans: crying over tire degradation and strategy calls Me, now realizing I can be BOTH: SOBBING IN ITALIAN

@/MaraStan69: Mara supremacy. She’s the real main character. Lizzie and Lando are just side quests in her journey to world domination.

@/LandoPlsConfirm: I need Lando to address this IMMEDIATELY. Does he know his girlfriend’s books have emotionally destroyed half the internet? Does he know we have trauma?

@/ChaosGremlinXL: I came for the F1 gossip. I stayed because now I need to read every book Lizzie has ever written.

@/MaxForMara: Someone please put Mara in a Ferrari cap so we can confirm which team she supports. This is IMPORTANT.

@/McLarenBookClub: If you had told me last year that one of the most successful romantasy authors on the planet would be dating Lando Norris, I would have laughed. And yet, here we are. The crossover NOBODY predicted, but EVERYONE needed.

@/FaerieTalesAndFastLaps: Lizzie going from writing about fae warriors to sitting in the McLaren garage like it’s totally normal… Ma’am, are you aware you are LIVING in a fantasy novel? The girl with epilepsy who was never supposed to have this life, thriving in a world of speed, chaos, and international fame. Like, GIVE US THE BOOK.

@/WitchesAndWheelTracks: Me: “I don’t have time for a new hyperfixation.” Also me: scrolling through every single Lizzie Treshton tweet and trying to find evidence of Lando references in her books

@/RedBullButMakeItRomantasy: The way she could write a book about the F1 grid as if they were a fantasy court and it would SELL. Max as the battle-worn fae king. Lando as the mischievous prince who never takes things seriously until he does. Charles as the tragic heir with a prophecy on his shoulders. IT WRITES ITSELF.

@/TifosiTrash: Lando really fell for a girl who would 1000% choose Ferrari in a heartbeat. The irony is delicious.

@/JustHereForMara: Mara being the unexpected star of this relationship is something I deeply respect. She’s not just a service dog, she’s a cultural icon.

@/RomantasyAndRacing: Lizzie fans: “She has changed our lives with her writing.” F1 fans: “She has changed our lives by making Lando’s life infinitely funnier.”

@/IlPredestinatoWife: CAN WE TALK ABOUT THE FACT THAT LIZZIE MET LEWIS HAMILTON. THIS WOMAN HAS BEEN A FERRARI FAN HER WHOLE LIFE. HER FAVORITE DRIVER IS LEWIS. DID SHE CRY? DID SHE PANIC? LANDO, GIVE US THE BEHIND-THE-SCENES.

@/ElvenQueenOfSpa: This woman has had multiple New York Times bestsellers, a legendary romantasy series, a loyal fanbase that would riot for her… and now she’s dating one of the biggest names in F1. She is the moment.

@/Gasly’sCroissant: Does this mean Lando is now legally required to read her books? I need this man live-reacting to An Autumn of Fire and Stone.

@/MaraForPaddockPass: Mara needs a tiny headset. I need Lando to carry her into the paddock like the royalty she is.

@/ChaosGoblinV2: Lando: “Babe, can you come to my race?” Lizzie: in a Ferrari shirt, holding a Lewis Hamilton book “Uhhhhh….”

@/KnightOfMcLaren: Her books are all about fate, destiny, and soulmates. I need to know if she secretly believes she and Lando are fated. I NEED ANSWERS.

@/SoftForSoulmates: Lando and Lizzie being a thing is proof that life is just a long, weird fantasy novel and we are all side characters.

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achillesisnotcomingdown · 3 months ago

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How I think the Achaean kings would drive, based purely on their vibes

Agammenon : he drives a BMW. (If you're not familiar with BMW drivers (lucky you) then let's just say he thinks owning the biggest car = owning the road.)

Achilles : speed limit and traffic lights are merely suggestions. He drove against traffic for most of the ride. He took at least 5 closed roads. He outran 2 different police cars. You feared for your life the whole time but you arrived early so its a win???

Odysseus : "don't worry ik a shortcut" but it takes you 3h to do 60km. It's not his fault, he's not actually a bad driver, he just has the worst luck ever. The road he planned to take is closed for some reason so he has to go by the countryside and then his phone dies and he gets stopped by police 3 times for random controls and then he-

Patroclus : very sporty and fast driving style. Kind of like Achilles, but less intense. He's pretty chill until someone pisses him off (you should fear his road rage)

Menelaus : actually the most normal driver out here. He likes to listen to music when he drives. I don't have much to say he's just some guy (good for him!)

Diomedes : so scary. You are terrified on the passenger side seat you can't even be mad at him bc technically he did nothing illegal (somehow.)

Nestor : a radio. No matter where he goes he will pass by a location and go "oh did you know that I used to come here for..." And then he's going for hours. Also I feel like he insults a lot other drivers.

#tag yourself im Nestor #the iliad #diomedes #tagamemnon #achilles #odysseus #homer #the odyssey #agamemnon #nestor #Patroclus #menelaus

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blackbirdsblackberries · 8 months ago

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I Hate The New Hero!

Pt 5: What?!

Pt 1 - Pt 2 - Pt 3 - Pt 4 - Pt 5 (You're here) - Pt 6 - Pt 7 - Pt 8 - Pt 9 - Pt 10

Finally getting home from your patrol you sneak through the window of your bedroom and collapse onto your bed. After the call you decided that your patrol was done.

Frankly you're still coming to terms with the fact that Batman and his protogese are the same people who are essentially praying on your civilian self's downfall yet adoring your vigilante persona like it's the greatest thing in the world.

Though, now that you really think about it, it makes sense. Bruce Wayne is the richest man alive, he'd be able to afford to do this, they have the same amount of members as the heroes, same builds and heights, actually... Basically everything matches up.

Not to mention the fact that your senses goes off around both group members!

From outside your small room door you hear your parents arguing again - more like your mother yelling and your dad breaking things and stomping his foot. It was probably your dad's fault again. Don't get you wrong, you love your family! It's just that they're dysfunctional.

Your dad has a massive drinking problem that landed him working as a goon for Black Mask, he's struggled with his temper for years after he got hit a bit too hard in the head by Batman. Pair that with the fact that he's mute and he's a force to be reckoned with.

Your mom is always busy and rarely ever home, when she is she couldn't be bothered to interact with you unless you got into trouble. She grew up rich, often talking about how she went to the same school as Bruce Wayne and how she was a popular cheerleader before her life fell apart. She doesn't talk much on the topic but it's clear she holds distain for your father and, by extension, you.

You sigh to yourself, you need to shower. That means you need to get past them without them bringing you into it. Or you just don't shower for the night and have one tomorrow...

Your mom screams something out about not throwing knives and you decide to just shower tomorrow morning.

You change out of your costume and hide it safely under a loose floorboard, you change into your pajamas and get into bed. Today was a massive mental drain and physical drain.

...

You awake to a knock at the front door. Your parents usually ignore it and make you answer when someone knocks because "you're dispensable" as they say. Looking at the clock on the wall of the kitchen you see it's around 7am.

Groggily making your way to the door you look through the peep hole and see Tim standing awkwardly on the other side with a guy next to him, the guy next to him being so big and tall that you could only see a small part of his chest and arm.

You curse to yourself quietly, this is by far the worst luck you've ever had.

You open the door and look at the two. Now seeing the other guy the thing that stands out is a stripe of white hair on his head. Instantly you know it's Jason Todd.

You aren't an idiot. He's the only one in the family built like how he is - not including Bruce.

"What do you want?" You ask, annoyed. Tim chuckles weakly, as if nervous. "Wayne Enterprises wishes to give your mother her letter of departure." You blink once, then twice. "Huh? Letter of departure? The fuck does that mean?" You mutter, genuinely confused.

Jason scoffs, "it means your dear mother is losing her job, kid." He states uncaring of how blunt he's being. Tim elbows him and hisses something about being more considerate.

You don't listen, all noise becoming white noise. Why is she being fired? She works hard, she dedicates her time, she does her best! Is this because you have beef with Tim? That's not fair!

She's the only stable source of income, without that job you all would be living on the streets. You've heard AND seen so many horror stories about teens living on the streets, it's something you'd pray never happened to you. But now it's entirely probable.

So, in a moment of desperation you grip Tim by his shoulders "Please! You can't fire her! We'll end up homeless! She works all the time, she tries! My mother will improve if you ask, she needs this job. The whole family does!"

Tim seems shocked by this, his posture stiffening. Jason looks on guard, as if assessing whether he should step in, though he doesn't seem fond of the idea. You wouldn't doubt that he was made to accompany Tim as a body guard.

Tim opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. Clearly he wasn't expecting you to beg for your mother to keep her job.

"Uh... Look, I don't mean any harm by it, it's just that we need to make way for brighter minds..." He stumbles slightly over his words as if making the excuse up on the spot.

You won't back down however. "Tim, please, I desperately need you to realize this. I. Will. Die. On. The. Streets." Probably not true because of your mutation but the fear remains. "Please, I'll do anything for you to not do this! I already promised Bruce to stop talking bad about Aranea!" You please desperately.

Tim glances to Jason who quirks a brow and shrugs. The sound of movement from behind you makes your eyes widen and behind you you see your dad approaching, you were probably too loud.

He glares at you before yanking your hair so you move away from Tim and remove your clutches on him. You hiss in pain at the feeling but bow your head down.

Your dad eyes the two boys before looking to the paper in Tim's hands. He instantly knows what's going on and storms down the hallways of the complex to do who-knows what. That scares you. Your dad is unpredictable.

After some silence Tim speaks up. "Are you okay? Your dad pulled your hair pretty tightly..." You look down, ashamed. You couldn't even bother putting your walls up and defending your pride. Your life is basically falling apart at the seams.

"... I'll do anything for you to not fire my mother..." You mutter meekly, a far cry from how you usually act, something Tim notices immediately. He sighs to himself, he debates the odds. Maybe if he doesn't fire (Reader)'s mother then they can be even. The feud can end, it was pointless on your part to begin with for hating someone so sweet and kind, then hating him who defends the innocent.

"Fine. Your mother can stay, but, it may not be permanent. I suggest she find elsewhere in the mean time." Tim states before walking off. Jason takes a second to stare at your relived form, the slight smile of disbelief and look of relief in your eyes. He then leaves with Tim.

You close the door to the apartment and sink to the floor. That was terrifying. You'll have find a way of telling your mother the news before she goes into work in two hours.

You're officially having the day off from school and patrol today.

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willyoubemycherryy · 9 months ago

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Last one standing..

Stanley Jobson x reader (neighbor!au)

𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜ଘ(˵╹-╹)━☆ 𝘍𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧 ＆ 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘶𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘢𝘭, 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘍𝘓𝘐𝘙𝘛𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘭𝘺, 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘦̂𝘹𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘴, 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘺, “𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺”𝘷𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘴, 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 -3- !!－， 𝘏𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘑𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭😭

𝑆𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦ଘ(˵╹-╹)━ ♡︎ 𝑂𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑛 𝑜𝑑𝑑 𝑜𝑛𝑒. 𝐻𝑒’𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑟𝑢𝑏𝑖𝑥 𝑐𝑢𝑏𝑒, 𝑏𝑜𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝑦𝑒𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑒𝑙𝑠𝑒．．．．𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 ℎ𝑒’𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑚 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝑜𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟．．．

@cherrywineisawaltz said something first😭

_ _𝐑𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐟𝐟.-_ 𝐩𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐨_/-𝐜.𝐨𝐧_𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐨}} 𝐧𝐨-/_.𝟐

.♥︎.

You couldn't give in. It felt like the legacy of damn near feminism itself was counting on you.

This was all HIS fault.

A frown creeps on your face as you recall what- or rather who seemed to coast in from Texas bringing not only himself but his unconventionalness with him while also single-handedly being responsible for the position you’re currently in. And to make matters worst, you hadn’t even done anything to catch his attention.

To your knowledge (the apartment grapevine) you’re one of the few strong soldiers still standing who haven’t fallen to his charms. You never thought you’d live to the day where you’d be mentally cursing a 6’3 man with short hair as messy as his life, unfairly bright under eyes, perfect teeth, dimples, the most clutchable forearms you’ve ever seen and eyebrows that just won’t quit.

Fucking Stanley Jobson.

You shake your head- no you’re not fucking Stan. Even though since about three and a half weeks ago, he’s been driving you crazy trying to get you to go out with him. The last time you saw him he was guaranteeing that “you’d have a great time pretty” and from the suggestive flick of his brow as he looked down at you, head tilted, you tried to fight the warmth crawling over your body at the picture his words painted you. It didn’t work though because almost immediately you were swarmed with images of him. Laying naked in Stanley’s bed, nails digging into his broad shoulders before raking down his equally sculpted back, big arms wrapped around you as he stretched you out, rolling his hips into your slick heat over and over moaning raggedly into your mouth-

Stan’s gentle questioning hum breaks you out of your daydream and you stare back dumbly into his eyes before taking a deep refreshing mind clearing breath of crisp completely sane air, giving him a tight smile, turning around and promptly getting the fuck out of there.

The more you avoided him, the more he seemed to haunt you. Physically and metaphorically.

Another incident was when you were using the complex’s washing machine. Usually you’d go to a different laundromat but it was pouring and you needed clean underwear. Again, thanks to your shit luck, you ran out of laundry detergent half way through and the free stuff was on some high ass shelves above the machines that you couldn’t climb because they were old as fuck and just as unsafe which left you to the tried and true method- tiptoes and jumping.

You still couldn’t reach and for some reason it filled you with such a rage that you consider knocking all the shit there over but before you could throw your fit, a large hand holds your waist along with a solid chest to your back while his other hand reaches up to grab the soap powder, placing it softly in your hands then resting his chin on your shoulder.

“How are you cute even when soap has you all pissy?” Stan huffs out an amused chuckle, the air tickling your cheek. You catch yourself rolling your eyes fondly, tilting your head back a little.

Maybe you could entertain him a bit.

Relaxing in his hold, you try to calm your racing heart. Stanley was so big and he smelled so good and you can’t even think about his voice and all the dirty things that would sound heavenly coming from him. Especially right now, standing pressed flush to him with no panties on under your shorts.

“That’s because I wasn’t getting pissy-“, another chuckle from Stan, “I was getting annoyed. The difference is key.” You retort sassily, feeling him nod on your shoulder. “Yeah, sure you were baby.” The petname makes your heart skip hard as heat blooms to your chest and you swallow. Goosebumps raise on your arms as Stanley rubs them up and down, softly humming as he does. You wish you were unaffected but unfortunately you need to stay strong.

Clearing your throat, you ask aloud: “what are you doing?” Stanley runs his hands up to your shoulders, applying firm pressure as he starts to massage the tension there. “Helping. This whole week whenever I saw you, you always looked so stressed…”

Qué?? Your brain shuts down and suddenly you have a second heartbeat as the hottest man you’ve ever come in contact has your resolve crumbling by the second. His thumbs drag across a particularly sore part of muscle and a relieved gasp spills from your throat. “I- yeah?” You say, trying to concentrate but the deep hum in your ear scatters your thoughts again, Stanley clouding your senses.

“Yeah…and y’know I could fix that..help you relax..” His low voice trails off but god you know exactly what he means, biting your lip to keep from accepting immediately. You should stop. Back up off him and come up with some nonsensical excuse to leave before you kiss him but you don’t. Instead you ask-

“…how?”

You won’t repeat the things he whispered in your ear.

Only that they had you running back to your place to do something- anything to distract you from the ache between your legs,leaving your laundry altogether.

Okay, so maybe you shouldn’t have flirt back but experience is important. Now you know that letting the stupidly built man you’re fighting tooth and nail to resist hold you is a bad idea. You live and you learn.

But….all these encounters are starting to take a toll on you and Stanley is wearing you down. You can’t recall when he even started to be this big of a problem for you. When he first moved in, you didn’t see him much but heard a lot. Excited talk about some gorgeous guy and disputes over if he had the perfect nerd or fireman look until you saw him and understanding dawned on you. You won’t lie, there was no point: he was fine. Standing in grey adidas track pants with a tight sleeveless tank as he helped an elderly lady carry her things to the elevator with a effortlessly gracious smile but from then on you decided that was it. Guys like Mr. ‘Pregnancy is only 9 months’ were nothing but trouble. Plus seeing just about all the women in the building vying for his attention, you knew what you weren’t going to do: him. Until you see him one night standing in front of the mailboxes holding a childrens drawing with a look so sad it made you mourn with him. Walking to him like reflex, placing your hand on his arm.

“I don’t know who she is but I’m sure she understands.”

A longing sigh leaves Stanley’s lips and he’s silent for a beat. “…she- Holly- is 10. I had to send her away again this week. We talk and stuff but my work always has me runnin’ off somewhere n’ that’s hard n’just…”, there’s another sigh and you know what he means because you miss your own folks sometimes too, “I miss her. I don’t want her to think she’s not apart of me because we’re not always together.” First step to comforting someone: don’t cry. But damn, you feel bad for him. You rub his arm in soothing motions, nodding gently. “Well technically, you aren’t apart. She’s in your blood, you’re not a lonely man.”

The way Stan snapped his head down at you, staring into your eyes with a tender look was definitely the first warning but did you listen? No, all you do is stare back before softly bidding him goodnight. Leaving behind your perfume and the warmth of your hand.

After then, he was steadily more different towards you. More open, even more charming, always calling you some kind of petname, giving you borderline obscene compliments, “lookin’ good enough to eat sugar” he cooed at you as you passed him on the way to your flat just this week but you willed yourself not to go there with him. If you were any other woman, you’d have bit his dust a long time ago. Hell, you know a plethora of women who already did which leads to what do you do now? You’re both getting closer but you’re trying to stay friends. If you start, it might never end so you keep tiptoeing..

Solid knocks at your door break you out of your brooding, slightly confused because you didn’t order anything and you weren’t expecting company. Padding over to the door, you swing it open and your eyes widen as your heart leaps up your throat. Stanley stands looking as yummy as ever smiling down at you. His shoulders seem even broader and you can’t think clearly with his aftershave in your face.

Fuck your life and the horse it rode in on.

Suppressing a deeply inconvenienced sigh, you grin tightly at him. “Yes Stanley?” The sound of his name from you makes his already glowing face positively blinding. “You and me, 7:30 tonight. Let’s paint the town. What do ya say sweetheart?”

“What about Holly?”

As if summoned, you hear the little things voice from way down the hall and you poke your head out to see her. She’s all toothy grins, waving excitedly as she poorly holds a familiar looking puppy with one arm. “Emmie and me are having a slumber party tonight! And look! Isn’t he cute?!” She explains before thrusting the dog forward and while cute, you do feel bad for him because that can’t be comfortable. Emmie is the daughter of one of the military men next door. You see them around and they’re always nice. Just as quickly as she appeared, she’s gone again, back in the door to go play with her friend. A soft laugh leaves you as you turn to look at Stanley but he’s already looking at you. And closer. You gulp.

“Well, I would but-“

“Scared you’re gonna have fun?”

His playful jab riles you up in the way that’s always been easy for him because it’s him and you rush to wipe the smirk off his aesthetically pleasing face. “Actually I’m scared you won’t be able to keep up with me. Because I’m so much fun.” Stanley looks stunned for a second before chuckling lowly, biting his lip as he nods slowly and the air shifts. “How are you so sure I can’t keep up if you don’t give me a chance?” The air feels hotter and you roll your shoulders to try and shake it off but the images are back and it’s so not your fault. Stanley gets closer. “If anything…,” his breath washes over your face like mint and lemon sweet tea, “you’ll be breaking to keep up with me.”

Oh.

“And say if I can’t? Do you go find someone who’s more your speed?” You ask coyly, going for a different approach entirely so you don’t yank him to your lips. “No, I help you keep up. For as long as you’ll let me.”

That’s it.

Silently, you back up a few steps into your apartment because you know he’ll follow you. When he does, you motion to the door with your hand and Stan looks amused but closes it anyways, coming to stand in front of you when you crook your finger for him to come closer.

Burly arms wrap around your midsection, pulling you completely against him and it feels so good you’re dizzy, reaching up to loop your arms around his neck but Stanley’s height makes it hard and you groan. Knowing how you can get (laundry incident) Stan lifts you, arm around your waist with the other hand splayed across your ass then your legs around his waist. The feel of his warm muscles under you make you throb and suddenly breathing is slightly harder. Biting your lip, you run your hands up his corded neck then back down to his wide chest, letting your imagination run wild. Stanley just lets you as he clears his throat to get your attention.

“You wantin’ something from me, baby?” You would have said something smart back but you don’t have it in you. Instead, “just kiss me already-“ and then your mouth is immediately consumed by his.

Like the rest of him, his lips are warm and you’re already burning up, moaning the second he slots his mouth over yours, sending shivers down your spine as he licks along the seam of your lips, making you tighten your legs around him and kiss him even harder.

Stanley groans at your rough sucking at his bottom lip before licking hotly into your mouth. Tilting his head to deepen the kiss, groaning when you immediately follow his mouth. His tongue coaxes yours into his, languidly sucking at the wet muscle and a sharp jolt of arousal lights through your body making you melt down, dripping from your cunt, soaking your underwear and the desire to be naked becomes an urgent need. The wet smack of your kissing makes you both heady as your grind yourself on his abs, gasping wetly at the friction and you tug the hem of his shirt with a needy whine, needing it off yesterday.

To your dismay, Stan pulls off from the slick of your mouth, licking hot kisses down the sensitive skin of your neck before dragging you slowly down his body, watching with blown pupils as your pouty mouth drops open when your clit catches on every ridge of his stomach and the tent of his erection through your tiny shorts, until you’re set back on your feet, glaring at him. He pecks you on the lips to soothe you but you’re feisty. “I’m hard, you’re hard. Why’d we stop?” You look like you’re seconds away from stomping your foot in annoyance and laughing at the petulance in your voice will only frustrate you further so he stamps it down, taking your hands in his.

“Because, we need to go on our date first.” You pout despite the warmth in your cheeks and nod. “Right. Tonight at 7:30.” This time he does laugh, the sound making you smile as he nods. Bringing your knuckles to his lips to kiss them, then your cheek. “You got it, pretty.”

You walk him to the door and motion him down, kissing him sweetly one more time, bathed in the warm way he looks at you.

“See you then…”

It ended up being the best date of your life.

#hugh jackman #hear me out #Wolverine #wolverine x reader #logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #hugh jackman x reader #stanley jobson #Stanley jobson x reader #logan howlett fluff #logan howlett smut #wolverine fluff #wolverine smut #swordfish

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magical-reid · 2 months ago

Note

could i pretty please request prompt #18 with spencer reid and a forensic scientist reader? would be super duper cool if she was part of the bones (tv show) crew, as i’ve always thought them and cm should have done a crossover. thanks!! ❤️

The Science of Luck

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Word Count: 1K

Prompt: 18: "I thought I had the worst luck, until I met you"

Summary: Dr. Spencer Reid, a staunch skeptic of luck, finds himself questioning his beliefs after an encounter with a clumsy forensic scientist, who joins the BAU team on a challenging case. Despite their initial bickering and contrasting expertise, the two begin to form an unlikely partnership while investigating a serial killer, leading to a surprising and potentially life-changing connection.

Dr. Spencer Reid didn’t believe in luck. Probability? Sure. Coincidence? Of course. But luck? That was just a cognitive bias humans relied on to explain randomness.

Yet, as he stood ankle-deep in Virginia mud, his pristine pants ruined, watching as yet another forensic scientist nearly slipped and took out an entire evidence table, he found himself reconsidering.

“I thought I had the worst luck,” he muttered, barely dodging a flying clipboard, “until I met you.”

The forensic scientist in question—you—wobbled but managed to right yourself before disaster struck. You shot him a glare as you readjusted your Jeffersonian ID badge. “Not my fault this crime scene is a swamp. And it’s not luck, it’s physics. Slippery surfaces, unstable ground, and a lack of proper traction—”

“That sounds an awful lot like an excuse for bad luck,” Spencer countered.

You huffed but couldn’t argue. You were a forensic scientist, not a field agent, and being thrown into an active crime scene with the BAU was not in your usual job description. You were used to working in the pristine, controlled environment of the Jeffersonian Institute—not chasing serial killers through the backwoods of Virginia.

And yet, here you were.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It all started with a body—or rather, bodies. Multiple skeletal remains had been discovered in various locations across the D.C.-Virginia border, the work of a particularly meticulous serial killer. The BAU had been called in due to the pattern of abductions matching an existing profile, but given the advanced state of decomposition, the FBI had reached out to the Jeffersonian for forensic assistance.

That’s how you ended up here—cold, wet, and questioning all of your life choices.

Agent Hotchner, ever the professional, barely batted an eye at the tension between you and Reid. “Dr. (L/N), thank you for assisting us. Dr. Brennan recommended you personally.”

You straightened your back. Temperance Brennan doesn’t recommend people lightly. “I specialize in isotopic analysis and forensic taphonomy. If your unsub is moving bodies across state lines, I can determine where they were before they ended up here.”

Hotch nodded approvingly. “That would be extremely useful.”

Reid, however, still looked skeptical. “That’s assuming there’s a pattern in the body disposal locations. If the killer is deliberately choosing random drop sites—”

You crossed your arms. “Then I can still tell you about the soil composition, insect activity, and post-mortem damage, which could help narrow down a timeline. It’s basic forensic science, Doctor Reid.”

A small smirk twitched at the corner of Hotch’s lips as he turned away. “Work with Dr. Reid and see what you can find.”

You and Reid stared at each other for a beat too long before sighing simultaneously.

“Fine,” you said.

“Fine,” he echoed.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Back at the Jeffersonian, you had the advantage. This was your turf, your lab, your meticulously organized work environment. And Spencer Reid—despite his genius—was a little out of place.

“Don’t touch that,” you warned as he hovered near a set of isotopic samples.

“I wasn’t going to,” he shot back, shoving his hands in his pockets.

You raised a brow. “I literally just watched you reaching for it.”

“It was a reflex!”

“Uh-huh.”

Despite the bickering, you had to admit—Reid was sharp. He picked up on patterns even before you finished running tests, and while his knowledge of forensic anthropology was limited, he had an uncanny ability to connect seemingly random details.

Together, you started to piece together the unsub’s movements. The isotopic analysis revealed that the victims had spent time in an area with a unique mineral composition—suggesting an underground water source near limestone deposits.

Reid’s encyclopedic brain immediately pulled up a connection. “There’s an abandoned mining town about twenty miles west of the last body dump site. It was shut down in the 1980s, but the underground aquifers match your analysis.”

Your eyes widened. “If the bodies were stored there first, that could explain some of the inconsistencies in decomposition rates.”

He nodded excitedly. “Exactly. We need to check it out.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The abandoned town was eerie. Old buildings, rusting equipment, and an unsettling silence. You were with Reid, Morgan, and Booth—because of course Booth had insisted on coming along.

“What are the chances the unsub is actually still here?” you asked, glancing around nervously.

“Statistically?” Reid started, but before he could finish, a gunshot rang out.

“DOWN!” Morgan shouted, pushing you behind cover as bullets ricocheted off the crumbling brick walls.

Your heart pounded as you scrambled for safety. “I am so not cut out for this!”

“Yeah, well, welcome to our world,” Booth muttered, drawing his weapon.

Reid, crouched beside you, looked equally shaken but determined. “Stay close to me.”

“Not like I have many options!”

A tense firefight ensued, but the BAU and Booth’s tactical skills won out. The suspect was apprehended, and the nightmare was over.

Mostly.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Back at the Jeffersonian, you were still rattled. Lab work was one thing. Nearly getting shot was another.

“You okay?” Reid’s voice was softer than usual.

You exhaled. “I will be. Just… not used to being a target.”

“Statistically speaking—”

“Reid,” you warned.

He smirked. “Right. Not helping.”

There was a beat of silence before he hesitated. “For what it’s worth… I think your bad luck might just be situational.”

You gave him a look. “Says the guy who gets kidnapped at least once a year?”

His lips quirked. “Fair point.”

Despite yourself, you laughed. “Guess we’re both unlucky then.”

He nodded. “Yeah. But… maybe that’s not such a bad thing. I mean, we did solve the case together.”

You tilted your head. “Are you saying we make a good team?”

Reid shrugged, but there was a hint of a smile. “I’m saying… maybe luck isn’t the worst thing. As long as you have the right person to balance it out.”

You studied him for a moment before smirking. “Are you flirting with me, Dr. Reid?”

His ears turned red. “W-what? No! I mean—maybe? I just meant that—”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

As you walked away, you couldn’t help but smile. Maybe you were unlucky. But if it meant crossing paths with Spencer Reid?

Maybe, just maybe… luck wasn’t so bad after all.

#criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x yn #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fic #magical-Reid #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid fanfiction #reader insert #fluff #requested #self insert #doctor spencer reid #prompted #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader

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bangchangbinnie · 3 months ago

Text

Unsteady roads S.CB, H.JS, L.F, Y,JN

Pairing: Changbin x Reader (feat. jealous Felix, Jeongin, and Jisung)

What was supposed to be a simple car ride turns into absolute chaos when Y/N is forced to sit on Changbin’s lap due to lack of space.

Suggestive, Humor, Fluff, Tension, (the members are perverts?)

I don’t know what this is, but enjoy!

—————————

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

The drive back to the dorm was already chaotic enough, with everyone cramming into the van, exhausted from their schedules. Changbin had taken the front seat initially, but after some last-minute changes (and Jisung calling dibs before anyone else could react), he ended up in the back with you and the others.

And now?

Now you were sitting on his lap, squeezed in between him and the car door, because the guys were too lazy to rearrange their seating.

“Just sit on Changbin-hyung,” Felix had joked at the start, grinning

“You are such a brat,” Changbin had grumbled under his breath, but he didn’t argue when you hesitated, looking around at the lack of space. Instead, he pulled you down onto him with an easy strength, hands steadying you at your waist.

“You good?” he had asked lowly, voice near your ear. You had nodded quickly, adjusting in his lap—only to realize, a little too late, that movement was the worst possible idea in such a cramped space.

That had been 15 minutes ago.

Now, as the car rumbled down a particularly bumpy road, you were keenly aware of every single pair of eyes watching the situation unfold.

Felix, Jeongin, and Jisung were squeezed together in the row in front of you, turning their heads every so often, throwing each other knowing looks. Jisung, in particular, was grinning like an absolute menace. The thing was, Changbin had big thighs. Thick, muscular thighs. And with every bump in the road, you were practically bouncing on them.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath as the van hit another rough patch.

Changbin stiffened beneath you, his fingers gripping your sides ever so slightly, as if trying not to react. His jaw was clenched, his body tense, and though he wasn’t saying anything, you could tell—he was feeling everything.

“Hyung,” Jeongin snickered, his eyes filled with far too much amusement. “You okay back there?” Felix, the little instigator, turned in his seat, resting his chin on the headrest. “Yeah, Bin, you look a little… uncomfortable.”

You felt your face burn.

“I’m fine,” Changbin gritted out, but his voice was just a little too strained.

Another jolt in the road had you gripping onto his arm for stability. Your leggings weren’t helping, the smooth material of the leggings you were wearing sliding against him way too easily.

Jisung wiggled his eyebrows. “You sure? ‘Cause Y/N looks pretty comfortable.” Felix choked on his laughter, Jeongin slapping his arm.

Changbin exhaled through his nose like he was gathering the patience of a saint.

“Do you guys want to walk back?” he threatened, his hands flexing against your waist like he was trying to keep his cool.

Jisung and Jeongin exchanged glances before quickly facing forward, but Felix just smiled lazily, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

You swallowed thickly, shifting ever so slightly to find a better position. Changbin’s hands tightened. You felt it. He definitely felt it.

Jisung? Oh, he was having the time of his life.

“Wow,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I should’ve made Y/N sit on my lap instead.” Jeongin huffed. “You? I called shotgun earlier—I should’ve been back there.”

Felix, not one to be left out, gave a casual shrug. “Not my fault Changbin-hyung gets all the luck.”

Your breath caught, and you instinctively turned to look at Changbin, whose ears were now noticeably red. He let out a slow, controlled exhale, his hands gripping your waist with more intent, grounding both of you.

“You guys,” he said in a low voice, slow and deadly, “better pray we get home soon. Because if this van stops…”

Felix, Jeongin, and Jisung immediately shut up.

You swallowed down your embarrassment. The van hit one final bump, and Changbin caught your hips firmly, keeping you steady. It should’ve been an innocent move. Should’ve been nothing.

But the way Felix, Jeongin, and Jisung groaned at the sight of it? Yeah. You were never living this down.

———

The rest of the drive back to the dorm was absolute torture.

For you? Because the van hit every possible bump in existence, forcing you to cling to Changbin in ways that made your entire body heat up. For Changbin? Because he had to sit through it, his large hands keeping you steady while pretending he wasn’t seconds away from murdering the three smug idiots watching him suffer.

For Felix, Jeongin, and Jisung? Because they had to witness it and not be in his place. It wasn’t even subtle anymore. The way Jisung dramatically sighed every time the car dipped, or how Jeongin kept mumbling under his breath about how unfair life was. Felix, to his credit, was playing it cooler—but the way he kept glancing back with a sly smile said otherwise.

You had long given up trying to adjust, knowing that every time you moved, they would say something. So instead, you went completely still, clutching onto the fabric of Changbin’s hoodie for dear life.

Changbin, however, was done.

“Hey,” he muttered near your ear, voice just for you. “Relax.” Relax? In this situation? Impossible. Your grip on his arm tightened, and you felt his chest rumble with a quiet chuckle.

“You’re overthinking it,” he added, voice lower this time. “Just lean into me.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

And, okay, maybe part of you wanted to disappear, but another part of you—a much bolder part—figured that if Changbin was so confident, then you should be too. So, cautiously, you let yourself relax against him, resting your head against his shoulder.

The shift in his breathing was instant.

Felix made an offended noise.

“Are you kidding me?”

Jisung groaned. “I’m actually about to open the door and throw myself out.”

Jeongin just crossed his arms, looking thoroughly annoyed.

Changbin, though? He finally smirked. “You guys are so annoying,” he drawled, his grip on your waist almost possessive now. “All this whining, and for what?”

Felix rolled his eyes. “We all know you’re suffering too, hyung.”

Changbin tilted his head, all confidence. “Am I?”

The van hit another bump, sending you bouncing ever so slightly in his lap again.

Oh.

Oh, he was suffering.

Jeongin caught it immediately, smirking. “You totally are.”

Changbin’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he pressed his palm against your waist, fingers sinking into the soft fabric of your leggings as if to keep you still.

Jisung’s grin was wicked. “Aww, poor Binnie.”

Changbin exhaled sharply. “You guys are so lucky I can’t fight all of you at once.”

Felix smirked. “I dunno, you could just… let Y/N switch seats with one of us.” Jeongin perked up. “That’s a great idea.”

Jisung actually reached out, like he was ready to physically pull you away. “C’mere, princess—”

Changbin’s arm locked around your waist, tugging you closer, chest pressing into your back.

“Don’t,” he warned, eyes dark.

The van went silent. Jeongin’s lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something, but eventually just let his mouth shut. Felix leaned back in his seat, blinking once. “Huh.”

Jisung, though? He let out a slow whistle, shaking his head. “You’re so lucky,” he muttered at you, looking deeply wronged. “So. Lucky.”

You swallowed, heat creeping up your face again. But before you could respond, the driver finally pulled into the parking lot of the dorms, ending your suffering. Or so you thought.

Because as soon as everyone started piling out, stretching and groaning from the ride, Jeongin, Felix, and Jisung all turned to you. “You’re sitting on my lap next time,” Jeongin declared, crossing his arms.

Felix gave an easy, dimpled smile. “Mine too.”

Jisung pointed at you, then at himself. “Same. And I won’t hold back the way he did.”

Changbin, who had just stepped out of the van, let out a sharp laugh. “Yeah? Let’s see you try.”

Jisung clutched his chest. “Oh my god, he’s actually going feral.”

Felix raised an eyebrow. “He’s always been feral.”

Jeongin smirked. “But now he’s feral over Y/N.” Changbin growled. You, at this point, were done.

“You guys are so stupid,” you muttered, adjusting your glasses and marching toward the dorm entrance.

Behind you, you heard Jisung snicker. “Love you too, princess~”

And Changbin? Well, you swore you heard him mutter something about making sure you only sat on his lap from now on.

—————

AN: I wish I was more comfortable writing smut because this would be miles better with it. Hope you guys enjoyed!😭

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robo-writing · 6 months ago

Note

Hi! I love your writing and have had a shit day. Basically car troubles and a flat tire. All I could think about was Logan ‘yelling’ at me for not asking for his help and being upset I tried to do everything myself. Could you write something like this with an established relationship? Just super soft and fluffy with Logan just being scared you could’ve gotten hurt. Thanks! ♥️

Oh no, I’m so sorry you had a bad day today! Hopefully tomorrow’s better!

Today’s just proof that Murphy’s law is still alive and true. You’ve tried every single troubleshooting method you can think of and still your car refuses to just fucking work.

It gets to a point, it really fucking does.

Your head hits the steering wheel, too tired to care about the loud blaring that follows. “For the love of god, please move,” you beg, and you hear the best noise you’ve ever heard in your life—the sound of your engine whirring to life.

“Yes, yes!” You cry, hands immediately moving to the steering wheel. You start thanking every deity you know and then some, slowly

Unfortunately for you, luck is not on your side. You get maybe half a mile before you feel the car jump, followed by the worst sound of your life—the air escaping from your tire.

You feel the tears welling in your eyes, defeat sinking down into your very core. You don’t even have the strength to curse, staring ahead into the empty road as your view gets lower and lower. The thought of swapping your tire crosses your mind, but you’re so mentally drained that even getting out of your car seems impossible.

So, you sit in the drivers seat and cry while the sun goes down. By the time you compose yourself the sky bleeds orange, your phone ringing with an all too familiar contact number.

Begrudgingly you pick up, the sound of your husband’s voice clear through the receiver. “Hey honey, haven’t heard from you all day.”

Silence.

“Sweetheart, you there?”

“Y-Yeah,” you answer. “I’m here.”

You can almost hear his expression through the phone—you imagine he’s suddenly on alert from the sound of his footsteps, worry in his voice. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

The words bring a flood of emotion through you—rage, sadness, mostly defeat. You feel yourself shaking again as a fresh wave of tears begin to fall down your cheeks.

“My engine broke Lo,” you sniffle. “It broke, and I tried to fix it but it wouldn’t—it wouldn’t turn on and I tried—“

You’re hyperventilating now, and somewhere far away you can hear Logan telling you to calm down, but it only makes you panic even further. “It wouldn’t work, and I did everything right and then it did! And I was so happy Lo, thought I did everything right and right when I started moving I got a flat fucking tire and everything’s going wrong and—“

“Honey, breathe, please,” he pleads through the phone, but you’re still crying. “Stay where you are, I’ve got you on gps, I’ll be there in ten.”

“I’m sorry,” you whimper, wiping at your wet face with the back of your hand. “I’m sorry, it’s my fault—“

“No, no, we are not doing that,” he interrupts. “Stay where you are, I’m coming to you, don’t panic, okay?”

You sniffle, nodding your head. “Y-Yeah, okay.”

“Say it back to baby, say you won’t panic.”

You nod again. “I won’t—I won’t panic.”

“Good,” he replies, the telltale jingle of car keys loud through the phone. “Want me to stay with you on the phone while I drive?”

“Please,” you say, still trying to steady yourself. From the corner of your eye you see yourself, and you look like a wreck. Red in the face, fingers and clothes stained from working on the engine, ugly black smudges that only serve to remind you of your failure.

“Hey, focus on my voice, alright?” He says. “I’m almost there, just keep calm.”

What was only a few minutes felt like hours, the sight of his car coming over the horizon enough to bring you to tears for the third time today.

“Hey, hey, you’re alright,” he coos, pulling you out from the car with a hand against your back. “You’re good, everything’s fine.”

You’re trembling in his arms, guilt flowing through him at the sight of you in pain. You’re holding onto him so tightly, as if he’d disappear if you didn’t. Your first words to him are a mess, and all he can do is rub your head as you get it all out. “I’m sorry for making you come here.”

He shakes his head in disagreement, placing a kiss to the top of your head. “Don’t be sorry, I’m happy to be here. Next time you’re in trouble, just call me, okay honey?”

#robo speaks #ask #logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #wolverine #wolverine x reader #robo writes

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heeseung64 · 5 months ago

Text

NEED IT BACK

last minute faults before performing are the worst, but maybe this one was a blessing in disguise to repair what it was for you and jay.

EX SITUATIONSHIP TO LOVERS IDOL! EDITION. GUITARIST JAY X GUITARIST FEM READER | SMUT ANGST FLUFF | JAY JUST WANTS YOU BACK

"You're fucking kiddin' me."

Jay fumbles around the strings of his prized-possession fender, unscrewing the lead caps in the process to see why on earth it's not making the tone he so generously practiced up until now. His frustration was only getting worse as the time crunched by the minute- soon, the whole group will have to be up, smiling and adoring their foreign fans before they break off into an instrumental- which Jay may not be performing if he can't find another replacement guitar.

"Didn't you have another one packed in the van?" Jungwon tries to ease for more solutions, making Jay silently dismiss him, biting his lip as the members watch- anxious. This time, Sunoo picks up the conversation, making small talk between Jay and their managers, "Maybe it'll be fine playing it just like that, our fans can only understand, Jay-"

"No, I-I can't play like this! I want this to sound right-"

"What about y/n?"

Fortunately enough, they weren't the only idol group on set that has a renowned guitarist. And for a big day like today, everyone can't afford to lose composure.

"What did you just say?" Jay groans, walking close to Sunghoon who could only put his hands up in defense. "She has a good guitar like yours, you would know." He adds. Their managers hesitantly agree, rearranging a way to ask for your group's manager.

"No, she wouldn't just-- give it to me.. She... ." Jay mumbles, fingers running through his hair, "She's not..." Jake puts a hand on Jay's shoulder, shaking it a lil to ease him up. "It's an emergency, and you happen to always have her as your last resort."

⠀more below ㅡ。

Jay paces across the room, tapping his soles as the members exchange looks- silent conversations held within their eyes as they see your group's manager passing a guitar case towards the nearby table before bowing off- wishing the group a respectful good luck.

Jay stands above the table, a silent groan vibrating across his skin. Goosebumps, it was, seeing your guitar he'd always see on display when he used to come by- presented perfectly to him atop of the dark crimson case, with a note left behind. Jay- hesitantly, brings the note to his eyes, capturing a whiff of your scent before reading the cursive words you had to say.

"Take care of it. You owe me."

A makeshift cover consisting of paper tape and coloured stickers covered her engraved initials on the face of the guitar- making Jay chuckle. The colours of the stickers were- cute. Yet he falters, damning himself. Just like the seconds away, Jay reminisces his closeness with you, wishing he had more time to make it right. In fact, he never did want to break things off. He loved you, yet- the passion for work always prevailed, and it seems it lead off to a bitter end.

"Will it do?" Heeseung chimes, checking on him as they begin to be escorted out towards the stage. Jay could only smirk, keeping the note inside his back pocket, before strapping the glossy guitar around his arms. "It'll do; more than what I expected."

Hurriedly after giving away your guitar with no second thought, you and your members debriefed- wondering if you were so ever obviously present in the back of his mind. But you always had doubts, I mean- it's been a whole year since the so called relationship was called quits in bitter words and tears. It wasn't your fault you wanted him exclusively, but it wasn't his for prioritising fame.

You watch behind the scenes of their performance, how Jay gets singled out under the spotlight with your guitar, gliding his fingers softly across the strings. You watched as he lifts the corners of his lips, smirking as he feels up the frets with his finger tips- slowly pushing up the whammy, before clearing his voice to sing.

If there was one thing you were in denial for, it was the fact that he 'wasn't hot whenever you watched him play guitar' knowing that heat pools between your thighs every time you catch a glance.

You felt a tug in your stomach as you watched him look at the camera, breathing out as he stops playing. "In the end, the answer is always you." He sings, which you remember was a lyric from their discography, but you had your doubts, hopelessly wishing you're still regarded higher than just a spare guitar.

"I heard they have to leave immediately after this. They've got too much on their schedule, I bet they're flying back to Korea immediately."

"But what about my guitar?" You stand up, pointing at yours on screen. "Relax babe, he knows where you live." one of your members hint, causing a playful slap across the arm. "I will not let him in." You mumble, which only caused the members to shake their heads, "You most definitely will."

"Whatever- I'm ignoring him."

You kept your mouth shut, knowing you would. Soon enough your pride about Jay fell, and you began to crave him all over again.

Nothing like the post-performance clarity hit Jay like a truck, realising it's his fault that now you can't perform, seeing you apologise for a last minute change up while he sits in the back of the van- caressing the problem he created. If only his guitar worked in the first place, now he's more definite than ever that he MUST repay you. Usually he'd be mad at this sort of situation, but why is it that he can't bring himself to cross his eyebrows, and huff like he always would? The way he hides his smile pushes the members to joke, taunting him- lecturing him.

"Funny how she sacrificed her image for you, when you clearly broke it off thinking you'd break her career."

"Hah! I knew it, you waited for her to reach out to you because you're a coward-"

"Jake he's not a coward."

"You're right, he's a loser-"

"Shut up." Jay pushes away the playful endearment, scrolling through old photos as he awaits your flight back home. "I'll visit her the moment she settles back home."

"Bet she won't let you in.-"

"I will do anything for her to let me in." Jay folds the corners of your note, a heart tugged by the strings as he sets sea in his mind- he's been dying to make it right.

The first few weeks of you without your guitar were painful, and if it wasn't for the small updates from Jay's instagram with pictures of it well kept- you would've found yourself in a ditch. You even considered unblocking him just to call you back, but you knew your pride was bigger than that.

You finally realise the little messages he hides behind his stories. Posting the cute stickers you placed there with his hands casually ghosting over your initials, with a bandaged heart emoji covering the rest. The next occasional posts of him wondering the foreign streets were accompanied by the songs that both of you would learn on guitar together, and even songs that you both would eventually constantly sing together.

He was playing your little game you used to do that he would often get frustrated at, scared that he'd be caught from conscious fans and stalkers alike- but now he's shameless, constantly posting places and references that only you would know- so you decided to post a pretty photo of you back on instagram, adding a significant song you and Jay used to make love to; a happy memory that also signified your second date with him.

He read your message clear, it was all so obvious you missed each other. At this point he wanted to tell the world how badly he fucked up. You even unblocked him briefly to see if he had ever messaged you on the day that he'd landed, to which he did;

⠀Last week

J: Baby I want you back so bad I messed up

J: Angel I'm doing everything I will to get you back

J: Who's that guy in your story?

⠀Two days ago

J: I miss you so bad it hurts

J: Never thought I'd cry again about us

J: Made a song about you

⠀Yesterday

J: I know you'll unblock me soon

J: I feel it in my bones baby

J: Fuck Dispatch and fuck the crazy fans

J: I'm coming over and I'm going to get you back

"I'm coming over, angel."

MDNI

The silhouette of Jay's figure at your front door's intercom hollowed your eyes, there he was, in all his glory, holding your guitar case, hands behind his back fumbling.

"Y/n." He calls for you, breath raggedy as his mind chases, wondering if it was too early to come over- besides, he read your schedule down to a T- he was confident you were here even if you blocked his contact; but it's not like he was stalking! he just so happens to know everything about you- still.

You sighed, looking at his figure and his open button up, the sleeves bunched around his elbows, and his jaw sharp, clenched; his brows knitted as his musters the words to call you again. This time you answer before he could say anything, swinging open the door to see his other arm hold the knob, pushing himself inside before closing it swiftly, leaving to corner you in the hallway.

"These are for you." He looks down at you, red roses emerge from behind his back, they were just as dark as the velvet on your guitar case, encapsulated by his old perfume; one you got really attached to. Your smile falters by the interaction, doubting this sincerity as you barely try to reach his eyes.

"Oh- It's fine, really. I didn't need the flowers-" You get stopped by his hands grabbing yours, bringing them up to kiss them. "You're right, I should've gotten you other things." He mumbles, looking away as his ears perk up red.

"Jay." You stop him, walking away to the kitchen as he follows you, "You got what you wanted." You start off, licking your lips in stress. Jay watches you, ears perked and eyes glossy, finding the right time to interrupt you again, "What I wanted?"

"Yes! You got what you wanted, so you can leave!" You pan back to him, his shoulders slumped as he leans against the kitchen doorway.

"What exactly did you think I wanted?" He crosses his arms, taking small strides closer to your figure behind the counter. "You think I wanted us to end like that? You think I used you for sex? Tell me," He huffs, eyebrows knitted, "What do you think I so fucking want?"

"Your success? I know you wanted a perfect performance, I know you value your reputation so bad, so-" You huff a breath, "You got it, and now you're just here to give back the guitar so, why can't you just leave?"

"Leave you? Again?" Jay raises his voice, rushing to your sides. "Believe me when I realised what I said to you that time was wrong, and it ate me up every time we exchanged looks like we were strangers, angel. Strangers!"

Your eyes flutter at the old nickname, fingers balling into a fist, "That's what you chose, though. You chose to make me believe it that way too." you fight back, only to see Jay inch closer to you, shaking his head.

"No, angel. I really believed that it was all I ever wanted, but I realised-" He stops himself, cloudiness forming in the corners of his eyes, searching your body for an ounce of intimacy.

"..I neglected what I needed."

Those words crushed you. To be void of emotion when interacting with each-other off and on camera, when not so long ago you were crying your heart out in bitter disputes- you two admit you never healed, and now there's a crack in your heart you now believe can be repaired.

"Take me back. Please..." Was all he said, holding your hands as he lowers his head to meet yours, tears forming in the inner of his eyes. You could only speak spurts of words, clearing your throat from the sudden desperation.

"You're gonna have to prove it to me that you'll never reject what you need for rest of your life, jjong." you softly respond, your gaze lurking upon his face as he chuckles, a frown on his lips as his heart leaps from the old nickname, one he never passed on. "Yeah?" He responds, "Fuck, angel.. I'll prove you with every second in the world." His voice cracks, carrying you to your own bedroom.

"Fuck, I missed you." He mumbles against your neck, bringing you close, sliding his hands on your sides, "'M gonna buy you all the guitars you want, baby." He mumbles, drunk off your scent. You smell his whisky breath to confirm his actions, it was obvious it was hard for him to do this sober. "Jay, how much did you drink?" You whisper, to which he smiles, kissing your neck, "Just enough to remember."

"I've missed you." You whisper again, looking into his eyes as you lift a brow, watching how his eyes slant, his lips turning up into a smirk. "You won't have to miss it anymore, my sweet girl."

"Whatever." You chuckle, "You still owe me." you bring up the note. Jay sits up properly, caging you in his arms as he tilts his head, "I know a way to prove my love and repay you at the same time my sweet, sweet angel." He whispers, his body towering over yours.

"Please?" He practically frowns for your acceptance, his hands hovering over your shirt, rubbing your tummy and sides as he begs to touch you more. You nod, huffing as he lifts your shirt up, throwing whatever you had on away from the space.

"'M not gonna make y'cum until you accept me as your boyfriend, baby." He boldly warns, cupping your breasts as you moan in relief, happy that they've been warmed by familiarity. "Be honest with me, Jjongie-" You cry out in moans, "You've hooked up with others have you?"

The question only angered Jay, making him pinch your nipples, groping your breasts, with your bra thrown across the room. "You really think I'd do that?" He responds, "I lied back then, I've stopped hooking up with others the moment I met you." His voice contained remnants of desperation, kissing your neck down to between your breasts, kneading them in circles as you moan in pleasure. "You're the only one I want, angel."

Jay stopped kissing between your breasts, going back to your lips as he crosses his brows, "Don't tell me you saw other men." He says, only making you pout, responding in a small voice. "I don't think you know how bad you fucked me up."

"Am I that good?" Jay chuckles, ghosting his fingers over your cheeks. "And bad." You respond referring to split, frowning. Jay stops, looking at you in the eyes before diverting his eyes to your lips, kissing you passionately as you had your hands on his chest kissing back. He pulls away, pecking your forehead as he lowly breathes, watching how you react- smirking, knowing that he can go further.

"I'll fuck the bad memories out of you, m'kay? How's that sound?" He whispers, kneading your thighs, palming the wetness around your heat.

"Please, baby." You moan in return, making him smile. "I missed that sweet voice of yours.." He mumbles, "Okay, yeah." He starts, pulling you closer to the edge where he has you caged between his arms, "I'll give my girl what she wants." He whispers, kissing your inner thighs while he kneads your ass. Jay takes his time, kissing your heat, tasting you as he desperately pushes you against his lips. "You always taste so fucking good." He murmurs, "I missed you so fucking much."

His hands were causing imprints around your legs like tattoos, and his tongue was too busy kissing your spot, stimulating you with his fingers and nose bridge. You brush your fingers through his hair, making him go crazy all over again. His moans vibrate against your heat, and your legs bucked around him. He's only getting harder, spitting on your opening before going back to your lips, kissing you rough. "More." You beg, making him blush, smirking at your doe eyes while you squirm beneath him.

"So needy." He smiles, going against your clit, rutting against it as you reach your high. He could feel you jittering like a mess, occasionally pausing- so he could edge you again. Pussy drunk, Jay pulls away from your pink mess, seeing your hole leak of juices; overstimulated by his vibrating approach.

"Fuck I'm so hard, angel." He cries, and you pause to capture his stance. You see his stained, loosely unbuttoned shirt being unclothed by his sticky hands, revealings his toned abs which only made you wetter, he palms his bulging crotch under his dress pants- unbuckling his belt before revealing his member. Jay's cock slapped against his own stomach- pink and sensitive, making him quiver. He bends a little down, sticking his tip against your clit and your creamy heat, capturing the slick to rub against his shaft.

You eyes flutter from his warmth gliding between your lines, and you moan. "Feels so good baby." You say before going on your knees, your plush body puffing down on the centre of the bed, giving him doe eyes as you glide your fingers down his abs before stopping at his tip. "I need you so bad angel." He pleads.

His face goes flush, biting his lips as he watches you go down on him. He pauses, grazing his fingers on your cheek before swirling his thumb in your mouth: "Fuck baby," He moans, cock twitching. "If you look at me like that again I'll cum."

His cock was so sensitive to your touch, giving you physical evidence of his desperation. With just a sloppy kiss to his blushed tip, his cock jerks, twitching with spurts of pre cum. Jay could only breathe heavily holding your hands and intertwining them as he craved more of your intimacy. "Please angel more, please please.." He begs, on his knees as he pants. You could only smirk in return. "Only because you want me so bad-" "I do baby, so so so fucking much-" And you gag him before he could even finish his sentence, slobbering your warm touch and gummy cheeks around his sensitive arousal. His hips bucked, drilling his cock deeper down your throat as you hum, vibrating against his shaft.

"Fuck!" He moans, whimpering as you bob your head, using your hands, twisting them as you continue to suck him. He watches your hands leave his cock, massaging his thighs and toned abs as he captures the drool of your wet pussy, stimulating it with his middle finger. You moan in response, causing Jay to groan, feeling your hum against his tip. "Baby I can't-" He pants, "I'm gonna fucking cum-" And you lock eyes with him, looking up at him as you allow him to fuck your pretty little face.

He shoots the loads down your throat, sighing highs as he jerks back, bringing your face up to kiss you, before throwing you down on the bed.

"My sweet, sweet angel." He cooes, seeing your salivated lips and your hazy eyes take in his own cum. "I'm gonna make you cum so fucking hard, I'm making you take everything, okay?"

Jay doesn't give you a second to respond, spitting on your clit as his sloppy dick drives into your tight cunt, dragging your waist close to his before drilling deeper into you.

You mewl in response, your tits bouncing so harshly below him as your plush and pink thighs clap against his rough humping. Thick juices clump together before webbing out with every thrust, forming bubbles around his rim. He locks eyes with you, watching how yours look up, mouth agape as he fucks you drunk. "Fucking missed this pussy so much." He groans, spitting against you again, pulling out of your hollowness to slap his slick against your clit and make you moan before shoving it back in.

It wasn't long before you reached your high, and Jay often treated you as a princess, giving you your orgasm when so greatly needed, but he needed you so badly, he doesn't want you to imagine a world that was better without his cock; so he makes you so desperately crave it.

Before reaching your high he takes it out again, grabbing your legs before pressing your thighs against your stomach, pushing your own legs into you. "Jjong, please I need to cum-" He stops you by slapping your ass, "No." He dryly replies, rougher and drunker by your slick. "Baby!" You moan as the tip hits you deep. Your bed was filled with cream under your ass, spilling out as endless pre-cum and juice multiplied in your heat. His thrusts were only quicker this time, his voice whining and mumbling lewd words under his breath as he begins to be so fixated on your lips.

He kisses you so passionately, and he slows down, chasing his breath before turning you around. "Jjong, please-" You beg while ass was up to worship his face. "I'll only make you cum when you accept me as your boyfriend, baby." He starts, "I've given you proof and I'll continue to fuck you this good to get you to say yes." He growls. Slamming his cock into your spongey spot several times, holding your arms as your tits jiggle mid air. You see your silhouettes against the curtain, and your back being blown that your voice register is no longer working. "So," Jay starts, whispering against you as he fucks puddles into you.

"Will you take me back?" He pleads, stuttering his flow as small tears run down your eyes. You were fucked out of your mind, and you knew the greatest decision was to-

"Fuck!" You moan as Jay pounds into you, his soft demeanour changing as he grows impatient, hating to see you hesitate. "So?" He grips onto your waist, slapping your ass, pre-cum already leaking out of him again.

"Yes!" You moan in pleasure, begging him to cum in you. "I can't hear you." He groans louder, groping your tits before going down to rub circles on your clit as he continues to thrust into you from behind. "Yes yes! Please baby-" Your wishes have been heard as he gives one final jerk, deep into you as he overstimulates your clit- making you cum against his own high- endless white and clumps of stickiness leaking out of your pussy as Jay mindlessly uses his tip to stick it back into you.

You smile hazily as you continue to catch your breath, going to lay on your back as your stomach rises and falls. Jay plops down next to you on his side, rubbing circles on your stomach as he kisses your temple. "Great decision baby." He smiles against your lips. "I'll get us cleaned up." He always says after sex, carrying you to the shower only for him to fuck you again in it before cleaning you up.

Clean sheets, two guitars on the bed and a sunrise ahead, the two of you lay against each other humming and whispering love. You catch up with him again, and its like he never changed, only got wiser in the end as he continues to confess his undying love to you sober this time.

You go on your phone, seeing news outlets blowing up about Jay. And you both look in mild surprise that Jay was spotted with your guitar case and roses, crossing the street looking like a triple threat.

You look up to him, furrowing your brows, "You went out in public? Did you want to be seen?" You genuinely ask, knowing the main reason you didn't want to date surrounded the transparency of publicity.

"Yeah, I wanted them to know." He proudly says, "I don't fucking care anymore baby." Follows, grabbing your chin before kissing you slowly. "I got what I wanted."

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